Bloodstained Elanor RPG

[Orofaniel]

Wasn't this the best time to discuss such matters? Herding thought and gave a deep sigh. He thought for a moment about what the Orc Captain had said; “He tried to kill you, but failed,”

Herding gloated. It was true; the young lad had tried to kill him, with his very effort, but he had failed. Koran was defeated by a drunk Captain. Herding suddenly burst into a great laughter, feeling nothing but joy, the pain from his wounds were long forgotten. "What are you laughing at?" Thrákmazh growled seeming both annoyed and offended that Herding wasn't taking his question seriously enough. He didn't know though, that Herding was thinking about something else. Herding was too caught up in his own thoughts to even notice the annoyance in the Orc's eyes and continued as before, until his thoughts returned to Thrákmazh's question.

He didn't really know what to do about it. To kill Koran was of course what had to be done, and it was going to happen as well - it was only matter of when it was going to happen and how. Herding then concluded that Thrákmazh's idea wasn't bad at all. In fact it could work pretty well, with everything well planned of course. Herding was still suffering fromgreat hesitation regaring the Orc's porposal; Herding wasn't too sure though if Koran's men would betray him. Would his own men do that? Herding swallowed, as he realised the answer to his own question; if they were given the option to live, then perhaps, some of them would betray him. Some would stay truthful, wouldn’t they?. He was aware of the situation now- so all of a sudden.

"But what if Koran's men still remains true to him when we strike?" he then asked the Orc. Now fully returned to civil manners, without any obnoxious thoughts or ideas of his own. "If they remain true to him, we'll kill 'em anyway. They are fewer than us; we'll rip 'em before they even lay a hand upon us. Believe me," Thrákmazh said. It seemed comforting on Herding's part, but Herding was too wise to think that this would be likely; Koran's men were great soldiers. They wouldn't have any problems at all killing several of those filthy Orcs each. But then again, it was the question of those who would stay faithful to Koran Cenbryt in a situation like that.

"You still haven't answered my question," Thrákmazh then reminded him, speaking quite loud. "That's because it's folly to make such a decision right now," he said, looking at one of his wounds. "Ah, you're right. I didn't expect that though," the Orc said mischievously.

"Didn’t expect what, if I may ask?" Herding then asked him politely, bur curious about the meaning of Thrákmazh's most recent words. "I would have thought you'd figure out a plan of your own to revenge Koran's attack on you. But here you are, not willing to take any risks, nor even considering anything of your own. Besides, my proposal is as good as it gets, still you are hesitating..." The Orc Captain then said, looking at him with the only eye the Orc possessed. Herding felt annoyed; he could kill Koran all by himself, if it was needed; Today Koran had tried to kill him, but even if Herding was a bit drunk he hadn’t managed it. Cenbryt was weak, and Herding could crush him whenever he wanted too. As simple as that. But instead of telling this to Thrákmazh he said;

"You're wrong…"

"I haven't found time yet to plot anything against Cenbryt after the fight; remember, you entered my tent, with such a proposal in your mind as the only intention of coming here," Herding the continued. "I don't reckon there has been much time for me to think about anything yet...See my dilemma?" Herding then said finally without any interruptions.

"I see," Thrákmazh then said, unwillingly. He obviously didn't like Herding's conclusion. "You've had a lot to drink this evening..." he said, looking at the broken empty bottle..

"I'll let you rest, and think about it until tomorrow morning," Thrákmazh said trying not to seem too annoyed over not having an answer until tomorrow. Herding felt treated unfairly, as he didn't see himself as drunk to be incapable of making decisions of importance; he was fully capable of making any decisions, no matter what decisions that needed to be made.

"Hold on," Herding said, as the Orc was about to take his leave. "Captain..?" he answered. "We'll do it; we'll surrender him near Lorien, then we'll kill him," Herding then decided spontaneously, feeling the blood rush to his head. A twisted smile came across Thrákmazh face as he heard the news, and he didn’t try to hide it either, as delighted as he seemed to be. "Alright Captain Herding," he said, respectfully;" You'll get your revenge....I promise you...we'll both get what we want.."

"Let me kill Cenbryt when the time has come," Herding then said; "Let me finish him off...Let me be the very last thing he sees upon this earth until he falls into shadow...”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Ambarturion sought shelter from the rain of black-fletched arrows that streamed toward them from the underbrush, cursing the fate that had left him unequipped to respond to the attack. Megilaes pressed himself behind the tree adjoining Ambarturion’s own and the two waited with eager impatience for a break to come in the archery battle so that they could engage the enemy. Coromoswyth had taken up a position not far from theirs and she was firing into the brush, but without apparently much success. The orcs had come upon them with some plan in mind and, as Ambarturion had feared, they were making the most of the time the Elves had given them. They were being assailed now from both sides, and though the eyes and arrows of the Mirkwood Elves were keen, it was a hopeless battle: no group of archers, no matter how accomplished, could long withstand an attack upon two fronts.

Ambarturion whipped out his sword crying “To me! To me!” and stepped from his shelter. A movement in the corner of his eye made him swirl to one side, but not quickly enough to avoid the vicious barbs of an orc arrow. There was a sudden pain and then nothing as it sank into his arm. Ambarturion knew instantly that the arrow had penetrated no vital artery and that it had missed the bone, and without further thought he ripped it from his flesh with one agonising motion. His cry of pain became one of rage as he and his student ran toward the nearest group of orcs.

Two of the creatures had been slain by the arrows of the scouts, and the other four fell before the blades of the enraged Elves. Ambarturion’s stolen orc weapon shattered upon the armour of his last victim so he was forced to take up the only weapon that came to hand, a short jagged dagger. He then spun and ran back toward the other force of orcs, but the scouts had finally found their nerve and engaged them. Three lay dead, and Megilaes quickly killed a fourth. Ambarturion ran at the remaining two who tried to flee before him, but he quickly outpaced them. He punched the larger of the two in the back and sent him spinning into the trees. The other whirled upon him, snarling out his hatred through his yellowed teeth and lunged at him with his blade. Ambarturion easily avoided the blow and struck the orc upon the head, driving him into the ground. He drew back the orc’s head and prepared to slit its throat but a voice commanded him to wait.

Ambarturion looked up in surprise to see the leader of the scouts advancing toward him with his hands raised. “No!” he said. “Do not slay them. We might be able to discover from them where their army is headed.”

Ambartuion nearly spat at the idea. “They are but the maggots of Mordor, they do not know anything of use.” He made to slit the throat once more.

“NO!” the captain cried. “I said do not kill them!” And he took hold of Ambarturion’s wrist.

Ambarturion rose to his feet in fury of the insubordination. He gripped the orc dagger and advanced upon the captain, and had it not been for Coromswyth’s hand upon his chest he did not know what outrage he had been prepared to commit. “Ambarturion!” she said softly, as though to a maddened animal. “What would you do? Are you not ashamed to offer violence where you should be paying gratitude? Were it not for these our brethren we would surely have been taken and…killed by the orcs.” Ambarturion noted her slight hesitation as she omitted the unspeakable word that had haunted her since the incident at the Southron’s tent. She saw this but continued as though she did not. “Do not forget yourself! Our duty is to the Lady, and Calenvása is right, these orcs might know something.

The rage in his heart faltered and failed, and for a quick moment, he almost felt the shame that Coromswyth spoke of. But rather than respond to her appeal, Ambarturion dropped the orc upon the ground and strode off in search of better weapons.

[Arry]

The blows of the enraged Elves proved too much for the leaderless band of Orcs. From where Gromwakh stood he could see two of his fellows cut down by a return of fire from the Elvish scouts. Then, blades in hands, the Elves who had been held captive and their deliverers fell upon the remaining Orcs. Four more of the group had been killed almost immediately.

Snikdul’s eyes had gone wide at the deaths of two of those who had come with them from the North. Before Gromwakh could catch hold of him, Snikdul raced forward, his club and blade beating a wild tattoo in the air before him. The jagged blade caught one of the rescuer Elves hard in the arm, causing the Elf’s blade to drop. Snikdul pushed forward, seeking to take advantage of the injury. Gromwakh yelled at him to beware . . . too late!

The male Elf they had captured, the injured one, cut him down with little effort, his rage pouring through his blade. Snikdul crashed to the ground, death already glazing his eyes. Gromwakh came to the aid of his friend, intent on dragging him from harm’s way. A blow to the back from a well-aimed arrow drove the Orc to his knees, and he fell forward just inches from his companion. Gromwakh heard another approach him, saw the long shadow of yet another Elf slice across the two of them as they lay there. There was not long to wait for the inevitable blow that seared through his neck, bringing darkness and the final release.

[Durelin]

It was the thrill of battle? No, Calenvása would never call it a thrill. Though it heightened something within him, it numbed his mind, his heart, and the movement of his body felt unreal, all feelings, both physical and mental, were those of a separate person. His conscious being was separate of his body as an observer of what occurred surrounding his physical being. It left his body feeling numb, and his head in a haze. But since no thought could penetrate that haze, Calenvása was relatively content, even feeling a bit free. For those thoughts were quite a burden, and for them to be completely lifted from him, for his mind to be completely blank, even for a short time, it was blissful in a frightening way. Yes, it frightened him. But it was the thrill of battle that set him free.

But it lasted so short a time in his mind. In one moment he was with his back to Thorvel, downing an orc with a slash across the chest. He risked a glance around him, and saw Ambarturion, with one of his guards by his side, looking as cold as ever, any fury he might receive in battle seeming little different from his normal state. One could wonder what went on in that elf’s mind till the Last Music, it seemed, but now was not the time to start. Coromswyth fired her bow nearby, of course, but who was guarding who was hard to tell. In another moment, the orcs were all but eliminated, certainly scattered and finished. It seemed they realized this, as Calenvása made his way over to the two ambassadors, breaking into a run as he watched Ambarturion prepare to slit the throat of an orc There were two left, clearly captured and of no danger. And yet it seemed hatred called the elf to make them forever of no danger.

“No!” he cried out, watching the ambassador put his dagger up to the orc’s throat. “Do not slay them. We might be able to discover from them where their army is headed.” Ambarturion was supposed to be a wise diplomat, and yet he acted on a gut instinct, and hatred at that. Of all the people who might see the mistake in this, he should be the one. Calenvása had seen him as cold and collected, thoughtful and considering. He had been wrong. Sighing quietly and bitterly, he realized what he had done. He had had a feeling, when he watched the ambassador take automatically take command with a forcefulness that would have been offensive to anyone with a more heated temperament, and that feeling was an uneasiness that told him that, for some reason, he should not like what Ambarturion did. A gut feeling he had not listened to.

“They are but the maggots of Mordor, they do not know anything of use.” The fierceness in his voice, while remaining his severe self, made Calenvása remember that feeling he had had concerning Ambarturion clearly. It was not at all a good feeling. He watched as the knife went again for the orc’s blood. “NO!” he cried out again, finally listening to that feeling, and letting it fill his voice with anger. “I said do not kill them!”

Ambarturion’s eyes were filled with his own anger, one of indignant disobedience that would have stared down Calenvása only moments before. But now the Captain had come to a decision, come to a conclusion. He did not like it, but he was free from constant doubt and worrying, a constant need to think about everything logically, that never brought him to conclusions that he felt were fitting. For now, at least, he did not care if any of his decisions were ‘fitting’, whatever that meant. All that mattered was that he would be making decisions, driven by feelings and logic, using both in as much of a balance as he could. They did not mix well, though.

Holding the ambassador’s gaze, he felt his grip tighten on Ambarturion’s arm, finally realizing that he had grabbed his wrist. Coromswyth started to speak to the elf softly, and Calenvása found himself feeling grateful for this. “Ambarturion! What would you do? Are you not ashamed to offer violence where you should be paying gratitude? Were it not for these our brethren we would surely have been taken and…killed by the orcs.” She paused for a moment, and Calenvása lost the rest of her words in his mind as he concentrated on the minds of both of the ambassadors. In a strange way, it seemed they complimented each other.

Ambarturion pulled his arm away from Calenvása, and the Captain watched him drop the orc, and then sheathed the knife. The order in which he did this was important to note, and was of no surprise. He quickly left, and Calenvása followed him with his eyes to find that he was searching for weapons. The Captain sighed, and turned back to Coromswyth. He gave her a short bow, passing a thanks to her through his eyes. He did not like words, at least not anymore. Perhaps at one time he had found them useful. Now he found them troublesome and mostly empty. Targil soon joined he and the lady elf, and Calenvása charged him with looking after the prisoners for now. “Notify me when they find their minds,” he said briefly, and was surprised to find Targil chuckle softly at this. The Captain simply smiled, and it felt good on his lips.

But then he heard someone speak behind him. It was Thorvel. “Calenvása,” he whispered urgently. “I have found Lómarandil. It seems the orcs remembered him and his weakness, and that was used to their advantage. He received only one more wound, but I am unsure of what kind of shape he is in.” Calenvása gestured to Thorvel to lead him, and he followed his companion without a word. The elf took the time to voice some of his concerns to his Captain. “I do not trust Ambarturion with any kind of authority, Captain.”

Now he chose to call him Captain. Those under his command confused him to no end, and this had brought many worries to Calenvása in the past. Today he chose to listen more closely and observe more closely, and know what he could about what went on in their minds, and not concern himself with foolish worry. “I know,” he said, with the most surety that he had felt in weeks. Thorvel looked at him for another moment before realizing that he would get nothing more from his Captain. Calenvása expected him to be content with that. But then he found Lómarandil, within a patch of bushes and other growth, and he worried.

[Firefoot]

Thorvel found himself standing alone on the edge of the clearing. He was unhurt except for the few nicks that should be expected in a battle, however small. There were no living Orcs that he could see, save one: a sniveling Orc on the ground between Calenvása and Ambarturion. Coromswyth and Megilaes were close by, as was Targil. But Lómarandil... Thorvel did not see him. He frowned. He hoped the younger Elf had not gotten himself killed. He strode over to where Lómarandil had been before, paying attention out of the corner of his eye to the confrontation between the Captain and Ambarturion. It was more out of the habit of being aware of everything that was going on around him than anything else; a scout who did not learn that was soon a dead scout.

He found Lómarandil very close to where he thought he would be, and Lómarandil did not look good at all. He was laying in some bushes, and was clearly in quite a bit of pain. He had acquired a new injury. It looked serious, possibly fatal. He bit his lip, unsure of what to do. He extremely small skill with any kind of injuries and healing. Calenvása should know, he decided. And Coromswyth. She seemed to understand that kind of thing.

He turned around. Calenvása had his back to him, and Thorvel watched in satisfaction as Ambarturion stalked off. The Captain had had his way, and the Orc was alive, prime for questioning. He did not know why Calenvása had chosen now to stand up to Ambarturion and not earlier, but he was glad to see it. The other Elves nearby soon formed a group a little way away, leaving Calenvása with the captive Orc. Thorvel headed over there. He got close enough so that only the Captain could hear him.

“Calenvása,” he whispered. He surprised himself to no end at using his Captain’s name. He did not think he had done that before to any Captain before. He did not let it throw him off, though, and continued. “I have found Lómarandil. It seems the orcs remembered him and his weakness, and that was used to their advantage. He received only one more wound, but I am unsure of what kind of shape he is in.” The Captain motioned for him to lead, and Thorvel did so. He decided to use the time alone with the Captain to his advantage. He had seen Calenvása stand up to Ambarturion, but still...

“I do not trust Ambarturion with any kind of authority, Captain,” he said, the proper title back in place.

“I know,” he replied. Thorvel looked at him sidelong, and nodded. If that was all the Captain chose to share with him, he would take it. Leadership was a quality a Captain needed, and it reassured Thorvel. Thorvel said no more until they reached Lómarandil. Calenvása appeared worried, confirming Thorvel’s suspicions that the injury was serious.

“Should I... should I go get Coromswyth? She seems skilled at healing...” he said. Calenvása nodded, and his voice was tight. “Yes. Go get her, and only her.” Thorvel acquiesced, not hurrying exactly but certainly not slowly. Anything faster would draw a good deal of unwanted attention, if they hadn’t already. When he reached the group, he placed himself in front of Coromswyth, and addressed her softly enough that the others would not hear without straining their ears.

“Coromswyth, I think your skills will be needed once more. It is Lómarandil... he has been injured again, and the Captain and I think it may be serious.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

As the elf spoke, Coromswyth looked up from where she knelt, startled: he had moved so quietly, more so than any she had been around in a while - the elves of Lorien did not disguise their footsteps when in the Wood, for what was the point? When he spoke, his voice, also, was soft. Did this actually reflect on his nature, she wondered absently. She wasn't sure why she wanted to work out the natures and minds of the elves so quickly and so much - it seemed more than simply idle curiosity. They seemed...different. Not quite hostile, certainly not towards Coromswyth herself, but the tension which was growing between Ambarturion and the Mirkwood elves was impossible to ignore.

"Lómarandil..." Coromswyth narrowed her eyes questioningly. "His shoulder again?"

The elf - Thorvel, she now remembered - nodded, but said no more. Stabbing her sword into the ground hastily but keeping hold of the dagger, Coromswyth stood and gestured for him to lead the way as she dug in one voluminous skirt pocket for the little equipment that she kept there. She shook her head regretfully - the pouch with much of her healing equipment, collected and created over years, had been lost when the Southrons and orcs had overcome them. Sighing inwardly, she followed Thorvel briskly to a patch of half flattened bushes...and winced as she saw the state of the elf sprawled within them. Kneeling immediately beside Lómarandil she rolled the now unconcious elf over onto his back with great care, her eyes running critically over his wounds. Putting two fingers to his face, she turned his head over to face her and winced as she saw the gash across it, already speckled with dirt and small bits of stone where it had been lying on the ground - and she was fairly sure not all of the blood was his. Coupled with the newly bleeding shoulder - she hadn't had much time to deal with that before - with a more serious, new gash beneath it, and a long, spreading patch of blood on the side of his tunic...

"Your Captain, much as he disapproves of myself and Ambarturion, is wise," she murmured softly. Thorvel opened his mouth and she half smiled, not looking up from her patient. "Don't protest, Thorvel, you know it is true," she added, sounding like a schoolteacher. Her smile faded and her expression became grimmer as she began to unbutton the front of Lómarandil's tunic, pulling it back so she could see the wound and she winced, her frown deepening: the gash across the young elf's side was not particularly deep for the most part, but the blackening of blood in the middle of it was ominous, and obviously deeper. As gently as she could, Coromswyth put her fingers on either side of the wound and pulled it very slightly apart. The elf groaned and his eyes flickered and she released her grip, her fear confirmed by the glimpse of a glint of metal in the gash.

"Poison..." she murmured, then looked up at Thorvel. "His...the orcish blades are poisoned, and it is one of them that has caught him across she side - and part of it, I think, has lodged itself there."

Thorvel bit his lip nervously, nodding. "What can I do?"

"Firstly, call over the other - what is...Targil! Yes, call over Targil. Secondly..." Coromswyth took only a split second pause as Thorvel complied, knowing that to ask whether he was squeamish would be a waste of breath, and would be a pointless insult besides. The elf knelt beside her at her bidding and she bid him put two fingers on either side of the centre of the wound as she wiped the dagger as best she could on her skirts to remove the blood, spitting on it and wiping again vigorously as beside her Targil arrived. "Targil, take off your belt please, and tie it around Lómarandil's arm, at the top, just above the gash - tighten it considerably." Sensing his hesitation, she looked up and caught his eyes. "Please, the gash it deep: it needs a tourniquet, to cut off the blood so he can lose no more."

Her voice dropped as she rubbed frantically at her dagger again. "I wish I could sterilise with fire, but there is no time..." she murmured in some absent explanation, before turning back to Lómarandil and clearing her throat, preparing herself and settling herself by his side. "Thorvel...when I say so, I would like you to apply pressure quite strongly to the wound, but only around the edges. Push inwards and down: the fragment is not too deep and it will force it up. Press harder with your right fingers than your left, but only slightly: it cannot be too uneven." Her voice had assumed a clarity and authority that was not questioned or resented by Thorvel, and for that she was grateful. Taking another deep breath she adjusted her grip on the dagger, knowing the finely honed blade would be keen enough but wishing it was more delicate: she could only hope that she would not do even more damage.

"Ok, pressure...apply now," she barked quietly. Thorvel complied, Lómarandil groaned more loadly as his eyes opened...and Coromswyth saw the hint of metal that was her prey. Her left hand resting lightly on Thorvel's, she approached with the blade, her eyes only inches from the gash, and she stuck the blade into the elf's side and twisted. Lómarandil cried out, quickly stifling his cry as his fists clenched and he shut his eyes tightly. Coromswyth barely thought of him even though, as she twisted again, he tensed and every muscle in his body stiffened; then, as the fragment of metal settled on the tip of the dagger, just visible through the blood that almost obscured it, Coromswyth paused for a split second, holding her breath. Not taking any chances about the reliability of moving the dagger further, she darted forward and pinched it out between two fingers: a piece of black metal, dark as the heart of an uruk and now covered in the elf's blood. Thorvel begin to relax. "No! Don't let go!" she barked authoratively. The elf stopped out of pure shock and she shot an apologetic glance at him before reaching beneath her outer skirt and ripping off quite a long, wide strip of the soft underskirt. Holding it to the wound, partly inside, she murmured, "I need to soak out some of the 'black blood' - the poisoned blood. Is there a stream near here?"

"We are not far from the palace." It was Targil who replied. Coromswyth nodded. "Good: we shall need to clean it out more thoroughly there." She removed the now blood soaked material and dabbed a few more times around the wound area, which had stopped bleeding with such vigour and was now only weeping slightly. Nodding to Thorvel, she told him he could release his grip and he did so, with some relief it seemed, before he stood, saying he would tell the captain. She ripped off the rest of the bottom of her underskirt all the way around - soft, thin material - and began to bind Lómarandil's side. Meanwhile Targil had applied a tourniquet with some profficiency and was now binding it tightly with a similarly makeshift bandage.

"Nicely done, Coromswyth." The female elf looked up in surprise at Targil and smiled, inclining her head.

"Thank you. Your friend will be simply need a few hours rest and hopefully another healer to look at his wounds: once the poison is out, it is but really a rather shallow wound. wound. I..." She shook her head, frowning as she looked away. "I wish I had my medicine bag with me: some salve needs to be put on his side ideally. Still, I am sure your physicians at the palace will be able to deal with that..."

"It was well done, Lady," he soothed. "And getting the fragment from his side...how are you accustomed to doing so?"

"Let me tell you a secret, Targil," Coromswyth replied, softly. The Lorien elf hesitated, then leant forward conspiratorially over the elf's body, causing Targil to subconciously lean in as well. "That was the only time I have done so," she whispered.

[Durelin]

"Let me tell you a secret, Targil.” He watched the female elf hesitate before leaning forward over the body of Lómarandil, still but for ragged breathing. Targil leaned forward as well, and it felt strange to be so close to her. "That was the only time I have done so," she whispered close to his ear, her breath tickling his face. She immediately leaned back once more and stood up, and in a way he felt regret that she was no longer so close. He had felt that he could hear her mind working when she was that near, and that was something to be desired. He glanced down at Lómarandil, who was beginning to stir, before rising. He had left Megilaes, the Ambassadors’ guard, to watch the prisoner, and he wished to see the orc still safely in bonds and with two eyes watching it. Finding the prisoner and its guard as he had left them, and with the Captain nearby.

Calenvása was not paying any attention to the orc on the ground behind him, but Targil still felt a certain amount of relief at finding the Captain present. But Ambarturion was also present. It seemed he had just come from collecting weapons, finally cooled off, for now. He was back to his stony face and icy eyes. Targil watched them for any sign of that ice melting in a great heat of anger. To his relief, they only flashed slightly when the ambassador looked at Calenvása. And yet Targil felt a fire light in his eyes as he watched Ambarturion approach his Captain. He felt a certain amount of pride as he watched his Captain, his expression almost as hard as Ambarturion’s, and yet more relaxed. He seemed at ease, while the ambassador was stiff with barely suppressed anger.

“We cannot wait around for this creature to wake.”

Calenvása had not looked at the ambassador yet, and he spared him only a glance after this statement. “If we do not wait, we move forward blindly, and with a wounded comrade.”

Thorvel joined the group at this moment, leaving Coromswyth alone to keep an eye on the wounded Lómarandil. For some reason, Targil felt a touch of anger toward Thorvel for doing so. It wasn’t as if the female elf could not be left alone, even without the orc party defeated. But then Thorvel spoke: “Lómarandil has had some real luck, Captain.” Calenvása looked up from the ground, looking almost surprised that he had been addressed. Thorvel continued: “The orc blade he came in contact with was poisoned. He needs better treatment.”

The Captain let out a bitter sigh, and looked back down at the ground before him. Ambarturion took advantage of Calenvása’s despair, and spoke with a fierceness that was so commonly in his voice. “He needs better treatment, and where can that treatment be obtained?”

“We must take him to the palace…” Thorvel replied, beginning to say something more to the ambassador, his mouth working angrily. Ambarturion cut him off with his own anger, turning now to speak to directly to the Captain. “Your man says so himself. We must move, Calenvása.”

Targil felt his own anger sharpen with these words. It was how they were said, mainly that disturbed him. But there was also the missing title. Strange that he would feel that the Lorien elf had wronged Calenvása. And what was even stranger was that it felt as if he had been wronged. “That’s ‘Captain’, Ambarturion. We must move, ‘Captain’.” Calenvása looked up once more, and their eyes met in silence, the tension around them, the air filled with anger, all ignored, as a silent thanks passed between them. Respect had been earned, and it was mutual. Something came into Calenvása’s eyes, and he turned to face Ambarturion, looking him in the eye, forcing his eyes away from Targil. Then the Captain spoke for the first time as a captain. “It is of my intention to save Lorien, Ambarturion. If you are of the same intentions, you will acknowledge my command.”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“I acknowledge your command of this scout troop, and in the absence of your King Thranduil I will obey your every behest in this land of our Mirkood kin. But I am bound to none save the Lord Celeborn, nor will I grant mastery to any but him or to his Lady.” Ambarturion’s words were cold and haughty, but they rang like shining steel taken from a scabbard, and all who heard them knew that they could ignore those words only at their peril. Megliaes shifted in his clothes uncomfortably as he watched the confrontation between his master and Calenvása from a safe distance. Ambarturion was the taller of the two and clearly of the more ancient lineage. But he was not in his realm, and he had been humbled by his capture. The cold danger that had lurked beneath the surface of his master’s demeanour since the murder of Caranbaith was cloaked now, but to those who knew the ancient Elf well, it was still there to see, lurking like a predator in the shadows, awaiting its moment.

Calenvása seemed to shrink in Megilaes’s eyes before the steady gaze of Ambarturion, but the captain’s reply put heart into his followers. “A fair answer, Master Ambarturion, but I do no ask you to swear allegiance to me, only to obey me in the lands of my king.”

“You speak of saving Lorien,” Ambarturion replied. “How do you propose to do this? The army that attacks now will be repulsed by the power of the Golden Lady as have the two that precede it. Or do you plan to attack the army yourself, and save my Lady the trouble?”

The younger Elf bristled visibly at the mocking tone. “We are not so rash. Where some might consider attacking, we prefer wiser and more profitable counsel. We had already decided to warn your kin of the attack, and would have done so already but for the need to rescue you.”

“We needed no rescuing. I would have soon removed my bonds and destroyed those who dared to carry us to their masters.” None there laughed.

“Be that as it may,” Calenvása continued, “we intend to continue with that plan now. But we must take thought to our wounded comrade.”

“Indeed, but there is no time to return him to the palace of Thranduil and chase after the armies of Dol Guldur. Your palace lies many days’ march north of here, and Lorien is at least one full day’s run to our west. Your loyalties are thus divided, but mine is clear. I grieve for your companion, but his fate is his and yours to determine, not mine. Whether you choose to leave him and come with me, or return with him to the palace is for you to decide.”

“And where would you have us follow you, should we decide to follow your direction?” His tone made it clear that such a decision was hypothetical at best.

“To your ending, but to one that might be worthy of a song and would win for you such renown in the memory of those who dwell in Lorien as to make it a worthwhile conclusion.”

Calenvása’s eyes narrowed. “You propose to lead us to our deaths? And how might those serve the high ones in Lorien?”

Ambarturion sighed and closed his eyes momentarily. It was becoming wearying speaking with these youths. He had forgotten what it was like having to debate and counsel with other Elves, so long had he been included in the closed circle of his Lord and Lady. In most cases, such exchanges would be unnecessary, as each opened their mind to the other and conceived of the wisest course as though there were harmonious singers in a choir. This clumsy talk was like the cawing of ravens to such music. “The main force of the army is no different from those that my people have destroyed before, and will continue to destroy for as long as the Lady keeps Lorien. But there is another force attached to the army – surely you noticed them – who are bent on another way. They will soon break away from the main force and attempt a desperate raid upon some undefended border of my land. While my people are occupied slaughtering their comrades, this force will attempt to take Caras Galadhon and destroy my Lady.”

There was a silence in the grove as those listening took this in. It was Calenvása who broke it. “Even if this is true, how will our deaths bring the Lady aid?”

“As I said, the army itself will be destroyed, but I fear that this smaller force might succeed. It is a suicide mission but one that might do terrible damage to us. We are not many, but yet we are enough to prevent the force from reaching the eaves of Lorien, or of reaching the Golden Wood in such disarray that their stroke will go awry. The number of the force cannot be much above two hundred orcs and men. My student and I alone can account for at least two score, and I daresay that each of you could destroy at least a half as many each. Well then, that’s almost half their number. With luck we might be able to destroy more. Such a blow would leave them crippled and unable to attack with any hope of success.”

“Wait a minute!” Ambarturion swung his head to regard the younger Elf, Thorvel where he stepped forward, ignoring the warning look shot him by his captain. “You propose that we should abandon or companion here and attack the smaller force by ourselves? Six against two hundred? It’s madness.”

“Perhaps, but it is what I intend to do. Help me or hinder me as you will.”

[Firefoot]

Thorvel had listened with growing satisfaction as Calenvása argued with Ambarturion. The Captain was doing what needed doing, as far as Thorvel could see. However, his eyebrows rose skeptically at hearing Ambarturion’s plan to attack the smaller force, and he could not keep quiet any longer. Earlier he had thought that the Lórien Elf’s dash into the woods was the result of clouded thinking, but Thorvel was starting to wonder if that wasn’t just how he always thought. He was hardly surprised any longer that they had been captured in the first place.

“Wait a minute!” he said. He thought he saw Calenvása shoot him a warning look, but he ignored it. “You propose that we should abandon our companion here and attack the smaller force by ourselves? Six against two hundred? It’s madness.”

“Perhaps, but it is what I intend to do. Help me or hinder me as you will.” Thorvel stared at him for a moment. Where was the other Elf’s sense? That would not help Lothlórien or the Lady, and it would get all of them killed! Ambarturion had said they could kill a full hundred of that force. What if they were killed first? Thorvel shook his head. Arguing with Ambarturion did not seem to be doing any good, and so he turned to Calenvása, who was frowning slightly.

“I think,” Thorvel began slowly, “that we should take Lómarandil with us to Lothlórien. It is closer than the palace, and he can get the care he needs there. He has been lucky so far, but I do not know if he would last the entire way to the palace. In addition, we will be able to alert the Galadhrim of the coming attack.” The last was said with a darted glance at Ambarturion. He had purposefully spoken loud enough for the others to hear. He stepped back. He had stated his opinion, one that made a great deal of sense to him, and was done speaking for the moment. Calenvása was doing a fine job debating with Ambarturion, and Thorvel intended to let him continue to do so.

[Hama Of The Riddermark]

Lomarandil woke from his pain with a gasp as Coromsyth squeezed the blade out. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth as he felt the metal ripping is flesh as it came out. He fell back as they walked to join the group, slowly gathering strength in his arms to push himself into a standing position. Reaching, with great pain, for his belt he opened a pouch and took out a small vial of colourless liquid. Gripping the bottle a little too tightly, he took a deep breath and poured the liquid onto his wound.

The cry could probably have been heard for miles around, and Lomarandil fell to his knees, shaking, hyperventilating, as the liquid burned into his flesh. The skin around his wound turned black and crusty within seconds, and small amounts of smoke curled their way up his tunic. The others looked round, Calenvasa looked aghast, Ambarturion impassive, and Thorvel almost impressed. Lomarandil dropped the vial, and it shattered on a stone, falling onto all fours he began to gasp for air as he tried to control the pain.

A tear fell from the corner of his eye, and using all his strenght he pushed himself to stand up. Shaking still, he walked forward towards the group and murmered as loudly as he could, "I'll be fine...just show me where they are..."

[Durelin]

“I think,” Thorvel began slowly, “that we should take Lómarandil with us to Lothlórien. It is closer than the palace, and he can get the care he needs there. He has been lucky so far, but I do not know if he would last the entire way to the palace. In addition, we will be able to alert the Galadhrim of the coming attack.”

As if he had heard the discussion turn to him, a cry was heard from the direction in which Lómarandil and Coromswyth were, clearly a yell of pain from the wounded elf. It seemed he had finally awoken to the pain of his wound. For a brief moment, Calenvása wondered what exactly that poison was doing to the elf. He came only to the conclusion that it was of a great evil, born from the minds of creatures of the greatest evil that was Sauron. It was enough to make any Child of Illuvatar shiver in a sickened fear.

It was at that moment that, to the shock of everyone present, the wounded elf himself walked toward them with an extraordinary amount of balance and strength. Coromswyth followed slowly behind him, her eyes upon the elf’s back, filled with amazement, then passing to look at Calenvása. A silent understanding passed between them that she knew nothing more than he did about what was going on. If Lómarandil’s recovery was not enough of a shock for them all, it was Targil who stepped forward to help the elf walk the last steps he needed to make to join the others.

Lómarandil glanced at the elf as he took his arm, careful of his wounds that had now grown to be several of varying severity, but the young elf said nothing. Most likely it took too much strength to speak, though it was obvious that nothing needed to be said. Calenvása watched in wonder, and found it hard to focus on the words Lómarandil was saying, his mind abuzz with thoughts that would not rest until they all had been run through his mind.

"I'll be fine...just show me where they are..."

The Captain assumed that he spoke of the army, though it was hard to tell. The elf had found the strength to rise from where he had lain and to walk the distance to the group, but it was clear that there was little other strength left in him. His wounds were seemingly – miraculously enough - not doing him any immediate harm. He spoke softly, his breath too short for much to be spared for speech. It was strange to see the young elf in this weakened state, without his usual vigor and energy that so often was manifested in recklessness. But the voice of Targil sounded even stranger to Calenvása’s ears.

“It was spoken in haste that it would be best for us to return to the palace,” Targil said, his voice almost as quiet as Lómarandil’s, and his tone surprisingly calm. “And now even to speak of Lómarandil as a burden at all.” The way this was said made it clear to the Captain that there was more meaning to it than what was found on the surface of these words. A burden was what Targil had always seemed to see the young elf as. And a burden that was not worth being carried by him. Of course it had also been clear that Targil had not particularly approved of Calenvása himself. Never had Targil been seen showing much respect to anyone. Not until recently…the recent times had changed them all. He could feel the world changing.

“Haste, indeed…” Ambarturion’s voice was no less spiteful than before, and only slightly less calm. “You speak of haste, and that is what is required of us.”

“I speak of a haste that had consequences. You speak of a reckless haste that will bring us to our deaths,” Calenvása said quickly, snapping at the Lorien elf. “The haste you speak of is unnecessary. There are many things on our side that you refuse to see, Ambarturion. You see the roughest road as the only road, and take it. The path you wish to take at this time is one that ends in the needless deaths of us all. And what is your reason for taking this path? Renown? To be remembered in a song as those who died for Lorien? Why not be remembered as those who lived for your land…my brother.”

They were of a kindred, the remainder of a kindred who lingered in a darkening Middle-Earth, refusing a call to other lands to live in these. To live in these lands, and for these lands. Ambarturion was his brother, as were all those present. It was wrong for them to find, even create divisions among themselves, the Children of Illuvatar, who knew best in this world what evil was, and who would neither allow it a place in their hearts, nor in their lands.

There clearly was a change in Ambarturion’s eyes, if not in his face, which was still set hard and cold. They cooled, just as the voice of the Captain had. Coromswyth was of course standing at the male ambassador’s side, and she now reached out to touch the elf slightly on the arm. He jumped ever so slightly at her touch, obviously caught lost in his thoughts. At this moment, Calenvása would give anything to know what those thoughts were. But as Ambarturion turned to look at his female companion, it seemed Coromswyth was doing the thought reading for him.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

It shocked him to know how little the other Elves understood about him. He had no more desire to die than they, he only wished to make that death worth while. But why do you think only of death? He did not turn to Coromswyth. Instead he returned Calenvása’s gaze. Because it is inevitable, he replied. Aloud he said, “I have been fighting the long defeat for the length of memory. I have come to accept that there is, in the end, no hope for Middle-Earth and for those whose fate it is to remain here. My only wish is to save what can be saved. For many long years I have sought to convince my Lord and Lady to take the straight Road into the West, but ever have they remained. I cannot save them from this folly, but I will not let them be destroyed. If my death is the only way to save them, then I will give away my life gladly.”

Calenvása’s eyes grew wide with shock. “I had not idea, Ambarturion, that you were so sick at heart with despair.” The younger Elf’s face and voice were utterly sincere, and the expression of his feeling was of such purity that it shocked Ambaturion into silence. “Have you really forsaken all hope for this land? Do you truly see no path to life and victory over the Enemy?”

“No.” The word slipped from him before he had noticed, and it hung there in the still morning air like a reproach.

Ambarturion swayed slightly, like an oak whose time had come to fall to the earth. But Coromswyth once more steadied him with a touch. He turned to her, and was stilled when he saw in her gentle smile that she did not condemn him despair. It stabbed him deeply that she acknowledged it at all.

Into the silence that had fallen upon the glade, it was Megilaes who spoke. “Master,” he began, and there was in his voice a timbre and age new to him. “The Captain is right. You must not fight this war in despair of failure, but in hope of victory. My brother was slain and I will seek his vengeance, but I shall not find it by throwing away my own life.”

Ambarturion turned to his student, and those gathered about were stunned when he asked softly, “What should we do?”

Megilaes put his hand upon his teacher’s shoulder. “Let us do as Calenvása has suggested. Let us return to our land and warn them of the danger. Then, with some more of our kin we can march out and meet our enemies upon the field of reckoning.”

Ambarturion put his own hand upon Megilaes’ forearm and nodded. The faintest hint of a smile crossed his face, like the feel of sunshine through clouds. He turned to Calenvása. “Come,” he said. “I have heard that the feet of our Mirkwood kin are fleet, but they shall have to be swift indeed to keep pace with me this day!” He spun and ran toward the West, and his passing was as of the wind in the grass. The others ran after him upon feet as light. And as they ran, they heard Ambarturion laughing.

[Firefoot]

Thorvel sighed in relief as Ambarturion took off running. They were finally on their way to Lothlorien once again. Thorvel and the other Elves were not far behind. They went at a swift pace, for they had a race to win, a race with the army. If they lost, the stakes would be high. So they ran, on and on. Mostly they ran wrapped in their own thoughts, but occasionally someone broke the quiet with conversation.

There were a good many things to think about. How far the Orc army had gotten that day, for one. They had been making decent speed before, about what would be expected of a mass that large. However, Thorvel figured that the Elves were now a few days behind. They had great need of haste indeed. That made him wonder whether they would stop for the night. Somehow he doubted it: the sun was already sinking low, casting long shadows in the fading light, and they had only been running for a few hours. They couldn’t go all the way to Lorien without stopping, but Thorvel did not think they would stop so soon, even though it had been such a long day. He would not presume to guess out loud; he did not particularly care to guess wrong in front of the Lorien Elves. Thorvel was amazed at how much had happened in such a short time, and the day hadn’t ended up half bad for all the troubles they had had getting there.

Thorvel glanced over at Lómarandil, one of the said troubles. The younger Elf seemed to be holding up all right, outwardly. Thorvel did not believe that he was as strong or healthy as he seemed to want them to think. Thorvel was tired of the needless burden he had caused thus far though, and if he wanted to pretend to be fit, Thorvel wasn’t going to argue. Yes; it had been a long day, and Thorvel would be glad to see the end of it.

[Durelin]

His mind raced along with his feet, which carried him across the earth with a haste that Calenvása had never known. He supposed this was true need that he was feeling, which he had not known before. It surprised him that he had not known such need before, and he would think of it further if the need at hand did not fill his mind as it did. But for now he was plagued by worries and decisions, all of which demanded to be considered immediately. His mind called for haste, as did his heart, which ached for a way through the darkness that surrounded it. Despair was waiting just outside the edges of it, waiting to fill his heart to the brim. Today, it was hard pressed to make its way in.

The Captain was feeling strong in an unexplainable way, though he had been strained both physically and mentally for too many days now. He was refreshed in heart, though his mind and body had received no rest. Calenvása had found a release himself from the heaviness that mere thoughts had been able to bring down upon him. He did not know how he had done so, but it seemed only to be a simple acceptance of everything that was. It was certainly something new for him to see beyond what his own life encompassed and see the world his life was a part of, but the words of Ambarturion, as well as the words that had emerged from his own mouth were more than just words formed by the mind to express something in the heart, they were formed by the heart to express what was in it.

Words said could form a being, and beyond just how others saw them. What anyone put on display as themselves, whatever mask or veil they wore, hid what was beneath. The soul reflects upon the face, and the face upon the soul. Whatever face was put in place to hide the soul beneath was giving face to that soul. A darkened veil or a black mask that would not let eyes or sunlight penetrate would shade a soul. Very rarely was a soul allowed to be seen. But it seemed that words could give a soul a face.

Targil ran at Calenvása’s side, a strange new mutual acceptance come between them, bringing them to an understanding. It was so strange because for each of them, the other had been seen as the least likely person for them to ever understand. Each had held on to doubts that kept them from seeing a brother, of the same kindred, of the same land, with the same goals in mind. They were fighting the same battle, on several fronts. Finally the two had learned to stand together on all of these fronts.

The two kept their eyes on Lómarandil behind them. Thorvel, who was a short ways in front of them, seemed to be doing the same, but with a different concern in mind. A glance passed quickly between Targil and his Captain, and then Calenvása called to Thorvel. The elf dropped back, and immediately began voicing his concerns about Lómarandil. They were hardly concerns for the wounded elf. Targil had always made his disapproval for anyone very clear, but Thorvel’s irritation caused by the young elf came as a surprise.

“It is clear that Lómarandil will prove of great trouble to us, Captain. As he always does.” He added the last phrase in a quiet murmur, seeming embarrassed to say it and yet certain that he would speak his mind. Calenvása sighed. This was a surprise he knew he should have seen before this. Targil was silent on the other side of him, and looked ahead of them, keeping his eyes away from Thorvel, who did not even attempt to keep his own gaze, full of irritation and a sort of disgust that came from his lack of understanding for what was in his companion’s mind and heart.

Calenvása was in no mood for argument or complaints, as it was time for decisions to be made. “Lómarandil is our comrade and our kinsman. We have fought beside him and will continue to do so.”

“He is a burden…”

This time Targil cut Thorvel off before Calenvása could answer. “A burden that we will carry.”

Thorvel’s eyes flashed to look at Targil with surprise, but quickly grew angry. Luckily he did not find words to express this anger before Calenvása could bring them to more important matters.

“Along with the burden of the safety of Lorien. And we all know that means reaching the forest as long before the enemy does as possible. There is reason for Ambarturion to despair as he did, at least at first glance…” he paused, wondering if Ambarturion had reasons that went deeper. “But there are advantages that we have seen: one being the sheer size of the army, which makes its movement more difficult. Another we saw the day in Mirkwood, when all our troubles began…or simply worsened. This was the trolls. There use has yet to be seen, but they are slow moving, and often can serve a purpose other than in battle. My thought is that they are not foolish enough to attempt to use trolls in such a battle. But whatever their purpose is, they are slow moving creatures.”

As he spoke, Calenvása began to realize with bitterness that he was bringing all of these thoughts together to relieve himself of his worries and doubts more so than to convince or comfort his comrades. He hesitated, but soon decided to continue to the end, as his pause brought only silence. Remembering who ran on either side of him, that was a surprise. “The final and perhaps the greatest disadvantage the enemy has is the crossing of the Anduin.” He smiled slightly as he glanced from one of his companions to the other. “They will learn of the Great River and its nature.”

For a brief moment, the three shared a smile. It was not a smile of amusement, or even truly of happiness. And though it lasted for such a short time, Thorvel coming to remember his current bitterness against all three of his fellow scouts, Targil remembering his disgust with Thorvel’s agitation, and Calenvása sighing at the both of them. Another sigh followed in the silence, this one in irritation with himself.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Calenvasa was right; the army was to learn of the nature of the Anduin - even as the elf captain said it.

At the edge of the river, the water lapping at their toes, three huge, thickset trolls stood unhappily, knee deep in the churned up mud. All around them the dwarfed figures of Southrons and orcs scurried like so many ninpins, shouting in vain at the massive creatures, but their commands and whips only made the stupid creatures angrier. Standing a safe distance away from the riverbank, Koran winced as one of the creatures let out a massive bellow and took a swing at several of the orcs around it. Shrugging into his dark leather coat, Koran turned in disgust from the chaotic scene to where Ehan was standing nearby, apparently mesmerised by the scene, his eyes bright and a slight smile hovering on his lips.

"It's not a sport, Ehan," Koran said dryly. The younger man blinked and looked at him sharply, then smiled sheepishly, before turning his eyes once more on the riverbank, where the orcs were attempting to whip the trolls into doing their will.

"What a sport it would make though..." he murmured in reply, his eyes starry." Just pit the orcs against the trolls in a battle, add a muddy river to give the orcs a fairer chance...why, given enough time, I think they would probably mange to wipe each other out."

Koran snorted, shaking his head as he looked down at the ground. "Bloody sport..." he grinned, glancing up at Ehan. Looking back up, he threw his head back onto his shoulders and sighed wearily, closing his eyes. They had been dragging the trolls with them for the past few days, and what with Herding's complete disassosiation with anything to do with the beasts, it had been chaos to move them at all, and they had claimed half a dozen orcs so far - not that Thrakmazh seemed to care. And it was a wonder - no, a miracle - that the elves of Mirkwood seemed not to have followed them. Yet. So much for the famed and terrible far-sighted scouts of Mirkwood...

"Whose bright idea was it to use trolls to make bridges- no, in fact, to use trolls to make anything of use?" he asked, his eyes shut.

"Probably not your friend Herding," Ehan replied sardonically. "Unless there are now bright ideas painted on the sides of wine bottles," he added just for good measure. Koran grinned and raised his eyebrows, opening his dark eyes to look up at the stars. Unwillingly, he turned slowly around to look back at the riverbank, his expression one of dismay and disdain, and took in the scene for a few moments with impassive eyes. They had been working for several hours now, and had managed to bully the trolls into constructing...one raft.

Koran's thoughts were not to be mistaken: he had admired the idea of getting larger, stronger creatures to do the work, and the fact that they could now stand daylight - well, it seemed perfect.

In theory.

He just wished they had some brains.

Another of the orcs swung his whip zealously at one of the trolls and the massive creature had finally had enough. As the whip wrapped around it's giant forearm it bellowed fiercely and pulled backwards sharply; as the hapless orc at the other end of the whip didn't quite let go quite fast enough, he was catapulted into the middle of the river with an abruptly cut off scream. As Herding was nowhere to be seen (probably lost in the depths of a wine bottle, Koran thought darkly), the younger captain waded in, waving an arm fiercely.

"Stop, stop! Oh for the sake of- look, you two, come here." He pinpointed a Southron and an unusually scrawny looking Uruk, calling them over. When they were within talking range, he carried on. "Look, chain them up to the trees for the night - we'll get no more work done here. It's a bloody marvel we haven't got every elf in the forest on our backs with that racket..."

"Stop?" The Uruk looked at Koran dimly and the Southron stared back, trying halfheartedly to restrain his disgust. "Only the Captain Thrakmazh gives orders to Uruks. We listen to no Man now-"

"Your bloody captain is nowhere to be seen, and if you try to defy me, I shall have you make the trolls build rafts - by yourself," Koran hissed dangerously, his face close to the Uruk. The monstrous being growled but didn't hold the man's gaze, his yellow eyes flitting away. Without another word he turned rudely and yelled fearsomely at the orcs in the black tongue, laying his whip into all those around him who were slow to react. The other Southron cast a baleful look at Koran then hurried to carry out his orders. The Southron clenched his fists fiercely then released them, turning away from the scene towards the Southron camp that lay to the North. The evening was coming on now, and, regardless of puffed up Uruks, theoretically excellent (but practically hopeless) trolls and drunken captains, he was going to get a drink and a game of dice before they tasted 'the blood of the beautiful'...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Their long race ended at dusk upon the banks of the Anduin. The great river stretched away upon either hand disappearing into the gathering darkness, and the Elves took a moment to bathe their heated limbs in its cool waters. The silence was broken only by the slight ripple of water and the distant call of waterfowl as they gathered once more upon the high bank and took counsel.

Calenvása spoke first. “We have made such a chase as is worthy of the song you crave Ambarturion.”

Ambarturion smiled at the slight jibe. His mood since the race began had been unusually light, as though a great burden had been lifted from him. In the long leagues that they had run, he had used the time and exertion to think back over his long years of battle and strife, and for the first time in an Age he had seen them in a new light. For too long had he regarded the long defeat as a source of despair, but there had been hope as well. Lorien remained steadfast, and there were still those within it who bore with them the memory of the West. Imladris, too, remained strong and Elrond ruled there with wisdom and courage. The thought of Elrond had brought to mind the Lady Arwen. Her choice of the Man Aragorn had long been a source of bitterness for Ambarturion, but as the miles had uncoiled beneath his feet, he had felt that perhaps it was not for him to question it. For so long he had been used to taking the counsel only of himself and his Lord and Lady that he had forgotten that there was other wisdom, other counsel, in the world. He had been so sure that his course of action was the only right one… It was not the disagreement of the others that had shaken this certainty; it was not even his own recognition that he had been wrong. The admission of his own despair, however, had shaken him deeply, for it had shown him the dark and dangerous realm in which he had lived for so long, and from within which he had acted.

He had long known that the greatest danger to his continued existence in Middle Earth was that in his retreat from the pale reality of it, he would lose himself in the glories and the light of the past. The sunshine of noon in the glades of Doriath, the pale hovering sheen of the moon upon the waters of the western sea, the unsullied glint of Earendil upon his first voyage across the sky – these had been the lights that he thought guided him, and that beckoned to him from the past. But in reality, it had not been the light at all that threatened to overwhelm him, but the darkness that lay behind and beyond the lights, and against which they had sparkled the more brightly. It was not to the lights that he had turned, but away from the darkness, and in this he had given the night precedence over the day. His flight into the past had not been a pursuit, but a retreat. He had come close to embracing the night entirely, so ready had he been to throw his life away in despair. But he had been saved by, of all things, a chance encounter with a group of youths who were as children compared to him. But before the light of their courage and hope he felt as though he were the younger.

Renewed by this encounter, he had run all the way from Mirkwood without once turning to the past. His feet had felt the grass of the Vale, and his eyes had beheld the far horizons of the present. And he had been happy.

The talk soon turned to how they were to cross the mighty River. They had made for the Anduin in a more or less straight line, and as a consequence had met with him at a point where he was broad and deep. The Mirkwood Elves asked how they were to cross. Ambarturion’s brow creased as he considered an answer. They were still some miles to the north of Lorien, for they had sought to avoid the army of Dol Guldur by circling around it. But now a difficult choice lay before them. “There are two possible crossings for us,” he said slowly. “One lies fifteen leagues to the north, where we were captured by the orcs. It is the safer route for our enemies are somewhere to the south of us, but it takes us in the wrong direction. It will take us at least a day and a half to reach Lorien should we attempt that route.”

“Where is the second crossing?” Calenvása’s voice betrayed that he suspected the answer.

“It is not far,” Ambarturion replied. “But it is, I fear, too far for absolute safety. The southerly crossing is but five leagues hence. Should we take it, we will find ourselves upon the very eaves of the Golden Wood and within hailing distance of the outer sentries of my land.”

“You fear that it is already held by the enemy,” Targil said.

“Or that it soon will be,” Ambarturion replied. “If we have guessed the enemy’s plans aright, the main press of the army should even now be attempting a crossing of the Anduin somewhere further to the south. Perhaps at or below the meeting of Anduin and the Nimrodel. If we are correct, then the smaller group will undoubtedly make for this nearer ford.” He saw the questioning look in Targil’s eyes. “It is the crossing closest to Caras Galadhon,” he explained simply.

“So which way do we go?” Ambarturion asked. “To the north, where we will find both safety and a longer road, or to the south, where we will either find ourselves beneath the eaves of the Golden Wood by morning, or a host of enemies intent upon our destruction?”

[Durelin]

“So which way do we go? To the north, where we will find both safety and a longer road, or to the south, where we will either find ourselves beneath the eaves of the Golden Wood by morning, or a host of enemies intent upon our destruction?”

Calenvása sighed. Safety would be found in the longer road. They would be safe, at least. But what could they say for those in Lorien, if they took the longer road, seeking their own safety rather than that of the land of their kindred. So it seemed to come that Ambarturion’s wish for deeds and deaths worthy of a song would come true, or at least have it’s chance to. But this time the Lorien elf spoke nothing of songs, nor the glory of their deaths. He merely spoke of an enemy set to help them all find their deaths, and spoke of it without fear or a feverish focus on the end. All there realized, though, particularly at these words, that some kind of end had to come.

There was silence for a moment. A silence that was well justified, he knew, as he scanned the eyes of his companions. Their minds were struggling to come up with any words. There was much to consider, much which could be dwelt on for a lifetime. Calenvása laughed bitterly in his head. Death could be dwelt on for a lifetime…

“We go to the south, and we will find the safety of Lorien, in one way or another.” It was time to dwell on living with the time they had to live. And right now they should be concerned with time.

~

“We have faced attacks such as these before, and have yet to falter.”

Helkaur of Lorien frowned as he spoke, seeing sorrow in the eyes of Moraniel, his wife, and mirroring it. He waited for her to speak, to say that she knew this and that she knew that everything would be all right. His heart desired those words to eradicate his own heavy sorrow. He wanted to hear that everything would be all right, from the lips of his love, so that the dread they shared would be proved baseless. But then he closed his eyes, knowing the words would not come. He could not say them himself.

“But why must you face these attacks?”

Her voice was taut with emotion, ready to break at any moment. She barely held on to any calm, and Helkaur opened his eyes to watch the sadness in her eyes begin to cover her face in a veil of grief. Why did she still have to look so beautiful? His own face twisted in a painful feeling that did not know how to express itself. Moraniel asked a question that she knew the answer to, that she never would have asked had she been herself, and not behind that horrid veil. Helkaur did not answer, and he knew his wife did not truly expect him to. Then Moraniel dropped her eyes, hanging her head in sorrow, seeming embarrassed of the veil she wore, and Helkaur wanted so much to just lift that veil and kiss her.

“You always have a choice…” she said quietly, and he searched frantically for a way to lift that veil that separated him from her for the moment. He knew only to say what was in his heart, as he always had, to her.

“And I always choose, my love.”

She looked up, back into her husband’s eyes, her eyes brightened for a brief moment, something behind the grief, mixed with the grief, showing through and over-shadowing it. And her face…it was radiant, though it shown with a soft glow. Helkaur still felt that it should blind him. She had torn off the veil herself. Now he knew the elf before him, and he felt his heart unwind itself from being twisted in pain. His heart could not remain sad or afraid under that gaze. Then she kissed him, and he felt himself begin to glow. She almost smiled. And it almost hurt him, that she did not.

“I’ve always trusted you to make the right choices. I will not stop now, as I have no reason to. I have no reason to do anything but respect your decision. You amaze me. You have always been so strong.”

“It is you who gives me the strength to live at all on this earth.”

“Then do not leave this earth without me.”

“I have already promised you that you will never be without me, and I will uphold that promise.”

For a moment, Moraniel seemed to search his eyes for more, as if these words were not enough. In truth, they were not, but Helkaur could give her nothing more. He watched his wife give up the search after a moment. She knew she would not find anything. Helkaur turned away, knowing that it was time for him to hold his longbow, the bow he used for war. As soon as he had turned, he felt a sharp pain, and he felt the eyes on his back look upon him in a new way. When he turned again, bow in hand, he saw in his love’s eyes that she had found something after all. What it was, he did not know, but it brought to her beautiful eyes and her face hardness. It did not take away from her beauty, but she now shown with a sharp glow, rather than a soft warmth. She stood physically and mentally unwavering, as she had always been in his mind, though he had watched her fail, fall, and falter. She had always helped him find strength, and he had always tried to do the same for her. Now she had found it. But had he helped her in doing so?

“I wait for you, Helkaur.”

And so he departed, and she watched him walk away, with one last kiss, a loving embrace, and without any tears.

[Kransha]

Many days had passed since Thrákmazh the Mighty approached his fellow conspirator, a day since those conspiring were confirmed and set into swift motion. His scheme was working; his plan was coming closer to success! Herding was, perhaps, more than convinced. It would all fall into place easily. Quietly, studiously, Thrákmazh reviewed the devilish scheme: On the eve of battle, this very night, the coup would take place. Herding could imprison Cenbryt on charges of treason, and then kill him. While the wretched Southron gloated, Thrákmazh could take his chance. He would slay Herding, and Cenbryt would be dead already. The Southrons would have no choice but to follow him and, if they did not, Thrákmazh’s orcs and uruk-hai far outnumbered the southern men. Besides that, he had ranks of lesser folk, mercenaries, trolls, and the like that were loyal to Sauron and not to Harad. If worse came to worse, disposing of all rebellious Southrons would be no more than a bland annoyance, an unwelcome thorn.

The sun was now nearly set behind the trees after a long, monotonous journey through the dim sky, unlit by a great brightness. The golden vessel that Thrákmazh so despised seemed dulled, like a brilliant, shimmering metal rusted over time. Clouds billowed above, moving quickly to escape their proper course. The orc captain moved with subtle swiftness through his side of camp, eluding stray glances with ease. It would be best to get the army moving, now that night had fallen. Stars began to glisten meagerly in the high heavens. Doubtless the lot of them would be, as usual, opposed to moving in daylight, but they would do it nevertheless. Thrákmazh had to see to such things, it was his responsibility, and he knew that no orc or other creature would dare to stand in his way when doing his duty to the Eye. The camp had to be summarily roused early each day and where prepared for another day of early awakening beneath dawn’s cold sun after very little sleep. They were but a day from the Woods of Lórien and would cover much ground before the day’s gold vessel completed its slow-paced arc through cloudless skies. But, they would not rise in calm tranquility tomorrow. They would rise in the evening, beneath Thrákmazh’s guiding hand.

Tonight…Tonight Sauron’s Eye and the eye of Thrákmazh the Mighty would see together.

The army assembled by the Captain of Dol Guldur, Khamûl the Nazgûl, consisted of the scattered remnants of the Uruk-hai (most of whom were slain with the fall of Orthanc), goblins of the Misty Mountains, Urûks of Mordor and Mirkwood, Southron tribesmen, and, finally, Olog-hai. The Olag-hai, or Ologs, were simply trolls to anyone who cared to look upon them. They were bred with the urûks in Mordor, but were gifted by the Eye with uncanny abilities, unusual for common troll-kind. The Olog-hai at least had some mild intelligence, and, unlike most trolls, were unfazed by the dreaded beams of the sun. They were easily compatible with orc hosts, useful as dreadnaughts or heavy infantry, crushing and annihilating all in their way. The problem was, no matter how much brain the Dark Lord gave them, they were no more than overbearing trolls, and thus, dull and slow like their smaller, weaker kin in the north and west.

This slowness had cost the host much time. Trolls could not be incensed to quicken their paces, as they had no means to move faster whether or not they wished to. Thrákmazh had never been obligated to work or correspond with trolls of kind. There were few trolls in the forests of Mirkwood and they appeared only sparingly in the Misty Mountains, where some campaigns had taken Thrákmazh in his younger days. In his three millennia of remembered life, Thrákmazh had had a mild aversion to trolls, ever since their constant and conspicuous absence at all the battles where he might have needed their services. Now, they were costing him again, with their aversion to his pace, or their inability to match it. They were slowing the orc-host down, and their weakness might go so far as to add another day to the journey from Dol Guldur to Lórien. But, they had a purpose, one that Thrákmazh the Mighty could use and exploit with ease. The trolls would accommodate him during the overthrow. Koran’s men might be able to kill orcs and men, but killing trolls was an art form still not mastered. For the last days, these trolls had had dragged behind, a quailing rear flank for the monstrous host. Tonight, they fell, slowly and wearily, grumbling and yawning stupidly (a sound that more resembled a grunting growl that rumbled in troll throats before bursting out, unwanted), into slumber, chained by iron collars to the sturdiest woodland trees…

They would not sleep for long.

Thrákmazh sat, his only eye firmly shut, blocking out the little light of the stars as the sunlight disappeared, before his tent. He was squatting in the dirt, pondering, as he had pondered every moment of the long journey since his conversation with Herding in the Southron’s tent. Tonight was as apt a night as any to do the wicked deed, but Thrakmazh’s mind was elsewhere, preoccupied. His rough-skinned hand glided up and down the length of his orcish blade, which now hung at his right in a secondary place. Having taken its place, the glimmering Elven sword shined still, absorbing the cold, watery moonlight as it swept as a tide over night. He was preoccupied by the blade, its hold still firmly on him. Faces, as white as ice and lacking of earthly pallor, appeared continually before his eyes, flashing strobes of painful fire. It was maddening as it had been at first, but so much now that it blinded the orc’s mind against all ulterior motives. He was thinking of the Elves, those he had killed in the past…and those he would kill tomorrow, but one elf still lingered, one that he hoped and wished was dead. A voice, though, stirred his reverie…a voice that came from within.

‘The Elf is dead, don’t be a fool. He has perished.’ The voice spoke slowly, icily, as if digesting the sour words before it spoke. It was a voice that lingered in Thrákmazh, a voice whose cold sound scratched against his skull as talons would, rending layers from his thick bones and exerting great force to cause pain. It was orcish, his perhaps, but smoother and darker with a strangely subtle elegance that Thrákmazh’s own voice did not possess. The orc considered the words that this voice from within spoke, the message concealed in the melodious oratory. He knew, somehow, deep in his dark and stinking heart, that the voice, as convincing as it was, was wrong. Slowly, his tattered lips moved to mouth the words of his reply. “The Elf lives…he lives…I know it…I feel his fire in the sword.” His hand unconsciously moved, worming down like a snake, separate from its earthly master, towards the blade that still hung at his left hip. Its moonbeam gleam shone weakly through the scabbard of torn leather that Thrákmazh had bound around it to quell its preternatural glow. He felt the same distinct burning feeling that shot through him, coursing into his pulsating veins each time his hand neared the Elven blade he’d stolen.

‘That sword will be the death of you, fool.’ admonished the dank voice within, ‘Discard it and turn back to your mission.’ Again, Thrákmazh heard the words in passing, as if he had somehow heard them before and was recalling a past incident in reverence of contemplation. His eye closed more firmly, the lid and saggy skin about it folding into a wrinkled pouch of flesh. He disagreed with the voice, fully now. He knew at this point that it would disagree with him. Whatever dark source it sprung from and whatever tributaries it held to it in his mind, he was not inclined to listen to it out of any more than necessity. His brow furrowed in annoyance. “My mission will be complete by the next sunset.” He said to himself, his unspoken words wrought with arrogance that he had not expected to come from him. He knew he was prideful, but he was also cautious. His usual wary, circumspect demeanor evaporated, absorbed into the offending voice, which spoke with it.

‘Unless you falter,’ chided the voice delicately, pausing a moment after, ‘...Koran will fall, but can you slay the darker man?’ Again Thrákmazh felt an unreasonable need to argue and seek fault in the words of the voice. It was manufactured as a tool for argument, a resilient mannequin that would take Thrákmazh’s blows and bounce back uniformly. “He will fall as his foe shall.” Thrákmazh silently growled, no vocal sound coming from him though he still spoke, “I will lead when the sun has risen. I will lead orc, man, and troll alike to victory.” The voice paused, and Thrakmazh’s mind fell into a further trance, near slumber, as the counterpart of his personality digested again, preparing the adequate, sardonic, dark response. An instant later it burst, its loud fervor filling Thrákmazh’s pounding skull. ‘With what?’ it queried, with a dry wit lingering in the tone, ‘...What tool have you do mastermind Lorien’s defeat?...The sword of an Elf?”

The words struck a nerve. “No!” Thrákmazh said, this time out loud, but still softly, “I will slay Elves with an orc blade!” His hand switched from left to right flank, fingers curling protectively about the horn-carved hilt of his scimitar. He saw the elf before him, or at least his face, through the bars of a cage. It was the cage that he’d been confined in during their parting conversation, one-sided as it was. The image passed with the speed of a passing bird, set on other things, and was replaced by a swirling whirlpool of murk and debris. As he felt the hilt, he felt the same emptiness he’s felt, the same soulless blackness. The same vigor that usually accosted him was gone, replaced by that emptiness. Whenever he killed Elves or men or even orcs, he felt blood rush through him and passionate fire inflame him. Now, ice encased his panting, heaving lungs, his blood ran cold, and the beat of his orcish heart slowed to a standstill. He felt nothing...Quietly, the voice continued, swelling soon to greater volume and power. ‘Your soul is no longer there.’ It murmured disdainfully, ‘Your soul is with the Elf! He’s stolen it from you!’

“My soul is here!” he cried, louder now, “The Elf, dead or living, does not hold it.”

‘Then look in your sword, O Mighty Captain, and see what lies in its blade.’

Slowly, reluctantly, Thrákmazh’s hand moved again, to his left hip. He had to be the victor. The voice was just another challenge, and an unneeded one at that. He could slay it and its weak, abhorrent brethren, along with the Elf. The Elf, dead or alive, would pay for the pain he’d caused Thrákmazh. He would pay for making Thrákmazh remember, in such agonizing, gruesome detail the deeds he’d once held as landmarks in his life. He would slay more Elves, and he would cleave their heads from their shoulders, rend their arms from their sides, and slice their wobbling legs, quailing in fear, out from beneath their fragile, porcelain forms, delicate and as weak as autumn leaves. He would bathe in their blood when the time came, and laugh at the pitiful being who defied his will with vile trickery and Elvish sorcery that had cursed him. His fingers closed, feeling a fire more painful than inflaming wrap around his hand, worm up his arm, and overflow there. Flinching, his hand shot away again, latching on to the orcish sword, he whipped it from its sheath and stumbled up to his feet, trying to gain a firm foothold in the earth. His one eye passed over the land beneath him and settled on the sword.

The voice was gone, gone from his mind and would no longer pester him, but he still had to prove it wrong. He slowly unsheathed the blade, clasping it hopefully in one hand, and raised the blade parallel to the ground. Somewhat hesitantly, he leaned over it, his one eye closing involuntarily. He, at first, could not force himself to look into it. Something about the very gesture pained him, but only slightly. He was only reluctant because, at this stage, he would not stand to be wrong. All was going as planned and, to be victorious, he could not let any form of fear or seeds of doubt infect him. He was firm, strong, mighty, and his reflection in a blackened sword could not change that, no matter what. The orc captain was resolute and would not move from his position. Ready for anything, his eye snapped open and the space where his other eye had been contorted, as if some inner eye was staring into the reflective sheen of the polished weapon.

What he saw horrified him to no end, beyond the very depths of his nightmares. He saw fire, fire and shadow, swirling cyclonic around him. The sword burned him now, searing the flesh of his hand just as the Elven blade had. He felt his heart racing, his head pounding, and his veins throbbing. The healed injury in his leg suddenly pulsated furiously, the innards of him beating like drums against his ribs. He cast the blade from his hand so forcefully that it was buried in the ground when it fell, reverberating. The blade rippled, singing a song of death that filled Thrákmazh’s ears. Letting loose a monumental roar of pain, Thrákmazh reeled and fell to the earth, clasping his empty hands to his head. He needed something, anything, to purge him off the pain. At first his mind sought physical pain to divert the mental pain. He yearned momentarily to bury a knife in his arm just for distraction, but the dying fragments of logic in him told him not to. He needed drink, orc-draught, liquor strong enough to alleviate his troubles and woes. His eye, still clenched tightly closed, turned beneath it’s lid to the area surrounding his tent as his painful roaring began attracting a great deal of attention.

“URKRASH!” his voice boomed, as his left hand wrapped protectively around his burning right. He sunk to his knees again, his one, dark eye flitting sideways to the tent of his servant, a smaller sheltered erected not far from his own lavish pavilion. From it, almost instantly, issued a groggy-looking Urkrásh with a weary yawn on his lips and sandy debris clinging to his low eyelids. The tired orc tried in vain to hurry towards his master, having heard the call which echoed still in the sky. “Yes, lord.” He said glumly, but still purposefully, as he neared Thrákmazh, “What is it you want of-” Thrákmazh interrupted the slow-moving voice with his maddened own. “Orc-draught, now!” He snapped, jabbing a finger at the flask which he had known would be hanging on Urkrásh’s flank. His finger was moving up and down, rapidly, like the fluttering wings of a swift bird and his eye and face had lost their pallor, drained of all color. His whole demeanor had shrunk and his look was pallid and weak…almost afraid...He had never been afraid before...never...

Reluctantly, and not quite understanding, Urkrásh unhooked the hide-leather flask from a tattered belt slung across his shoulder. His hand shaking uncontrollably, his thin, nearly emaciated arm extended outward to Thrákmazh. The hand of the captain shot out carelessly, tearing the flask from his servant’s hand. His talons tore into it, causing the thick, brownish substance to spill out onto the grass. Disregarding that, Thrákmazh crammed the torn muzzle of the flask between his teeth and guzzled the foul liquid. He needed it, needed it to alleviate his pain, his fear. But, in horror, his eyes widened, and he pulled the flask away, heaving it to the ground where its remaining contents began spilling out. From his lips blossomed a red liquid, dark and bearing a very specific consistency, one Thrákmazh knew all too well. The orc suddenly sputtered and spat the substance out, trying to purge it from his throat. “Blood! Blood!” he roared madly, as the crimson liquid fell in rivers down onto his armor and the ground. His mouth was filled with blood, not orc liquor, blood! Reeling furiously, Thrákmazh grabbed his sword from the ground and with the flat of it batted Urkrásh away, aiming the tip at his throat at last. He breath hard, steamy breath shooting out of his throat like a geyser.

“You drink it!” he bellowed, gesturing to the nearly empty flask, “Tell me what is there!”

With ultimate reluctance, his entire pitiful form quivering, Urkrásh knelt, Thrákmazh’s blade following him to his knees where his shivering fingers hooked onto the ripped flask and picked it up, trying to maintain the draught within. Hesitating greatly, he pulled it towards him and took a conservative sip. He contemplated the taste momentarily, throwing the draught around inside him, and then slowly swallowed with a sound akin to a frightful gulp. A second later, he let the flask fall, emptied, to the earth and got onto his feet, trying feebly to steady himself. “It is orc-draught, sir.” He murmured fearfully, “A few days old, yes, but not-” Thrákmazh cut him off before he finished, his flailing blade knocking Urkrásh backward. The orc captain’s eyes were incendiary again, his figure alight, bound with an unholy aura radiating off him as shadow would. “LIAR!” he cried through blood-soaked lips, “You lie like everyone else, worm! You lie like the Elves! Traitor, wretch! Do you not know who I am? What I am? I am Thrákmazh One-Eye, mightiest of Sauron’s servants, invincible, unbeatable, im…” his ranting voice quieted and slowed suddenly, the fire fading from his eyes as he whispered the last word, “…immortal.” His eye closed solemnly, the lid fallin in defeat, a feeling the captain had never felt.

The orc backed up, turning away, and slid his sword back into its scabbard. “Arouse the host, but do it silently, and instruct all lieutenants to have their troops prepare themselves for battle. Tell them that we are finally going to deal with the traitorous Haradrim, for the Southron captain called Koran Cenbryt is a foe of the Eye and must be dealt with. Ready them, loyal Urkrásh, and you will get your just rewards. Be quick about it as well, for the Southron must be dealt with before the sun rises.” Urkrásh nodded confusedly and turned, heading off towards the nearest line of tents to awaken the troops, though he still didn’t fully know why. Surely he had not so soon recovered from the effects of Thrákmazh’s eruption. But, Thrákmazh wasn’t bothered by any of this. His eye coldly swiveled in its socket. From tents all around him orcs were already issuing. They had been awakened by his nightly howling and the cacophony he’d created. They looked at him with a strange look, resembling one of concern, but Thrákmazh knew they were not concerned…they were afraid…Their captain was mad, lost to sanity, and now, they knew it.

Snarling under his breath, Thrákmazh tried to ignore them. He turned, rubbing his sore throat, and hurried off in the direction of Herding’s campsite, away from the countless pairs of eyes fixed on him. He had to wake his ‘ally’ so that the process of ridding himself of both Southron captains could begin. It did not take him long to reach the Haradrim camp, since the swarthy men were all sleeping, unlike the orcs back at their side. In the night, with little visibility (and the fortunate absence of the moon’s cold light), it took a bit longer to locate Herding’s tent, but, unlike Cenbryt’s, it was a larger, more decadent pavilion erected on the fringe of the Southron camp. Thrákmazh snaked his way too it, slinking through the shadows as he always did. He neared it soon and, watching as his goal came closer and closer to his grasp, entered.

“Herding…It is time…”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Koran lay motionless on his back in the tent, his fingers laced behind his head on his folded up coat, used as a pillow, his legs stretched out and crossed as he stared up at the roof of the tent, his brown eyes sightless as in his mind he watched the stars beyond. Despite having found the drink and dice he sought, there was something unsatisfying about them tonight, and the thoughts that plagued him refused to remove themselves despite all the coaxing from his jovial company.

Desperately jovial. Tomorrow we die... The unpleasant thoughts made Koran close his eyes tightly, screwing them up tightly then sitting up restlessly. Stifling a yawn, he rubbed on eye with the heel of his palm and listened to the noises outside. He had been lying in his tent for hours and still sleep refused to come - as she had refused night after night recently. Koran had been born and brought up as a soldier to a fine family - part of one of the most treacherous armies in Middle Earth. You slept with your sword at your hand and one eye open - fact of life, it always had been! But it had never stopped him from getting a decent rest before, so why now, when he had men loyal to him, a good captain, about to attack an unsuspecting foe, did he feel so restless?!

The answer, of course, was obvious. Herding. That single word, as hateful to Koran as the mention of Sauron to the elves. Koran had attacked him once, even if it was in defence, and would have won - and Herding would not forget it, although he was likely to erase in his mind the fact that if Koran had wanted to kill him, he would be dead. No, men like that have long but selective memories, and lack of imagination could bring about a very steady focus on doing what they wanted - in poorer men, the thoughts of revenge would simply fester away, twisting their minds, bringing them to petty violence against those too weak to defend themselves. But Herding - Herding had the power to carry out his wishes. A foolish, drunken man, with too much power than one of his sort should have, a clone to so many others in the Dark Army. Too quick to both sword and bottle, too stupid and proud to look at what he was doing and prevent quarrels, feuds, loss of life...

Koran threw his head back despairingly and flopped back down onto his makeshift bed once more, hands covering his face, then sat up abruptly again. What was he thinking? You're a soldier, Koran, loss of life is what you do! Do not confuse your thoughts with ideas of the enemy...

The enemy. Elves. One elf. The second cause of his sleeplessness: that bloody female-

He stopped, his head hanging between his drawn up knees, eyes closed. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to try to relax, to lie down again and to expell thoughts of both of the causes for his concern. The battle was tomorrow - maybe tomorrow was today now, he had no idea of knowing how long he had tossed and turned in his tent, trying to tempt Lady Slumber to lie with him, for minutes seem like hours with such a demanding and stubborn mistress. Outside, he could hear the muted murmurs of men still talking, and the occasional quietened laugh rang through the air as the last of the Southrons retired to their tents. Beyond that, the omnipresent gurgling of the river could be heard, a soft rippling that seemed amplified to Koran's tired and paranoid ears, even through the walls of the tent. That was an unsettling sound by itself - having grown up in the dry and dusty land of Harad, the captain was not used to the sound of water just gushing past like that, and even when travelling he had spent little time so close to the water. The occasional cry of distant waterfowl made him start, hand on his dagger, before he realised and relaxed a little, still remaining taut. Those cries - the sounds were unnatural and seemed too like screams, or the yelp of a wounded dog, sharp and piercing and so abruptly cut off to leave terrible silence in their wake. He shivered and turned his thoughts back to the sound of the river, sliding like some terrible beast outside. What if it was to overflow? The thought seemed rational and shocking to his tired mind - sure, it had seemed rather too full when he had seen it earlier, and it lapped at the banks constantly, always seeming to come closer up. Was it like that which he had heard of the Sea, always rising, creeping forward to take you unaware while sleeping on it's banks, vengeful waves rising and falling with crushing power.

He sat up with a stifled shout, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead, his dark curly hair awry and eyes wild, sword in hand as he faced the mad, turbulent river of his dreams as it forced it's way through the tent flap. Sea...river...waves... He blinked a few times, lowering his hand slowly. So sleep had come to him for a while, but she had brought unpleasant gifts indeed in the form of such a dream. Outside, the men had finally retired to bed, and all was silent save the river - but that is not to say that there was no sound. Koran froze completely, listening to the sound outside - the sound of about three score men and orcs moving completely silently.

His sword still in his right hand, Koran stowed the dagger at the back of his belt, now in full view as he was not wearing his jerkin over his shirt. Pulling on his boots swiftly with his free hand, he stood silently and moved lightly over to the door of the tent, where he nearly fell over another figure. Sword raised at the ready above the still form at his feet, he twitched the door open a fraction, and the moonlight fell on a familiar face: Ehan's face, looking even younger in his sleep than usual. What the- The boy must have had a little too much to drink and slept in here rather than going back to his own tent with the other soldiers. Squatting, Koran covered the younger man's mouth and Ehan jerked awake immediately, his eyes wide and scared as the looked up at the dark form above, hovering like some malevolent spectre. The malevolent spectre raised a finger to it's lips and sat back slightly to allow more light onto his features for his squire to identify him as. Ehan looked confused, sleep confusing his mind, but Koran motioned for him not to speak and pointed to the sword beside him in a clear message. Standing once more, he looked through the crack between the tent flaps - and the sight made him go cold. Outside, standing with sword raised high, his eyes and grin terrible, was Thrakmazh - and around him, and the other tents, there were a swarm of orcs. And at the feet of Thrakmazh were two Mannish bodies - presumably the sentinels of the Southron camp, their necks now twisted at impossible backwards angles: broken for a silent death.

Mouthing a curse vehemently, Koran backed away sharply from the flap, his knuckles white over the sword handle. Having arrived so silently and armed so well, the orcs led by the fiersome Uruk were probably not just here to have a few early morning drinks. Tugging at his hair with his free hand, he looked around desperately - they had the tent's one entrance and exit surrounded. How could he escape? Think, Koran, think...If I throw myself out suddenly, I can probably take a few of them down, and if I yell loudly enough, my men are sure to recognise the voice and come to my aid...

Unless they were in on this as well...

There was no time to contemplate that, and no time to think up a better or more structured plan - it would have to do. Ehan's eyes shone in the darkness as he positioned himself beside Koran and the older man exchanged a glance with him, nodding briefly and reaching out to clasp his hand firmly. Tensing his muscles, he prepared to rush to the door-

-when a gargled scream rent the air. Piercing and drawn out, the sound made both men jump, and from the sound of clattering armour chinking against itself, the orcs had done the same. Koran didn't pause to wonder what it was - throwing himself through the tent's entrance with a yell, he sliced his sword around in a wide arc to lop of the head of one of the orcs. But through the rows of tents, it seemed a different foe had beaten him to the swarm of orcs: even in the twilight of the very early morning, the small group of elves seemed to shine with some radiant light from a hidden source. The one at their front, now recognisable as the male elf who had been sent off to his supposed death, raised his sword high and yelled in a voice both beautiful and terrible like a ghastly spirit.

"Lorien!"

The single word was like a signal: immediately, the orcs and elves surged forward to meet with clashing weapons and battlecries...

[Orofaniel]

“Herding…It is time…”

"Time for what?" Herding growled. His arrogance and attitude, as he said this, was distasteful and digusting. Herding knew of course what Thrákmazh meant, but he was too moody to face the Orc now. But he knew that it was serious, and he had to take a grip if they were going to be able to get rid of Koran. It depended on him - and the orc. No, mostly on him, he figured. At the same time, it was the Orc who had first brought up the suggestion of killing Koran, wasn't it? He couldn't remember all the details, but he thought the situation had had carried on something along those lines. What Herding never really had thought about was why Thrákmazh wanted Koran dead as badly as him. Or did he want him dead as badly as him? He didn't know that for certain. Did he need a reason?

Moments had gone by since Thrákmazh had entered his tent. Herding looked up on him, sighing. "I know," he muttered. Thrákmazh stood quietly, saying naught. He didn't seem angry or offended over the reply he had received at first, but Herding didn't know it was only a mask. "What brings you here?" Herding then said, surprisingly enough. He knew of course what Thrákmazh meant by what he had said. Herding was just stubborn.

"It is time," Thrákmazh then said again, not without annoyance in his voice. "I'm not here to play games, Captain Herding," he then said. "I'm here to get rid of that filthy Cenbryt. I was a fool to think you wanted it as badly as me," He said, about to turn away. "No, Captain. Forgive me," Herding protested. "I'm just insecure about your intesnions..why do you want Cenbryt dead?" Herding just burst out. He didn't mean to say it. It was as if he was thinking out loud, not managing to control himself. He shouldn't have questioned Thrákmazh intensions, he knew that. He probably had ruined the whole plan by saying the last sentence. He had been too ignorant, and too offensive. Herding knew he had made a mistake, and that it wouldn't be easily forgotten by the Orc.

"This is not he time, Captain Herding, to discuss such matters. I thought we had been through this already, but it seems to me that you've either forgotten or..." The Orc said, his voice rising. "You're questioning my motives- how dare you!" he growled. "I do not think you're ready to kill Koran, and that's why you're acting like a fool...You’re being childish and paranoid," he said. Herding frowned, because he knew that Thrákmazh was right.

"I want him dead," Herding growled back, instead of an apology - it is simple not in his nature to ask for an apology. "Then let's move!" Thrákmazh cried back.

"Alright, but lets just get some things straight first," Herding said. "Please sit," he then added. The Orc seated at in the chair he had been seated in before - several times.

Together the two of them went through all the details so that it would be easier for them to succeed.


*********************


“Go and find him now!” Thrákmazh yelled at Herding. The elves were fighting a reasonable fight, and Herding had difficulties holding them off. “Hurry!” the Orc continued. Herding admitted that he disliked taking orders from an Orc, but this was the time; it was now or never.

Herding spotted Koran in short distance and fought himself towards him. “Now is the time to defeat your greatest enemy..” Herding whispered to himself beneath his clenched teeth. The lust for revenge and victory was great and Herding didn’t want to fail.

[Firefoot]

Thorvel knew there had been no choice. South had been the only way they could go and still hope to come to Lorien before the Orcs. It was risky, yet a necessary risk. The Orcs might well hold the ford; Thorvel had a nagging suspicion that they did. Still, they had pressed on through the night, and soon they would know. If the day brought battle, death was almost inevitable. If the ford brought Orcs, battle was inevitable. It was a bleak prospect. They were drawing near now. They approached the area warily, so as to get an idea of what lay ahead.

Thorvel crested the last ridge before the mighty Anduin just behind Ambarturion, who had led the way that night. What he saw caused hope to die within him. The full strength of the enemy’s army stretched out before them, blocking the ford. There was no way to reach Lothlorien. Then Ambarturion drew his sword.

“Lorien!” Ambarturion cried. All at once the Orcs were alerted to their presence. If any had still been sleeping, which seemed likely enough at the early hour, they would wake soon. Confusion would reign for a while, and then would be death. Somehow Thorvel wasn’t ready to succumb wholly to the despair that threatened to engulf him. He raised his bow, and fitted an arrow. He would not die without a fight. He loosed the arrow, squarely hitting his target.

“For Mirkwood!” He descended into a cold fury. He lost track of his companions, vaguely aware that those without bows had charged into the Orcs. He fired arrow after arrow, each one taking out an Orc or Southron. And strangely enough, in the midst of battle, he found he was at peace. The stresses of the past few days drifted away, for they were all in this together, none fighting for leadership or over any other small matter. They were all fighting for their lives, for the freedom of Lothlorien, against the Shadow that willed to overtake them all.

[Kransha]

Everything was falling apart, everything he’d worked for, everything he’d hoped for, everything. He’d been standing, eyes agleam like sparkling stars, hellish as they were, over those who opposed him and the overthrow. Herding was behind, his men rising. Koran would’ve fallen, Herding would’ve fallen, they all would’ve been slain in their accursed turn and Thrákmazh would’ve taken the helm of this now-sinking vessel. What had happened? How had his plan, his whole world, gone so horribly awry? Around him, battle began like torrential waves, crashing, one against the other, and for once Thrákmazh was not on the prow of his troops, steering and reining them in with his military expertise. He stood, motionless and dazed, drunk off the success that had eluded him. All the power he'd dreamed of was slipping through his fingers.

All these thoughts left him, though, as his eye moved through the crowd. As he’d thought, there were not that many Elves, but one of them was far too familiar. The face and the fair voice on the wind that came from him, all was recognizable. It was the Elf who’s sword Thrákmazh held, the Elf whose compatriot he’d slain, the Elf who swore an oath to kill him a fortnight ago. As the Elves, Southrons, and Orcs collided in battle, the one noticed Elf plowed past the enemy ranks, cutting down several primitive orcs in simple succession. As the battle raced, Thrákmazh’s vision slowed. The Elf was drawing nearer, slicing his way through orcish ranks. Thrákmazh felt strange, disconnected from reality. The cacophony of conflict faded and his eye closed. His mind swam as he heard the voice that had haunted him for far too long. He had known the Elf was alive, he had known all along, he had simply never admitted it to himself. He was alive because it was Thrákmazh’s purpose to kill him, not that of some filthy slave-driver in Dol Guldur. Realizing this simple fact, the orc captain’s eye opened, filled with renewed verve, and fell upon his sworn enemy. Finally the Elf had cleared all obstacles in his way and stood a body’s length away from Thrákmazh with his blood-covered sword at his side, soundless and still. The two of them, reunited under these bizarre circumstances, stared at each other as the fight continued, their eyes locked together, both waiting for the other to make the first move.

“You…” the orc said at last; half in a sinister whisper as his fingers tightened on the hilts of both weapons he held. His heart was pounding again, it’s beat, rhythmic eternally, began to speed up, thumping against the armored shell of his chest. His blood chilled and his bones quivered in their appointed places throughout his body. At last, he was looking upon this most dreadful and hated enemy. The mixture of anticipation, glee, and fright overflowed in Thrákmazh, filling his every mental orifice. His only eye, glowing a ghastly yellow, narrowed into a precise slit that peered at the Elf. “I knew you would be here,” he said after a silent moment had passed, “…Why do you plague me, Elf?” The Elf looked back, his eyes as cold and hard as ice, dagger-like, piercing the gaze of Thrákmazh and deflating his last pang of arrogance. Though the uruk maintained the façade expertly, his confidence was slowly shrinking. “You are the plague, urûk,” the unnamed Elf murmured in reply, his words audible despite the low volume of his voice, “upon all of Arda, you and your foul kind.”

Thrákmazh winced as unnoticeably as he could and managed to crack a false grin, hoping to mask the strange twitching of his eye. He held out his right hand, the hand that held the Elven blade, its white glint shimmering like silvery ivory in the light of the dawn sun, which had just crested the far horizon. “Do you want your sword back, then,” he growled, still managing his withered smile, “or would you prefer it if I ran you through with it?” The Elf stared back, continuing the game of enemies, his form like unmoving steel, bereft of all emotion. The only visible movement or tension lay in his hand, which was shivering very slightly, in anticipation or rage perhaps. His sword, though, was frozen in place. Thrákmazh could see, despite the distance, his own reflection in the broad weapon, though the visage of it was blurry and obscured by sparkling sunlight being redirected by the blade’s watery surface as it shined down upon it from its comfortable seat in the sky above. That light hit Thrákmazh’s open eye, causing him to wince again and step back once, trying to evade the course of the bright ray that illuminated his dark face.

“Whatever blade I hold will draw your blood.” The Elf said, still fully unemotional. He did not blink, did not move, and did not budge from his place, fixed like a statue into the earth. Thrákmazh’s lip curled disdainfully and he took a step forward, his right index finger nervously tapping on the smooth Elven hilt. Around them both, battle raged, but its fearsome din was subdued, allowing the two opponents to focus solely upon each other, disregarding their surroundings. “So,” he said at last, easing into a conversational tone, “you still desire vengeance for your fallen comrade? If it consoles you at all, he is but one of many and he fell with more ease than most.” The orc was at least comforted by his familiar streak of sadism, when it took hold of him. He was thankful that he not so far gone that he did not take pleasure in the pain of others. A dark cackle billowed in his throat, ready to come out at full strength, but some form of restraint took hold and all that the one-eyed orc uttered was a pitiful croak, followed by a fragile-sounding cough, which didn’t suit Thrákmazh the Mighty.

“My student fell with his honor intact, which is more than you shall take with you into death.”

“He was your student, was he? It is a shame you did not teach him better, or perhaps he might be alive today, to see his teacher fall.” He grinned again, but that grin soon evaporated. His right hand pulsed again, the veins in it filled with fire rather than blood. The muscles of his arm throbbed painfully, and at last he knew what he must do to alleviate that pain. Thrákmazh’s arm whipped around and forward, his hand and clenching fingers suddenly releasing the gleaming sword. The weapon flew, soaring in the fashion of a majestic bird, and collided with the earth, burying itself in the ground and wobbling for a few moments before it returned to a quiet state of stillness and tranquility, resting, upturned, in the mound where it had landed. “Take your sword, Elf of Lórien,” spat Thrákmazh, throwing his orc scimitar from his left hand to his right and with the free hand reaching down to extract a long, jagged knife from his belt, “for it is useless to me.” His grin widened as the din of battle began to fill him again. “It is more fitting that you die under the same blade that slew your student.”

Simultaneously, both warriors flew forward, with the speed of the wind carrying them. The Elf swooped down, his hand releasing the blade he held, which clattered uselessly onto the ground, and scooped up his forgotten weapon, spinning it deftly upward and out of the ground and into a battle-ready stance as he ran. Thrákmazh leapt up nimbly, all the anger and hatred he’d ever felt for this Elf welling up and pouring out as his weapons shot out, seeking flesh and blood to rend. The Elf swerved beneath him and his sword, aimed down, struck dirt instead of bone. Angrily roaring, the orc veered sideways, careening towards the Elf with his sword and knife flying madly. Each attack was easily parried. The orc was loosing all his fear-inducing luster in this combat and he felt the love of war drain from him. His only goal was to kill, not to kill for Sauron, but to kill for his own evil, villainous purpose. That was the focus of his mind and the singular reason why his heart still beat in his chest. Eye ablaze, he surged forward.

With a resounding clang, the three blades in use met. Thrákmazh staggered, both arms trembling, but recovered soon enough to deflect an elegant slash from the Elf. He maneuvered to the side and his opponent tore past him, allowing the orc to turn and pounce on his prey. But, the Elf was still able to swiftly spin. The blind force of his sword bashed against Thrákmazh’s weary left hand, causing it to pull back like an injured serpent. Growling under his breath, Thrákmazh hammered his sword onto the Elf’s sword and flew at him. The two of them fell together, rolling onto the ground. They hacked at each other for a few seconds, furiously trying to make some headway, but each attack was either blocked or went madly askew. Finally, Thrákmazh pulled himself away from the immediate fray, landing on his knees some feet away from the Elf. Breathing hard, he looked up just in time to see a sword whizzing towards his face. On pure instinct, he lurched backward and the blade fell short. Taking his chance, Thrákmazh lunged again at the falling Elf and tackled him for the second time, but this time he managed to do damage. The knife clutched firmly in his left hand sank halfway up its blade into the Elf’s shoulder. The orc, as he saw his weapon find its mark, cracked another gleeful smile, but the expression was torn from his face as the iron hilt of the Elf’s sword found his unshielded face, crushing his hope of immediate victory.

Releasing his hold on the knife, Thrákmazh stumbled back and landed ignobly on his back, grabbing his throbbing jaw. Knowing that the fight was not over, he pulled himself to his feet, his eye, which had been closed tightly, opened in a flash, glowering at his foe. A short distance away, the Elf managed to stand, limping meagerly forward, and tore the offending, red-stained knife from his shoulder, casting it aside as he sucked in a sharp, pained breath. Dark crimson fluid ran from the wound down the length of his unarmored arm, but he retained his stance and resoluteness. Thrákmazh managed to smile for the third time, drawing a clenched fist along his chin to wipe away the blood secreted there. A river of muddy black now slid from the corner of his mouth. After a silent second in which both warriors regained their composure, Thrákmazh spit a reddened tooth from his mouth and spoke, letting the eerie silence settle again around the two of them. “You do not fight with your heart, Elf.” He said, “You have already failed your student, do not give up your own life so easily. I hoped for a challenge, but I see I’ll get none.”

The Elf swung his sword expertly, ignoring the loss of blood from his wound. His piercing pair of eyes met Thrákmazh’s lonely one, filling the orc’s gleeful soul with a sudden fear and dread. Thrákmazh’s expression changed, souring and darkening as the Elf looked on. Quietly, the Elf stood his ground, staring Thrákmazh down with maddening ease until; at last, he spoke in response, his voice cutting into Thrákmazh like the sword he held. “The challenge is here; spawn of Morgoth.” He whispered, loud enough only for the orc to hear. “It only requires you to accept it.”

And he did…

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Ambarturion’s plans had all gone awry. The forces of Dol Guldur had beaten them to the ford, cutting off both escape and all hope of warning the defenders of the Golden Wood. His mad rush at the orcs had been stalled by the implacable will of the enemy. He had hoped, for one wild minute, that he could break through the lines of orcs and wicked men and make for the eaves of his land and at the very least make a stand there that would hold off the enemy long enough for the wardens of his realm to rally the Galadhrim to action. But his charge had carried him but to the edge of the Anduin where he had found One-Eye waiting for him, as though placed there by some dark will to hinder Ambarturion’s desire. Where Megilaes or the others had got to Ambarturion did not know, but there was little time to ponder such questions with the monster before him.

He returned the beast’s taunts at first, hoping still that in the time that they wasted on such needless words a way would be found to broach the wall of enemies that still kept him from his land, but it was not to be. The golden green beauty of his world lay just beyond the black and crooked form of his enemy; like a dream it was, of a time that was on the verge of passing into memory, overshadowed and stained by the blackness of its evil inheritors. At the thought, Ambarturion’s will was enflamed with the battle fury, and his eyes misted over with red. He charged the creature that had dared belittle the sacrifice of Caranbaith and sullied the ancient weapon of Gondolin with its foul hand. Seizing the sword that had been his when the world was young, he swept toward the monster like vengeance, ready to slay.

But his assault was met with a fury and a skill that surpassed any he had come to expect from the servants of the Dark Lord in these latter days. Like an urûk of Angband it met his charge and repulsed him, even managing to wound him in the shoulder. Ambarturion fell back at the feel of steel in his flesh, catching at the offending weapon and pulling it from him. He let it drop to the outraged earth. One-Eye taunted him again, his one red orb eyeing the weapon in Ambarturion’s hand that had galled him so deeply. “The challenge is here; spawn of Morgoth” he replied. “It only requires you to accept it.”

The creature flew at him once more, but this time Ambarturion did not try to match him fury for fury, stroke for stroke. If he was to fight a beast that was of the ancient world, then let him once again regain the glory of those days. He swung his blade at the urûk and it was as the fall of leaves in vanished Doriath, and the creature’s bellows of rage was to Ambarturion’s ears the cries of hatred that rang in the hidden fastness of the mountains at the fall of Gondolin. The creature came at him once more, Ambarturion countering his blows, but as he retreated into the world of memory and the past, it was as though the orc before him was shucked of his mortal disguise, and to Ambarturion’s eyes he was revealed as a dark and terrible form, ancient and powerful, from the days before the destruction of the two trees, when the dark held no terror for those who walked beneath the stars. Ambarturion felt himself filled then with the light of the West, and as he advanced upon the enemy it was as though his form was filled with light, but it was a light that shone about the darkness of the foe without illuming it, casting only further shadows.

One-Eye beheld the fierce blaze of his opponent and fell back, afraid, gibbering in the terror of his being. Rather than face the wrath of the light alone, he bellowed for his underlings, whose terror of their master overcame that of this terrible Elf, and wilfully threw themselves in his path to be mown down like grass. Ambarturion paid little heed to these lesser creatures, but they threw themselves upon him with such abandon that for a moment his focus was taken from the urûk. One-Eye, in his vicious cunning, beheld the moment that he had been waiting for and hurling himself forward he cut down the last of his own kind the quicker to reach the Elf. Ambarturion raised his sword to deflect the blow, but his shoulder caught in its bloodied and rent socket, and he cried out in pain as his parry failed. There was a scorching pain in his arm and he flung back, away from the enemy, raising his arm once more to defend himself, but the hand that bore his blade lay upon the grass some feet distant, and his horrified eyes beheld only a bloody stump. He fell upon the grass of the Vale and raised his eyes to his enemy.

A stillness fell upon the land, and it was as though there were none there but them. Ambarturion’s wrath faltered and fell, and it was like waking from a dream to see the orc before him once more as he appeared in his physical form. The creature advanced upon him, his sword aimed at Ambarturion’s throat. “I know what you are,” Ambarturion said, “and what it is that has corrupted you and bent your will to its own. Know this: I may die, but you and all your kind shall fall into the abyss. I have but one life to lose – your entire existence shall be extinguished.”

The orc licked his lips with terrible glee, gloating over his victory. “You may have only one life, but it is mine to take, Elf.” He fairly spat the word. “Tell me, what is your name? I am Thrákmazh the mighty, and I would tell my Lord who it is I have slain in his service.”

Ambarturion smiled. “My name is for my friends only, yrch. Fall into the darkness that is prepared for you in ignorance of who I am.”

Thrákmazh’s smile was an ugly gash. “Very well.” He raised his weapon and drove it at the Elf’s chest. Ambarturion closed his eyes.

But the blow did not fall. A clash of metal, and the orc’s weapon flew from his hand into a tussock. Thrákmazh and Ambarturion looked in surprise to where Megilaes stood, Ambarturion’s sword in his hand. Before the orc could recover his surprise, Megilaes plunged the ancient blade to its hilt into Thrákmazh’s chest. The orc gasped and gurgled deep in his throat and tried to rend the fair youth’s face with his claws and fangs, but Megileaes merely swatted away the attacks with his hand as though they were insects. He brought his own countenance to within a hair’s breadth of the orc’s, and for a moment Ambarturion was treated to the shocking sight of the two faces, one as beautiful and good, as the other was vile, gazing into one another as though in a perverted mirror.

“My brother’s name was Caranbaith,” is all that Megilaes said. Before the orc could respond he withdrew the sword from its body and in the same graceful motion swung it about and took off Thrákmazh’s head, which landed upon the grass close to Ambarturion’s own, and the Elf of Lorién watched as the life drained from the single glaring eye.

[Durelin]

Lorien! For Mirkwood! Two different cries yelled by two different voices, battling for the glory of two different lands, but for the safety of one, and for the safety of all. For the first time, it seemed they all were prepared to face what could be called an ‘end’. It doubtless could also be called the end, by some, but not by all. What was each elf fighting for? Surely, though their ultimate goal was the same, they did not share the same motivation, the same concerns, or the same beliefs. When it came to any battle, the heart played an important role, and not simply as a source of what is called courage. The heart can battle with the mind, but when it comes to any other battle, it must call a truce with the mind, for both to survive.

Calenvása’s bones ached, and his muscles screamed, and his mind was numb. Not numbed by the pain. The mind numbed the pain, focusing not on the physical feeling, and barely acknowledging the concept of the pain that enveloped his body. It was felt by another being, as far as the elf’s mind was concerned. A centered pain in his right arm was the only thought that crossed his mind as he struggled to keep a hold on his knife, is grip slicked by his blood, which covered his right hand. A strange thing it was, that Men, Orcs, and Elves, all bled, and bled together on this day. A strange thing to consider, that his blood mingled with that of Men and Orcs, as he wiped blood out of his eyes. It was black, and yet it was the life-blood of a living thing. A creature, everything about it as black as its blood, but something that bled just like an elf. At any other time he would have smiled as his mind forgot all previous thoughts at the emergence of another: these monsters bled, and he would have his fill of their blood by the end of this day. But that end and what it was to bring had yet to be realized. And he did not smile, for all the blood that was shed was because of him, or so his mind had told him at the feeling of despair that had come with the sight of their enemy, seemingly waiting for them. Who had made the final choice? Ambarturion had let Calenvása do so. Had this privilege been given simply as acknowledgement of his leadership? The leadership he had scorned until a day ago. And though he felt despair, guilt, anger, so many feelings in that tore at him, responses to the result of what he considered his decision, he accepted them. The weight these feelings had placed on him in the past was shaken off by this acceptance, and by the will to fulfill the duties that came with his title, his name, his responsibility, which was ‘Captain’.

A wild slash to his right brought to him the reward of a clean cut to the bare chest of an orc that he followed with a stab to the gut. Puling out the knife blade cleanly, he was prepared to meet the man in gold armour that came at him, the blade in his hand ready to take the elf’s life. Finding brown cloth that showed from beneath the armour, Calenvása sprang at the Easterling, wounding him in the right shoulder, ruining his sword arm. He attempted one last weak, wild swing at the elf before he fell. Only an elf killed with such precision, their blades weapons designed for piercing, and for a clean and speedy kill. Their enemies, particularly orcs, perhaps should be thankful for this.

Suddenly, as if a choir sang out from above, as if the Last Music was being played, as blood was spilt and the enemy was about to overcome the righteous, and the world would come to an end with the light having the ultimate victory, a great blast of voices sounded, crying out Ai, Lorien!. Lorien’s defense was awe-inspiring, as they were full of a vigor that the enemy would never know. They fought with their hearts, and filled the Captain’s and his companions’ hearts with a new hope. The next moments were that of a dream, and the passing of time was lost in Calenvása’s mind. He was lost in a blur of joy and relief, silenced by it, and driven by it to find the end of this day. Only after the battle was over would he look upon it as something from a tale of old. And a tale it did become, worthy of a song.

[Orofaniel]

"Captain Cenbryt!" Herding yelled as he forced himself towards him.

"I knew you would come..." Koran muttered. Herding held his sword tight and looked at Koran with the great disgust. "Pick up your sword, boy," he said arrogantly. "This is where you and I end this," he then concluded. "End what?" Cenbryt growled. "You will know the details when I'm finished with you," Herding answered. He was just as arrogant as before.

The other warriors that were standing between them moved as quickly as possible, as they knew this was a battle between the tow Captains only; no one else were to get involved.

"I've longed for this moment since the beginning, Captain Cenbryt," Herding told him. "I've thought about this very moment every second - every minute....I will not let you, as a man, walk away from this battle field after this battle. If you are to subborn and decide to leave, you might leave as a ghost - But as a ghost only." Herding said holding his sword even tighter. Koran laughed mockingly before he relied the following; "I like your sense of humour, Captain."

"For I do not think it is I, that leaves as a ghost this eve of battle. I would be very surprised if I did," he continued. "You see, Captain; you're too arrogant and self-centered to survive this. You've met your enemy - oh indeed, but you cannot defeat him. I simply will not let it happen.”

Herding stood amazed by Koran’s words. He didn't expect the young man to answer in such manners, but he knew if he'd be in the position Koran was in, he'd answer just the same. "I'm impressed," Herding said finally, seeming restricted and distant all of a sudden. "I'm impressed by the courage you show when you're about to die," Herding then said, frowning. "If I were you though, I'd be a bit modest, not to mention humble, before my very last hour as a living man," Herding said. He just wanted to run him over, and cut his throat at once, but he managed to control himself. "Yet, I do not see why a man should beg for his own life like a dog. Although, in the situation you are in captain Cenbryt, it would be the wiseste thing to do; you see, your death could be very painful if I'd have it my way. And believe me, I will have it my way..." Herding spoke with great voice. At the same time quite slowly as he didn't want to overlook any of Koran's face expressions. Herding tried to analyse him, he couldn’t tell if he was scared or even affected by anything he had said. He wanted Koran to beg for mercy, like a dog, but he knew long ago that it simply wouldn't be in his nature. He respected that of course, because he would be doing the very same in Koran's position - or would he?

"Painful? I do doubt it," Koran then said, still mockering him. "I don't know what pain you're speaking of," he continued. "I do know however, that I am not going to experience it tonight."

With those words, Herding ran toward him. The fight had begun.

Koran sized his sword quickly, and managed to fight the first attack that came from Herding. The sweat was pouring down both their foreheads, and anyone could tell that sweat wasn't the only thing that was going to be pouring down their faces this evening.

Then it was Koran’s turn to attack Herding. The two swords flung together with a great sound. The old rotten blood that were lingering in the curves in Herding’s sword would soon be replaced by Koran’s blood, or so Herding thought.

Herding turned quickly, but faced his enemy on the other side. Once again he did a turn, but Koran was there too. Would he manage to kill this man? There was no time for thinking as the two men fought each other. Koran moved down to the ground and flung his sword through the air just inches from Herding’s feet. It gave Herding time though, to collect himself before Koran got up from the ground. There hadn’t been one single hit yet, not even harmless hits on the armour.

“Can’t you do better than this?” Koran asked Herding rolling his eyes. “I would have expected better of a Captain like you.”

Just as he said that, Koran hit Herding in the foot. “Aha,” Koran smiled evilly. “You...” Herding muttered. He didn’t know what to say, expect for that he wanted to kill him. He wanted to end Koran’s life, but it had been said so many times already that he didn’t feel like repeating himself. He had made up his mind, and when he had done that, it was going to happen no matter what. Herding was indeed, as stubborn as can be.

Suddenly a female elf stood between them. What part would she play in all this?

[Amanaduial the archer]

Koran looked across, shocked and frozen as he recognised the slim, lissome figure of the woman who stood beside both he and Herding. But this woman was no mortal: in her hands she held a bow so naturally that it was another limb, half-raised, ready to shoot, and along with the quiver peeping over one shoulder, Koran recognised with a pang of guilt that these were weapons he had taken; her long dark hair had come partly loose and hung around her face wildly; at the bottom of her dress, the material was ragged and dirty, parts having been cut off. But her perfect, porcelain features were the same as the last time Koran had seen them: alert and exhilerated but, this time, completely unafraid, self-possessed, confident. She didn't meet his eyes but in that suspended moment, all Koran could see was the elf.

Herding didn't feel the same way though. With a snarled cry, he raised his sword high above his head with both hands and brought the weapon's blade sharply down towards Koran. The Southron didn't have time to react, turning to see it coming down, ready to stab directly into his collar-

But men are but young in this world: over a millenia of experience gives the elves a certain edge - the edge, the be more specific, of Koran's dagger, grabbed by Coromswyth from his belt and rammed into Herding's stomach, up towards his ribs.

The Southron froze, his breath stopping on his lips and his arms faltering in their vicious downwards arch that would have ended fatally for Koran, and the sword slipped in his fingers, looking about to drop. Slowly, an expression of surprise on his face, the older captain looked down at where the dagger blade was wedged beneath his armour breastplate, stabbing into his ribs, then raised his eyes to the elf, who stared back defiantly. He seemed to waver, sagging slightly at the knees, his fingers loose on the handle of their dangerous burden, his eyes squeezing tight shut, for a moment...two moments...three...

But although he was not a brave or good man, Herding had the strength of an ox. His eyes snapped open suddenly and, giving a terrible roar, he swung towards Coromswyth with a roar. She nimbly stepped out of his path, her face completely impassive and calm, and with the twin sliding silver sounds of metal being drawn out quickly, she unsheathed both knife and sword and faced Herding, waiting for him to turn, taking a ready stance. Glancing across at Koran, she tipped her head towards Herding, one eyebrow raised. Koran understood. Nodding, he drew out his sword, holding it with his uninjured left arm (the other's fingers were entirely useless at the moment) and spoke confidently to Herding: "Come on, Captain, you said you could kill me: do it."

The Southron swung about with surprising speed, and in doing so he whipped his fist around to strike Coromswyth full across the face. She fell with only a gasp, and her head struck against a stone: even amidst the sounds of battle, Koran swore he could hear the sound of her head striking the stone with an ominous crunch as her eyes flickered shut. He flinched towards her, eyes widening, and he heard the other man laugh - a slow, cracked, cruel sound. Looking up, he glared at his foe with every ounce of hatred he possessed. Herding returned his gaze mockingly, his face haggard and the sword grasped in a concentrated, white knuckle grip. Raising one hand, he wrapped his fingers sluggishly around the intricate handle of Koran's dagger, the red pommel shining like a prophesy of Koran's own doom against his hands then, with a yell, he tore it out, throwing it to the ground but an inch from Coromswyth's eyes. Once more, against his will, Koran moved towards the elf.

"What, boy, afraid for the life of the pretty elf?" Herding hissed maliciously, moving between Koran and Coromswyth's prone body. "Elves...wait, I was so sure they were the enemy..."

"Let us have this out now, Herding." Koran's voice was icy and restrained although his mind whirled with questions - he refused to let his eyes turn to Coromswyth, even to acknowledge her.

"Have it out? Why, we shall, boy. And then I think I shall have it out with her - but no, wait, I..can't, can I?" Herding smiled cruelly. "I cannot kill her because, well, you already took care of that, didn't you?"

Koran didn't say anything. Herding's smile widened. "Wait until the Eye hears about this...the captain who slept with the filthy immortal enemy-"

That was it: the younger Southron spun towards Herding, whirling around and bringing his sword with crushing speed towards the other man's side. Herding just rallied in time, his own sword meeting Koran's out of chance more than anything, and sparks flew as the blades met with such force. But there was no stopping Koran now: his brown eyes glowed with deep fire and the scar stood out on his face as he glowered at Herding, spinning away and turning to fight again. They fought by the book: attack and defence, each flawless, but Herding weakening. As Koran swung towards his chest, Herding feinted and stepped backwards, before driving the blade straight towards Koran's unprotected chest. The man leapt backwards, but not before the blade slashed a wound more than two inches deep across his tanned stomach. His hand moved to it automatically and the blood soaked into both his shirt and sleeve and he clenched his fist in pain, doubling over as stars flashed in front of his vision. Herding's laugh rang mockingly in his head as the audacious captain swaggered towards him and put a mockingly companiable hand around the younger man's shoulders, making his knees buckle. He fell to the ground and Herding laughed even more, leaning down towards him.

"This is what comes of defying those far superior to you-" he began, his voice a wicked, gloating whisper in Koran's ear. The young man lashed out with his sword, both hands on the handle as he forced it in a sudden motion up...into Herding's throat. The Southron's eyes widened open and he gave a strangled squawk...before crashing backwards, eyes still open, never to close of their own accord again. Koran knelt unsteadily on the ground.

"Yes," he panted. "Yes, that is what comes of defying those superior to you..." Looking across sadly to where the elf had fallen, his eyes now widened in sudden shock.

Her body was no longer there.

Koran stared at the spot, disbelieving. He had seen her fall, and she had taken such a blow...her head had struck the rock so loudly...

Or had it?

A rush of warmth flowed to Koran's stomach and he groaned, expecting the blood to gush with even more vigour through his resisting fingers...but instead of darkness in front of his eyes, he saw light - the light shining behind a woman's silhouette, her hands held out. Koran's cynical mind immediately presented the solution: he was dying. But even as the thought came, he knew it was wrong. He was not dying: he was somehow recieving life.

"For the kindness you once showed me, Captain Cenbryt, the debt has been repaid." The soft, musical whisper was directly behind Koran's ear, but as he whipped around, standing sharply, sword in hand, he saw no one there. Only a figure bounding away into the crowd, her black hair flowing; and one last time, Koran saw those brilliant grey eyes fix on him with such intelligence that he felt weak and childlike.

Retrieving his dagger from the ground with shaking hands, he surveyed the battle: the elves had increased in numbers, and now the arrows fell like rain over the heads of men and orcs. They would lose...

"Southrons, rally to me!" he yelled over the sound, holding both his weapons ready - just as she had done: the elf who had saved his life.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Orofaniel's post

It was like a sore throat.

Within minutes he felt the heated blood flowing from his throat. His hand reached the wound.;There was blood all over it. He couldn’t feel much, except for the heath. Slowly, however, the pain increased and he admitted to himself that this was nothing like a sore throat. He knew that this wound would kill him. It was Koran who had hit him in the throat with his sword, just in the moment where Herding thought it was all over; Herding had seen Koran on his knees, believing it was him who was going to die. But he had been wrong, Herding knew that now.

It was not Koran's life that would end this evening, it was his own. He couldn’t understand it, nor would he accept it. He fought bravely against what was coming, but he soon felt death embracing his body and mind; It was about to stop functioning. He felt his legs fail beneath him as he stumbled. He knelt on the ground, Koran still looking at him.

Without the courage to speak, nor listen to the rest of the battles on the battle field, he closed his eyes. It happened so slowly, but yet too quickly. It shouldn't have ended this way, was all Herding could think of. Victory and revenge had been close at hand, but now he had lost it all. Koran had defeated him.

With that thought, he cursed Koran's name one last time before he, unwillingly, rested upon the ground and died. Herding Gratnas had been defeated for the very last time.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Aylwen Dreamsong's post

"Southrons, rally to me!"

Ehan heard a voice over the dull din of the chaos reigning the area. The call rang out again and again. Beings moved in all directions, this way and that. Their movements made Ehan nervous; he felt as if he should be somewhere but he was unsure which way to take. His vision blurred and stung as sweat rolled smoothly and slyly down his forehead and past a newly recieved cut just above his dark brow. His legs tingled with soreness, and his head ached from a light hangover that had been left unshaken before his awakening.

"Southrons, to me!"

Ehan followed the one voice, so strong and loud above the rest that rang throughout the air. The one voice that sounded like it belonged to someone that know what he was doing. Oh, if only they could see me now! Ehan thought, remembering his brothers, his mother, and his sister. If only she could see the story I have gotten myself wrapped up into.

Sliding a tired arm across his face and eyes, Ehan wiped away the droplets of sweat. He searched madly for the voice, the one he knew so well but still seemed different and changed, somehow. When he finally saw Koran, the one who belonged to the shout and call, Ehan smiled grimly at the vision of earned leadership and power. Noticing the seeping red liquid at Koran's stomach, the younger Southron looked around for a fallen foe. It did not surprise Ehan in the least to see a bloodied Herding lying dead upon the ground.

"Like I said," Ehan murmured, mostly to Koran but with the understanding that he probably couldn't hear his squire's words. "Ther is always a hero, in these stories, and the enemy always loses." Even if the enemy is on the same side...Ehan thought, looking once more to Herding's torn and battered body. Patting Koran's shoulder a few times, Ehan turned to face his captain and nodded, not really sure what to say to the man.

Yes, my sister would be proud to tell my story.

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Alatariel Telemnar's post

An elf made eye contact with Urkrásh, methodically choosing his next victim. Urkrásh then charged at the elf, who dodged the orc-blade. Urkrásh's failed attack was counteracted with a graceful hit. Blind with rage, he charged again. All the thoughts of his previous battle, hatred of elves and trees, and duty to serve the Eye, were thrust into his attempt, his last attempt. An attempt that had failed once more. The experienced elf blocked the second attack and thrust his own sword into Urkrásh's side in one smooth motion, too fast for Urkrásh to do anything.

He clenched at his side, his hands and arms soon covered with blood. Falling to his knees and then over on his side, everything went black. All the orc could hear was a faint cry, ‘Southrons, rally to me!’ He acknowledged that the battle had been lost. But in the very back of his mind, he heard a voice. ‘No loyalty, no devotion, no sense of purpose at all. They probably have no aspirations, no hopes, and I don’t blame ‘em. They’ll never get anywhere, not the way they conduct themselves. You and I, on the other hand, orcs like us are different. And, Urkrásh, if you serve with loyalty and show your mettle for the cause, you’d get somewhere, and any of that lot might too if they did so.’ For a moment, he wondered if he had gotten anywhere. If there was more he could have done.

Those thoughts soon died, as Urkrásh did himself. One body of many uruks and some orcs scattered across the battlefield. Never to be remembered, except as one fighting for evil. One who had been killed by an elf that might live on to tell the story of his victory to his friends. One who had been defeated for the side of good.

[Firefoot]

Firefoot's post

Thorvel reached into his quiver and found to his dismay that he was now using his last arrow. After this, all he would have left would be his knife, which truthfully was not the best weapon for a full-out battle. Sighing, he notched the arrow to his bowstring and drew it back, carefully selecting a target. He was just about to loose it at an Orc coming up the slope at him when a sharp pain seared through his leg. He reflexively released his firm hold on the bow and the arrow went wild, shooting harmlessly off to the left. He dropped to his knees. He found that a black-feathered Orc arrow had pierced his thigh. He yanked it out, wincing at the pain. Almost immediately blood began to flow out of the open wound, darkening his breeches. He did not know a lot about healing, but he knew if he did not stop the bleeding he would die of blood loss. He hurriedly tore a strip of cloth off the bottom of his tunic and tied it tightly just above the wound. The blood began to flow less rapidly, nearly stopping. It was a hasty tourniquet, and Thorvel knew that while it would not work for long, but he hoped it would last at least until the battle finished.

He pushed himself painfully to his feet, trying not to put to much weight on his injured leg. He realized that the Orc he had previously sighted was almost upon him, and quickly drew his knife. The foul creature approached, and Thorvel was ready. He parried the Orc’s attacks, not as easily or as agilely as he normally would have, but that was to be expected. He got in at a close range so as to render his opponent’s sword unwieldy, skillfully stabbing and blocking its offences. He feinted a downwards attack to catch the Orc off balance, then thrust up into its throat. Black blood spurted out, and Thorvel drew his knife out of it as it toppled to the ground.

Thorvel realized that while he had fought the Orc, the two had actually worked their way down the slope so that he was now on the very fringe of the Orc encampment. Nearby Orcs seemed to swarm toward him, and for quite some time he had little rest, flowing from one adversary to the next. His thigh began to throb, and he began to falter in his attacks, killing with less precision and ease and receiving cuts with greater frequency. But even as his body began to fail, a spark in his eyes gleamed the brighter with intensity and hatred. He was not ready to die yet, not while there were still Orcs around. Death comes, willing or unwilling, danced a thought in the back of his head. He shoved it away, and fought on. He now fought with the fervor of a cornered dog, hopeless but not giving an inch unless forced.

Finally though, the pain was becoming unbearable, and blood loss was making him weak. Even as he gave a death stroke to one Orc it gave a counter stroke in return. Thorvel collapsed to the ground. Death would not be long now, and he was ready to give in to it when he noticed Lómarandil nearby. He seemed not to be in current combat and looking around for a new foe to attack. Thorvel felt incredible guilt pressing down on him for the way he had treated the younger elf.

“Lómarandil,” he called, his voice shaking slightly. “Come here.” The elf turned at the sound of his name, and knelt down beside Thorvel. Thorvel could not read his expression.

“I... I’m sorry,” said Thorvel slowly. Breathing was becoming painful. “You did not deserve my treatment of you. I hope you can forgive me.” Lómarandil nodded thoughtfully. “Yes.”

“Thank you,” said Thorvel. He felt as if a great weight had been lifted off his chest. His eyes closed briefly. “Would you... would you tell the Captain... it was... an honor to be in his scout troop.” Lómarandil nodded again. “You don’t know what this means to me...” said Thorvel, the sentence dying to a whisper at the end. He closed his eyes again. Even as he could feel the darkness enveloping him, he heard as if from afar the battle cries of fair voices. In vague thoughts he made out that support must have come unlooked for from Lorien. He felt peace, now, peace and hope, and he knew that the Shadow would not conquer. Then he felt and heard no more.

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Hama of the Riddermark's post

Lomarandil stood slowly up from Thorvel's side. Anger coursed through his blood in an unstoppable rage as he looked at Thorvel's body. A lump rose in his throat, and tears began to trickle down his cheeks. Drawing his two razor sharp nine inch knives, he ran screaming at the orc force. Anger cloduing his judgement. Calenvasa saw this and cired out to him to stop, but Lomarandil didn't hear. He spun again and again, twirled his knives with awesome precision, killing every orc that came withing three feet of him.

Slowly he weakened though. His attacks slowed, and an easterling managed to penetrate his defences and stab him in the abdomen. lomarandil ripped the knife out and pushed it into the eaterling's throat, but the pain was too great. Slowly, almost poetically, he fell to his knees. Another easterling came up behind him. Lomarandil heard the swish of the blade, he felt it pieces his lung and exit through his chest. He cired out hatred for them.

The Easterling captain just laughed, and pulled his sword out. Lomarandil fell onto his hands, blood slowly pooling around him. As he tried to push himself to his feet he felt a hand grab hold of his hair and jerk it upwards. He was face to face with the easterling, lomarandil saw his arm raise, then he closed his eyes. He felt the pain in his neck only for a moment when it was severed. His mind raced away as soon as he died. Searching for Thorvel. "Lomarandil, over here." he heard Thorvel's voice say and he turned smiling, finding himself in a far green country, under a swift sunrise...

[piosenniel]

Fordim Hedgethistle's post

The tide of battle passed over Ambarturion where he lay, and like a rock that resists all waters Megilaes remained with him. The student carried the master into a copse of trees where they could hide from the orcs and Easterlings, but the cover was little necessary when the Elves of the Golden Wood marched forth and put their enemies to flight. There was great slaughter that day, and the waters and fields of the Vale of Anduin ran red and black with the mingling bloods of orc and Elf.

As they watched the battle falter and then fail, and the army of Elves return victorious and yet saddened to the eaves of the Golden Wood, Megilaes and Ambarturion spoke of the days to come.

“I will pass into the West,” the younger Elf said. “With the death of my brother I will never find peace in this Middle-Earth. Perhaps those who live beyond the Sea will give me the comfort I need to forget him.”

“No,” Ambaturion replied softly, “they cannot bring comfort for all losses, or heal all wounds, but they will welcome you for the deeds that you have performed, and will help you take the bitterness from your memories of your brother and teach you how to sing the name of Caranbaith with joy.”

“I hope that this is so, my master. At the very least, I will be happy that our ways will not be parted.”

Ambarturion looked out upon the darkening field and said quietly, “What do you mean by that?”

“Only that I will now be able to join you on the Western Road, my Master. Long have you desired to follow that path, and surely now,” he pointed gently at the ragged stump where Ambarturion’s hand had been cloven off, “you will journey thence for healing?”

Ambarturion looked into the approaching night a long time before answering. “I do not think, Megilaes, that it is my doom to follow that Road. So long have I been seeking it, that I fear I have paid no heed to that which is worthwhile in this world. I feel I must remain here some time and see it for what it is, now that the veil of despair and contempt has been lifted from my eyes. I have thought for so long that I was wise and all knowing of the ways of this world – but I have seen so little of it beyond the eaves of the Golden Wood, and what I have seen I have looked down upon and spurned.” He paused for a time. “No,” he began again, as though answering one in a debate, “I will remain in this place until I am ready to depart upon the straight road. Perhaps such a day will never come, and it will be my doom to remain here and dwindle into a rustic and quaint figure of the woods, little more than a bedtime story for the peoples who will come after and hardly believe the tales of our deeds. If that is what has been laid for me, then I am content.”

And then Megilaes wept bitter tears, for he saw that his master was in earnest, and he sought to return the sword of Gondolin to Ambarturion. But the elder Elf refused it, giving it to his student and bidding him carry it with him into the West. “I know not if such things as this are held in honour there. But if they are, then give it to those who dwell beyond the Sea, and tell them that with it, Megilaes of Lorien avenged the murder of his brother Caranbaith. Tell them, that a champion has come to his deserved rest.”

“My Master,” Megilaes cried out, “I fear that this will be the most bitter parting of all. For I doubt that your way will bring you to the West if you do not follow it now. Where will you find a Road in a land that is growing dark? And where will you find a home in a world that no longer needs us?”

“I know not, Megilaes, for such wisdom is not given to me. I am ancient and mighty, but I do not possess the wisdom of the Noldor.”

“What then will keep you in the long years ahead?”

Ambarturion turned his eyes upon the setting sun and smiled. “Hope,” he said.

[piosenniel]

Durelin's post

Helkaur

The defense of Lorien had marched out upon the army, and their stand broke their enemies, with the unseen aid of the scouts of Mirkwood, and the lost ambassadors of Lorien. The enemy had faltered when the key part of their plan was unsuccessful. Orcs and Men, servants to a cruel master, would not stand long when their attack was met by a defense that was meant to be frail and without a backbone, without the elfin magic that any cruel heart would find impossible to stand against. Their leaders had faltered, knowing that the plan to rid their Master of the great defender of a stronghold of good in this Middle-earth that he would rule. Instead, the Lady Galadriel would depart on a grey ship, into the West, along with the rest of her kind, the last of her kind, the Ringbearers.

This victory reached their hearts even more than any former ones against the forces of Sauron. The defenders of Lorien had never answered such a call as this. Scouts had discovered the body of one of their kindred, a member of the envoy sent to the Woodmen of Mirkwood. Taking this as evidence that the envoy had not reached its destination, Lorien realized it was alone. And alone, Lorien was not slow to answer the call to war.

Helkaur watched his enemies flee from him and his comrades for the second time that day, these survivors of a much smaller number than those who had fled upon the routing of the main force. He cried out with the joy that filled his heart, and thought of his return to his wife, when he would get to see Moraniel smile. He stood among so many dead, and could not help but let his happiness fade, though he did so almost begrudgingly. But he felt his heart grow no heavier, because life was his focus right now. He focused particularly, and almost selfishly, the fact that he lived. He shut his eyes, wishing that that would also shut out the sounds that surrounded him: words of grief, songs of sorrow, and the final whispers of a dying soul manifested in the air, and through those who mourned the dead around him. He wished to get away from them, wished to return to his home and who would greet him there. And so he ran.

They had met the army from Dol Guldur only a few miles from the beginnings of the woods. Lorien had much to thank the Anduin for, it seemed. Without such an obstacle, they would not have had time to make such a stand as they had. Nor, most likely, would the mysterious Ambarturion – a great servant to the Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel, who was practically a legendary name to Helkaur – and his companions would not have come in time to ruin the key part to the attack. Time was not something an elf often considered, and it could be frightening, perhaps, how much time could mean. It could have been the undoing of the Lord and Lady of Lorien, thought it had never touched their land.

Soon Helkaur was making his way along familiar paths under familiar boughs, hastened by some need that was even greater than that which had driven him to march in defense of his land. But when he was still nearly a half mile away from the home he so desired to return to for the last time, he was stopped by a young elf woman. She greeted him kindly, and it was only after he returned her greeting that he recognized her. And then he was forced to recall the dead that still lay upon that field he had left behind, as her husband was among them. That elf was not racing home to show his wife that he was alive, and it hurt Helkaur to look into the elf woman’s eyes. He was afraid that she would ask him of her husband, and he did not know what he would say. He certainly did not know how to comfort her, when she would begin to weep in her grief and shock… But she did not ask of her husband.

“Where do you run to, soldier of Lorien?”

“To my home, my lady,” he answered rather curtly, perhaps finding a reason to be annoyed with her for not even asking of her husband, of who she loved.

“Are you not standing within your home?”

Helkaur glanced around him, but his eyes snapped back to the young elf woman as she began to laugh. She laughed surprisingly loudly for one who spoke so softly, though she quieted quickly. “What did you fight for?”

“For Lorien.”

“Not your home?”

“The home of my people.”

The female elf smiled. “And you do not return to your people. Much of your people lie dead outside these woods, others mourn their deaths, outside of these woods.” For a moment, he was afraid she was referring to her husband, but their was no sorrow in her voice, nor did any show in her eyes. So Helkaur spoke boldly.

“I return to my wife, glad that she does not need to mourn me.”

“Then your home is gone.”

“Gone?” Fear was starting to creep up his throat, choking him, while simultaneously growing in sickness in his stomach. His voice was disgustingly empty, void of emotion. His tongue was dry. She spoke without any feeling, as well, and so very quietly. “You answered one call, she answered another.” Fear seized him, and he was frozen. His eyes revealed all that went on inside him, but it seemed she chose simply to ignore what she inevitably saw. Anger rose in him as warm tears stained his face, suppressing the fear and allowing him to speak. “You speak words that make my heart tremble with fear, and you say them as if they were trivial things that should already be known to me. Tell me girl, why do you speak of ‘calls’?”

“Melian has taken the road to the Towers, and then will take the ship across the sea, into the West. It was the call of the gull that she heard.”

He did not want to remain in this girl’s presence. What she said angered him, and he feared that she spoke truth, feared as he never had, never actually fearing his own death. And so he ran again, away from the frightful young elf woman, coming at last to his home in the trees. He climbed up the ancient wonder, the mallorn, and entered his home. He found no one to greet him on the return he had not believed he would make.

[piosenniel]

The End of a Day ~*~ Durelin

A soft murmur of voices was the only sound on the battlefield, sounding a beautiful sorrow amidst a field of death. The immediate celebration as the orcs fled the field had faded when they began taking care of the dead, searching through the bodies, finding familiar faces. A soft chant for all of the dead, a sweet song for those they recognized. All their hearts mourned as one, though their voices were all their own. The gentleness of the air was not broken by any sound. The carrion fowl did not dare come near elves as they mourned their dead.

Calenvása walked through the battlefield, seeing every pale, lifeless face as a familiar one. Only in their eyes did the dead still seem to live, and he looked in to so many eyes that day. He felt that if he looked close enough, he could see their souls taking flight, flying home, free from the confinement of their bodies that had walked on Eä until this day. It was astounding what could occur in one day, how many lives could come to an end in one day, how much a being could see in one day. And there were so many days in the life of an immortal…

Suddenly something made Calenvása look up, and he saw Targil standing before him. The Captain was shocked at what he saw on the elf’s face, in his eyes. His face was hardly recognizable, and there were tears running down it. It was not his face itself, Calenvása soon realized, but how it was set. And it was his eyes. The elf was a perfect model of grief, and it aged him. Targil had wisdom in his eyes, eyes that had seen so much in one day of the immortal life.

The elf led his Captain to the body of Lómarandil, and then to the body of Thorvel. He spoke of Thorvel and Lómarandil’s deaths, and how he had been nearby. He spoke of it as something long passed, an event that was lost somewhere in the long history of his life, the exact time it had occurred no longer known. His eyes would even grow distance as he recalled the moments, particularly when he came to when Thorvel had spoken. The dying elf had asked for forgiveness from Lómarandil, and gave his respect to his Captain. With forgiveness given, Lómarandil died with him. Calenvása considered it strange that Throvel would remember him as he died, but he decided he would consider it once more, later. For now, tears ran down his face, and the sorrow left him silent.

Then someone spoke from behind him. Slightly startled, Targil and Calenvása turned quickly to see who spoke. Neither recognized him, but that did not seem to matter. Tears were in his eyes, as well, and there was a look about him that made Targil’s grief seem slight. In his hands were two blossoms of the elanor flower, their beauty glowing in the Captain’s tear filled eyes. He held them out as he spoke softly, “These are for your comrades. They died for Lorien, though their home was in Mirkwood.”

Calenvása was shocked, and simply bowed, murmuring his thanks. It seemed more than enough to the strange elf. He almost smiled, but Calenvása watched the grief overcome him once more. The Lorien elf stepped forward, and kneeled upon the ground. Targil and his Captain watched as the Lorien elf placed the flowers upon the body of Thorvel. The still moist blood soon soaked into its delicate white petals. “Where does your other companion lie?”

“What is your name?” Calenvása asked. “Helkaur,” he strange Lorien elf answered. Then, though the body of Lómarandil lay right next to Thorvel’s, the Mirkwood Captain gestured out across the battlefield in all directions. “Helkaur, our other companions lie here.

[piosenniel]

~*~ Finis ~*~

[piosenniel]

~*~ To Elvenhome ~*~