Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Arry]

‘Riv’s gone down below to see Unna and his children,’ answered Skald. He eyed his younger brother’s distraught posture. ‘He’s fine,’ he offered as some sort of assurance. ‘No injuries. Just covered in dirt and a few scratches from the odd twiggy bush they’d had to hide behind.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Like I said . . . it was more what he saw and . . . well . . . felt that’s put the wind up him.’

Skald rose from his chair to fetch his brother a mug of tea. ‘Drink this,’ he said, pushing the steaming cup toward Bror. ‘You were wrong,’ he said, watching as Bror raised his head from the table. ‘About being the last Stonecut,’ he went on. ‘Leifr holds that position now, Bror. You’re his “old” Uncle.’ A smile softened his face as a thought came to him. ‘That is . . . until some lass makes you her heart’s-choice . . . and you’ve a son to carry on.’ He chuckled at the look on Bror’s face. ‘Now there’s something to look forward to!’ He nodded his head vigorously ‘Yes! . . . indeed!’

The mood of the room lightened a bit as Skald spun out the little daydream much to his brother’s consternation. There were details of first meetings, and dances, and stolen kisses in a stony alcove . . .

‘Marrying someone off?’ asked Viss, standing in the doorway.

‘Just pulling Bror’s leg, a bit,’ returned Skald, grinning at his father. As Viss entered and went to fetch some tea and bread with cheese, Skald turned back to Bror, his face serious. He shook his head ‘no’, mouthed ‘Riv’ quickly and pointed his thumb at their father . . . hoping that his younger brother would understand he shouldn’t say anything of what they’d spoken of to Viss.

‘There’s another group of Elves coming through the mines,’ Viss said as he carried his plate and mug to the table. ‘Should be going out some time today toward the city.’ He sat down and took a large bite of his bread. ‘Oh,’ he went on, swallowing the bite down with a swig of tea. ‘One of the patrol groups who’d gone a little further west and south than our others have brought back news to the King that there is a great army of Elves several days south of the city. Said they’ve come from somewheres out in the northwest - by some sea, I think they mentioned. Anyway a fellow name of Elrond is leading them to aid the jewelsmiths.’

‘Going to have to be a mighty big army from what I’ve heard,’ snorted Skald, ‘if they’re going to make even a small dent in Sauron’s. Elves or no . . . the sheer size of the dark army is massive.’

‘Well, apparently this Lord Elrond, from what we could figure out, is expecting a number of warriors from The Golden Wood. And this is interesting,’ Viss went on, shaking his head in wonder. ‘It’s supposed to be led by old high and mighty himself.’

‘You don’t mean Celeborn, do you?’ Skald asked, his brow furrowed. ‘Surely he’s not coming through the mines, is he? He hates us Dwarves!’

‘Stinking of Elvish fear,’ chuckled Viss, nodding his head ‘yes’ to the question. ‘And probably thinking all the way that we’ll be waiting to do him in somehow and rob him to boot!’ Laughter rang against the stones as the Dwarves made merry at the Elven ruler’s expense. ‘Anyway, they should be coming through in a few days.’ He took another bite of bread. ‘We’ve been asked to take them to the Elrond fellow, by the way . . .’

[Encaitare]

Glûtkask stepped forth haughtily, sizing up the Easterling and his armed guards. "And what authority do you have to threaten any one of us?"

Ulrung ignored the question. "We found these two about to desert."

Kharn hissed in what might have been twisted delight. "Those rats have been making trouble ever since we set out."

"I was surprised to see that their superiors were not keeping a closer watch."

Who did this Man think he was? Glûtkask had never allowed himself to be pushed around, and he certainly wasn't going to begin now.

"Listen well, Easterling," he said, coming closer to bear down upon the man. "This is my regiment, and you have no authority here. I've seen you going about with your nose in the air like you think you're better than us. Is that what you think, Wainrider?"

"I am here to organize the orkish regiments in accordance with my Master Angoroth's orders. We must make negotiations, Orc. Do not bring my Master's wrath upon yourself."

"Negotiations?" The captain laughed shortly. "A fine time to start talking about negotiations, after you barge into my camp and threaten the lives of my men. Tell your Master that if he has something to say he can damn well come and say it himself, not send some fool and his lugs to do it for him."

"A fool? Angoroth's orders come from Sauron, your master. You would be a fool if you did not heed them."

Glûtkask considered his words. He did not want to have to deal with this arrogant Easterling, but orders from the Dark Lord himself were best obeyed.

"Turn them over to me," he ordered, gesturing at the bound pair. Ulrung did not move. "They're mine, and mine to deal with."

"Permission to question them, captain," Kharn requested, remembering how the bigger one had attacked him.

"Do as you will, lieutenant."

"Come on, deserting vermin," Kharn growled at the two, tugging the rope so they followed him towards his tent. "You've got a lot to explain, and let's make it nice and slow..."

"So, Easterling," Glûtkask said. "What are these negotiations you're so eager to make?"

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ulrung cursed under his breath and warily eyed the Captain whom the others had called Glûtkask. Things were not going exactly as he had planned. Whoever this monstrous soldier was, he was no mere Orc. The beast sent a chill through his heart. There was something about Glûtkask's manner and voice that reminded Ulrung of Lord Angoroth or even of the Dark Lord himself. All three smelled of the past, ages rotten and long gone, as if each had been alive for several thousand years. Ulrung did not know exactly what the common thread was between the three, only that these dark creatures of shadow were a great deal more than simple Men or Orcs. And he was tired of bending a knee to such demanding types: he desired to be a commander in his own right.

His own effort to instill fear in the hearts of others was second to no Man but, compared with these masters of evil, he was but a novice. Perhaps the greatest difference was this. The Easterling was willing to use the most bloody means at his disposal to achieve his desired goal: land, riches, control over others. Yet the tools of murder or war were nothing more than that. He had no special love for killing in itself. If Ulrung slaughtered a man, he did it for a reason, not for the sheer love of bloodshed. These shadowy three were clearly different: they revelled in spilt blood and blackness as if these were the sweetest delights in all of Arda.

For a tiny instant, Ulrung hesitated. He was only a man; these beings operated on another level than he did. Perhaps he would be better off feigning illness and slinking back to Rhun where he could live in comparative peace and safety bludgeoning and exploiting those poor underlings who dwelled within his land . Angered by his own lack of resolution, Ulrung felt his backbone stiffen. I will not be a coward. That way lies weakness and defeat. Whoever or whatever these creatures are, they walk now in a world of men, and, however great they think themselves, they will someday be beholden to us. One way or another, our Age will come. The only question is what form it will take. I must make sure that I and the other wainriders come out on top.

Staring coldly at Glûtkask, the Easterling answered in a flat voice: "Surely, you can not be asking me about these negotiations? From the look of you, your bearing and your mien, you are more than a simple Orc. Indeed, there is something about the way you speak that puts me in mind of the great Angoroth himself. Surely, you are not stooping to ask a lowly Man the Dark Lord's secrets? You must know these things yourself. But as to the negotiations, I overheard them speak of Rings, amulets of great power and control, that must be returned to the Dark Lord. But, of course, I tell you nothing that you did not know."

Underneath his breath, Ulrung cursed a second time. One way or another the Age of Man was coming. All the ancient prophecies of the Rhun foretold it. Even more, he could feel it in his bones. Ulrung hoped he would live to see these high and mighty creatures of shadow ground into nothingness, replaced by himself and his friends, all men of the same ilk. Glaring back at Glûtkask, the Easterling dared to say more, speaking in a silken voice, "But perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps you do not know such things. Perhaps you have lost the favor of the Dark Lord and must now turn to me for help. Someday indeed, you and others of your type may pay homage to the race of men who shall yet inherit the reins of power. I go now to Angoroth and to the Dark Lord. Tomorrow we battle, and the forces of Mordor and of Sauron shall prevail. But who the final victor in Arda will be, I do not think either of us can say."

Feeling better than he'd done in a long time, Ulrung leapt upon his horse's back and called out "Do what you will then with the escaping Orcs." as he gestured for his men to follow him back to camp.

[Firefoot]

Grimkul’s initial sulk at being captured had turned rapidly into a blazing glower at Kharn’s appearance. With every passing moment the long-kindled fire of his hatred burned closer and closer to out of control.

Presently, Kharn tugged at the rope around their waists. “Come on, deserting vermin. You've got a lot to explain, and let's make it nice and slow...” The single shred of sense that remained in Grimkul warned him not to attack with his back to the conversing officers. He followed Kharn grudgingly, hatefully, and Ulwakh sulked along beside him, bound so closely that there were but a couple scant inches between their shoulders.

All of Ulwakh’s being screamed at the unfairness of this all. He hadn’t even been planning on deserting! Or, rather, he wasn’t going to while there had been any chance of getting caught, which clearly there had been being that it was broad daylight and at least one captain was standing around! Simplified, he wasn’t supposed to have been caught at all. And the humiliation at being tugged around at the end of a rope! Just before raids, he had seen young lads treat their dogs so. Bitterly did he rue his dependence upon his fool of a companion. To make matters worse, he now realized he had left his pack back at camp. Some other Orc would have undoubtedly carried it off and looted it by the time they returned.

As they approached the tent, Kharn turned his head and sneered. “Quiet today, aren’t you? Not so fierce all tied up, are you? Into the tent, now.” Grimkul glowered; an angry red haze seemed to obscure his vision. Kharn wisely herded the pair inside ahead of himself.

The tent was a sparse, smelly thing, containing a worn pallet, two chairs, and a few odds and ends: a short length of rope, a pair of unneeded weapons, and some other unidentified objects. Kharn entered behind them and walked around to face them, a gleam of malice in his eye. He untucked a whip from his belt, swishing it around almost lazily; his other hand held a short dagger. “Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way.” He walked around his captives, looking very much like a predator closing in for the kill. “Just to loosen your tongues…” He snapped the whip expertly to curl and sting about their legs, noting with especial interest Ulwakh’s tender calf. “Just what were you doing around the edges of camp, when clearly you should be here with your unit?” When neither answered immediately, he cracked the whip again.

Ulwakh made a split second decision, driven by the desire to survive. “It’s not how it looked – we weren’t trying to desert.” He felt the warning sting of the whip. “Grimkul here mostly just wondered if it could be done; he wasn’t actually going to do it – I already talked him out of it.”

“A likely cover-up,” spat Kharn, drawing back the whip with particular force.

“Wait! It’s true!” Ulwakh cried. “See, look – if I had really wanted to desert, wouldn’t I have brought my pack?”

Kharn scowled fiercely, but could not deny the truth of this statement. “Here’s for your insolence!” he snarled, and snapped the whip as hard as he could, drawing blood from both Orcs. “And why doesn’t the big one say anything? Not very bright, are you?” Grimkul had been building up and fueling his anger with every whip-crack, every condescending word. He couldn’t hold it in any longer; the last Orc who had questioned his intelligence had died within two heartbeats. Silently, for his fury transcended words, he swung about, balling his fist and drawing back for the punch in the same motion.

Things would have gone ill for Kharn had Grimkul not been roped so closely to Ulwakh, for Grimkul’s abrupt turn swung Ulwakh off his feet, knocking Grimkul off balance so that the heavy blow that would have bashed in Kharn’s skull instead glanced off, causing no more than a bruise and a headache. Kharn’s dagger-hand had jerked upwards in self-defense, scoring a deep cut in Grimkul’s inner forearm even as he collapsed in a heap on top of the falling Ulwakh.

Grimkul scrambled to get his feet beneath him, but before he could do so he felt a cold blade placed against his throat. “One false move and I’ll stick you with this,” hissed Kharn. “You could have had the easy way out, but I see that that just won’t work for you, will it? I’m going to have to tie your hands, now, I see. Now stand up nice and slow.” Chest heaving in fury, Grimkul did so, hauling Ulwakh’s aching body up with him. Ulwakh stood woozily, having felt every ounce of Grimkul’s sturdy frame come toppling down on him. He was short of breath and surprised not to feel any broken bones.

Through a series of commands which were obeyed by Grimkul only because of the cold blade pressed against his throat, Kharn managed to get Grimkul’s wrists tied. Only then did Kharn withdraw the dagger. He turned briefly to Ulwakh and sneered, “Too cowardly to desert, I bet. Now,” he turned his attention back to Grimkul, “were you or were you not trying to desert?”

“No,” growled Grimkul, “he already told you that.” Crack went the whip. Time upon time Kharn repeated the question, and each time Grimkul answered the same way, receiving a blow each time, to the legs, to the arms, anywhere there was exposed skin, both front and back. Grimkul didn’t care about the pain anymore; his fury drowned out all sensations other than its own. In fact, he took perverse pleasure in seeing Kharn’s mounting frustrations. Grimkul had long since lost count of his denials when he for once did not feel the biting sting of the whip, but the cut of a dagger – not deep, but cutting nevertheless. This time, he did howl both in pain and surprise. But no matter what, he wouldn’t give Kharn the satisfaction of knowing he had been about to desert. And then, when he did get away from this tent, he would – but first, Kharn was going to die.

[Envinyatar]

News of the Dwarves and the Lorinand discussed

It was difficult to maintain a position where they would be free of prying eyes. Lord Elrond had counseled Ondomirë and the other captains that they must bring their troops as close as they might to the city and with a minimum of noise. It meant that the Elves had been broken into smaller groups, each of them moving at a slow, quiet pace toward Elrond’s pre-determined vantage point. They had kept in touch through osanwë.

No fires warmed their nights; no hot food for their bellies. No talking at all. And the horses had been kept close by to each rider, so that they might be reassured and kept silent as needed. And there were innumerable sentries, hidden within their grey cloaks, keeping watch behind bush and rock for the approach of any enemy.

It was one such sentry who had corralled a small group of Dwarves he’d found creeping through the area. They had put down their weapons, not wanting to kill him if it came to that. But by their words convinced him that the Dwarves had not gone to the aid of Sauron, but were indeed assisting the Elves of Eregion. They had been taken to Lord Elrond.

-^-^-^-^-^-

Ondomirë sat, his back against a most uncomfortable rock. ‘By the One, Ondo!’ hissed Geldion. ‘If you don’t quit fidgeting about, the whole of Eregion will know just how disgruntled you are by that rock! Get up and move about if you need. Or try this wine,’ he said, throwing the skin to Ondomirë. Geldion watched in the pale moon light as his companion unstoppered the skin and took a long draw. ‘Have you heard about the Dwarves?’ he asked, changing the subject in hopes of drawing Ondomirë’s mind from his seating arrangements.

‘I have,’ returned Ondomirë, giving the skin back to Geldion. He’d crossed his legs and sat away from the rock’s face. The wine in his belly mellowed out his temper. ‘And I have it by Elrond’s aide’s good graces that the Dwarves have agreed to help bring a troupe of the Lorinand to swell our ranks. Led by Celeborn, he said.’ He tapped his finger to the side of his nose in a knowing gesture. ‘That’s why we’ve had to tell the sentries not to shoot the Dwarves when they see them skulking about.’

A short discussion on the dependability and credibility of the Naugrim ensued, in which both Elves laid out their prejudices for examination. It was decided, with the aid of a few more mouthfuls of wine, that the Dwarves of Khazad-dum could be trusted . . . for now . . . to deliver on what they’d promised.

‘Celeborn, you say?’ Ondomirë went on. He’d drawn his cloak more tightly about him, the night breeze having got more chill. ‘Now that is an interesting choice for the Dwarves to have to conduct to Elrond. Hates them, you know. Never got over the fact that some of them killed Thingol for that necklace.’ Ondomirë was warming to his subject. ‘And you must have seen his wife. Yes? Gorgeous lady . . . but a bit too overbearing for my taste.’ He chuckled low. ‘Of course, mayhap that’s why they chose each other. She likes to make the decisions . . . and he . . . well, let’s just say he certainly looks good standing next to her . . .’

Thereon followed a long and rambling whispered discussion on the plusses and minuses of wedding one of the old Noldor . . . best left for the night’s breeze to carry away into oblivion . . .

[Folwren]

‘Anyway, they should be coming through in a few days.’ Viss took another bite of bread. ‘We’ve been asked to take them to the Elrond fellow, by the way.’

‘To lord Elrond?’ Bror asked, looking up sharply. ‘That will lead us almost into direct battle, won’t it? You said that he had come to help the jewelsmiths.’

‘Yes...but they’re still some ways away. I don’t think that the king will be sending us into direct battle for the elves. That’s not what was agreed on.’ He studied Bror closely as the youngest son relaxed visibly, but he asked no questions.

‘Who’s escorting the Lorien elves?’ Bror asked, looking into his mug at the dark tea. He hadn’t drunk much of it. It should be drunk, though. It might help calm the strange feelings in his stomach. He glanced up at his father, who, having just finished chewing a bite, replied.

‘I believe that the king is going to ask several Dwarves to volunteer. I doubt that it’s going to be like last time, where Riv planned it. Things went poorly then, and I think it will be even harder this time. There’s more land to cross and more orcs wandering about. I’m not sure how many he’s going to want to go. I doubt that very many will have to meet the elves, but when we get to the other side, he may want to send more with them when they leave to go to Elrond.’

‘I’ll go,’ Bror said quietly.

‘Ha! Not unless you’ve got me to make sure you don’t cause havoc!’ Skald said. Bror looked up with surprise and Skald let him catch just one glimmer of merriment in his eyes before he addressed Viss. ‘I’ll go, too, and keep little brother out of trouble.’ Bror stood up and opened his mouth to defend himself, but Skald waved him to silence. ‘Look. Riv’s coming. I doubt he expected today to turn into a family reunion.’

They could hear Riv’s footsteps in the stone hall outside. Another moment, and he entered. He stopped in the doorway, surprised to see not one, but three people waiting for him. He glanced at all of them and then nodded and came forward.

‘Good morning, Father,’ he said. 'Hullo, Bror.'

[piosenniel]

There is an old Dwarvish saying – Tongues are wagging ‘bout you when the tips of your ears burn hot as forgefire.

Riv looked about the kitchen, noting the murmur of voices he’d heard rumbling in the room had come to an abrupt halt. Their eyes were fixed on him, their tongues still . . . but nonetheless the tips of his ears felt decidedly warm. ‘And what would you expect,’ he chided himself. ‘Your mood was black as anything when you spoke to Skald. And he’s not one to keep burdens to himself. I’m sure he spoke with Bror . . .’ He glanced at his father and gave a half grin with a nod. ‘I hope no one has put the bug in Father’s ear. He needs no more worries.’

In an effort to lighten the mood, Riv looked expectantly at his younger brothers. ‘What? No hot food fixed for the returned warrior?’ He grinned widely at the both of them. ‘Here I’ve gone and gotten all cleaned up so as to be more presentable . . . and all for nothing . . .’

Glad of something to do, one of the brothers got up and fixed a basket of thick sliced bread, a plate of good goat’s cheese, and ladled out a big steaming bowl of meat and vegetable soup that Unna had slow cooking in the iron kettle near the fire. They sat and watched as he tucked into his food with a hearty spirit. He urged them all to have a mug of ale with him and poured a round for each himself. Skald he noted only sipped a little before placing the mug on the table.

The four fell to talking about the news from Viss about Celeborn. At first Viss himself wanted to part of the escort, but he was quickly shouted down by his sons. They dared not say he was too old to go, but they played on his sense of familial responsibility. It wouldn’t be right were he not here to oversee Stonecut business while they were gone. For his part, Viss raised a brow and was about to nay-say their argument, but looking at them, he knew they were just as likely to lock him in a vault in the lower caverns and give Svala the key to let him out well after they’d gone.

Viss, it seemed, had already spoken to most of the other older men in the Stonecut Hall. And an agreement had already been reached of how many men they thought they could spare for this escort party. ‘It’s a farther distance than we’ve gone before with an Elven group,’ Viss said. ‘That and the fact that the start of the battle is very near, there are more Orc troops in the area.’

‘And other things, even more worse than foul Orcs,’ Riv put in.

‘Well, I’ve put all your names forward for the escort,’ Viss went on. ‘I’ll surely understand if you want to stay back. I know you’ve all put forth a good effort already in our efforts to aid the Jewelsmiths. You’d be just as useful here at the forge if that’s what you choose to do.’

In the end, the three brothers, after much discussion, made their decision – they would go with the Elves from Lorien and see them safely to Lord Elrond’s position.

[Mithalwen]

Losrian had attempted to follow Artamir. There had been a look on his fair face that she had not seen before. It habitually wore an amused expression and while this was clearly not a time for jokes, she felt by some instinct that the distress the young elf betrayed was not down to fear. Then she wondered what she would do if she had caught up with him. They were hardly confidantes and now she should seek out her own family perhaps.

The discussions at her brother's house mirrorred those in Cainenyo's. He wished his sister to flee the city with his Galmir, Laswen and her mother. He and his father in law would stay and join the defence of the city.

"But Lord Celebrimbor said that all that could fight should! I shoot as well as most of the cadets!!! "

"He did not mean the maids of the city should fight I am sure"

"Why not? The women of the Noldor have fought before when they had to"

"The refugees will need protection too maybe..."

"Then you go! ~I think it is too late to go anyway - would we be any safer in the wilderness with that army on our heels?"

"Why must you defy me when all I seek is the safest course for you?"

"You aren't my father - I am of age - you have no right to choose for me!"

"And what would our father say if I did not seek to keep you from danger?"

At last Laswen's calm voice interrupted them.... "Stop this- there is enough conflict awaiting us..... I fear Losrian is right and this dispute is needless. I fear we may all have to fight or all have to flee. We are prepared for siege but perhaps we should also prepare for flight and have packs ready. then wait for what the morrow brings. "

The argument had been stopped if not resolved and Losrian had soon departed to her own chamber above her brother's workshop. She heard muffled, tense voices from behind the shuttered windows and knew that her household was not alone in its discord. Both the stores and the stock was much depleted since Laswen's family had first arrived from the outlands a year ago. But a small pony, some goats and poultry were still in residence in the woodstore and they stirred slightly as Losrian ran up the steps to the loft.

Packing for a journey would not be too arduous... almost everything she owned was contained in a fine wooden chest at the foot of the bed - examples both of her brother's work that looked a little incongruous in their humble setting. She took out the pack she had brought with her 6 years ago and it ws scarecely more full than then when she had sorted out the things necessaries for a journey and the things she could not bear to leave.

Few things caused many pangs... Most of her clothes were practical rather than beautiful but there was one notable exception. The dress made for her coming of age had had an overdress of simple blue wool, suitable for a winter celebration and more general use later, but the underdress Laswen had wrought for was of gossamer fine tuile, embroidered with flowers and butterflies too fragile even for general wear it was hopeless for a journey but Losrian could not bear to leave it behind. It folded to almost nothing and slightly guiltily she slipped it into her pack.

A harder decision was her lute. Light but bulky it would take space better occupied by provisions in her bag so she left it in it's case, next to her pack, bow and quiver. It was another decision that could wait until morning. If morning ever came.

[Durelin]

Firefoot's Post

Evening was nearing by the time Kharn almost literally shoved Grimkul and Ulwakh out of his tent. “Get out of my tent, you foul mountain vermin!” he snarled. Grimkul spared him a slight victorious smile, fury and the need for vengeance still gleaming in his yellow eyes. Kharn quailed under that look for a moment before swinging his whip at the two now-retreating forms.

Ulwakh led the way, threading his way quickly through the camp to put as much distance as possible between them and the captains, mostly Kharn. He wasted no time in cutting with a dagger the rope binding him to Grimkul, then the rope around Grimkul’s hands. Though Grimkul seemed hardly to mind, Ulwakh could not help but notice the way Grimkul’s bloodied legs hardly supported his weight, nearly giving out numerous times. Clearly, his fury still fueled him, but what about when that grew less hot? Battle loomed – Grimkul could hardly fight in such a condition.

Before too long, Ulwakh started looking around for a promising bit of space in the crowded camp. He dared not go too close to the periphery lest Grimkul get any more idiot ideas into his head. When he finally did find one, he sat down carefully, looking around as if worried about taking another Orc’s area. No one immediately disputed the claim and he relaxed somewhat. Grimkul removed his pack and dropped it carelessly on the ground before collapsing beside it, all the while saying not a word. Ulwakh sat uneasily, fearing for the outburst that he feared would surely come.

But it never did. The fading afternoon light faded into dusk, but still Grimkul sat unmoving, staring broodingly into space. Ulwakh grew hungry and tentatively dug into Grimkul’s pack for some dried meat, yet Grimkul still seemed not to notice. Occasionally his hand strayed to his sword hilt, or he might mouth some words Ulwakh couldn’t make out. The muscles in his face were taut, strained. Ulwakh finally tired and laid down to sleep, but Grimkul stared on into the night. The fire of hatred showed clearly in his eyes, not the fickle hatred for a meddlesome or irritating Orc, or for a fool of a commander, or for the Elves and Dwarves against whom he so fiercely fought, but hatred born of long taunting and torment – undying, burning hatred.

Ulwakh wished Grimkul would yell and rage.

[Durelin]

Maegisil's eyes shot open, a shout still ringing in his hears. His troubled sleep was interrupted by the sudden clamor outside, which easily reached inside his bedroom. He sat up, and he turned to see his wife looking up at him from where she lay beside him. Her eyes were wide with fear, and he expected they mirrored his own. The shouts grew louder, and the sound of a horn filled the air to almost overcome all other noise. Both Maegisil and Sairien knew what that call meant, though they had not heard it before this night: the army had arrived, the attack had begun. Maegisil threw the covers off and jumped out of his bed, and kneeling on the ground beside his bed, he pulled out a large trunk from underneath it. It seemed to have not been touched for many years, and it had not been since Maegisil had last seen battle, since the days when he was a glorious swordsman and defender of his lord.

He fumbled trying to get it open, and he realized his hands were shaking violently. He was unsure why, though at the moment he was unsure of just about everything. He was almost afraid he had forgotten how to use a sword, but he doubted that that was something you could ever forget, how to kill. Sairien watched him, having risen from the bed as well. Her hands were folded at her waist, and she held herself in a way that made her look as elegant as any queen, even in her nightgown. After he opened the chest to stare down at the cold mithril, steel, and leather, Maegisil looked up at his wife. He froze, feeling choked. Her beauty was radiant to him, and he felt he could not dry his eyes from her. And when he met her eyes... He felt his chest tighten and his throat close, and he felt the tears begin to collect in the bottom of his eyelids. Suddenly he felt a stinging pain in his hand. He blinked and pulled his eyes away from Sairien to find his hand clenched around the curved mithril blade of his sword. The next moment, his wife laid her hand on his shoulder and pulled his own hand of his blade with the other. The blood had already begun to pool on his hand, and she tore a small strip from her nightgown and tied it tightly around his palm.

“You are blessed that it was your left hand,” she said. He could not look her in the eyes, so he stared at her handiwork.

“Thank you,” he whispered after a moment, and then rose, pulling his sword out of his trunk. He started to wipe the little bit of blood off the blade with the edge of his sleep shirt, but Sairien grabbed him by the wrist and took the sword from him. He turned to look at her, but her expression was blank.

“Put on your armour,” she said softly. Maegisil relished in hearing her voice.

He frowned at her for another moment, but then began to comply. The segmented plates of finely shaped mithril over tough but soft dark leather were fine protection from slashing blows and many thrusts, and had served him well for many a battle in years past. And they had never limited his movement, insuring that his agility and dexterity could be used to his advantage. Celebrimbor had often joked about the quickness of his feet when it came to swordplay, but he knew that it was no joke on the battlefield. After he started to don the armour, Sairien put his sword carefully down on the only table in their bedroom. Maegisil noticed that she was careful not to smear the blood on it, but, even when Sairien came over to help him, he did not say anything. He would wait for her to speak, and he knew she would soon. Her hands were shaking too.

After he looked the warrior he had been centuries ago, in what seemed to him a past life, Sairien stepped back to look at him, and he watched her as she began to break down. She fell to her knees, and the tears came. He knelt down with her, and carefully and tenderly wrapped his arms around her. And though she shook, she did not sob, and her voice was steady when she spoke. Once again, Maegisil admired her strength, and wished he had it. “There is already blood on your steel, Maegisil,” she said, “Your blood. Let that be the only blood you shed today. Let Ilúvatar see that you have already shed blood, and tears, and need shed no more!”

Maegisil took her hand in his, and whispered to her as he felt a tear begin its way down his cheek. “We must go quickly to the palace, my love. You must be safe...and you could have been. It is my fault that we are still here, we should have flown when we had the chance...”

He started to continue, but Sairien interrupted him. “We could not have flown, we are not akin to the birds. This is our city. We cannot simply fly from it and build ourselves another nest.” She paused to kiss him softly. “I will stay here. I will be safe. Just come back.”

There was something in her eyes that calmed him, even though they glistened with her tears. She would be safe here, somehow he knew. And there was something in him that told him that the palace would never be safe, that Celebrimbor would abandon his people once again. Anger flashed in his eyes.

“I will come back for you.”

He rose after one last kiss, and looked back only once, when he took his sword from off the table, before he closed the bedroom door behind him and rushed down the stairs and out of his house. He took off at a run, anger driving him on even while it told him that he did not belong where he was going. He certainly had no feeling of duty to his lord, nor even to his city. It was always Celebrimbor's dream, the grandeur of Ost-in-edhil, of his great 'kingdom' of Eregion. Maegisil wondered what had held the elf-lord back from proclaiming himself a king.

The palace was on a raised plateau of land, and it was grueling for even most elves to run up that slow but steady incline leading toward the center of the city. But Maegisil's body was remembering the old days, and his strength was fed by anger. Soon he reached the palace, and found a large numbered of guards garrisoned there, as well as soldier preparing to head to the walls. He stopped only to receive permission from the guards to proceed through, and then continued his run. He was lost in the bustle of things, just another soldier, and he liked it that way. He never liked the idea of being ‘Counselor Maegisil.’

His soft leather boots skidded to a halt on the cold stone floor in front of a large gilded door. Maegisil knew this door too well, and he knew the way to it better even than he knew his sword. This only angered him more, as he thought of all the years he had wasted, a ‘counselor’ to the Lord Celebrimbor, a mocking title for a mockery of a position. He was about to push the door open when a guard's arm snapped out to stop him. He had not noticed the guards positioned on each side of the door. Celebrimbor had never bothered to make anyone stand guard outside his door. Finally, when twenty thousand of Sauron's forces were banging on his city's gate, he put two guards outside his chambers. Maegisil wanted to laugh.

“I am sorry, Maegisil,” the guard said, and the elf he was addressing recognized him to be Gilduin, an elf of Lorien, who he had met several months ago when the Lorien forces first arrived in Ost-in-edhil. Maegisil always remembered faces, and almost always the names that went with them. “Gilduin...you...why are you here? Has no one escaped serving this...lord?” He gestured toward the door, disdain clear in his face and his voice. But he did not wait for a response. He ran again, to his right down to the end of the hallway and turned a sharp left. There were no walls of the thick but elegant stone of the rest of the palace here, but rather there were graceful, beautifully etched pillars that served the same purpose as an enclosed wall, but gave a gorgeous view of the eastern horizon. Maegisil had watched a sunrise with his wife here. A tiny, pale light began to creep up from behind the Mountains of Mist, the tips of its long, spindly arms trying to grab hold of the darkness to tear it away. But they did not have a hold of it yet. The sun would not rise for another few hours, and so the lights of torches were the brightest in the night. There were thousands of them upon the field before the walls of the city. He had hoped that he remembered this spot right, that it was high enough to see well above and beyond the city walls. He had also dreaded being right. His breath was caught in his throat as he scanned the mass of moving objects that he knew to all be enemies, to all be of the Enemy. So the Deceiver had become, his master defeated so long ago. The hope that Sauron would follow in his master's footsteps was not in Maegisil's heart.

Watching the moving figures along the walls and in the city below, his hand moved to the hilt of his sword that hung at his side. It will be as long a siege as we can make it...

[CaptainofDespair]

It was a cool evening; the pale lighting of the torch fires on the edge of the hovels flickered and danced across the tents of the encampment, casting a myriad assortment of shadowy figures upon the leather-hide flaps, the smell of burning oils wafting through the quiet pathways that led between the makeshift housing for the army. The silence, which pervaded every nook and stretched forth its grasping claws and screamed out with a desperate, hollow voice, snaring any sound unwary enough to challenge its domain, lazily slept as the heavy footfalls of boots thudded through the musty dirt.

The only light emanating from within the rows of tents came from one, situated on a measly hill, though it was more akin to a dung heap to the lord who dwelled within, albeit temporarily. Angoroth’s tent went unguarded by his soldiers, as he was always wary of assassins. His belief was that soldiers were too incompetent, or just downright dumb, to handle such a festering demon of the night properly. Thus, only two large mutts, hounds of hell to those who rubbed them the wrong way, were all that stood watch over their master.

A heavy sigh, followed by the sound of an ink quill feverishly scribbling in a dusty, moldy tome, echoed outwards. “Bah! This doesn’t sound right! How am I supposed to fashion something that is memorable, a legacy, if I can’t come up with the proper account of the battle?” He shook his head, and leaned into the palm of his hand, his elbow perched against a table he had brought with him from the East. The wood was of fine oak, a rare commodity in the region he had slipped away from. He had carved it himself, notching it with engravings that held many meanings to him. In the center, he had etched in a dragon, devouring the world; though it was unfinished. He hoped he would have time after this business with the Elves was done with. “Perhaps I should wait until the battle is concluded. There might yet be some twist to whet the appetite of my mind. Or perhaps the Elves will prove to be all too easy, and unimpressive.” Closing the tome, which was laid upon oak boards, and bound together with the leather hide of some beast from ages past, he grunted his disapproval.

As he was preparing to settle in for the night, having risen up from his crudely fashioned chair, another piece of furniture he wished to complete, he heard the whine of his dogs. They often made noises through the night, but this was different. Throwing open the flap of his abode, sword drawn and pointed into the darkness, fully expecting some defected orc or Elven assailant, he cast himself into the shadows, under the bleakness of a murky sky. In the faint torchlight, he caught a glimpse of a familiar visage; that of Ulrung, who had returned from the orc encampments. “Ah, it is only you, Captain. I was expecting someone else.” Without uttering a single pleasantry, which both thought to be quite useless, they stepped out of the shadows of the flickering torch lights, and into the musty dwelling place that was Angoroth’s tent.

The lord seated himself, again, behind his table, leaving Ulrung to stand. “Tell me, Captain, how went the excursions into the orc camps? I do hope you come with favorable news.” Ulrung nodded, replying, “I do, milord. Those that yet do not serve us, have all agreed to side with you in the coming battle. Though, some were more trouble than others.” Angoroth chuckled lightly, having full expected some of the brutish orc chieftains and captains to act with callous disregard for the Dark Lord’s orders. But, before Angoroth could respond to the news, Ulrung added, “There was one…he seemed much like you, who was difficult to persuade.” This whetted Angoroth’s interest in the conversation. “One similar to me, you say? But, he was a lowly Orc? Odd.” Ulrung nodded again, maintaining a disciplined stance. “I do not wish this Orc to arouse trouble for my mission. If he does try anything contradictory to my orders, and to the mission, see to it that he does not live, Captain. Perhaps it will not be necessary to kill him, but as a preventative measure, I want you to keep your eyes on him tomorrow.” Ulrung thrice nodded. “That is all, Captain. Now, return to the camp and muster the army.”

~*~

Bustling about in the darkness, the many contingents of Angoroth’s army marched about, assembling in their assigned locations. The shrouded blackness prevented the myriad groups from recognizing each other, and so the dim lights of torches were given to the banner bearers, who signaled for each of the companies and battalions to move. Sitting atop a horse in the early morning hours, the lord of the army waited patiently for Ulrung to return, with news that all the pieces of the puzzle were ready, His steed sniffed the air, blowing out a hard wind through its large, black nostrils. It had been relatively calm, until now. It started to pull back a bit, just as Ulrung’s horse rode up beside it, startling it some with the heavy, winded breathing of its cousin. Out of the darkness, Ulrung’s words echoed, “Milord, everything is prepared. We are ready.” Angoroth nodded, and gave his captain the signal to begin the march to the Elven city. At this, Ulrung continued his ride, up to the front of the great column of soldiers and mercenaries. There, he muttered the orders to a signaler, who immediately blasted a single, long winded horn-call, sending the army into motion.

After a long, steady march through the darkness, they at last came upon the sleeping city, a pearl in the misty gloom of the night. Across the fields they marched, the grasses and trees shuddering as they passed by. The earth trembled beneath their iron-shod feet, sorrowful for what was to happen. When at last they reached the place where the siege was to begin, the silently waited as the rams and mangonels were set in place. It took only a few brief hours for the siege machines to be readied, and the army mustered itself yet again, to surge against crumbling walls and broken towers, into a fire-wracked city.

The pull of a rope signaled the beginning of the end for Ost-in-Edhil, as it unleashed a projectile towards the walls, crying out as a bird shrieks as it burst through the air, and into the turret of a tower. What followed was a horrendous sight, as the Elves scrambled to alert the city. More shots in the darkness, burning with fiery delight, crashed into the city’s walls and beyond; into shops and homes, killing those that crossed paths with them. The city felt the shattering pain of the siege begin, as the stones cracked and broke away beneath the torrent of catapult fire.

Angoroth turned to Ulrung, as the cityscape began to burn, and uttered, “And now, it is the End. We shall cast down the towers and walls, and lay waste to the city.”

[Alcarillo]

Arenwino slunk back home later that day. He still hoped to fight, but he still wanted to obey his father. He talked to no one as he silently entered the back door of the house and hid himself quietly in his room, pondering how he would convince his father that he should fight alongside his friends in the army and protect the city from the orcs.

The skies darkened as dusk came. Arenwino avoided his father, Alassante packed the family's most important belongings for the journey out of the city tomorrow, and Cainenyo was at his forge, polishing his pieces of armor and sharpening his sword. He would fight as soon as the orcs came. He remembered the sword he gave to Arenwino long ago, and he quietly groaned. There would be no stopping his son from fighting once he had a suitable weapon. There was a feeling of dread throughout the house as Cainenyo sat alone in the candlelight. He prayed for a bit that his son would have enough sense to stay away from battle, but in his heart he knew that Arenwino was rebellious and would fight anyways. The silent night wore on.

The streets of the city were filled with a dread and anxiety at what would soon happen. The roads and alleys were empty and quiet as a grave. All but the soldiers on the walls stayed indoors. As his family retired to bed, Cainenyo stayed up. Long into the night he sat by his forge's fire. His eyelids felt heavy and drooped slowly down over his tired eyes. His hands, rubbing grime off of an old chestplate, moved more and more slowly. He was asleep and for a moment the dread was forgotten as he dreamed of the Havens of Sirion long ago.

A single crash rang across the city. Screams echoed through the streets. Cainenyo stirred, and soon he was fully awake, listening to the darkness. Somebody shouted something inaudible, and another crash was heard, and then another. It sounded like buildings were running into each other at amazing speeds. Cainenyo ran down his street towards an alleyway. People now stirred in their houses, and looked from upper story windows towards the east. They held their hands in front of their faces in horror, but Cainenyo could not see what they saw. He peered down the alleyway that was his destination, and far off he could see a roof burning, and he heard a horn blow from the walls. The orcs were here!

He ran back to his home, his heart pounding, where his family was already awake. The entire street was awake and gathering weapons and preparing for a fight. "What is it, Cainenyo? Has Sauron's army came?" Alassante asked her husband in the courtyard. Her voice was fearful and nervous.

Cainenyo looked into his wife's eyes for a moment. "Yes, I think so," he said. He held his wife close. "You, Nessime, and Arenwino must leave the city now. I must go to fight." Alassante nodded and hurried into the house to change out of her nightgown and gather what she and the children would need. Arenwino stood in the corner of the courtyard, hiding in the shadows.

"I want you to go with your mother and your sister. Take your sword, and kill any orcs that cross your path." Cainenyo told him. Arenwino moved towards the door, but Cainenyo grabbed his shoulder. "Remember, yonya, that I love you." Arenwino understood and followed his mother into the house. Cainenyo now went to his forge, and began to dress himself in the articles of armor laying at his feet. Tonight would be the night that Ost-in-Edhil's fate would be decided.

[Nurumaiel]

Erinlaer lay awake in bed, gazing thoughtfully out the bedroom window, which faced to the West. She was reflecting that perhaps it might have been better to have a room with a window facing to the East, where she could see the rising sun in the morning. But, thinking of the evenings when she would stand by the window with sun sinking golden-red, and the sky flaming blue and green and orange, she decided that things were splendid the way they were.

She paused in her thoughts, and sat up, cocking her head in a puzzled fashion. Did she imagine it, or was there an odd smell in the air? And... she heard voices. No, she heard shouts and cries.

Heledharm was springing out of bed and going to the window. She stood up slowly, her long and airy gown falling to the floor and trailing behind her, and was moving across the room to find her harp when Heledharm turned. His face was so pale and grim that she stopped and stared at him in astonishment.

"Erinlaer, love," he said, hurrying to her and taking both her hands in his. "Stay here and wait for my return. I must go... Erinlaer, there is going to be a battle, you know."

She laughed lightly and tossed her head.

"A battle? I could not imagine a battle here. There is such a peace here..." She trailed off slowly and turned dreamy eyes to the night sky.

"Erinlaer..." said Heledharm, taking her face in his hands and looking into her eyes. "I don't want you to be harmed."

Her expression was one of the deepest amazement. "Why are you afraid?" she asked. "There is nothing to harm me."

He put an arm about her shoulders and gently led her to the window. When she saw the flames, her face grew pale and she swayed slightly, but he pulled her close to him and stroked her hair.

"What's happening?" she whispered.

"Erinlaer, stay here until I return for you. I'm going to the palace to find what I should do, and I am going to search for your parents. I'll bring them to you, and they'll care for you."

"My parents care for me?" she cried, pulling back a little to look into his face. "Where are you going?"

It was torture to look into the agony of her face. She knew that he was going to fight if he must. She knew he was going into danger. He kissed her hair and refusd to look into her wide, tearless eyes.

"You can't leave me," she said. "What will I do here all alone?"

"I'll be back soon, love," he said. "Stay here until I come from you. Don't go out." He brushed his hand against her cheek, and hurried away.

She stood motionless by the window, looking up into the sky with unseeing eyes. She heard footsteps below her, and turned to watch as Heledharm moved in the direction of the palace. He paused once, and looked up at her. She stretched her arms out appealingly towards him; he turned and went on. When he was out of sight she sank faintly to the ground, bowed her head until it touched the cold floor, and burst into tears.

[piosenniel]

It was one of the Ironfoots who was chosen to lead the expedition – thirty Dwarven warriors to escort the one hundred Elves Celeborn had brought with him. Rori Ironfoot, it was, . . . two years older than Riv and one of the Dwarves who had originally made contact with Lord Elrond’s troops. ‘Not a half-bad fellow,’ he’d told Riv as they’d headed out of the West gate with the Elven troop. ‘Not like Master Nose-in-the-air back there,’ Rori had said, nodding his head back toward where Celeborn led his troops.

There had been little conversation between the Dwarves and the Elven warriors; save for the firm statements Rori had made about who was leading this mission. ‘We know where Lord Elrond and his men be,’ Rori had stated plainly. ‘And either you let us take you to him in our own way or you wander about in these Orc infested hills while they pick you off one by one.’

As it was, it had taken four long days to reach the Lindon camp, with only one small encounter with three unfortunate Orcs who’d been left as look-outs at the southern reaches of Sauron’s campaign. All the Dwarves and Elves had come through unscathed and now intermingled with the Lindon troops. Or rather, the Lorinand were mingling; The Dwarves stood to one side, resting on their axes.

Rori’s eyes glittered at the sight of so many girded for war. He called his men to him, saying that he’d spoke with Lord Elrond, and they would be more than welcome to join in the fight with the Elves against Sauron’s troops. There were a number of Dwarves, the younger ones especially who were eager to do so. Their blood and spirits had been set afire with thoughts of battle and the killing of Orcs.

Riv motioned for Skald and Bror to gather near him, a little ways off. ‘Brothers,’ he began, ‘I’m going back with the others. I’ve no taste for joining in the Elven ranks.’ He looked at Bror and Skald, unable to read what each had decided. ‘Will you greet our Father on your return with me?’ he asked. ‘Or shall I tell him you’ve lent your axes to the aid of Lord Elrond?’

[Envinyatar]

‘Now wasn’t that an interesting scene?’ asked Geldion as he and Ondomirë walked back to their companies. Lord Elrond had welcomed the Dwarves and thanked them for their assistance and then gone on to greet Celeborn.

‘He’s a diplomat, that’s for certain,’ Ondomirë returned, casting an eye toward where his bowmen had gathered, their horses picketed nearby. ‘Smart of him to make alliances, don’t you think?’ He paused and turned back to look at the gathering of Dwarves. ‘I wonder how many of them will take up his offer to fight alongside us?’

His eyes narrowed and a look of critical appreciation crossed his features. ‘Those Dwarves are doughty fellows to my thinking. I would rather have them fighting alongside me that to have one of those rather nasty axe blades planted in my back.’

Geldion laughed as a sudden thought occurred to him. It erupted into a full fledged guffaw, quickly squelched as Ondomirë raised a brow at him. ‘Just thinking,’ Geldion chuckled. He eyed his tall companion from head to foot. ‘With your height, the blade’s as likely to cleave your hind end as anything! He stifled another laugh at his friend’s expense.

Ondomirë gave an exasperated sigh and shook his head slowly. ‘Let’s hope for a quick battle. We need to get you back to civilization before your humor sinks any lower.’

At the word, ‘lower’, Geldion broke out in another paroxysm of laughter.

‘By the One! He’s gone stark raving mad!’ explained Ondomirë to two of Geldion’s men as he turned the hysterical captain about and shoved him into their arms.

He left his friend in the capable hands of his troops and walked on to where his own men were now camped. He looked back once, only to see three pairs of eyes now glued to his posterior, their attendant lips twitching in amusement. He turned from them quickly another exasperated sigh escaping him. And walked on as fast, and in as rigid a military manner, as he could.

[Folwren]

Bror looked at Riv, considering his question. He broke his gaze for a moment to look over towards the elvish camp. Then he sighed and looked down towards the ground. Skald had not yet made any reply and Riv waited for one or the other of his brothers to speak.

Thoughts fled through Bror’s head one after another. This was a difficult and terrible choice to make. He remembered the council that the King had called when the Dwarves had decided to help the elves in this hopeless war. He had wanted to go out and fight. He still wanted to. But Riv had always been there to lead him. And now Riv was going back. If he stayed, it would be without him, and maybe even without Skald.

Bror shook his head and kicked at a half buried rock in the soil. He had to go beyond his fears and do what he thought was right for him to do. He had to go and fight, even if both Riv and Skald went back home. Well, at least someone would be waiting for him if...no - when he returned home. Hope wouldn’t be given up yet.

Finally, Bror formed his reply and raised his eyes once again to Riv’s face.

‘I want to stay. There are Dwarves to guard our homes, and you go back to help in that endeavor as well. I will go on with the reassurance that whatever happens, back home will be safe. You’ll be there with your family, and with our father and mother, and when I come back, I’ll return to a fire and music...not to dark and silence. I’ll fight to help drive this dark army away and scatter it. Perhaps the bright elven city can still be saved. I would like to see it. One more time at least.’

Riv’s eyes locked with Bror’s in a unbroken gaze for several seconds. Bror wondered if he guessed the reasoning behind the decision, or if instead he saw the fear of being separated, regardless of the show of bravery he had tried to put up. He couldn’t help it, though. His eyes dropped and he broke the gaze.

Don’t let my hope by in vain. I want to see him again.

[Arry]

He had just been about to agree with Riv when Bror spoke up. Skald’s sudden confidence that they had fulfilled their promise and now were done . . . and best of all would soon find themselves safe beneath the Misty Mountains once again . . . was shattered.

He worried the side of his bottom lip between his teeth. Perhaps the self-inflicted pain would drive the away the words he did not want to hear.

‘I want to stay.’

Four small words, one concise statement. One horridly wrong statement.

No, wait, he thought. Perhaps this is the horrid joke he threatened to pull on me. Not funny! Not funny, in the least, little brother! ‘You can quit the joking, now,’ he was about to say when he raised his head from the close scrutiny he’d been giving the dusty toes of his boots.

And there was Bror, looking at Riv, his face as serious as the tone of his voice as he went on. Blathered on, rather . . . for by now Skald’s mind was in a panicky whirl and words stood out here and there amidst what seemed complete gibberish.

‘home . . . safe . . . return . . .’ mixed with ‘dark army . . . bright city . . . one more time . . .’

Skald tried to focus on what his fool of a brother was saying; to understand the reasoning behind the choice Bror had made. His gut was tight with alarm at this turn of events; his heart beat wildly in his chest. Mouth dry, he could barely speak. He could feel Riv looking at him, the weight of his older brother’s expectations lay heavy upon his shoulders.

No escaping this dilemma, sick to his gut as it made him. What he desperately wanted to do was to gather both his brothers up and hurry them back to the family hall. Safe . . . alive . . . and staying that way until the turn of years and old age took their natural course. But, short of binding Bror with a rope and hauling him back to the West Gate like a sack of barley thrown over his shoulder, this nicely wrought ending was not going to happen.

‘What would Riv do?’ a part of his mind asked, looking for some framework to base a decision on.

And still another part, one more despairing, and perhaps a bit cynical, laughed harshly that he’d even asked the question. ‘You’re no Riv. You’ll never fill his boots. The fact that you even ask that question finds you wanting.’

Bror’s gaze had dropped away from Riv’s face as he finished speaking. A storm of conflicting emotions warred in Bror’s face for a moment, then were hidden as he looked away. In that moment, Skald understood what he must do. Stepping nearer to Bror, he put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder in a show of brotherly camaraderie.

‘Not to worry, big brother,’ he said to Riv, in a voice more hearty than he felt. ‘You go home and give my niece and nephew a bear hug from me . . . and another from Bror, here.’ He clapped his younger brother on the back and forced a tone of lightness into his words. ‘Tell them their Uncles will be home soon as can be . . . with stories of great deeds and the day won for the Elves.’

Others of the Dwarves were calling to Riv. They wanted to be off while there was daylight still to show the way. Riv seemed to hesitate, but Skald waved him on, saying not to worry. He and Bror could look after each other, he said in as assuring a tone as he could muster.

The brother’s clasped each other’s arms in a farewell. Then Riv was off, his big, broad back growing smaller as his figure disappeared into the distance. Skald stood near Bror watching for a long time as Riv drew further and further away.

Aule keep you safe til our return! he called softly after him. And then as an afterthought he added, And Bror, too. And me . . . if you would . . .

The two brothers turned from their little vigil and returned to those Dwarves who had chosen to stay. They were about twenty in number and all had that first rush of nervous anticipation upon them as they spoke of the nearing battle. Plans were made as to who would be leader of their group. Then, he and another presented themselves to Lord Elrond’s tent, giving a formal pledge of their assistance to the Elves.

All that was left then was to wait for orders to march to be given . . . and then the battle itself to begin . . .

[Folwren]

‘Waiting is the worst part of all this,’ Bror observed after a few moment of silence ahd elapsed. It had been several hours since Riv had left and the sun was sinking behind the mountains. Skald sat with his face towards the sunset, and home. He didn’t turn to face Bror as he answered.

‘It’s only been a few hours. And besides, it was your idea to stay.’ Bror’s head turned at that. He’d been consciously avoiding the thought that Skald had stayed only for him ever since Riv had left. Had he only remained for that reason?

‘It wasn’t my idea for both of us to stay.’ Skald didn’t answer. Bror rebuked himself sharply. That certainly wasn’t the correct way to reply. ‘I’m glad you decided to stay, too, though,’ he said. ‘It would have been even more miserable waiting without anyone else.’ Skald finally turned around to look at him.

‘Well, we’d better go to the others,’ he said, getting up. ‘This silence is giving us too much time to think.’ Bror looked up, surprised. He had thought Skald wanted to think. Well then, if he wanted to be distracted bror could help with that. A smile flashed across his features and he got up. They went to where the other dwarves in their company were encamped.

No fires were permitted, but that didn’t surprise anyone, although it did make the evening even less cheerless. Bror looked around the quiet group and wondered to himself what their reasons for staying had been. If they had been the same as his. Whether they still felt bound by the choice to help or simply be cause they had wanted adventure. It was impossible to tell. Some certainly looked less excited than others - more thoughtful, and in some cases, more downcast. There had to be a way to cheer people up. But his brain was blank and no ideas came. He sat down heavily beside Skald. They’d have to wait out the evening. Bror had a plan, though, that may cause the morning to be slightly more exciting. And besides that, even if his idea fell through, at least they’d pack up and move on. . .

Darkness fell in a heavy blanket over the encampment. Clouds covered the moon and stars. Life was stilled and only a few elves remained awake on watch. Bror turned over onto his back and listened for Skald’s breathing beside him. He heard the soft, steady breathing that came with sleep, mingled with a mild threat of snoring, and he smiled. He rolled about and flipped the blanket off of himself and got stealthily to his feet. He paused, a few paces away, wondering if he really ought to go through with this. Skald was sleeping right next to him this time, instead of in another room a couple halls down the way. He considered the possibilities of Skald doing something before he had the chance to defend himself and decided the likelihood slim.

His water bottle rested near by and he picked it up as he passed. He didn’t know where he was going to get the ingredients for what he was about to create, nor exactly what he was going to do, but he had an idea, and now may be the only time he’d be able to do it. Besides, he said to himself, if we’re going to be killed, I’d like to have had the last say. He chuckled. The thought was almost funny.

Several paces away he stopped to consider what it would take to do the job at hand. His mind turned from one thing to another. Suddenly, he remembered something, and it may be just what he needed. Near to where they had stopped to decide upon things had been a patch of tall plants bearing bunches of plump, bright purple berries. In the darkness, Bror silently made his way towards it, hoping that he could locate it without the elven scouts spotting him.

After sometime of searching the area mainly by brushing his hand along the undergrowth and plant life, Bror found what he sought and harvested several of the bunches of berries. He chuckled to himself as he bore the fruit of his efforts back towards his sleeping place. He sat down carefully by Skald’s side and as he turned the berries over in his hand, he carefully considered his plan. The color of juice that these berries would provide was an uncertainty. However, it was the best he could do.

A shaft of moonlight pierced the clouds and lit the scene around him. Bror looked at Skald, weighed the costs one last time and decided to go through with it. Juice from the berries ran out about his clenched hand and dripped in a steady, dark stream over Skald’s beard. Bror bit his lip in concentration and to keep back the laughter in his chest. He had little idea of what color it would dry to. It may be too dark to even notice, but then again, it may end up being a lovely light color. Perhaps red or purple. Personally, he hoped for purple.

The last bit of liquid that could be squeezed out of the berries finally came and Bror carried the pulp and seeds carefully away and discarded them someplace where they wouldn’t be in the way. He washed his hands carefully with the water in his bottle. A slight chuckled escaped him as he came back to his place and laid down to sleep. With all luck, he’d manage to wake up either before Skald, or at least before Skald had discovered the mess of his beard. He wanted to have at least some chance of defending himself. . .

[Envinyatar]

Two brothers on the eve of battle

Lord Elrond did not sleep. There was much yet to be seen to; final discussions with his captains; reports gleaned from the many scouts he had sent out; the disposition of the Elves from Lorien; and that of the Dwarves who had offered their axes and their aid.

Even now, he neared the small encampment of the Children of Aulë. Walking softly through the cloud darkened night he paused, his eyes taking stock of these new allies. For a moment, the clouds thinned in their veiling of the moon’s light, revealing his tall form. In the pale light, his face seemed ageless, though in it were written the memory of many things both glad and sorrowful. His hair was dark as twilight shadows. And even now the clouds parted and it seemed a circlet of silvered moonlight was set upon it. His eyes, hidden in darkness by the late hour were grey and clear. And when the moonlight fell across the planes of his face, his eyes glinted with a deep light, like the light of stars. For one brief moment he seemed already a mighty Lord, and as hale as any tried warrior in his prime.

Then the darkness obscured the light once more, an ill wind blowing from the east drove the clouds before the pale, ringed moon. The last sliver of light caught the Elf’s lips as they twitched with a smile. He bade the captain who walked with him to stay for a moment; he had something to attend to. The captain, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, watched with a furrowed brow as Lord Elrond made his way through the small party of Dwarves. One, he noted, who’d been set to guard, rose up as Elrond approached and spoke with him. The captain’s hand tightened now about the grip of his blade and then as quickly relaxed as the Dwarf gave a small bow to Elrond and a few quiet words were said between them.

-----

Elrond approached the two Dwarves he’d noted, wrapped snug in their bedrolls, side by side. One, he knew was deep in sleep; the other trying his best to seem so. He crouched down by the posing sleeper, his Elven brows arched, a stern look on his face.

‘Bror Stonecut!’ he whispered, his eyes glinting as the Dwarf struggled up from his blankets. ‘Did I just see you meddling in some way with one of my warriors?’ He lifted his chin, pointing over to where Skald lay, snoring softly. ‘Whatever has been done by you, I would hope will not interfere with his ability to fight. Will it?’

Before Bror could muster an answer, the merry sound of soft laughter broke up the serious demeanor of the Elven lord. ‘I, too, have a brother, my Dwarf friend,’ he went on more quietly. ‘And many’s the time we have played pranks of all sorts on one another. It lightens my heart, in these grave days, to see that other brothers hold true to the tradition.’ His eyes glimmered in grey pools of his own long memory.

‘But, we stand on the eve of a great battle. And one that I fear will go hard against this small band. Make sure that when your brother wakes, and you’ve had your laugh, you make full amends. Nothing is stronger proof against one’s foes than the close heart and strong arm of a brother.’

His captain had come, and now bent down to whisper in Lord Elrond’s ear. Several of the scouts had come in – those who had managed to get close to the city. They brought alarming news. The attack had begun . . .

[Arry]

Amidst his dreamings there had come the sound of a single voice, like a soft airy breeze . . . refreshing . . . and in some way, hope filled. And then laughter . . . the tinkling of silver bells carried on the wind, echoing down the darker ways. It was a merry sound and it called him up, until he blinked, smiling into the cloudy night, as he sat up.

‘Bror?’ he called softly, reorienting himself to the fact they were camping rough with the Elves from Lindon. He shifted on the thin layer of blanket that served as a poor barrier between his skin and bones and the pebbly ground. And found the blanket wanting.

When at last he had squirmed into a less than bothersome position, he spoke quietly so as not to wake the others who were sleeping. ‘I had the most wonderful dream. Someone was laughing. Did you hear it? I was sure it was real.’ He raised his hands above his head then flexed his back, his bones crackling against each other down his spine as they popped protestingly into place.

‘It’s still night!’ he went on, knuckling the sleep from his eyes. Skald’s mouth yawned widely. He rubbed his hands down the sides of his face, scratching at his beard as he went.

‘What’s this?!’ he said in a peeved tone. The hair of his beard was damp and sticky; his fingers were tacky as he pulled them away from his face. In the occasional bar of pale light that crept out the rents in the clouds, he could see the tips of his fingers bore some dark stain.

‘Bror!’ he said again, this time in a manner more vexed and edged with disbelief. ‘What have you done?’

[Folwren]

‘What have you done?’ What kind of question was that? It sounded as though Skald thought he’d lit a fire and let the enemies know where they were. He hadn’t done anything against orders or rules.

‘Nothing!’ Bror replied, before he could stop himself. Skald’s question had surprised him. ‘Nothing serious, anyhow.’ He smiled suddenly at the thought. ‘Just experimenting with your beard, and taking advantage of your sleep. It’s the best time to do that sort of thing, when you’re sleeping. You take such particular care of that beard of yours, I thought you’d appreciate actually having something to deal with other than the normal routine.’

He gave a short laugh as he finished. He knew perfectly well that Skald would have a fit with the mess in the morning. It wouldn’t be impossible to get the berry juice out, but it would be sticky and uncomfortable ordeal. No one could say that it wasn’t an excellently thought up prank.

But Skald was not agreeing. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t saying anything. Bror looked at him and tried to see his expression in the dark. It wasn’t like his brother to make no comment. Usually Skald was the first to say that a trick was good and well executed, but now he said nothing at all.

‘What’s wrong?’ Bror asked after a rather lengthy pause. ‘Surely Riv’s leaving hasn’t put you into such a depressed humor that you can’t even see the fun in something like this.’

[Firefoot]

Ulwakh didn’t think that Grimkul had slept at all before the camp was called to assemble for the attack. Grimkul climbed to his feet resentfully, moving off towards their pre-assigned area. Ulwakh followed along, taking delight in the darkness. They’d catch the Elven city by surprise, they would! Elves. The word carried every single bit of contempt that Ulwakh could associate with a word. He didn’t like Kharn, but Grimkul had been acting like a fool and an idiot and deserved at least some of the grief he had been given. But Elves.

Grimkul had all but forgotten about the Elves and the whole purpose of this campaign. He settled into his assigned position mechanically, giving Kharn a look of undisguised hatred as he passed, inspecting the ranks. And if Grimkul wasn’t smart enough to catch the subtleties, Ulwakh still noticed the evident aura of fear about Kharn.

All around them torches were being lit, displaying in all its perverted magnificence the awesome size of the army. Ulwakh didn’t care how big or fine the Elves thought their city was; it would be swallowed by the black horde.

The city soon drew into sight, temporarily distracting Grimkul from his absorption in how much he hated Kharn and reminding him how much he hated Elves. It gave him tremors of delight to think that they would destroy the Elvish city, kill its inhabitants, make them suffer.

Then there was a lull, quite a long one to Ulwakh’s mind, as the siege engines were assembled. Grimkul, thus aroused by the sight of the untouched Elvish city, took the opportunity to launch into a long tirade about how they’d all die, and when that failed he switched to grumbling about the long wait, his hunger (Ulwakh recalled that he had not eaten since lunchtime the previous day), and anything else that caught his attention.

When the siege finally was ready to begin, the pair found themselves stationed near one of the monstrous catapults, and for a while, Grimkul gleefully aided in loading the missiles and launching them, watching the flaming projectiles crash into the city. But after a while, he caught sight of Kharn overseeing the proceedings, and a plan began to form in Grimkul’s mind, a plan for Kharn’s destruction. After all, lots of Orcs died in battle…

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ulrung's fists tightened about the reins of the battle chariot. The horses champed at the bit eager to be going forward. But it was not time for the forward assault to begin. For now, there was nothing more to do than send a few warning volleys towards the great city and keep an eye on the troops. The full heat of battle would only come after they had broken through the heavy stone walls and made a breach into the city. It was only a matter of time, and there was no need to be in a great rush. The heaviest barrage of artillery would probably start once the sun had climbed above the plain; the last of Lord Sauron's troops were still drawing up their forces in front of the Elvish city. A pleasant way for the residents to awaken, Ulrung mused with a smile.

With time to spare, Ulrung's thoughts ran back to the words of the Great Lord. So he wanted Ulrung to keep an eye on Glûtask? The Easterling would be most happy to oblige. Surely, the insolent Orc would make a mistake sometime during that long day, and Ulrung would be only to glad to rid himself of a miserable pest. There should also be time today to eliminate a few Elves from the face of Arda. The miserable whelps with their harp playing and cooing. thinking themselves so superior to men, were certainly not favorites of Ulrung. For now, however, he was happy to bide his time and keep an tight rein on his troops till the main attack would begin.

[Arry]

. . . see the fun . . . in something like this . . .

Skald had gone coldly quiet as Bror prattled on. ‘In something like this – what “something like this” are you talking about?’ Skald asked, trying to keep his tone even. ‘We’re not back under the mountain. Our lives aren’t going on as they normally do.’ He put his hands to his face and rubbed at his eyes, hoping, he thought, that perhaps he could wake himself and find this all a dream.

‘This isn’t “fun”. There’s no place for “fun” here. We’re going into battle against the Dark Lord’s army. He has ten times ten times more warriors to launch against us than we have to hold him back.’ He gestured about in the dark. ‘Many of these Elves will be killed in this battle. Many in the city will already be dead by the time we arrive. And our little number . . . we will be lucky to lose less than half our companions.’

‘Did it occur to you that we may have seen Riv for the last time? Either by his death . . . yes, who can say if he and the others will get back safely. Or, by our own deaths . . .’

A sudden wave of weariness assailed him, both in body and spirit. ‘It will be a short night, Bror. We should try to get what rest we can. Put aside what resentment my words might conjure in you. There’s no room for it when we wake tomorrow. We’ll stand with our fellows, axes at the ready . . . and Aulë willing, live to see another day.’

He rubbed his beard, forgetting the presence of the sticky berry juice. Muttering a few choice imprecations, he stood up and took a few steps away from his bedroll. ‘Hand me the water skin, won’t you Bror?’ he asked, gesturing toward where it lay. ‘I’ve no wish to stick to my blankets tonight . . .’

[Amanaduial the archer]

In the comfortable merchants' quarter of the city, the houses still lay peaceful and still, their innards and inhabitants as yet undisturbed. Morning had barely broken, and the first tentative fingers of sunlight were just beginning to gently prod the birds out of their perches to chirp their morning song, a sleepy hail to the morning - a morning that, unbeknownest to the little birds, or to the inhabitants of the slumbering houses that they serendaded, would bring the very doom of the Mirdain.

Or maybe the birds did know. Who knows what news blows on the wind? But they did not yet scatter as Narisiel stirred slightly in her bed, turning onto her side and, as she did so, disturbing Sirithlonnior's arm, lazily sprawled as it was across her waist. For a moment, the weight and warmth of her flesh felt strange, almost unfamiliar - several weeks of the taut tension and petty arguements in the house of the smith and the soldier had meant that the desert of the bed had lain unbreached for some time, but last night, many walls had fallen - as she and Sirith had battled out their differences and their tension, the anger and frustration had eventually burnt itself out in the flame of, well, an almost disappointment - disappointment, that is, that they had not spoken of it sooner, that the distance could not be breached earlier, that their love had had to stand, waiting, at the side until finally, in the raging inferno of anger, it had won over. Strange, then, and yet at the same time it was as right and natural as breathing. The moment seemed almost frozen, only moving on by the lively changes in the birds' laughing song and by the gentle breathing of her husband, and Narisiel took a moment to cherish this suspended second: the birdsong, safe in her bed in the arms of the man she loved, his weight and warmth resting beside her, around her, reassuring. She sighed happily, closing her eyes and sinking back once again into the pillow, her arm draped lazily across his. Moments like this were what made up life, or the parts of life that we will remember when we are old and grey and sitting by the fire, looking back with rhumey eyes into the past.

But maybe to sit old and grey by the fire was not what fate had planned in store for Narisiel Mirdain this morning.

As the first volley of stones hurled from the orcish catapults smashed into the elven buildings, although only a test to test the distance and angles needed, the stones that smashed through the long windows of Narisiel's window were more than enough to send the blacksmith leaping from where she lay with a yelp. It was as if the world, her peaceful world, had smashed open suddenly, waking her rudely from slumber as the panes of every window shattered inwards as the stones ricochetted into them. As the call came and a second catapult loosed its cargo into the city, Narisiel covered her ears, cowering back against her bed head. In a split second, she felt warm arms around her, a human shield embracing and shielding her as Sirithlonnior braced himself against whatever might enter; and she clung to her husband in the instinctive fear of an animal.

This time, however, the catapult fired its multitude of targets at another part of the city, and as her heart leaped in the split second of near silence that followed them, Narisiel was up and out of the bed, darting away from her husband's tight embrace as she ran to the closet at one side of the room, flinging it open and dragging out her husband's armour, which she almost threw at him where he sat, simply watching her. But there was not time for her to spend gazing at him in this second: the peace and quiet of but a few short moments ago had been dispersed, scattered to the wind, and something else had taken over: survival instinct. Grabbing her working clothes, Narisiel began to pull the shirt over her head, clumsily buttoning it with shaking fingers and dragging the leather waistcoat over it as she hastened down the steps from the master bedroom and down the corridor towards her son's room...

...where Artamir already sat awake, lacing up his long, leather boots. Clothed, wearing his armour, cloak sprawled across the bed, sword and helmet neatly ready beside him, the blade peeping out of the hilt at the top, ready checked... Narisiel froze in the doorway for a moment, staring at the figure on the bed, wondering who this efficient soldier who sat in place of her precious child was. Seeing his mother, half-dressed and framed in the doorway, Artamir finished his boots and stood up. Gracious, when did he get so tall, when did those lines define them so sharply across his bones, his face sharpen so handsomely? Narisiel felt tears in her eyes at the sight of this warrior who had once been a cherub-faced elven babe, and, as he stepped towards her, nodded hastily, turning away and dashing the moisture from her eyes as, with a few quick words to her son, she stumbled back to her bedroom. There, another warrior sat on the bed, again lacing up his boots, which he pulled decisively tightly as she reached him. Sirithlonnior turned towards his wife, moving stiffly due to the weight of the armour over tired limbs, then was almost knocked backwards as his wife suddenly grabbed him, embracing him tightly, fiercely, possessively. And for a moment, business and duty were allowed to subside, to ebb back, as Sirith softened and held his wife tightly back as she fought the tears in her eyes.

Finally disentangling herself from her husband’s arms, Narisiel rested back on her knees in front of him, taking a moment to calm herself, and to drink in everything about him: sight, touch, scent, the feel of her hands resting in hers. And as she did so, the sounds of battle and voiced, both panicked and commanding, reached her from outside, she reached a moment of clarity – her calm before the storm that would hit maybe. A self-inflicted storm… Rising fluidly from her knees, Narisiel stepped once more towards the closet and, carefully and precisely, she drew out not her workclothes, but a dress, practical dark blue, but underlined with red – simple, but striking, and with a balance of practicality, as far as was possible, and elegance.

“What are you doing?”

Sirith’s voice did not make Narisiel turn, admiring her dress held at arm length, her eyes glittering, a child having with a new and wonderful gift. For a moment, in fact, she did not move at all, until Sirith’s voice, tainted with urgency, prompted her to reply as he repeated himself. “Narisiel, what are you doing? You…you cannot be practical in such attire…please, Narisiel…”

Narisiel turned suddenly to face her husband as he pleaded with her to break this silence, and again she was struck by his perfection, the light from the shattered windows striking the side of his face, the image of an ancient knight, sword in his belt and helmet under his arm. Moments like this were what made up life, or the parts of life that we will remember when we are old and grey and sitting by the fire…

“If today the city is to fall, we shall fall as we were always meant to, deep down,” she replied softly. “If I am to die, it shall be as I am: advisor to the Lord of Ost-in-Edhil, and the wife of the noblest Commander of that brave city’s army.”

Sirithlonnior gazed at his wife for a moment, then enfolded her once more in his arms, rocking her gently. Releasing her and stepping back, he cupped her face and wiped the still dry patches under her grey eyes, surprisingly gentle and tender, feather-touch of angel fingers clad for a celestial battle. “Today is not our dying day, Narisiel Mirdain, I feel it – I will come back for you.”

The words that echoed around the city, determined husbands to desolate wives: I will come back for you. But this spouse was not simply going to sit back and go gently into that good night as the catapults whistled against the white walls – for even as she pulled the dress on, doing the elaborate fastenings with a suddenly steady touch, even as her son and husband marched out together towards their battalions, her mind was always focused deadly sharp upon the blade that hung in her workshop. Terrible and beautiful, both of them.

[Folwren]

Bror could hardly believe what he was hearing. Of all the stuck up - hopeless ways to react! But he didn’t say anything as Skald went on his rampage. He took it like he would a lecture from Riv or from his father in years past - in perfect silence. Had Skald said anything that could have been attacked, Bror would have leaped on it. He didn’t, though, and Bror remained quiet.

When Riv was mentioned, Bror’s head dropped a little lower and his feelings of confusion and anger subsided. Yes, it had occurred to him that he would never see Riv again. But, like many other thoughts that had passed through his head that afternoon, he had been unwilling to face the idea of it. There hadn’t been enough time at their parting. There hadn’t been enough time for any proper decisions.

But all that was totally irrelevant to the present point. He lifted his head again and looked at Skald. ‘Put aside what resentment my words might conjure in you. There’s no room for it when we wake tomorrow,’ his older brother said as he finished. ‘We’ll stand with our fellows, axes at the ready . . . and Aulë willing, live to see another day.’

Bror opened his mouth to reply, but shut it again as Skald began to get up. ‘Hand me the water skin, won’t you Bror?’ he said. ‘I’ve no wish to stick to my blankets tonight . . .’ Bror swallowed his bitter words and reached for the water Skald asked for. He stopped with it half extended.

‘Uh. . . Skald, it’s empty.’ He shook it. There were maybe a few drops left. He could almost feel his brother’s questioning glare in the dark. ‘I used it to wash my hands off.’ Skald drew his breath slowly. ‘I can find some more water,’ he said, hoping against hope that Skald wasn’t about to explode on him. ‘But look, Skald, it can’t possibly be as hopeless as you’ve put it out to be. What are you expecting? Until we meet this army that you’re talking about, we can’t just be a lifeless, boring group, can we? Worried about what’s going to happen when there’s no possible way we can change it.’

Quite simply, he didn’t understand what Skald was so upset about. Yes, he knew that in considerably little time they would be facing an army greater than he’d ever conceived before. He understood that they might never see Riv again. Elves and Dwarves would be killed. But right now, before anything had happened, really wasn’t the time to be jumping to conclusions and assuming things. Before the battle seemed to be the best time to make the best of it.

‘You don’t have any hope, do you?’ he asked quietly. Skald did not immediately answer and Bror didn’t give him much time. ‘An elf caught me at it. I think it was Lord Elrond - the captain addressed him as such, I think, when he came up. But he said that when this prank was finished, I should make full amends. He said nothing was stronger proof than the close heart and strong arm of a brother. . .’ he trailed off, wondering where he meant to go with this. ‘Don’t pull away. I don’t need you to tell me that there really isn’t any real hope left, or that we probably won’t be going back home like we said earlier today. Neither of us need it. We need to stay the same and bear through this like we used to do. That’s what I was trying to do when I squeezed the berries over you. At home, it would have been considered natural. I don’t see why it can’t be like that here.’ He stopped as something suddenly occurred to him. Only a momentary pause, and then he looked up. ‘Skald. . .you can’t take Riv’s place.’

[Arry]

‘. . . you can’t take Riv’s place.’

‘I think you’re probably right on that count,’ Skald said. ‘And here’s hoping I never have to try.’ He rolled from his blankets with a grunt as his stiff joints protested.

It was only a short way to where the Elves had left a cask of water for their new allies. Skald took a dipperful of water and bending over a bit, sluiced his sticky beard. A repeat was called for to get where the juice had seeped in deeply. When at last the hair felt free of stickiness, he ran his fingers through it, combing out the knots then shook the last of the water from it. With an economy of motion, Skald parted his beard and quickly braided it into two thick braids.

‘Well, that’s that, then,’ he said nodding his head at Bror as he scooted back down between his blankets. ‘Prank time is over . . . for us . . . for now. I can’t stay the same like you want me to, not for all the jokes you might have up your sleeve. And, no . . . there isn’t much hope in me. Sorry if you need that, too. You’ll have to be the strong, hopeful Stonecut for now.’

He laid down, stuffing his rolled up cloak beneath his head, and stared up at the star filled sky. ‘Oh, there’ll be no problems when I swing my axe. Orc blood will flow deep round my boots.’ He paused for a moment, his eyes flicked briefly toward his brother. There was a feeling of such doom upon Skald and yet he knew Bror had no understanding of the depth of his despair.

Just as well . . . it will keep fear from him . . .

‘Come on . . . lay yourself down, brother mine,’ he said, reaching out to pat where Bror ahd laid out his blankets. ‘The night’s getting shorter.’ Skald rolled over on his side, his back to Bror.

[CaptainofDespair]

The fiery hues of burning oils splattered across the finely hewn stone buildings of Ost-in-Edhil, scattering the populace like rats aboard a smoldering vessel. Amongst the flames and ruination, the city’s guards stood solemnly, awaiting the inevitable charge of orcs that would crash around them, as the sea-water of the oceans splashes against the rocks. And to them, they were much like those rocks and boulders that resided along rough shores; they faced a tormented, spiteful ocean in the orcs and men who had come to destroy them, and they, like the sea-stones, stood their ground, slowly being eroded away by the turning gears of time, and the pounding of the waves.

The early morning sky was ablaze, as Angoroth looked upon it, a wry smile etched in his features. Solemnly and methodically he led his steed through the ranks of orcs and men alike; instilling the fear of their master and the bloody pleasure of carnage in both mind and heart. Some would look upon him, while others withdrew their eyes from his gaze. He laughed inwardly, thinking, “Such a fine sport it is, to watch man and creature suffer in agony, in the calm before the storm. Their pitiful eyes reveal what their lips could never utter. Ha!” For him, the ageless and malevolent, war was but a sport, spectacular in its intricacies and unpredictability. For all others, it was only a destruction; of life, of home, of a way of life. For the Children of Illuvatar, it brought unwanted change, a collapse of the old. And it always would.

As he neared the front of the lines, he withdrew two worn pieces of cloth, which he had stolen away beneath his cloak. He brought his horse to a halt just beyond the ranks of his soldiers, if they could be called that. Silently, he motioned, and two poles and a torch were brought before him. Thrusting one pole into the ground, he took the second, and the barely alight torch, and rode to the edge of the burning city, her walls crumbling, and her gates sundered from the horrendous torrent of fire. He sat upon his warhorse, just out of bowshot range, but within still within earshot of both forces. Slowly, he unfurled the first banner and mounted it upon its new resting place, its colors faded and indistinguishable from one another. But, the symbols upon it, born of elvish fonts, were clear to those soldiers of Ost-in-Edhil who stood at the front, and on crumbling battlements. Shouting aloud to them, he forced the banner-pole into the earth. “This, Elves of Eregion, is the banner of Gondolin, taken from its fall! You and your city, like the Hidden One of the old days, will be torn down, forever left in ruin and oblivion! Hail, Elves, for your destruction is nigh!” He could not see the responses on their faces, though he much would have liked to, for it would have been a twisted, pleasurable moment for him. So, without hesitation, he reared his horse, and rode back to his own lines at a trot.

Walking his horse now, as he gently approached his arrayed force; he unearthed the remaining pole, and attached the second banner. Unfurling it, a deep black flag of ancient evil, before orc and man, he waved it enthusiastically. “This, my army, is the Lord whose mission you serve. Hail the might of Angband and Morgoth! Go forth, now, and destroy!” The throngs of his army cheered violently, and as he motioned for them to march, the catapult fire faded, and ceased. The weight of the orcs and men upon the earth was evident, as it shook and shuddered beneath their wicked feet, forbidden to hinder their dark quest. It felt like an eternity, as if time slowed to a halt, as the Army of the Enemy pressed ever onward, toward the city.

As their march brought them ever closer, Angoroth raised his fist, and gave the order that sent the army hurtling at the Elves that awaited their dire menace. The battle cries and shrieks of the wounded and dying could not be muffled out by the sounds of war. The orcs, the first to be thrust into the fray at the gates, were quickly slaughtered by the scores. The accompanying waves however, slowly ground down against the Elves, as men and orc were now cast against them. It would only be a matter of time…

[Durelin]

The crashes and screams and the rumbles, both distant and not so, filled Maegisil's ears and drove him to feel the world was crumbling around him in fiery explosions. He still remembered the battles, fighting back the Shadow of Morgoth. He had been younger and had perceived war to be a glorious part of the nature of Middle-earth, the light fighting dark continually to the ultimate end of light's triumph. And the Elves would see that victory, the dominant race, the caretakers of Middle-earth, the Children of Ilúvatar. All that he had thought he now doubted. Here was that great race, trapped in their marvelous city, the dark army invading the peaceful darkness that they had been so used to knowing and loving.

Suddenly the crashes and rumbles stopped, and a great shout rose from the army spread wide upon the field so far away, and Maegisil watched as the masses began to rush toward the gate of the city, the sun rising red behind them. Had they broken through the walls already? He rushed back to the doors of the elf-lord's chambers, and drew his sword from where it hung on his hip. The two guards looked up, both wide-eyed, and hesitated. But Maegisil did not stop as he got closer, and they fled from being in his way. The counselor would think back and this moment and consider it more confusion than fear that drove the two away, but it was heard from the mouth of Gilduin that the look in Maegisil's eyes was indeed enough to move the Misty Mountains had they been in his way.

He pushed the doors open violently, and they slammed against the walls inside the room. Celebrimbor looked up at him, staring wildly. The Lord of Eregion looked even more bedraggled than he had the previous day: it seemed he had had a long night, even before the battle began. Maegisil took smug satisfaction from this. A sneer marked his face, his features burning of pure Elven rage. He could imagine the pathetic elf, standing where he had stood only moments before, looking out over the city through the darkness and watching the arrival of the army. And of course he would have done nothing; it was what he was best at.

The elf-lord, sitting in his great wooden chair as he had on so many more pleasant occasions, suddenly laughed. “Do you come to mock me once more, one last time before we all fall with this city?”

“I am not so resigned to my fate as you are, Celebrimbor.” Maegisil's eyes would have drilled holes in the elf-lord's head, had he not already bored holes in himself, leaving him mostly empty. The counselor did not recognize those eyes, except for maybe a fleeting wisp of something, some sign that the Celebrimbor he knew was still there behind some kind of grotesque mask. But Maegisil ignored this, and found it easy to forget all compassion when dealing with who he now considered a total stranger, and who he knew to be the destruction of his people.

“Well, you have some time before you must be.” This seemed to amuse the elf-lord.

“I do not care so much whether I live or die, but I will not watch my people slaughtered as you will. You have brought this upon them, you have condemned yourself as a traitor. And you have one last chance to redeem yourself.”

“And what do you suppose I should do, Counselor Maegisil?” Celebrimbor's tone was blatantly mocking. Maegisil gripped his sword tighter.

“You will come with me and help fight off the attackers.”

The Lord of the Mirdain erupted into laughter that chilled Maegisil to the bone. The feeling of disgust and the chilling knowledge of the presence of something unwanted was strong in his heart, and he felt similar to when the emissary from Sauron had been present in the same room. And Maegisil knew it was not simply his stench that lingered...

He stepped closer to the elf-lord, wishing he had the guts to use the sword in his hand. “Laugh until the Servant of Morgoth wipes the grin off your face. You have sealed the curse of the Oath of Fëanor, be proud of what your name will be remembered for.”

Maegisil left the lord in his sick laughter, and hurried out of the palace. None of the army had yet reached the inner parts of the city, but he knew it was only a matter of time, most likely a matter of hours. He ran through the streets, rushing back to the only place he knew to return to, the only place he knew would be there when everything else around him was falling apart. He had wasted so many years under the pretense of building a grand immortal city, and serving an elf who garbed himself in a similar disguise as a great lord. He had had a friend once, but the darkness had taken him, and so he could only go back to the one who he should have been with all along.

But then, his feet began to take him down a street that did not lead to his house. His mind caught up with them, but he did not stop. It was not time to go home yet. There was a battle. His mind was balancing on the edge of calm, ready to plunge into chaos in fear at any moment, and he was left to focus on one thing at a time lest it fall. He could not linger on thoughts of his wife. His people were dying... She would be there when he returned. When, he told himself. Not if. He heard another scream from somewhere still in the distance, and a shudder ran through his body. The sounds were only getting closer, and his shudders fewer. His hand wrapped itself tighter around his sword, and the mithril blade caught the light of the rising sun, blazing a red of fire and blood.

[Alcarillo]

Alassante helped her husband fasten together his old armor. They stood in the dying light of the forge, and a group of men stood outside in the street, mustering all arms they could. A group of women and children also stood further away, with a cart full of belongings beside them. Cainenyo would go with the men to the gate, where they would fight orcs alongside the professional soldiers, and Alassante, Arenwino, and young Nessime would go with the women and children and try to find a way out of the city before it was too late.

Alassante fastened the last buckle to be seen, and Cainenyo stood before her in shining plates of armor, with chain-mail peeking out from gaps and joints. In his hand was the dark grey blade of his father from Gondolin: Angereg. His head was adorned by a helmet. None of the armor was very impressive looking. It had lain in storage for nearly hundreds of years, and now there was no time to clean it or ready it for its first taste of orcish blood.

Alassante stood from her kneeling position and kissed Cainenyo, and reminded him that she would be safe and escape to the west. Cainenyo softly held her hands in his and told her that they would soon meet again and not to worry. Then she moved away into the darkness of the street and joined her son and daughter by the cart and other women and children. It broke Cainenyo's heart to think that this would be the last time he would ever see his home and his forge, and perhaps even his family. He swallowed and stared after Alassante as she left him. But she was heading for safety now, and Cainenyo had to fulfill his duty as a warrior and aid his countrymen at the gates. He joined the men in the street. One of their voices cried out into the darkness of the early morning:

"To the gates of the city!"

At first the group walked, but as they moved down the empty cobblestone streets their paced quickened. They were soon running as they passed alleyways and empty houses, with great windows staring bleakly at them. The sounds of war became more audible: harsh screams echoing down streets, the raucous cries of orcs, and the clanging of steel upon steel. The clamor grew steadily louder as the group turned a corner. They now passed a burning home and could see far off the top of the gate over a rooftop. Cainenyo's heart began to pound harder and sweat began to form on his brow. There was only one more corner to turn and they would be at the gates.

Cainenyo took a deep breath as they turned that corner. And when they did, the battle was right before them, and all of its sounds were louder than he had ever imagined. The sight was almost as awful: dead elves and orcs strewn across the street carelessly, with puddles of blood on the pavestones. Dozens of elves fought hordes orcs, which poured out of the gate like a flood, uttering orcish curses in their foul languages. The elves pushed against them and resisted as best they could. Another group of warriors from a road to the left leapt into the fray to aid the elves at the gate, and now the tides were nearly equal, both causing terrible casualty to the other.

Now Cainenyo's group, shouting a valiant battle cry, charged into the crowd of elves, and pushed into the crowd of orcs. Cainenyo's sword flashed through the air and slashed an ugly orc across the chest. He fell, and Cainenyo stabbed him in the belly. The orc stopped moving; Cainenyo had killed his first orc. He continued, and took large, bold strokes at the enemy. Cainenyo was cut across his knuckles, and it began to hurt to hold his sword, but he still fought.

Another orc grabbed Cainenyo's left arm and tried to hew it off, but Cainenyo's sword blocked the blow. He wrested free, and his sword swung through the garments of bat-wings it wore, but the orc escaped unscathed. It now tried to stab Cainenyo frantically, but Cainenyo moved away. He did not go far, for a smaller orc was now approaching, with knives in its hands. Cainenyo took a swing and cut one of its arms, so that it screeched in pain and black blood oozed out of the long wound. It and the large orc were now chasing him along the edge of the street that led to the gate. Cainenyo now realized his fear and the possibility that he would die at the hands of these two. He felt tired all of a sudden, and ducked into an alleyway, and prayed that the orcs didn't follow. But they did, and came after him . . .

[Firefoot]

Grimkul pursued his Elvish quarry hotly, Ulwakh coming along behind as quickly as he could between his gimp leg and freshly wounded arm. But Grimkul paid Ulwakh no mind anymore: the fury of battle was on him, and only one word, graven in his mind since those early days in the mountains, held his focus: kill. Elves, he hated them, and this one would die. Oh, yes.

The Elf, only a few strides ahead of him now, ducked into an alley along the street, and Grimkul had to check his speed in order to make the sudden turn. The alley was not a large one, less than ten feet across and ending in a wall just taller than the Elf.

As the Elf neared the wall, he turned abruptly to stand and fight, nearly catching Grimkul off his guard as he came to a sudden stop, bringing his blade up to ward off any blows. In this close proximity, Grimkul could see the flash of panic in the Elf’s eyes, the edges of fatigue in his stance. Grimkul leered at him, a mad light in his eyes. They stood such for a moment, blades crossed, before Grimkul swung again, aiming low. The Elf blocked it, but at that moment Ulwakh turned the corner, throwing daggers in hand. He hurled one straight for the Elf, who nearly was able to duck out of the way while he brought his blade up to deflect the twisted knife. It was not quite enough, however, as the blade glanced off his jawbone, creating a thin line of red. Caught off balance, now, he had to swing wildly to block Grimkul’s heavy slash.

The Elf was still trying to find his feet as Grimkul prepared for another blow, this time desiring to cut straight through the Elf’s neck. Now, however, the Elf did something Grimkul was not prepared for: rather than block, he ducked. With his blade not finding a target, he swung off balance, and the Elf caught him with the flat of his blade, sending Grimkul crashing into the wall of the alley. Ulwakh was bearing down upon them, now, sending another knife flying as he came. It glanced harmlessly off the Elf’s mail. As Grimkul was recovering, the Elf had a split second to make his decision. He turned and was able to use a stack of boxes to help him climb over the wall. Grimkul was not without a parting shot, however. As he recovered, he whipped out his broken, splintered dagger and launched it at the Elf. It found its mark in the back of his shoulder, lodging itself into the chain mail in a way that Ulwakh’s daggers could not. He took a few steps as if to pursue the escaping Elf, then gave it up as futile when he disappeared over the wall. He howled in frustration. That Elf should have been his!

He ran out into the street again, catching a passing Elf by surprise. His body slumped to the ground before he could even get a sword up in defense. Thus heartened, Grimkul now gave thought to Kharn once more. He set off towards the clashes and shouts of battle, focused now on two words: kill Kharn.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ulrung's battle chariot rumbled over the rocky ground, hurtling forward towards the gates. The separate cordons of orcs and men had finally broken their strict ranks. Angoroth's troops mingled indiscriminately, hacking and whacking their way beneath the heavy shadow of the gates. Above their heads the great rocks from the Dark Lord's catapults continued to rain unevenly onto the stony parapets while Elvish archers responded with a steady barrage of arrows.

Holding up his shield to protect his head from the unrelenting assault, Ulrung urged his stallion into the midst of the fray; his right arm was extended with a battle sword as he slashed first one direction and then another to make his way forward through the crowded mob. Coming to the foot of the wooden gate, Ulrung could see a group of Orcs now coming forward in two long lines holding a hefty battling ram that they intended to use against the gates.

Again and again, the orcs rushed forward with the ram, but the massive gate stubbornly held and gave no sign of breaking. Then, when it nearly seemed that they must turn back in defeat and wait for the catapults to do their slower job, Ulrung yelled out a command for his own men to join in. The Easterlings raced to take up their positions along the heavy ram, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the orcs. Another mighty cry was given by Angoroth, as he snarled his defiance against the luckless residents of Ost-in-Edhill. One last time, the beam was hurled against the wood with an umatched strength and ferocity. This time a crack was heard and the sound of wood splintering: a jagged but real breech in the center of the door, not enough to push it down, but the promise of more to come.

"Keep it up," Ulrung shrieked down from his chariot to the men holding the ram. "Keep it up, and we'll have them."

Soon, soon, the gates of the city would go down......

[Mithalwen]

As Laswen had predicted, their debate had proved irrelevant and Losrian and Ferin stood side by side in the ranks of the archers of Ost in Edhil as the assault finally started.

Losrian had been woken by the first volleys and had met her brother as both raced to the muster point . He had not attempted to dissuade her but had insisted that she be kitted out at the armoury like the other volunteers. Although she was tall, the girl did not have the stature of a hardened warrior. Despite the mail and leather armour being as fine and supple as elvish craftsmen could work it still felt clumsy and unnatural to her. Momentarily she thought how ridiculous she must look but fear drove out mirth as she waited for the order to open fire, the battlements offering protection - for now.

The moment came, she nocked an arrow; perhaps one of the many she had crafted herself; so many arrows... so many orcs .. every shaft might find its mark and still there would not be enough she realised. Ferin fired his first arrow then ducked down to reload as Losrian took her turn.


Though the keen-eyed elves shot swiftly and most their darts went home the orcs that fell were instantly replaced by others. They might as well hold back the tide as these relentless waves of foes

Her brother's voice came to her mind. It was as if he had spoken but he had uttered no sound it would be pointless in the noise of the battle. Losrian had little skill at the Osanwe - her family had often teased her that the very young were too self obsessed to interact well with the minds of others but at this close proximity there was no doubt that he had read her mind, her nascent despair; "Estel, Losrian, don't give up before we have to" He gave her a brief smile.

The enemy could not match the elves for archery but they had weapons as lethal and more terrible. Trebuchets that rained fire and iron on the city.

Losrian would long wonder the workings of fate. A moment sooner or later and their places would have been exchanged but the moment that the piece of molten shrapnel fell , Ferin was at the embrasure and Losrian crouched reloading shielded by the merlon. Thus it was his armour and flesh that was rent by the razor shards, his blood that poured away with his life.

[Durelin]

The sun had fully risen from behind the Mountains of Mist, but the scene in the city had only darkened. Maegisil had already entered back into his old ways, mind and body. To him, now, he saw they were better days, and he did not understand how he could have thought otherwise only a month or so before this night. He dodged a crooked axe that slashed roughly at his chest, and brought his own blade up to cut his assailant across the face, which he immediately followed up with a slash across the orc's chest in his back swing. Another orc came at him, and he rushed forward to meet it. He had taken a few running strides, and had his sword pulled back, prepared to thrust it forward with all his might in order to pierce the creature's armour, when he suddenly tripped on something large on the ground. He fell to the ground, and the air painfully rushed out of his lungs. But he immediately rolled to his right and shot back up on his feet, escaping the orc's blade with only a slash across his back that only made him more pleased when he saw it dead at his feet.

Then he turned to see what it was he had tripped over. Upon seeing it, he knew why he had fallen over so easily, and so heavily. It was a body. The pale skin and dark hair and elegant pointed ears...the blood soaked clothes and ransacked body, life roughly stolen from it...a dead elf. It lay on its side, its back facing Maegisil. He could see a gash in its back, blood dried, with the bugs already getting to it. He stood frozen, wide-eyed, his cheeks pale. He could not see its face, and he was afraid to. He knew it was not Sairien, though that had been his immediate thought at first glance, but who knew who it could be. Who knew if he had seen them alive only a day before...

He reached a hand around to his back, and felt at the wound. It was a rather small slash on the lower right, obviously due to the orc's sword sneaking in between the back and breast plates of his armour. It was small, but deep. He could feel the blood soaking the thick shirt underneath his armour, and when he pulled his hand back around in front of him, he looked down at it to see the redness smeared all over it. Let Ilúvatar see that you have already shed blood, and tears, and need shed no more! He could hear his wife's voice in his head, remembering clearly the deep emotion in it, bordering on despair. Perhaps it had been despair. It made Maegisil want to scream, shout his curses to Ilúvatar himself...

But he did not even have another moment to wipe the blood from his hand before another orc rushed at him, some kind of makeshift mace in his hand. Maegisil finally let out the scream he had been holding in as he savagely cut the orc across its stomach, opening it wide for blood to flow out and splash upon the elf's face, and for the creature's gory entrails to fall to the ground as it did. A few more orcs, another cut - this time on his left lower leg - and he found himself turning to see wide lifeless eyes staring up at him. He felt something rise in his stomach, and he suddenly felt the need to empty it of its contents. How had he come back to this point? It had felt like he had moved so very far up the street, attacking the invaders of his city. But he was not the attacker, he was the defender. His people were dying, his city was being overrun, and he was being forced back up the street. And so he came back to meet the dead elf, face to face. Its mouth hung open crookedly, and its skin was almost bluish, so pale... He watched as something black crawled out of its parted lips. He felt himself choke, and he just had time to turn his head and bend down before he emptied his stomach.

Shaking, cold, and with his whole body aching, he ran. It was time to go back to the palace. He was not sure why, but he kept running, and he had not the strength to argue with where his feet took him. He heard the loud roar of thousands of voices, telling him that the orcs had broken through the defenses on the main street of the eastern side of the city. It could not take them much longer to reach the palace. He shuddered, and ran faster.

[CaptainofDespair]

The commotion of battle wafted on the faint trickles of a dying wind; a wind left bereft of honor, and exhausted beyond all means. The sounds of the horrific screams of the dying and wounded, the crackling of a thousand fires, and the collapsing ramparts and towers as projectiles of all sorts bombarded and ricocheted about, blasted into the deafened ears of all. But more so, the ghastly aromas of death and gore flooded the nostrils of the masses. The simple smell of a charred body pummeled and scorched by arrow and catapult shot, the scent of the blood-soaked dead, who have long since gone pale as their own fluids were drained and splashed across their rigid features, drove the carnal orcs insane with lust, fueling their passionate attacks. Some could not stand the carnage, as they staggered about the corpse-strewn field, and vomited in the pools of muck, earth, and blood.

And there sat a mounted Angoroth, upon a warhorse as black as a starless, moonless night, his cloak draped softly over its rear. He watched, with apparent pleasure, at the slaughter suffered to both enemy and ally. He smirked, staring up a reddened sky, a decaying sky, and pushed his boot heels into the hide of his beast, urging it forward. It carried his form forth, through the piles of bodies that had sprung up around the gateway, like moss upon a still stone. He was delighted to hear the crunch of bone underneath the hooves of his steed, wanting to laugh aloud. Upon a wain-rider chariot he spotted Ulrung, commanding his men for a push into the city, where the orcs had already spread like an infestation of rats, disgusting, vile, putrid rats. They had already breached the gates some time ago. As he approached, Ulrung himself pulled his horse all the nearer.

Before the Maiar could speak, Ulrung intervened. “What are your commands, milord? Shall I pursue the Elves inward?” Angoroth chuckled lightly. “Your initiative and ambition is great, Ulrung. That is why you are to finish the attack. I have business to attend to at the palace.” Ulrung nodded, knowing what his master had in mind for this ‘business’. “I am grateful to have your consideration, milord. I will carry on with the attack.” As he began to pull away from his young apprentice, the master uttered what would, in all probability, be his last words to the captain. “You will make a fine warlord, Ulrung. And now, I must depart you. I will take a contingent of my Easterling bodyguard to accompany me. Farewell, Captain, and bear the Dark Lord’s mission well.” The captain nodded once more, as his commander motioned for a few of his guards to follow him into the city’s core. Ulrung watched, for a moment, as his lord vanished beneath the ruined ramparts, and ventured beyond his eyes to the palace.

The city, as Angoroth silently rode through the unpopulated streets of the palace area, which the orcs had grazed as they ransacked the rest of Eregion’s jewel, looked as if it had been left for ruin and decay many centuries earlier. Its streets were filthy, covered in grime that must have felt alone, left to rule over a desolate place. The homes and shops seemed as if nothing had ever lived within, as if they merely were born from the earth, like the dwarves of human myth, and had now fallen into ruination. And so he trotted onward, past the fallen bodies, beyond the decrepit and toppled buildings, to the palace.

~*~

It seemed to Angoroth that he would be an honored guest. He had a royal welcoming committee waiting for him, as he arrived at the palace entrance. The elf, Maegisil, was standing there. Perhaps he would take him to his quest’s end. He shouted out to the counselor, “Ah, such a party has come to greet me, the dark one!” There was no response from the elf, who only silently, sullenly continued to stand firm. “You honor me well, with such invitations to your lands. I come to return the favor, dear elf! Now, kindly lead me to the Lord of the City. I have business with him.” To this, Maegisil now responded with, “Ha! A guest you are! And I treat my guests to the blade!” He laughed, somewhat wickedly. Perhaps there was promise in this one after all, the Maiar thought. “Do not make me slay you, elf. You are beneath my mission, and I only come to complete the circle, and bring the Oath to fruition.” The elf was silent, again, appearing unresponsive outwardly. “The ring, which I gave to you freely at the gates, is your salvation. It is the symbol of my protection. Do not throw it away.” Maegisil laughed, an undercurrent of sorrow visible in his tone, answering with, “Nothing will save the city, and my people, but your death!” The dark one merely smirked, and dismounted his horse, his guards following in suit. Stepping closer to the elf, he proposed something to him, a dark and sinister idea to most. “Abandon your duty to the city, for slaying me will do you no good. The orcs will consume your lord, your city, you…and your precious wife. Take my signet ring, and go with these soldiers of mine. They will escort you and your wife beyond the city, and into the woods. You may then do as you wish, but I advise you not to waste my freely given gift. The Creator will forgive you, for this destruction is not your doing.” Patiently, seeing no reason for great haste, he awaited the answer of the elf-lord Maegisil.

[Encaitare]

"Go on, lads!" Kharn cried as the Orcs swarmed past him into the streets of the city. "This is what we've been waiting for since winter last; let's make it well worth our trouble!" The last few soldiers passed, and he followed them into the fray, sword at the ready. The smell of blood was hardly more than a faint twinge in the air at this point, but that of the smoke of buildings already ablaze was nearly as pleasing. Eagerly, Kharn looked about for an Elven quarry -- there wasn't much fun in a battle if you didn't do your fair share of Elf-sticking.

Just to his left, he heard the bellow of an orc in pain. An Elf had to be near, he realized. He immediately turned towards the sound, and saw an Elf bearing a bloody blade, a largish Orc on the ground before him.

The Elf looked at Kharn with stern eyes, and seemed to recognize him as an officer. "Order your troops out of our city, beast!" he demanded.

Kharn snarled, drawing his knife so he was doubly armed. "This city is ours."

"Then you shall leave in death!" the Elf cried, charging.

Their swords clashed as Kharn blocked the Elf's blow. He moved to strike the Elf with his knife, but the warrior swung his blade around with such force that the knife was knocked from Kharn's hand to the stony street. Kharn growled in frustration, preparing for another attack. He aimed lower than before, but the Elf managed to block it in time. The Elf then faked a low attack but deftly moved for a high strike instead, and it was sheer instinct that got Kharn out of the way.

The Elf, clearly growing more furious, attacked again, relentlessly. This time, Kharn met the blade with a force that took the Elf by surprise, knocking the Elven sword back. Before the Elf could regain control of his weapon, Kharn snatched up his knife from the ground and hurled it at the him; it punched a neat hole through the Elf's armor. The lieutenant grinned as his foe collapsed. He retrieved the blade and searched for some more of the scum he might have some fun with.

The sudden, unmistakable sound of an Elvish voice giving a command alerted Kharn to danger. He heard the pull of many bowstrings, and did not have to look up to know that an Elvish volley was coming. He threw himself under a small overhang; an instant later, white-feathered arrows came diving down like birds of prey upon the heads of the Orkish soldiers.

After a few moments, he ducked out and down a side street. At the other end of the narrow way, he could hear the clash of battle. And he could see a lone Orc running towards him...

Is that...? he thought. And it was: the would-be deserter.

"Nar! You! The knife-work's that way, you yellow-bellied slug!" Kharn shouted. But the Orc kept coming, his sword raised. "I said, get back there!" Still, the soldier did not heed him.

Kharn slowly raised his own blade as it dawned on him that the soldier might not be bent on deserting anymore, but on murder...

[Folwren]

Bror turned over reluctantly on his side. Nights of sleeping outside on the hard ground was settling into his very bones, and he was tired of it. He soon found that more sleep would be impossible to get, especially with the sun shining right into his face. He pressed his eyes shut against the blinding glare and turned over once again. With a sigh, he sat up.

Skald was already standing up, apparently entirely prepared to continue, with even his axe at his belt and his cloak fastened

‘I say, Skald,’ Bror said, propping his elbows on his knees and looking up at his brother. ‘I’m sorry about last night. I guess I shouldn’t have done it. Are things. . .are things really quite as black as you made them out to be?’

Skald looked at him quietly and then lifted his eyes and turned his gaze towards the north. Bror looked, too, and then stood up to see better. A feeling full of woe and dread rose in him. It was a long way away, but he could see a dark cloud hovering over the earth and knew it at once to be smoke.

‘The city,’ he said faintly. ‘It’s burning? Then we’re. . .we’re too late to even help.’ The wave of hopelessness that assailed him was overwhelming and he turned away. He tried to grasp at the thoughts that seemed to flee from his mind - the reasons he had chosen to stay yesterday, why he had wanted so much for the Dwarves to promise to help the elves, but now - as he thought that everything was lost and the enemy already won, or if not, almost won - he could hardly remember.

No! No, it can’t be as bad as all that, he told himself. Surely it is not all lost. Perhaps they have. . .perhaps only a little bit of the city is on fire, but the elves will soon have it under control. Surely. . .it must be. He tried to straighten it out in his mind convincingly, but found that he couldn’t. He turned to Skald for help, but his older brother had gone out among the other Dwarves and was busy waking those who weren’t up yet.

‘We’re probably going soon,’ he muttered, ‘I’ve got to get ready. Mahal watch us. . .’ He turned and went to work re-packing his bed roll, and preparing himself for the day’s march. Surely they would be starting off soon.

[Kath]

Throwing off the carcass of the dead Elf that he had just killed, Ugburz turned and spat at it. He'd been gald to get into battle at last, especially with the dangerous atmosphere inside the orc camp at the moment. There had been some kind of argument between Kharn and that brute Grimkul, though the stories about what had caused it had grown so wild that Ugburz didn't know the real reason, and wasn't about to ask anyone that did as he felt quite attached to his life.

Ducking to avoid a blow Ugburz quickly brought his attention back to the battle. The sword coming at him glanced off his leg and he howled as it hit his wound. He was fortunate in that the cut had healed, unlike the wounds of other orcs, as an injured soldier is of little use in battle and those who would not be able to fight so well had been used almost as bait to ensure the more capable fighters had a chance to get into the battle. Still, the blow hurt, and the pain fuelled the anger and hatred Ugburz felt towards these creatures. He drove his sword up through his enemy and watched with satisfaction as blood gushed from it's mouth. Yanking his weapon back his kicked the body as it fell and looked around to find another victim.

It was impossible to tell from his position who was winning, He could see the bodies of both Elves and orcs, as well as men, but there seemed equal numbers of all. Also, he was still outside the city, fighting those who were vainly trying to stem the onslaught of enemy forces, so he couldn't tell how the battle was going inside the walls. This was maddening, to be in the midst of the action and yet so far from anything important. But no matter how he tried he could not get to the gates. He was blocked at every turn, and never mind how many he killed there always seemed to be more Elves.

Persevering he pushed forward again, dodging wild swings from both friend and foe as fights raged on around him, and he kept alert. The Elves moved so quietly even in their armour that he had to keep a sharp eye out for them, as they had caught him unawares several times already, and only luck and quick reactions had saved him from a fate he wasn't ready to meet quite yet. Disposing of another Elf he kept moving, trying not to be drawn into fights that would push him backwards, steadily going toward the city.

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo fell down the other side of the wall. His arms and legs ached from fighting as he stood. He was in another alley, running to the left and to the right, but this one was not filled with the usual crates and clotheslines. It was empty and kept clear, for this alleyway was used by the servants of the rich. And their great houses stood on each side, empty and bare. Their owners had abandoned them long before. Cainenyo wandered from the sounds of battle, just wanting to not see anymore orcs. He walked down the alley, to the left, where a small iron gate stood. Cainenyo limped; his ankle was twisted climbing the wall, and with each step came a dull pain. The sounds of war became quieter, but it still buzzed and roared in the background as a constant reminder that the city was no longer safe.

There were also wounds in his shoulder, where a knife had dug into his mail and now hung there caught in the rings, and a long red scratch on his cheek. He came to the iron gate and found it unlocked. The homeowners and servants had forgotten to lock the doors in their rush to escape the destruction. And so it was that Cainenyo walked into a spacious courtyard, with tall poplar trees at each corner and a square pool of clear water in the center. High white walls surrounded the courtyard, and a mansion stood on the side opposite the gate. This place seemed safe as any. Cainenyo slumped down upon the white tiles by the pool, and dipped his cupped hands into cool water. He splashed the water against his face and stretched his limbs. Although his hurt ankle would be a hindrance, he was most worried about the cut on his cheek and on the back of his shoulder, where a knife had pierced his mail. It still remained there, not in his flesh but caught in the rings of his mail, where it uncomfortingly pressed against his body. Carefully reaching, his hand felt the knife's handle and tugged it out of his armor. It was a devilish blade, sinisterly curved. Cainenyo threw it against the wall of the house in contempt and anger.

He now stood, and heard the sounds of battle growing in the distance. It sounded as though the fighting was pushing further into the city, and Cainenyo realized he needed to leave Ost-in-Edhil if he wanted to survive. He made his way around the pool and to the backdoor of the mansion, which swung open lazily, revealing an opulently decorated hallway. Tapestries hung on the red walls and pleasantly carved columns held up the ceiling. But Cainenyo had no time to admire any of this fine workmanship. He found the front door along a high-ceilinged hallway, and pushed open the great oak doors, carved with images of dragons and warriors. He flew down the stone steps into the street, and ran towards the West, away from the dim sunrise and Celebrimbor's palace and the orcs, and towards his family and survival.

[Firefoot]

Grimkul had guessed that Kharn would be commanding troops in the thick of battle and so had headed into the midst of the fighting. There was, of course, the slight matter of the Elves holding their ground between where he was and the places where Kharn might be, but he didn’t go after them unless they attacked him first. Then he killed mercilessly and swiftly, not to be deterred from his goal.

Ulwakh was forgotten in this quest, though whether he had merely been separated from Grimkul by the tides of battle or actually parted Grimkul’s company, not desiring to return to the mass murdering of battle, was unknown to Grimkul, or at least it would be if Grimkul had not forgotten about him.

Still heading towards the sounds of battle, Grimkul rounded a corner and was abruptly confronted by the first bit of organized fighting he had seen since leaving the battle at the gate. A fairly large force of Orcs was regrouping under the rain of white feathered Elvish arrows. Grimkul scanned the scene, searching for the hated burlish commander. He caught a flash of movement in the corner of his eye. He swung to face it and caught sight of Kharn, removed enough from the scene to be “safe.” With single-minded determination, Grimkul headed towards him as he raised his scimitar for battle.

"Nar! You! The knife-work's that way, you yellow-bellied slug!" Kharn shouted. "I said, get back there!" Grimkul paid the repeated order no heed. Now was his chance, his long awaited chance. He would see Kharn’s blood run in the street.

As he drew nearer, Kharn raised his own sword in preparation for a fight with an unexpected adversary. But Kharn’s weapon only served to infuriate Grimkul all the more, and he was suddenly aware of the half-healed wounds on his legs and arms, and how much his body seemed to ache – all at Kharn’s hands. Yet the pain felt good. It drove him, infuriated him, empowered him.

Grimkul’s charge gave momentum to his initial blow. It took all Kharn’s strength just to hold the blade at bay, and even so he was forced back a couple steps. “I’m not going anywhere,” snarled Grimkul, as their blades met again. “Not until you’ve died a slow-" Clash “-painful-" Clash “-death." With that, he swung his sword low, aiming for Kharn’s unprotected shins. Kharn deftly parried the blow. They went on in such a way, neither seeming to have the advantage, but it was Grimkul who gave the first wound, a deep cut on Kharn’s left shoulder. In fury and pain, now, Kharn redoubled his attack, sending Grimkul back on the defensive.

For a few blows, Grimkul was hard pressed, and Kharn scored a couple small cuts on Grimkul’s arms, reopening the scabbed over whip-marks. Suddenly, Grimkul saw an opportunity. Ducking and lunging as Kharn began to swing, he rammed his body into Kharn’s, knocking both of them to the ground with Grimkul on top. Grimkul heard Kharn’s sword clatter to the ground, but his opportunity was lost as his momentum kept him tumbling forward. Though he still held his own scimitar, it was all but forgotten as Grimkul lunged again, this time to keep Kharn from getting his sword back. All of a sudden, their sword fight had descended into a wrestling match with blades…