Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Mithalwen]

Sirithlonnior had dismissed Losrian from service when he found her beside her brother's body. She had protested but his order was not to be disobeyed. "He has a wife and a child... you should go to them, try and get them away". And so, pausing only to take Ferin's personal effects, she had gone. Sirithlonnior had wished he could order his own child away from immediate danger but Artamir was a regular soldier not a volunteer.

Losrian passed ghostlike through the beleaguered city. She came first to her brother's workshop... either the invaders had not reached that part of the city or the workshop was not of primary interest - why raid a woodshop when the silversmiths quarter of Rather Celebdain was so near? Her pack was where she had hidden it and the terrified animals were still within. She wondered why her kindred had not taken the tiny pack pony for surely they must have fled the city. She wondered whether it would be a help or a hindrance to her alone. Swiftly she harnessed it with panniers and filled them with extra supplies from the store, keeping that which was most essential in her own pack. She had shut down her emotions and operated with a cold efficiency If needs must she would have to let the beast go. She released the other animals - they would have to take their chances.

When she drew near the house, fear increased in her heart the area was filled with smoke and there was a indescribable stench. What she saw would stay in her memory for ever. The building in the lee of the city wall was scorched and mostly destroyed by one of the enemies missiles. She found the maimed bodies, of Laswen and her parents, trapped by debris dead from injuries or the noxious poison of the fire blast she knew not. Her sister in law's body lay a little apart from those of her parents lying by the staircase the strongest part of the
house. Where was her child, had the fire destroyed his tiny body. Her eyes turned to the stairs, built under them was a small cuboard used as a cold store. It might just be big enough for a child.

She tried the door, fearing what she might find, could anyone have survived in that house? Instinctively she closed her eyes fearing she would open them to another death. Galmir was there. His body perfect but motionless, wrapped in a cloak with his drinking cup beside him. Losrian felt as if she had been holding her breath since her brother died, her chest constricted ... they were all gone. A sob rose to her throat..... if she had come her first.. would it have been in time to save the little boy from suffocating at least? She reached for his tiny body. It was still warm.

"Ferin, I am sorry" she moaned. The little bundle stirred in her arms. Losrian was so shocked she nearly dropped him. But the unexpected fact of another life dependent on her stifled her sobs and forced her to act with dispassion again. To leave the dead untended was hard but she knew teh best thing she could do for them was to try to get their beloved boy away from the city's destruction and every moment might count. She shielded Galmir's face with her cloak. He should not see this. He started to wail and Losrian, who had always passed the child back to his mother when he had grizzled, did not know how to comfort him him... "Come on Gally, we are going to the woods but you have to be very quiet"

"Ada there? Naneth?" he sniffed.

Unable to tell the truth, Losriansaid "Hush now Gally we have to go - no time for that now..." and bore him from the ruins. Pacifying him with a wafer of lembas she slipped back into the building and removed the pendant from Laswen's neck. It had been her wedding gift and Losrian would not leave that for the invaders.. if
they survived, Galmir should have something of his parents. She could not spend any longer looking for treasures. Bowing her head as the only mark of respect she could offer the dead, she left for the last time. Scooping up the baby who was blessedly silent, but still grateful for the masking sound of battle she started to seek for a way out of the city. The pony'[s hooves seemed deafening in the empty streets and for the first time she thought of abandoning him. But the beast had survived so far and was pluckily finding its way through the rubble so she thought again. Most of the fighting seemed to be concentrated in the heart of the city so she went the other way. For so long they had hoped that the walls would hold. Now she must hope for a breach.

She glanced up at the battlements, shrouded in smoke or mist, she knew not which, and thought suddenly of Artamir and his parents. Had they survived the destruction? She did not dare hope - either for herself or others.

[Durelin]

Maegisil had made it back to the palace, and, coming to a halt at the foot of the huge stairway after crossing the courtyard, wished he had not ran so quickly. The pain in his stomach immediately caught up with him, and dizziness set in, and for a moment her swayed when he picked up his foot to take the first step. Suddenly he realized that he could not remember there being guards at the gates to the palace, and he turned to look. He did not trust himself; not only had the last few hours been a daze, but he had not been to certain of his sanity for some time now. Indeed he saw the gates flung open and no guards in sight, and as if that was not unwelcome enough, he saw a familiar form stalking toward him.

It was Angoroth, Sauron’s wretched emissary, emanating arrogance from upon his horrid mount. Maegisil was too dazed to move, or to even sneer at the approaching man as he wished to, though he tightened his grip on his sword. The creature of course had his guards with him, but the elf would not go down without a fight, and he hoped, even in his exhaustion, to take down a few of the wretched soldiers before falling himself. Much good it would do, though, to be valiant. He thought of his wife. She was alone. Fear pierced him in his heart, and tore through his stomach, making him want to empty its contents all over again. He had to get to Sairien. But if he ran, Angoroth would surely cut him down. What chance did he have, but to endure the creature’s presence?

The city was taken, there was no arguing that, there was no one to call for to aid him in killing the man right on the spot, and even though there were supposed to be reinforcements somewhere out there from Lindon, Maegisil doubted he would see them, or at least not alive. Killing the army’s leader was pointless, now. It would be a waste of time and a waste of his life. Ost-in-edhil already appeared to be ruins long destroyed, and repeatedly ransacked by those who lacked respect for the dead, though they too would one day join them. Thinking of the dead, and of his own death, he stared blankly at the approaching man, and did not change his expression even after the man addressed him.

“Ah, such a party has come to greet me, the dark one!” the creature said. Maegisil still could not find enough care to show Angoroth just what he thought of him. If the ghastly man wished to think that the elf was defeated, he could. Any elf would know better, excepting of course the might lord whom Maegisil guiltily wished was dead.

“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.” Maegisil scowled. So Celebrimbor was not dead…yet. If he were, Angoroth would surely have known.

“Ha! A guest you are! And I treat my guests to the blade!” Maegisil found sickly humour in both Angoroth and his own words, and laughed. The disgust he felt, and the pain, the fear, and the way his mind had shut down to escape from it all was clear in his laughter.

“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 creature paused again, but Maegisil simply let his anger boil within him. He was not too sick with himself for it to be at all easy for him to speak. But the dark one soon continued.

“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’s rage exploded, his Elven pride taking over. No one, and certainly no servant of the Dark was his ‘protection,’ and he would treat no possession of a creature of Sauron with care, it was his to throw away as he willed, as was the creature’s life. “Nothing will save the city, and my people, but your death!” he practically wailed. He felt nothing in those words, they were empty cries of a disgruntled child, as that was what he had been reduced to, and his pride would not let him remain silent and endure the end with dignity.

The dark creature dismounted from his lofty position, though it made no difference to Maegisil if the man looked down upon him or not. But if the thing came at all close to spitting on the elf and what he stood for, he would be at his throat in a flash. Angoroth seemed to know this, and appeared to simply be amused by it. He stepped closer to the elf, who remained unflinching. “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.”

The Creator will forgive you… What did this monster know of forgiveness, much less of the almighty Ilúvatar? He could not speak as if he were one of the Children. He was a lowly man, and a servant to the servant of Morgoth. Though, for a moment, Maegisil wondered. Was he truly only a man? There was something in those eyes, in that demeanor, in his voice… The elf almost felt as if the man before him had weathered more years than even he. But no matter what Angoroth was, he had no respect from Maegisil.

The anger flared, and the elf’s knuckles turned white wrapped around his sword. But the pain flooded in, as a heavy rain after the lightening storm, and he found his knees weaken beneath his weight. He carried much upon his shoulders, and he was only now realizing how much. The city, his people… The orcs will consume your lord, your city… They already had. He had seen the destruction, and it was torment, that he had not the time or the peace to weep for it. Your precious wife… He talked of her as some thing. Maegisil snarled.

Sairien… He had to get back to her. He had promised. She was still alive. She had to be. She was safe... Suddenly he found himself on his knees. There were tears in his eyes. Was he truly kneeling to the man before him? No, it was simple exhaustion. O, but Angoroth seemed pleased by this. Maegisil wished he had the guts to rise up, and bring his sword up with him to slash the black-gutted man into pieces. But he did not. Fear had overcome him some time ago. He had disposed of the fear for his own life with the slow rising of the sun, but now he found any strength he had gleaned from the light of a new day ripped away by simple desires. His love for his wife, and his hatred for his lord. He finally had chosen between the two, after wasted years of devotion to a lord rather than the elf-woman he loved.

“I pray that Ilúvatar will forever curse me, as one of the House of Fëanor, for I make a pact with you, that I shall do as you say. This pact is as evil and cursed as the Oath that led this city to its destruction, but I am no lord. As for the lord of this city, he is yours. And indeed I beg you to kill him, so he and the Oath of Fëanor may no longer plague my people.”

He also prayed that he would be the last elf to kneel before any servant of Morgoth.

~*~*~

Maegisil abhorred the company of Angoroth’s guards, and he was made sick simply by being in his own skin. As he led the way to his house, the guards keeping apace with him, he looked over his shoulder with every other step, and his eyes darted around. Paranoia was creeping up on him. He now feared not only for his wife’s life, but also for how she would take what he had done. He wished she would hate him for it, but he hoped and prayed she would follow him out of the city. Even if she never spoke to him again, and left him as wretched as Celebrimbor, he wanted her alive. He needed her alive. He would never forgive himself if she did not make it out of the city, even after his cruel covenant.

It seemed the orcs had rushed to get to the palace and secure the entire city before completely ransacking every building. His home looked untouched, and he felt guilty for it. And he thought it a miracle when he found his wife safe, and for a moment he forgot his woes and smiled at her, embracing her. But she was stiff in his arms. She had seen Angoroth’s soldiers. Her rushed to explain, stuttering and stammering as he spoke, choking on his words and holding back tears. She looked at him blankly. Could her gaze have ever been so cruel as when she did not show what she was feeling? He did not feel as if he had explained anything before she put her hand to his mouth and silenced him.

“Lead on, my love.”

He almost smiled again, at hearing her voice, hearing her call him her love. Was any feeling only feigned in those words? He was afraid to find out. “We will gather the remaining survivors. Some have survived. Some must have escaped…” He was growing frantic in his voice. Again, his wife silenced him with her calming touch.

“Let us escape first, love, or we shall be no help to any others.”

[CaptainofDespair]

In short time, he reached the stairs of Celebrimbor’s palace, and slowly and methodically ascended them, as a king ascends to his coronation. He found a motley assortment of guards remaining, men who imagined they would serve their lord faithfully, and to the last. But, Angoroth would have none of this. “Scatter faithful soldiers of Eregion! Your doom will be the same as your lord if you do not stand aside!” Few challenged this. Some defended the doors to the inner sanctum of Celebrimbor’s palace staunchly. They died where they stood. The rest fled in haste. With the guards dispensed, either with word or sword, he pursued his final goal.

Casting aside the heavy doors of the chamber, he thrust himself into the Lord of the City’s sanctum, where he had cloistered himself to the end. The Lord looked up from his seated position, and already knowing what had come for him. “Ah, so here lies the last of the great Feanor’s seed! I would have thought one of such proud heritage would stand up to his enemy. Indeed, the sons are weaker than the father!” Inaudible murmuring emanated from Celebrimbor’s lips, but he did not speak to his accuser. “And so it comes to this, Celebrimbor. The Oath is fulfilled, and my duty to my master, Melkor, is complete.” Angoroth, having fully thought out his actions for this moment, made use of his plans. He sliced open the stomach of the elf-lord, while he yet lived, and he laughed as he took in the stench and sight of disemboweled innards and gore, as well as the agonized screams of Celebrimbor, as he gave in to his temptation to fulfill his murderer’s desires. Those screams echoed throughout the city…

~*~

Angoroth, he who had destroyed the people of Eregion, was never seen again in the West. He fled the city, in short time after his slaying of Celebrimbor, and deserted his bond to Mordor. Whispers of his wicked deeds followed him ever northwards, where traveled by both steed and foot, at last reaching the wastes of the North.

Haggard and worn by the icy winds that whipped around him, his armor discarded long ago, traded for hides in those sparse villages he entered during those last beleaguered steps of his quest; he marched to a location deep in the desolation, nearest the long departed citadel of Utumno. Without even a single slab of timber, not even a measly scrap of bark stripped from a waterlogged, dead tree, he burned the hides which kept his shivering body even remotely close to warm. The fire, which burned dimly in the cold, starry, night sky, burnt off little heat, and the lonesome Maiar knew this. The time had come, he thought.

And so, he drew forth his sword, still tainted with the frozen blood of Celebrimbor. Sliding the blade through decayed flame, as it flickered pathetically amongst the hide-embers, grasping painfully for the cold steel. The Maiar watched gleefully, as he muttered prayers to his master, the fallen Valar Melkor.

I commit my body to the ice,
And my soul to the dark light.
I go now,
To join with my Master beyond the Night.

Slowly withdrawing the blade from the dying fire, Angoroth methodically twisted the ancient sword in his palms, pointing the blade to his stomach. It crept forward, like a spider ready to pounce, drawing ever closer to him. As the tip of the metal penetrated into his body, the skin gave way, engulfing the blade as it sliced into him. His face remained emotionless, as he merged with the steel. He lurched forward onto it, hoping for an end to himself. Blood rose up within him now, and gurgled in his mouth, spilling over his cracked lips, staining the ice and snow with his crimson taint as it splashed across the frozen earth. With his vision growing bleak, and his blood draining from his withering body, he collapsed over himself. Still kneeling, cast forward, hanging limp from his waist, he gave into death. With his final prayers, he committed his soul beyond the world, leaving it forevermore, as the pale light of his eyes faded, flickered, and finally vanished with the dead flames of the hide-fire…

[Envinyatar]

Envinyatar's post

‘There’s been word back from our scouts near the city. We must make all haste.’ Ondomirë drew his mount along by the reins as he approached the gathered Dwarven warriors. It was still night, many hours until the sun would rise. Still, the Dwarves had known to rise early, perhaps their keen ears hearing the sounds of the rousing camp. In such a short time they had gotten their packs on their backs; helmets and what armor they wore securely fastened on; axes and pikestaffs in hand. The expressions on their faces were difficult to read in the dim moon's light. But to his mind, unused to Dwarves and their ways, they seemed unwelcoming.

Never mind what you think he admonished himself. Lord Elrond’s commanded it and you’re to see it done.

‘Yes, well then,’ he went on, wondering what was going on behind those bearded faces. Their dark eyes glittered as they followed his every move. He elected to keep his own gaze on their hands. Were they to twitch even for an instant toward their weapons then he would flee from them and take their answer as a ‘no’.

You are such a coward! They’re seasoned warriors. Surely they’ll see the need for this.

Ondomirë motioned for the Elves he’d brought with him to take their positions. The tall, grey-eyed riders moved forward slowly round the Dwarves. ‘The city is sore besieged,’ he went on. ‘And, well . . . there’s nothing for it but that you must ride with us. Even were you to sprout wings on your feet, you cannot hope to keep pace with our horses.’

There were angry grumblings as he finished speaking. But he gave no room for protest. With a nod of his head, the Elves moved in and plucked up a Dwarven rider each to sit behind them. Without another word, they turned north, the long muscled legs of their horses picking up speed . . .

-^-^-^-

It was late in the afternoon when the Lindon troops and their allies reached the narrow plain leading down to the river where the city stood. The Dwarves dismounted and reassembled into their own fighting unit. The Elves for their part, took their places as their captains commanded and began the advance on the city. Lancers and swordsmen to the fore; the bowmen behind, giving a cover of arcing missiles as needed.

And it was needed, sooner than hoped.

The city was burning, many of the beautiful structures already half-razed and smoking. Less than a league from the river and the foul creatures who had done the terrible deeds were swarming out from the dying city’s perimeter; a dark and noisome tide - their filthy weapons seeking more blood to shed.


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Child of the 7th Age's post

Half battle mad, mired in gore and stench, Ulrung stood triumphant on the streets of the city. His chariot was heavy with the booty he had snatched from the homes and palaces of the Elven lords. These were beautiful and amazing items crafted of gold and fine jewels: helms and brooches and glittering flagons such as Ulrung had never seen the likes before. Nor was he alone in his actions. Even in the midst of fighting, the Easterlings had taken time to gather up the spoils of war as they rushed wildly from one house to the next, slaughtering all who were unfortunate enough to come before their path. Their battle chariots, once so swift and light, now lumbered awkwardly through the streets, slowed by the heavy burdens that they now carried.

Ulrung and his officers remained oblivious to the threat that gathered now a short distance away. Why should they pay attention to anything else? The city was falling. There were prizes to be won. Victory was surely theirs. Ulrung saw little reason to keep a tight rein on those who slashed their way through the streets. With Angoroth gone, Ulrung no longer feared the wrath of the great commander. He could do whatever pleased him. As a result, Orcs and Easterlings burned and raided with glee: all semblance of discipline or order had vanished. Only a remnent of the Dark Lord's army remained together inside the broad plaza near the front gate where a few Elves had gathered and valliantly battled.

In the midst of this chaos, a horseman rode in through the rubble and stones. As quickly as he could, the messenger made his way to the Easterling commander. Ulrung had taken a break from fighting to sift through the treasures that were piled high in his chariot. He looked away from his task for a moment and greeted the man on horseback with the barest hint of a nod.

"Sire, sire, Lord Ulrung." The voice came hurried and frantic. "You must listen. They come! They come! A great host of Elves and dwarves, and they move with the speed of lightning. They head soon to the city. You and your men will be trapped if you do not gather your forces now."

"How can this be?" growled Ulrung. He was not pleased to be interrupted in his task of arranging his treasures.

The messenger's response was swift. "Elves from Lindon come and with them King Durin and all his Dwarves. These are not disheartened and beaten soldiers but well organized with the heat of battle in their eyes. They have not yet reached the gate but in a short time they will."

"You are sure?" Ulrung spat on the ground in disgust. His assurance of rapid victory seemed to be vanishing in smoke. This was the last thing he wanted to hear, especially with his troops scattered this way and that, gathering booty and kills in the back alleys of the city.

The messenger nodded. Ulrung had only to look in the man's eyes, shadowed with fear and doubt, to see the truth of the message he brought. Suddenly glimpsing the very real danger they faced, Ulrung bellowed out to his seneschal, "Sound the horn. The alarm for Orcs and Men to gather in the plaza. We have no choice but to turn and fight these miscreants." Then Ulrung turned again to his own chariot and with considerable reluctance pushed out most of the booty he had gathered. They would need speed and a chariot laded with gold treasures would be at a definite disadvantage. Perhaps he would come back later and retrieve his goods.

The Great Horn sounded in every corner of the city. Some heard it and stopped their plundering to come immediately to the square. Many more heard it and stopped up their ears, pretending that there had been no alarm. Even among those who remounted their horses and battle chariots to join in the plaza, many of these were heavily laden with treasure. Ulrung bellowed out an order for all to lay aside their bulky sacks and chests, saying that they could return for them later. But here too, many cursed and stopped up their ears, vowiwng not to lose what was rightfully theirs.

Oblivous to what was happening, Ulrung snapped out his orders: "We will deal quickly with this contingent of Elves who await us outside the gates. We will take Elrond's head on a platter, and then go against any others who make their way to the city. After that we may gather what is rightfully ours."

His men were still raggedly assembled, and the Orcs who followed were much fewer in number. But still the troops of Sauron gave a great bellowing cry and followed their leader Ulrung out through the gates and onto the plain as they hurtled forward to meet the threat.

[Arry]

Envinyatar’s post

The black tide swarmed against the Elven troops. At first Lord Elrond’s lines held and perhaps even advanced in small increments. Sauron’s troops, though, were relentless and more numerous than the Lindon scouts had reported. The Orcs and Men were fueled by their victory against the city and the blood of their foes that had already bathed their blades.

Elrond’s warriors fanned out; the warriors on each wing pushing forward as far as they were able, extending their formation like the horns on a great bull’s head. Their foes were funneled in and toward the grouping of Dwarves and Celeborn’s Elves that stood firm against them and then fell back slowly.

It was Lord Elrond’s intent to catch the foe between the pincer like extensions of his own troops and squeeze in on them, killing as many of them as he could. For a brief while, his strategy worked. And it might have continued so save for the fact that the Orc and Mannish ranks swelled again and again as their captains pushed them from their looting of the city and against the new threat.

‘Regroup!’ he ordered his captains.

The thinned out lines of Lindon troops pulled back into a tighter formation from which they charged again and again in smaller groups, throwing panic into their foe as their great horses trampled through their unorganized ranks.

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Orëmir’s ranks of bowmen sent a storm of arrows hurtling against Sauron’s army felling as many as they could. As the lines of Orcs and Men drew close, half the bowmen drew their swords and charged against them; while the remaining bowmen fell back a little and rapidly firing arrow after arrow continued to pick off individual targets.

Heaps of dead and dying Orcs and Men dotted the plain before the Lindon Elves and the Dwarves. But it was not enough. There were too many of the foul warriors. Lord Elrond and Lord Celeborn’s troops fell back slowly against the onslaught.

[Firefoot]

Grimkul’s furied lunge ended with him landing heavily on top of Kharn. He brought the hand still holding his sword down hard on Kharn’s face. Kharn howled in pain and surprise as the hilt produced a jagged gash. Grimkul smiled coldly at the sound. Revenge, sweet, sweet revenge. Kharn was clearly at the worst of it now – while still scrabbling for his own sword, he still had to ward off Grimkul’s assaults. Twisting, pushing, scratching: these were the devices that Kharn now had to result to. Grimkul held him in place, landing punches to his face and chest.

Abruptly, Kharn ceased going after the fallen sword and snatched a knife out of his belt, causing Grimkul to remember the sword in his own hand. But the advantage in this situation was Kharn’s: the smaller weapon was entirely more maneuverable in the close quarters. He scored a deep gash in Grimkul’s thigh before Grimkul could even bring his blade around. But it was not enough: as Kharn tried to twist away, Grimkul brought his scimitar down, rending a long gash in Kharn’s side. Kharn, clearly in pain, tried a desperate parry, but Grimkul almost carelessly knocked it away. He brought his sword down on Kharn’s shoulder, cutting through the muscle and tendon and effectively disabling his sword arm. Becoming increasingly exultant, Grimkul scored a number of smaller cuts and gashes. Finally, when he deemed that Kharn had suffered as many injuries as might be expected, he rose shakily to his feet, stained in black blood: Kharn’s, and his own. The blood flow from his leg had not staunched much, and the loss of blood had weakened him severely.

Kharn eyed him, obviously near death. There seemed to be a measure of satisfaction to him, though: “You won’t live long, now.” This infuriated Grimkul: that his opponent, clearly defeated, should still mock him! Without waiting another instant, he brought his sword down and plunged it through Kharn’s heart. Then he spat into the dead face, turned about, and limped away, his triumph only slightly dampened with the knowledge that Kharn had not conceded the victory.

Now there was only one thing that he could want. Turning about, he could see the mountains rising in the distance. He was leaving, this time for good. He made his way slowly to the gate of the city, but as he drew nearer he noticed a strange thing: the press of Orcs had thickened, and they were swarming out of the city! They were being attacked! And so, unexpectedly, Grimkul was plunged into the fight, exactly where he, for once, did not want to be. He fought his way through the ranks, cutting down anyone who got in his way, be it Orc, Man, Dwarf, or Elf. He soon found that he could go no farther without engaging in real combat; at the very front of the Orkish lines, now, he was almost wholly surrounded by the ranks of Dwarves. He ruthlessly cut one down, slicing nearly all the way through his head.

But he suddenly found himself feeling light-headed; his reactions felt slow and dulled. The shouts all around him buzzed in his ears. He fought like a mad thing, no longer aware of anything but a burning desire that everything die, so that he might go on his way in peace, to go on to his old mountain haunts, to leave it all behind… But first, they all would die.

[Arry]

Skald’s hands grew slippery on the haft of his poleaxe. Even though he had put on his leather gloves for a good grip, still the rivulets of dark Orc blood had wet them thoroughly and lessened their ability to grip. He glanced to his right, where Bror stood, his brother’s axe cutting in clean arcs against the advancing foe. Stepping back a pace or two, Skald threw off his gloves and hastily wiped the shaft of his weapon along the side of his breeches.

Just as he was stepping back up to the fighting line, a spray of blood from somewhere on his left hit him. Axe at the ready he turned to see Regil Brassbeard fall, his head nearly cloven asunder by a great Orc’s blade.

Even as Regil’s body slumped to the ground, Bror had roared up, attacking the filthy Orc with his axe. For his part, the wiry creature was able to parry many of the blows Bror rained down on him. Though, a number of the swings seemed close enough to nick the foul hide before they were thrust away.

Too close for Skald’s comfort were the strikes of the Orc’s blade toward his brother. The foul creature seemed mad. Unlike other Orcs they had encountered this one did not run from the fierce blows of the poleaxe. It was almost as if he wished to hasten his own death. Skald swung his own axe at the Orc. The shaft shifted in his hands a little at this sideways strike. The flat of the axe head hit hard against the Orc’s thick skull, causing the creature to stagger and fall. Not waiting to see if his blow had killed the Orc, Skald turned to other foe.

Through the haze of battle, Skald could see that Men were now pushing their way to the front of the lines. Arrows now flew against the Elves of Lindon and Lorien. And the scimitars of the Men of the East were assailing the front ranks of Lord Celeborn’s ground troops. Here and there with deliberate charges could be seen the Lindon Elves on their great horses, their swords cutting down the advancing troops of Sauron. And at times, they fell themselves. Their bright and terrible beauty swept over by the darkness.

Skald saw the Elf, who had borne him into battle on the back of his horse, as he fell to Easterling spears and swords. And a moment of grim cheer rose in his heart as the great horse reared and slew several of the attackers with his slashing hooves. Then he, too, fell to the long, sharp staves that pierced his neck.

The rage of battle grew in Skald’s breast at the sight. His eyes hardened as he ran toward the Easterlings, a number of other of his Dwarf companions close on his heels.

Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd aimênu!

The great battle-cry of the Dwarves thundered about them as they hastened toward the foe . . .

Axes of the Dwarves! The Dwarves are upon you! . . .

[Firefoot]

Since Grimkul’s disappearance, Ulwakh had been going through the city, deliberately avoiding any areas of concentrated fighting. Nor did he wander about looking for lone Elves to kill. Instead, he forced his way into the Elvish buildings, looking for the young and the weak. When he found them, he killed them: slowly and painfully. Only a few had possessed both the courage and the strength to resist him, and even then their struggle was futile: though he might be wounded minimally, the knives and daggers that they came up with at short notice were of little help against Ulwakh’s cold hatred.

These prizes were less than frequent, however; many homes had been evacuated; some, already ravaged; still others, too tightly locked up. The thrill was almost not even worth it, for all the work he had to go through. Exiting yet another abandoned house, a thought occurred to Ulwakh. Perhaps Grimkul had been right. If ever there was a time to escape this cursed army, now would be it. Under no particular chain of command, the Orcs roamed freely through the ravaged city and killed at will. Small and semi-crippled as he was, no one would miss him. As for Grimkul, Ulwakh could find nothing in his heart but contempt for his dumb if occasionally useful companion. Besides, Grimkul had left him.

With that in mind, he abandoned his largely futile attempt and set out to find an exit from the city. He had heard the sounds of fighting at the main gate; it would be no good to use that exit. Instead he headed for one of the other breaches in the wall, hoping to avoid all but the very fringes of the battle.

It was even as he had hoped. He left the city unnoticed, skirted around the edge of the battle field, and gave fight only when pressured. Now, he only had to get past the small band of Dwarves where they gave fight to a black mass of Orcs, and after a short dash he would be lost to sight in the broken landscape.

But as he approached, he could not help but notice one crazed Orc fighting in the midst of the Dwarves, and after a short moment, recognized him: Grimkul. He nearly cried out, then silenced himself, remembering his cause to go unnoticed. And even as he watched, Grimkul took a nasty blow to the head from an axe and fell to the ground in a heap. A curious look crossed Ulwakh’s face, akin to remorse. The expression passed as abruptly as it had come, and he spat out one word: “Idiot.” Then he turned and fled.

[Folwren]

Skald's blow felled the orc that Bror had been bent on killing. It wasn't too dissapointing that his brother had gotten him - more likely to be relieving. He stepped over the fallen body to meet the onslaught of yet another orc. He battle axe swung and brought down the gruesome being in one blow. He pulled the broad blade from the thing's skull and stepped back half a pace to meet the next enemy. Blood and sweat ran down his face, and he had neither time nor an extra hand to wipe it away.

Battle. The word, combined with death, was bitter and hateful in his mind. The stench of the dead and dying rose up about him and his companions, almost materializing into a vapor, thick enough to encircle them and choke the breath in their throats. Another orc charged, his scimitar upraised. Bror caught the blow with his axe, easily turned the blade away and drove the spike of his weapon deep into the beast’s side.

A movement on his left caused him to duck another oncoming blow and turn. His attacker swung again and Bror lifted his axe once more to defend. The orc’s blade glanced off the shaft and slipped down harmlessly.

On and on the enemy came, beating upon the ranks of elves and dwarves like the waves of an ocean. Constantly they came and though they were flung back and broke upon the blades and axes, they slowly pushed them back - water eating out the rock.

Bror fought, his arms swinging or blocking in turn, beginning to ache and burn with the constant use, but entirely unable to stop and rest longer than a few seconds at a time. As he hewed the head off a charging man and let his axe droop momentarily towards the ground, he wondered how long they could possibly last before being entirely over run and killed.

[Firefoot]

Grimkul fell to the ground, stunned, but not dead as Ulwakh had supposed. Darkness loomed at the edge of his consciousness, threatening to engulf him – completely and permanently. The sounds of battle sounded dim in his ears, hardly noticeable. He could see little more than the ground, stained with blood both black and red. That the black blood should be his did not occur to him. He felt for his sword and found he was no longer holding it. His arm felt heavy, so heavy. He moved his head, tried to push himself up so that he could find it. There… some three feet away. It felt like three miles. Slowly, he pulled himself towards it. His vision swam with every jolting movement.

Finally, his groping hand found the sword. Both blade and hilt were still slick with blood, and still hungry for more. Grimkul wanted more. For the first time since his fall, he looked up from the ground. There, far in the distance, he beheld the cold mountains. Cold, dark, familiar…

He lurched to his feet and started a lurching, stumbling run towards the mountains. Free. He was free. But why did the ground tilt so? It rose up to meet him; he pushed it away, continued to run. From behind him, he heard dimly a shout. A fierce pain pierced his back, and he fell again. Wetness – dark sticky wetness. He could feel it. He couldn’t move his arm now, couldn’t get up. He felt a wiggling beneath him, near his face. He brought his other hand up; it grasped upon something warm and furry. A rodent, trapped beneath him when he had fallen. Grimkul tired to squeeze it, make it squeal, make it die, but found there was no strength left in his fingers for such a task. “Pushdug rodent,” he rasped. “Filthy Elves, cursed Dwarves.” The rodent scrambled against his grip, tiny nails digging into the skin. Blackness threatened. Looking up once more he saw the tall, impregnable mountains. Kharn’sdeadI’mfreeI’mleaving. The blackness was almost overpowering now, and with his fading consciousness he felt the warm fuzziness leaving his hand. And darkness was all.

[piosenniel]

King Durin leads his men in an attack against the rear positions of Sauron’s troops

King Durin paced the width of his great hall, his booted footsteps thumping heavily against the smooth marbled stone of the floor. A decision must be made . . . and soon . . . he thought to himself. ‘Think, man, think!’ he spoke harshly to himself, his eyes fixed on the floor as he walked along.

Of the thirty Dwarves he’d sent to accompany Lord Celeborn and his Elven warriors to where the Elves from Lindon were encamped, only ten had returned. He recalled his moments of panic when the message had come to him of this small number and the small measure of relief when he learned the others were unharmed, but staying on to lend their axes to the Lindon Elves. Since then, he had increased the number of scouts he sent out each day to bring him news of the battle raging against the Elven city.

Rori Ironfoot, who had led the Dwarves accompanying the Lorien Elves, was one of the Dwarves who had volunteered to go back out as a scout. His brother had stayed behind with the Lorien Elves, saying that he wanted to blood his ax on as many Orc necks as he could. The Ironfoot’s youngest brother had been killed a few months back during one of the times the Dwarves had escorted a group of Lorien warriors to the jewel-smiths’ city. It was Rori, on his way backwith the remaining other nine Dwarves, who brought back the news that the city was nearly overrun. And that the size of Sauron’s forces was so large that even the combined forces of Lindon, Lorien, and the Dwarves would not be able to get through them. In fact, he had told the King, it would be most likely that they would be overrun themselves and slaughtered.

The sun was going down as Durin poured over his reports and looked at the map on which he’d plotted the reports of Sauron’s troops activity and the placement of the Lindon Elves. The long shafts that let in the sun’s light had grown dark and now several retainers had come into the hall to light the many crystal lamps which hung from the cavern’s ceiling and along the smooth stone walls.

The King’s attention was caught by the mirror like surface of the hall’s floor. He could see the soft reflections of the retainers as they passed from lamp to lamp and those of others as they brought in a tray of food for him to eat and pitchers of water and of wine. For one small window of time their images would sharpen as they passed through the direct line of his gaze. Their images would begin to soften about the edges, then, and fade. Disappearing altogether as they moved farther from him.

Durin’s fist closed hard about the vellum map that lay before him, crumpling it into a tight, ungainly wad. He shook off the cloud of indecision that had him at an impasse for so long. If he did not act soon, his subjects would fade into nothingness . . . death would take them. They would be gone, much as the images of those who passed across the marbled floor were at last lost to his sight. And how would he explain then, to their families and their Forge halls that he had hesitated and they had paid the price?

‘Call the Captains to me!’ he cried, startling one of the lamplighters as he did so. The Dwarf nodded his head and took off at a run, as did the other lighters, each heading for their halls to spread the word. The great horns that called the gatherings were blown as they headed out toward the passageways. And other horns, in farther reaches of the caverns, sent the call on.

The King has need of his axes. Come! Come! He commands you!

~*~

In a day’s time there were seven hundred Dwarves armored and weaponed and bearing shields slung on their backs. More would come from the further halls to the east, but not for several days. The seven hundred would leave now; the others follow.

Riv listened closely to the King’s plan. Sauron’s troops were for the most part occupied with looting the fallen city and those who had come against the Elves of Lindon and the Dwarves paid no attention to their rear. And why should they? There was nothing to challenge them from that direction.

‘But we will challenge them with our axes, staves, and blades,’ the King went on. ‘Falling upon them unsuspected. Their doom will march in our ranks and claim them!’ There were cheers at these stirring words, but the King quieted those gathered with a wave of his hand. ‘Some of us, too, will meet our own doom. Though our numbers are large, our blades sharp and our aim true, still we cannot outmatch the sheer number of them. So we must be quick and canny in our attack. Swift enough to make a significant number of kills and canny enough to draw them away from our beleaguered companions – lead them on a merry chase back to the West Door. We’ll slip in safe, then, and close it hard against them. Those with the Lindon Elves will have time enough to get away. And the Elves, if they use their vaunted wisdom will flee with them to safety.’

As did the other men, Riv had but a short time to make his farewells to his family. Ginna slept soundly through it all; the innocent sleep of babes for whom war and death have no meaning. Leifr held back as his father called him to him. His eyes were wide at the sight of the armor, shield, and warhammer. His memory already holding an image of his father injured and pale from an earlier encounter with Orcs. Riv crouched down and coaxed the boy to him, ruffling Leifr’s hair with his fingers as he pulled him in against his chest. The boy’s cheeks were red with the effort of holding back his tears. ‘It will be alright,’ he whispered to his son. ‘You’ll stay here with your Grandpa and keep Mami and Ginna safe for me.’ Leifr snuffled against his father’s chest and shook his head ‘yes’. Standing up, Riv opened his arms to Unna and clasped her hard against him. No words passed between them, they had all been said before. She stepped back a pace and clasping his hand, kissed the ring of promise he bore upon his finger there. Then gathering Leifr to her and Ginna snug against her shoulder she composed her face into a smile and withdrew to the ring of families who would be waiting for their loved one’s return.

~*~

With haste the King led his troops from beneath the mountains, their quick strides eating up the distance between them and the rearmost position of Sauron’s troops. And when they had found them, they fell upon the Orcs and Men without mercy, hewing them down in great numbers until the ground ran slick . . . the red blood of Men intermingling with the darker blood of Orcs . . .

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo ran as best as he could through the city streets. His right ankle hurt with dull pain at each step, but that did not stop him. To fight the orcs was useless. There were too many of them, and the city would fall anyways. He just wanted to be back with his wife and children, and far away from this horror. They could've escaped since Cainenyo had left them in the dark street, and they might've found a gate through the wall, towards the northwest. That was were Cainenyo ran, just wanting to escape. This was not a fight, but a massacre. Dead bodies lay in the street where orcs had passed, and every street was home to a burning house. He ran through a wide plaza, with nothing but dead, broken elves staring at the night sky smeared with smoke for company, and the mangled corpses of orcs lay slumped in each alleyway, just ready to spring to life and snatch Cainenyo by the throat with their bloody claws. Cainenyo even stabbed dead orcs to see if they truly were slain as he passed them. He recalled a story, told in his youth, about people who sat like stones for hours, and now he greatly prayed that the orcs had not learnt this cruel new trick.

There was a wounded orc crawling through the mire. Cainenyo stabbed it firmly in the back and it collapsed into a puddle of blood with an inhuman shriek, and Cainenyo ran on, not wanting to see so many dead people ever again. So much death was in the city that night that it hung in the air like a dreadful fog, so thick was it that a feeling of dread and horror filled everything. Houses that were once beautiful and joyful now sat abandoned by their owners and looted by orcs, with their tall, arched windows staring blankly like the eyes of a skull. Where a home was burning, shadows danced wickedly all along the street, illuminating the carnage that lay all around. Cainenyo turned his eyes away from the horrors of war only to be met by more grim death. He turned his eyes towards the sky, where through the thick smoke a few stars glittered like diamonds, and Cainenyo spoke a short prayer.

"Elbereth, sweet Elbereth, guide me from this city and to my family . . . " His voice weakened at the last word and sharp worry entered his heart. His family! Were they dead, lying like those stiff corpses in the plaza? Were they saved by some miracle of Eru? There was only one way to tell, and that was to head to the northwest of the city. And so he ran, with his family in mind, ignoring his hurt ankle as best he could. The city walls were within view, and as he turned a corner he came to them. He began to panic. How would he cross over the wall? Had his family escaped this way, if at all?

Then a sweet sound came to Cainenyo's ears. The sounds of war silenced as the creaking of a wooden door floated through the air: the sound of an escape, a wooden door through the wall, unlocked. It was far down the wall, to the left. As he came to it his heart rose with happiness. It was large enough for a cart to pass through, and in fact, it must've been a small version of the main gate itself, perhaps used to move garbage out of the city where the people would not see. He felt elated. This was his escape! This is where his family escaped! The tracks in the dirt road leading from the door told him so. He pushed aside the swinging door, and ran down a grassy yellow slope from the city. He was free! The river stood before him shining in the early morning, and further down the river stood a stone bridge. And beyond the river stood dark brown and green woodlands, crawling across the hilly landscape. Oh, thank you, Elbereth! Cainenyo thought he could've sung out loud in his elation. The sun was rising over the Hithaeglir, and Cainenyo ran towards the bridge, following the tracks in the red dirt road.

[Folwren]

Bror’s head ached fiercely and his vision was blurry. The night had been long and seemed never to end. It was true that the forces of orcs and men had not kept up a constant attack all night long, but the Lindon Elves and the Dwarves with them had been able to sleep only a little, if at all. The attacks had come in spurted intervals all throughout the night. In one rather fierce, though short fight, Bror had received a nasty cut down his left arm. Though he claimed and insisted that it was only a scratch, Skald would have it looked at by an elf and cleaned and bandaged.

Dawn was breaking over the mountains now. Bror sat on a large boulder, his hands leaning on his axe, and his eyes watching the light grow. He wondered where Riv was, and whether he had gotten back alright to the mountain, and if he were safe. His mind reflected back to his home and the bright fires - the late evenings in Riv’s kitchen, and then mornings, sometimes, when Leifre and Unna would come out. A deep sigh escaped him as, finally, he considered his chances of actual survival and of getting back there. Those chances were slim at the moment, and he knew it.

Shouts to his right brought him out of his gloomy reverie and he got reluctantly to his feet. He moved his axe up to the ready and went forward towards the fighting.

The enemy was at it again, and they didn’t slack off, as they had in the night. Once again the Elves and Dwarves were put hard to it, and it was a desperate, if not hopeless fight. But then, suddenly, there were great cries from the East - strong, resounding voices that echoed. Bror lifted his head. The sun pulled free of the mountains and then found a hole in the clouds. Shafts of sunlight fell about the battle field, illuminating the fighters and the dead, glancing off of mail and steel.

In the distance, all the way across the battle of field, and new army was appearing, pouring from the rocks itself. Bror smiled, and then laughed, and raising his axe he gave a great cry to answer that of his kinsmen and friends from the mountains. The enemy before him fell back, being called and regrouped.

‘They’ve come after all,’ Bror said to himself. ‘Well, I am glad to see them, even if it is miles away.’

[Envinyatar]

‘They are falling back, Captain!’

Ondomirë spurred his mount on to the front of the line. His archers had ceased their shooting, he noted; their targets now quickly pulling out of range. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked of those fighting at the front. From his position he could see the Orcs and Easterlings scattering, turning westward as their captains barked orders at them and flicked their whips for emphasis.

‘Someone has come at them from the rear of their position,’ one of the Elvish captains told him. ‘It must be a large force of some sort. And hitting them hard enough that they would turn all their force against it.’

A silvered horn rang out from the Elven ranks, calling the troops to gather together. Lord Elrond and his advisors had made a quick assessment of the situation. Ondomirë rode at the back of his company as they made their way to where Elrond stood. He felt uneasy at this sudden turn of the battle, suspecting some sort of trick from Sauron’s captains. Ondomirë was watchful, should there be any sign that they would be attacked again, he would order his troops to turn and fire.

-----

‘Someone has given us a chance to move closer to the city,’ Elrond began. He held up his hand to quell the murmurings that Orc still roamed the city. ‘Yes, we must be careful. The city is fallen. Most of it burned, my scouts have told me. Ours now will be a mission to find what refugees we can.’ His hands smoothed out a map on the small wooden table that had been hastily set up near him. ‘I doubt that there will be any left alive within the city now. But my hope is that those who were able to escape the destruction will have gathered somewhere beyond. To the north here. In these wooded areas.’

His finger traced the area west of where Ost-in-edhil had once stood – moving toward the marshes, to where the rivers converged. ‘Sauron’s forces will already be moving westward from the city. It is his intent, I believe, to sweep through Eriador, coming at last to Lindon to wreak his vengeance on Lord Gil-galad. We must move to a place of safety for the refugees, a defensible place; that is our primary charge.’ He looked eastward, his grey eyes glinting with his thoughts. ‘At some point Lord Gil-galad will have need of us. We must regain our strength until then and keep our eye fixed on Mordor and the stirrings there.’

He called for his horse and mounted up. His captains at his side, he urged his mount toward the western outskirts of the city.

[Arry]

The sound of the Dwarves’ horns brought hope to the beleaguered troops as they fought the losing battle against Sauron’s troops. The Elves wondered at who had come to their aid, or if it were some new foe bound to slay any who stood in their way. It was the Dwarves who fought alongside Elrond’s men who let them now it was their kinsmen who had come to harry the Orcs and Easterlings.

‘Can you not hear that sweet high sound, the one singing above all the rest?’ cried Skald. ‘Tis the horn of the Stonecut Hall.’ He looked up at the Elf near him, an expectant look on his face. ‘Well, are you giving me a hand up, man? Or I must run behind these great beasts to a safe retreat? My kinsmen cannot hold the Orcs and Men forever.’

-----

To his left, Skald could see Bror clinging onto the Elf who bore him on his horse. He was jostling up and down, his axe slapping against his back with each stride. Skald pushed his helm up from his eyebrows, where it had slipped, and gave his brother a resigned look, followed by a nod of sympathy. The Elf he rode with urged his mount on at a faster rate and Skald’s attention was narrowly focused on not falling off.

-----

Less than half a day brought Lord Elrond and his remaining troops to the western outskirts of the jewel-smiths’ city. The pace of the ride slowed as the Elves fanned out, looking among the rolling hills and low-lying forested areas for any of their kindred who might have escaped. In the more thickly wooded sections, the Dwarves dismounted and went in twos and threes looking for any in hiding.

[Mithalwen]

Perhaps there was a limit to misfortune even in such desperate situations. Somehow Losrian got herself, the child and the pony out of the city. Somehow she evaded the hoardes of foes who had invaded the city while using a breach they had created to escape. The fabled wealth of the mirdain was of more interest to them than a few pathetic refugees. The smoke they had created provided cover as the trio left the city and picked their way across the battlefield then across anxious miles to the shelter of the woods.

Though this provided some cover, Losrian was far from feeling secure. While she could go on Galmir was another matter. Although he could walk he was too small to cope with long distances or rough terrain and had been carried by Losrian until they left the city behind and now was curled up in one of the pony's panniers. The pony had stumbled and was now a little lame. They would need to find somewhere to rest for a few hours at least.

Losrian remembered that deep in the woods were huts used by the elves when doing forestry work .... that would be safest she thought .. not that anywhere was truly safe. At least there would be shelter and she could tend the horse and the child ...and herse lf.. she realised she had many cuts and bruises - but her injuries were negligible compared to... no she mustn't think about Ferin. Not now. Though the grey clothes she wore were heavily stained by his blood. She would have to keep watch and listen for danger while his son slept. Try and get him to safety, maybe to her parents in Lindon - if even Lindon was safe now. She feared that having destroyed Ost in Edhil they would move to the last realm of the Noldor in Middle Earth.

So even when she reached the hut and settled child and beast as best she could. There was some provisions there - hay, old but not musty (and the pony was not fussy) - and a supply of firewood . A fire would be cheering but it was out of the question while pursuit was so possible.

Losrian sighed and drew her cloak about her. She had her bow strung and and her knife to hand. She was exhausted in body and spirit but deperately tried to alert. For if she let down her guard, she would be trapped.

So she remained for some hours until tiredness won over her resolve. She was woken by a faint rustle - chiding herself for her weakness and looking across to the pony who she hoped was the source of the noise.

To her horror the beast slept as did the child. The noise was outside. Soft footsteps - those could be elves but heavier ones too .... a vision of orcs guarding a group of thralls filled her mind. Her greatest fear and it was too late seemingly to escape. She took up her bow and nocked an arrow....She thought she heard horses and the pony stirred... was this a strand of hope - orcs did not ride she knew ... but they were not the only servants of the enemy. She held her breath...

[Envinyatar]

The area on the north side of the river was pocketed with scattered areas of low growing shrubs. A few willows wandered here and there along the river’s bank, dipping their long roots into the water. Ondomirë wondered that the trees did not curl back their roots in horror that the once clear, sweet, waters of the Sirannon now ran red with the blood of Elves and Orcs and Men. Or that those very willows did not curl up their leaves at the reek of death that eddied on the breezes.

Lord Elrond’s troops had found only a handful of Elves from the city who were still living, nearer the river. The Orcs had ranged out this far before the lure of riches in the city overcame their desire to kill more Elves. It was only through great luck, or perhaps as some of the Elves would whisper, the grace of the Valar, that the lives of a few of the mirdain had been spared.

Further on, the shrubs gave way to more heavily wooded areas. One of those from the city who had been rescued urged the Lindon Elves to make for a part of the woods more to the east where he said he and his family had gone in the summers to harvest wood for their forge fires. There were some wooden shelters there, where the woodsmen would live while they worked. Perhaps, he told them, some of the families who had been able to flee the city would have taken refuge there.

‘There,’ he cried softly, as they neared the clearing. ‘Those are the huts!’

The troops drew near the clearing. It was quiet. The windows of the shelters were all dark, doors closed. It appeared undisturbed.

One of the Dwarves, who were now on foot, inched his way quietly to the perimeter of the trees about the clearing. He crouched down, his eyes looking closely at the ground where the dried grasses abutted the ring of birches. ‘A small horse,’ he said, calling back to his companions who had come forward. ‘Here . . . and recently.’

Ondomirë came softly to the Dwarf’s side. ‘Yes . . . and gone that way,’ he said his eyes following the faint track . . .

[Mithalwen]

They were at the door now. Losrian thought she might faint, her hands trembled on the bow as she drew it.

The door swung open. Silhouetted against the frame were two figures - one extremely tall the other comparatively stunted. There was a blur of other figures behind them. Even in the shadows it was immediately clear that they were not orcs but elf and dwarf in the familiar uniforms of Lindon and Moria respectively.

Losrian let the arrow drop and stumbled forward towards them. The sight of her rescuers acted as a release for all the tension, pain and fear of the past hours and Losrian fell sobbing uncontrollably in to the arms of the first elvish soldier who had caught her as a reflex as she collapsed.

Moments later her self control began to reassert itself. Part of her realised that she was not necessarily safe because she was no longer alone part of her realised that this was no ordinary soldier. The surcoat into which she was sobbing belonged to a very high ranking officer indeed. I have escaped death to die of shame, she thought as she struggled to compose herself, suddenly aware of her own dishevelled appearance as well as the fact that she had virtually forced herself into the embrace of an elf lord to whom she would not have presumed to speak, had they met in other circumstances. Under the grime her face flushed , passing to a darker hue when Galmir, wakened by his aunt's sobbing and seeeing her supported by a tall, dark-haired elf had inquired hopefully, "Ada?".

Losrian drew away from Ondomirë as if she had been burnt. " No, not Daddy. Daddy's gone. Mummy's gone. It is just you and me" she finished biting her lower lip.

"I am sorry my Lord" she added, belatedly making a reverence, before turning to the child to hide her extreme embarassment.

[Arry]

Skald’s attention was drawn by the young Elven child. Stop staring, you great ninny! he chided himself. Of course, there will be children. They don’t simply drop from the sky fully grown . . . Which is what Riv had told him when they were much younger. The ‘fact’ planted in his young brain had stayed there, making up part of the myth he’d conjured for himself about Elves. And now it was disputed by the little one’s hopeful face and his childish voice raised in a question.

‘Who are you calling for, little one?’ he asked crouching down to be on level with the child. He glanced up at the Elven woman who had returned her attention to the youngster. ‘For your mami?’

[Envinyatar]

‘No, not his mother,’ Ondomirë answered Skald in the common tongue. ‘He asks for his father.’ The young woman’s back was to him, and Ondomirë could feel her discomfort at his presence. ‘In the dim light he mistook me, I think.’

He stooped and picked up the arrow that had dropped to the hut’s floor. Instinctively his fingers ran down the shaft of it, testing its straightness and how well the head was attached. The fletching, too, suffered the scrutiny of his fingers, before he drew near the woman and handed the arrow back to her. ‘M’lady, your arrow. Best you keep it, lest we have need of it and your skill with the bow as we travel on.’ He caught himself, recalling that she was not one of his bowmen to be spoken to so abruptly.

‘Your pardon. I should have given my name and asked yours.’ He nodded toward the Dwarf who was still speaking softly to the child. ‘This is Skald, M’lady. Of Khazad-dum. He and a number of others of his kin offered their services to us in our attempt to reach your city. I am Ondomirë, here with Lord Elrond to see how we might offer aid to our kin. Lord Gil-galad sent us, from Lindon.’ He looked at her grimed, tired face. ‘To our sorrow we arrived too late and with too few to save your city.’

‘We have gathered some who managed to flee from the destruction and are looking for others who might be hiding in these woods from the Orcs and Men. If you will, we can take you to a place of safety along with the others. Something further away from Sauron’s present campaign against us. Will you come? You and your . . . son, is it?’

[Mithalwen]

Ondomirë's manner, brisk and efficient, reassured Losrian and she relaxed a little. The officer seemed unperturbed neither by her tears nor by being addressed as "Daddy" by a grubby little urchin. She had noticed that her craftsmanship had passed muster and that also gave her confidence. She straightened her shoulders as she took the arrow, and raised her head to meet the steady gaze of Ondomirë.

"My son? No!" she answered in the Westron partly out of courtesy to the dwarf who in a minute seemed to have made a greater bond with the child than she had in a year and also so she might more speak more openly. Galmir understood a lot more than his own speech indicated and he was not yet fully aware of the extent of his loss. She spoke a little haltingly - she had little cause of late to use the common tongue.

"He is my brother's son. Galmir is his name. Mine is Losrian. My brother is dead as is his wife and her kin. So although I am a better archer than a nursemaid by a long shot - and better again at crafting arrows than firing them.... there is noone else to take care of him apart from my parents in Lindon, and I fear that the fell one will turn his eye thither now.... So we must get on as best we can. She sighed.

"Gladly I accept your offer, my lord, for there will be greater safety in numbers - I cannot travel subtly so encumbered" . Losrian glanced at Galmir who was clearly fascinated by the dwarf's beard. A glimmer of amusement played over her grave face. "And I rejoice that there are others. Do not regret you latecoming for the numbers were so great that it would have profited us little and now your arrival may prevent all being lost" She smiled and it was if a beam of sunlight had broken through clouds for an instant. Then she started to blush again and lowered her head as she feared she had spoken too boldly. She took the opprtunity to shoulder the pack that lay at her feet.

" A moment to attend to the beast and we will be ready my lord" ready once more to meet Ondomirë's regard.

[Envinyatar]

Geldion stepped up quietly behind Ondomirë. The Captain of the Swordsmen’s blade was drawn and at the ready. He had noted his friend was occupied with something or someone in the hut, and not knowing whether it was friend or foe, he came to assist.

A bit young for you, my friend . . . Geldion commented silently. His eyes now accustomed to the dim light of the interior looked the young women over from head to foot. Grimy faced, and scruffily dressed, she presented a sorry sight. Her hair, he noted, was caught in a loose, untidy braid that hung over one shoulder. Not far from her sat an Elven child, his attention caught by the antics of a Dwarf who was entertaining him. And she has a child, so it follows a husband must be somewhere in the picture. He stifled a snort. I leave you alone for one moment and this is what you’ll drag home for your ammë to approve? His brow was raised in a questioning manner and a slight smile hovered at one corner of his lips.

Ondomirë’s eyes narrowed as he gave his friend a withering look. Geldion was forever attempting to match him up with an eligible Elven female. Amongst other encounters, there had been a number of ambushes, barely escaped from, as Geldion played matchmaker between various females in his extended family and his friend.

‘Saurauko!’ hissed Ondomirë aloud, firmly pushing Geldion toward the door. By the One! This is no time for your crude attempts at changing my unattached status. She’s just run for her life from Sauron’s foul creatures - a bit of dirt, wrinkled clothes, and mussed hair is allowed, I should think. And the child . . . it’s her brother’s son, you great fool!

Yes . . . well enough defended . . . threw back Geldion as he stepped back through the door. Then turning, his features not the least contrite, he made a parting shot before hurrying out of Ondomirë’s reach. Still . . . I always knew you to be an easy mark for those of the fairer sex with silvered hair. Barely escaped that Lindar from Forlond, as I recall . . .

As Geldion hurried away to see to his men, Ondomirë took a deep breath and turned back to Losrian, speaking to her in the Elvish tongue. ‘If I might make a suggestion or a request, more like. Lord Elrond and his advisors are unfamiliar with these eastern areas. Would you be willing to lend us your knowledge as we look for a place of safety? If you wish, I can give you one of our mounts to ride. And if you will, I’d be happy to have you ride by my side. Your arrow – and I’m assuming it was you who crafted it, is a fair piece of work. I should think that you were also a practiced hand with the bow you carry.’ He glanced to where Skald had picked up Galmir and was laughing as the boy pulled at his beard. ‘The little one will need to ride in the van. There are many children and mothers there, surrounded by a score of well-armed guards. The pony, too, can travel along with them. They move at a slower pace than do we.’ He watched her as she glanced toward Galmir. ‘I’ll not pressure you for an answer. Just get word to me if you wish to ride at the front.’ He took in her tall, slender figure. ‘There is sure to be some light mail shirt you can also have, m’lady . . . should you choose to ride with us, that is.’ He felt himself about to trip over his own words should he speak further.

Ondomirë stepped back a pace and bowed slightly to Losrian. ‘I need to check on the rest of my men.’ ‘Skald,’ he said, returning to the common tongue, ‘can show you to the wagons where the women and children are situated. By your leave, m’lady,’ he said nodding once to her before going out the door.

He stood outside the hut for a few moments in the morning’s sunlight, his eyes adjusting to the bright light filtering through the trees. In the new day’s breezes the leaves of the tall birches fluttered, their leaves winking silver at him as they twisted on their stems.

[Folwren]

Bror slipped down from the horse’s high back and nearly fell over backwards as his feet met with solid earth. He sent the animal a rather dark look, not thinking of how unfair it was to blame the horse for his naturally quick trot. Skald had managed to get off his horse much sooner, and Bror wished he had, too.

But now he turned his mind to the search for refugees from the burning city. There were quite a few huts, but they were being searched by the elves already. Bror walked quickly over to where three other Dwarves stood together.

‘They’ve got this place taken care of,’ he said, stopping by them. ‘We ought to go back towards the river and look that way. There could be some wounded who couldn’t have made it so far.’

It seemed like a logical assumption to all four of them and they headed off in the general direction of the city and the river, the four of them walking separate with several yards in between. They soon came to where the trees about them thinned. Bushes bearing flowers grew on the edges of the wood and went out into the field. Bror stood on the outer most edge of the wood and looked down. At the bottom of the incline the river ran like a sparkling ribbon. Up the slope beyond it, the city stood, over a quarter of a mile away. Once so bright, like a star descended to earth, the towers of the city were black and crumbling in ash, and smoke rose up, circling and choking the light of the sun.

Bror turned his eyes away and continued his search for any sign of life. A few more paces on and he stopped abruptly. Ahead of him, under a clump of tall bushes, he thought he caught the glimmer of light on mail. He hurried forward after just a momentary pause and coming closer, he saw that his eyes had not deceived him. It was impossible, however, to make out the form of whoever wore the mail, or if he were alive or dead. Kneeling quickly, Bror forced the branches away and looked down.

The figure of an elf warrior lay stretched out fully on his stomach. Blood stained his clothing, proving that he had looked war in the face, and his face, turned towards Bror, was marred by a long, cruel looking cut across his cheek, and his eyes were shut.

‘Poor chap,’ Bror muttered to himself. ‘Either dead or worn out to that point, almost.’ He reached out to shake the elf. His hand hardly touched the armored shoulder before the figure opened his eyes quickly and started half way up. Bror jumped back half a foot, startled at the elf’s sudden waking. For a moment they stared at each other and Bror felt uncomfortably at a loss of words.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said finally. ‘We’re here to help you, if we can, and get you all out of here before the orcs come back. Can you move, or are you wounded badly?’

[Encaitare]

The incoming Dwarven forces had proven to be an ample distraction for Glûtkask's men; although the orkish troops were able to hold them back by sheer numbers, a number of Elves and Dwarves had managed to escape.

This would not do.

"Get back through those gates! Let the Easterlings take care of the Dwarves!" Heeding his own words, the captain entered the walls of Ost-in-Edhil once more, orcs pouring in behind him. He climbed upon a pile of rubble, kicking an Elven corpse out of his way that he might address his soldiers.

"Listen well! We came here with two tasks to complete: to take this wretched city, and to slay all who stood in our way. The place is as good as ours -- but every survivor means that in some small way, we have failed! Every survivor is one more that might someday challenge our Master. Go forth and show any and every Elf and Dwarf you see what happens to those who reject the Lord Sauron!"

The orcs bellowed as Glûtkask jumped down to the street. "There are still some craven Elves cowering in their homes!" The soldiers went crashing through the streets like a vengeful flood. "I can smell them," he added in a murmur that no one heard.

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo felt a slight movement near his shoulder. He stirred with a quiet groan and rolled halfway onto his back. Where was he? He had ran across the stone bridge, comfortably solid underneath his shoes, and then there were sparsely wooded meadows stretching for some distance, and then there was a dark green forest ahead of him. He remembered falling to his knees almost without warning. An orcish arrow? No . . . fatigue. He landed in some soft bushes, fell to the earth, and must've slept under the cover of the wilderness. What time was it now? The sun had risen. It seemed like a blinding light after that darkest night. A stick snapped underfoot nearby, but it was not Cainenyo's. He remembered the hand on his shoulder. Cainenyo rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and half-expected an orc to have awoken him. But after looking over the figure in front of him and getting used to the bright light of the morning, it was obviously no orc, but a dwarf. Cainenyo had met very few dwarves over the course of his life, but he always remembered their thick beards and squat little bodies.

"I’m sorry," the dwarf said, "We’re here to help you, if we can, and get you all out of here before the orcs come back. Can you move, or are you wounded badly?" Cainenyo now sat up and brushed some dirt from his mail armor.

"My ankle is a bit sore, but I can still walk," Cainenyo said. He stood up, surveying the land surrounding him. There were white flowers growing on his bush, and there were other flowers growing across the field. Beyond the field lay the glittering river, and the grey stone bridge. And beyond the bridge stood the smoldering city, sending great clouds of black smoke drifting into the sky. In the opposite direction stood a forest and safety. Three other dwarves were in the meadow, searching for survivors among the grass and flowers. "I am Cainenyo. I was a blacksmith in the city," Cainenyo said holding a hand out to the dwarf. He took it. "I am Bror," the dwarf answered. After a pause the dwarf said, "Did you escape the city with any others? Or do you know where we might find any other survivors?"

"I am afraid not. I escaped alone," Cainenyo said, "But perhaps you can tell me if you have found others. I am seeking my family. I believe they escaped with a large cart of belongings." Cainenyo still had hope; there were wagon tracks in the road to the bridge. And certainly Cainenyo wasn't the only survivor the dwarves had found.

"A cart . . . I'm afraid I don't recall a cart." Cainenyo's hope wavered for a moment, but they soon rose once more at Bror's next words. "But there are some huts in the forest that way. We found some survivors there. You might want to check there."

"Ah, thank you, Master Bror!" Cainenyo felt rather glad despite the grim times. "This way, you said? To the forest?" He bid Bror farewell and headed off towards the forest and the huts, where hopefully Cainenyo's family lay waiting.

[Mithalwen]

Losrian might not be a party to the exchange between the captains but she understood well enough Geldion's appraising glance and his subsequent reaction. She had been judged and found wanting. She was unsurprised by the reaction - her hair colour which was much more unusual in Eregion than in Lindon might attract attention but the rest of her appearance seldom held it. Her mother had lamented that "Losrian would be pretty if she made the effort" but the effort was rarely made. Nevertheless she would have expected it more from Artamir's friend Leneslath than an elf of this age and stature.

Seeing Geldion glance at Galmir she deemed that he had made the obvious assumption that the child was hers and was surprised that anyone would have wanted her as a wife. 'What does he expect? ' she thought . 'I doubt that even the Lady Galadriel herself would look her best in these circumstances'. Her ire was quelled by the fact that Ondomirë had defended her. She was touched by his gallantry and would have agreed to his request even if it were against her inclination... instinctively she trusted his assurance that Galmir would be safe in the wagons.

She followed Skald, leading the pony, while Skald carried the little boy with whom he now seemed fast friends.

"Surely you must have children of your own - you are so good with him?" she asked. The dwarf's deep glittering eyes met hers and though they intended no reproach they touched the depths of her heart when he replied "No, not yet, but I have a nephew too - and a niece.."

As he continued to speak of them with great affection, Losrian sighed inwardly. So a way with children was not an gift acquired by parents at their children's birth. She clearly had not been blessed with this instinct. She confessed as much to Skald.

"It is a skill - you can learn it, just as you learnt to make those fine arrows of yours. I don't suppose the first you made was so good? " He said kindly and was rewarded by another of those brief but sweet smiles. Losrian realised that like it or not she was effectively a mother now, she could learn and indeed she would have to. But not today. Today she would ride among elf lords, elves who had known and fought with the heroes of the Elder days. She did not doubt that there might be others among the refugees who knew the area better but she knew enough for a while. Laswen's parents had farmed someway north of the city and they had all gone there in the summer to help with harvest in the early years, before the war had come.

She had entrusted Galmir to a woman whose own daughter was the same age and who indeed had known Laswen. Any uncertainty she had had was dispelled as she saw how happy the little boy was to be with other children. She handed up a cloak and lembas and his drinking cup and kissed him goodbye, ruffling his dark curls. "I'll see you later - be good". The pony who had walked out almost sound and would be fine now he had been relieved of much of his burdens was hitched to the wagons.

Losrian now only had to worry about herself. She had washed her face and hands in a stream and smoothed her hair with her wet hands. Her stained coatdress had been replaced by borrowed mail and surcoat which lighter and better fitting than the armour she had used in the sieges, did not entirely disguise her figure. The contents of her pack having being transferred to saddlebags she carried little more than her weapons.

All in all she was a more presentable figure when she led her horse towards where Ondomirë stood. In the clear morning light she got a proper look at the Elvish commander He was so tall, a hand's breadth taller than Ferin had been and about twice that taller than herself. She noticed the distinctive arrowhead brooch that pinned his cloak. It was fine work - worthy even of the Mirdain. She felt a little nervous again for the captain of swordsmen was near and she did not wish to suffer his sardonic scrutiny.

Losrian bowed for to curtsey in male garb seemed ridiculous "My Lord Ondomirë, I am at your service". Soon all was ready and despite the horror of the day before, the griefs that remained to be mourned and the not yet banished danger, a little part of her spirit sang for joy as she rode alongside the Commander of the Archers, in the company of Elrond Peredhil of whom so many tales had been told.

[Arry]

It was a reluctant parting . . . the one which Skald made with little Gally. Far from making him despair at the bitter fortunes of a child caught up in war, he had savored the contact. It seemed a small bubble of the familiar to him, pushing back the present memories of pain and death and yes, even fear. ‘You’re naught but a homebody,’ he mumbled to himself, waving one last time to the little one as the Elven lady placed him in the wagon near her daughter. ‘Fierce warrior be hanged. Face it - you’d rather be attacking a piece of marble with your chisel and hammer than out hewing Orc necks. Nay – not attacking. Inviting’s more like it. Teasing out the shapes within the stone. With little Leifr playing at your feet. And at the end of the day the family all gathered round the supper table.’ He stroked his beard, thinking of his wee niece, her baby fists pulling hard at his beard, her bright laughter ringing as she did so.

‘Still, much as I’d like to be safe under the mountain with them,’ he thought to himself, ‘I’m wanting now to see the little lad to a place where he’ll be safe from the twisted plans of the deceiver, Sauron.’ He shrugged off an icy chill that had crept up the back of his neck. The dread name had become even more unnerving having seen the destruction he’d unleashed on the Elven city. ‘Bad as his black-hearted master!’ he muttered aloud, spitting on the ground as he did so.

With his jumble of thoughts spinning round in his mind, Skald set out to look about the large area where Elrond’s troops had halted as they gathered in the city’s survivors. Bror, he knew, had gone off with another of the Dwarves, looking for any refugees. Skald wanted to find him before the troops headed out once again.

[Durelin]

Maegisil sat beneath a tree amidst a small patch of scattered woodland, watching the smoke curls dancing on the horizon in the east, seemingly playing on the slopes of the Misty Mountains. They looked particularly misty this day, and dark, grey, and drab. The elf wondered how he had ever found them beautiful. He hated recalling the many days in Ost-in-edhil when he would watch the sun rise from behind them and think it a blessed sight. Those days were long gone to him, though it had not been long at all since he had slept in a warm, comfortable bed in his home. He felt it was time to forget. Not to move on, but to simply forget, and live as a new person. Only hours before he had raved to his wife about changing his name and denouncing any connection to his people. He desired to obliterate his life without killing himself, for he did not have the guts to do the latter. Which, to him, was now often regrettable.

“We have found another, Counselor Maegisil.”

“Do not call me that,” Maegisil said, his words biting.

“Yes...” the other elf, Arcoion, said, cutting his speech off, almost slipping in a ‘sir.’ He looked battered, and though it was soiled and broken beyond recognition, he still wore the light armour of one of the palace guards. Maegisil had not asked him how he had escaped the palace, as there had seemed to be no way out but for the free passage which had been granted to the former counselor.

“Do we have any food for them? Are they wounded?”

“There is some food, s...” the elf cut off again and took a deep breath, relaxing his body and his tone. “She has been given food, and she has only a few cuts, which she has attended to herself.”

“Good. How many does that make?”

“Seventeen.”

Maegisil considered this number for a moment. Seventeen refugees, not counting himself, his wife, and the soldier standing beside him. Strange that they were an even twenty. Twenty...and how many more were scattered about the land? He doubted there were many more. He had watched Sairien come to tears often, watching the survivors move about, knowing that they were most likely close to all that was left of Eregion. He would not be brought to that, though. Sadness had gnawed away at him for many years, and since his escape from the city, he had banished it, forcing it away with an icy wind, making him cold. All those years that Sairien had spent warming his blood, molding him into a more open person and, as it had been his opinion, a better one; they had all gone to waste, now. The end of Eregion, the destruction of Ost-in-edhil, the death of Celebrimbor marked the end of Maegisil's former life. He would see if it was worth it to begin a new one.

“Thank you,” he said as a dismissal to Arcoion, and he was soon alone again, for a time. In his thoughts, his mind drifted back to the past that he had forsaken over and over, trying in vain to erase it from his mind. The Lord of Eregion plagued his memories. He had been friends with that elf for far too long. He should never have let someone such as him get so close to him. He had never meant for anyone but his wife to be at all near to him. But he had taken her love for granted and sought other companionship, thinking it fine because it was not of the same kind. And it would have been, had Celebrimbor not begun to drain him of his life and so much precious time. He had taken time for granted, as well, and only in the past few days had he found it running very short. The fall of Eregion had been long inevitable, and yet he had not faced it until then.

But then Arcoion returned, and met with Maegisil's short temper when he addressed him as 'counselor' again. Only after a brief moment when Maegisil chose to place his head in his hands, appearing as if he were pouting, did Arcoion state why he had come back to bother the seated elf.

“The scouts have spotted a large party of Elves and Dwarves.”

Maegisil's head shot up to look the armoured elf in the eyes. “Are they close?”

“Yes. Only about a half-mile to the east.”

“Inform the others...”

Arcoion turned to leave, but Maegisil stopped him. “Have you seen Sairien?” He had not seen her for some time, and only wished to make sure she was alright. That was enough for him today.

“She was looking for you but a moment ago, but she was called away to re-bandage a wound.”

“And have the scouts returned? If so, send him to me.” Arcoion nodded, and departed to retrieve the scouts and tell the refugees that they were to prepare to move. He finally rose when the scouts came over to him, and had them lead him to where this ‘large party’ was. Moving quickly through the scattered woodlands, Maegisil wondered at the existence of such a group. They could not be Mirdain... Could the far away Kings have actually remembered their brethren? If they had, they had in vain. And they had only to have to face Maegisil, former Counselor to Celebrimbor, who would not let them forget.

[Envinyatar]

Ondomirë bent down close to Losrian’s lowered head and whispered to her. ‘Well done . . . the bow, that is. But really you needn’t stand on ceremony on my behalf. My other . . . well, men . . . and I . . . are a little more informal.’

When she’d straightened back up, he raised his chin, pointing to where Lord Elrond had begun moving up the line. ‘Now there’s one you can properly bow to. Lord Elrond is making his rounds. A hands on sort of leader, he’s proved to be.’

Those archers nearby fell into a loose formation as Elrond approached. Ondomirë stepped forward as Elrond drew near and gave a short report of his company’s activity so far that day. In all, he thought, there had been about twenty or so of the city’s Elves that they and the Dwarves who worked with them had found and brought into the camp.

Elrond had nodded his head thoughtfully, saying that in all about fifty of the Elves of Ost-in-edhil had been found alive, so far, and taken under his care. The scouting parties, he had decided, would continue until mid-afternoon. Then, he wanted all gathered together in a tight encampment, with the bowmen, lancers, and swordmen to patrol and secure the perimeter.

‘Have we decided where we’ll be heading, then, tomorrow?’ Ondomirë asked.

‘That is still in discussion,’ Elrond replied. The Elves of Lindon were unfamiliar with this region, as were the Lorien Elves. He indicated that those from the city were being asked to come forward with any information that might shed some light on a possible area for such a large group to head toward. ‘Returning westward to Lindon is just not a possibility at present. Sauron’s armies will be moving in force toward Gil-galad. He is bent on our destruction. We will need to make a place of safety and refuge somewhere here in these lands from which we can recover and gain in strength. Sauron will come at us again, and I intend to be ready to fight against him.’

Elrond was about to move on, when Ondomirë motioned for Losrian to stand forward. ‘I thought I should let you know we’ve picked up a fine archer from the city . . . Losrian, who’ll be riding with my company.’ He looked toward her and then back at Lord Elrond. ‘Perhaps Losrian might have an idea in which direction we should head out . . .’

[Folwren]

Bror watched the elf he had found walk away in the direction that he had pointed out. He half wondered if he should escort him back, he seemed so weary, but after a moment of thought, decided the elf could make it on his own. Bror turned to continue searching.

A sudden cry to his right from the woods, caused him to turn quickly and hurry towards the trees once again. He ducked branches and dodged the heavy undergrowth and thorns, searching with his eyes to see the person who let out such mournful and heartbreaking sounds. He knew himself to be a poor judge of elf voices, but this one sounded extremely young.

Breaking through a last clump of bushes, Bror came to a stop. There was the child, a young elf girl, and she knelt beside the figure of an elf woman, shaking and calling out some name, and other words. Bror couldn’t understand her, but he did understand the fear and anguish in her face, her voice, and in her very movement. The woman was dead and made no response to the child’s thrusts and shakes, and every second of silence and stillness from her part, caused the little girl to become more frantic, and her voice rose and her cries became more and more desperate.

‘No, no, child! It’s not good!’ Bror said, walking forward. The girl turned, startled at his voice and strange speech. Bror realized with a sick feeling that if he didn’t understand her, she certainly wouldn’t understand him. She sprang up to her feet and started back in fright and Bror stopped. ‘Easy, Bror,’ he said aloud. ‘Don’t scare the girl. You’re going to have to get her back without being able to talk to each other.’ The child didn’t look like she was going to be going anywhere with Bror, by her own free will. The look in her dark eyes and pale face was one of complete and abject terror, but she didn’t turn and run.

‘Come here,’ he said, kneeling down and speaking as softly as he could. ‘Come on. I’m not going to hurt you.’ The girl looked at him, and her lip trembled visibly. Her eyes traced downwards to the ground and then to the figure of the elf woman. Tears burst free and letting out another cry, she darted back to the woman’s side.

‘She won’t answer! She won’t answer!’ she wept, but in the elvish tongue, and Bror could still not understand. ‘They hurt her, but she brought me out here and she talked to me, but she won’t answer now! What’s wrong? What’s wrong with her?’ Her hands moved over the white face and the dark locks of hair as she spoke. Her voice was choked and broken by the sobs that shook her entire body. Bror crawled forward to the other side of the dead elf. He took his gloves off quickly and slipped his hand under the dead figure. Bringing it back out, he found his fingers coated in blood, as he had expected. He wiped it away on the grass and looked at the child.

‘Come on, we’ve got to go back. She’s dead. You can’t wake her up.’ He stood up, taking the girl’s hand in his. She pulled back, but he didn’t let go and pulled her as gently as he could to her feet and began leading her away. Much to his alarm and discomfort, she began to scream and struggle for release. ‘Oh, to be able to speak the elves words!’ he grumbled to himself. ‘What do I do now?’ He looked down at the girl and then up and around the wood. An elf running towards him caught his eye and he lifted his hand, though he figured that the child’s screaming would be enough to guide him. ‘I am glad you’ve come,’ Bror said, releasing the girl as the elf came to a halt by their side.

‘I can understand why,’ he replied, and then looking down at her, he spoke to the sobbing elf child in her own tongue. The conversation was not long, but she was calmed by his gentle and soothing voice and within two minutes he approached her and picked her up gently. Bror stood by and watched, waiting until the end to see whether the elf needed to tell him anything. He did have a message, and now that he held the girl, he turned to Bror and delivered it. ‘Master Dwarf, we’re regrouping to begin the march out. The orcs won’t be long in coming to finish off what is left of us and the refugees if we don’t leave this place. You should return with me.’

‘Aye, very well,’ Bror answered. They turned and started off through the woods. ‘Was that her mother back there?’ Bror asked after a little time of silence.

‘Yes. She doesn’t understand that she died, or why she would have.’ Bror nodded and asked no other questions. It was enough to explain the girl’s behavior, and it caused a cold, ice like feeling to grow inside him. This battle touched and affected more than just the warriors that fought it. The orcs were ravaging people, bent on destruction and death, and the women and children were likely targets to make.

When they reached the elven troops and the groups of refugees that had been found and gathered, Bror parted with the two elves he was with and went in search of Skald and the other dwarves. He hoped that his older brother hadn’t gone off looking for him. Pushing his way through and among the elves, he finally caught sight of a group of dwarves standing some little ways off. Skald was there, speaking with one of them. Bror hurried forward and heard his name just as he came near enough to hear anything.

‘No, haven’t seen him since. . .wait, there he is now,’ the dwarf said in response to Skald’s questioning. He nodded towards Bror and Skald turned around.

‘Hullo, Skald,’ Bror said coming to him. ‘I’m back, and not late, I hope.’

[Arry]

‘Ah! You’re a welcome sight, little brother!’ Skald clapped Bror on the shoulder and motioned for him to follow. ‘We’re setting up camp over here . . . we Dwarves. Rori’s volunteered us to help with the first watch – it being, he said to the Elven captain that we need a little more sleep than they do.’ Skald laughed at the picture of the tall Elf, his brows raised at the abrupt announcement by the Dwarf captain. ‘Then, of course, we Dwarves gathered around began to laugh and even Rori cracked a smile. The Elf, of course, soon realized we were having a bit of fun with him and laughed himself.’ He paused, his brow wrinkling. ‘Now that’s the second thing I’ve found out about Elves today! They have a sense of humor under all that piercing-eye-serious-stuff. Second . . . and I can’t wait to shove this in Riv’s face for misinforming me . . . they have actual babies! They don’t just appear out of thin air. Hmmmph! Amazing, isn’t it!’

He looked back over his shoulder to catch Bror’s expression at this revelation and noted his brother was not following along behind. ‘Well! What are you just standing there for?’ he asked.

It was soon sorted out that one of the Elves from Elrond’s forces had found Bror and told him to hurry back . . . The Lindon Elves and the survivors would soon be moving out he had told Bror. ‘Well that might well have been the plan,’ Skald said. ‘So he told you what he knew, the Elf did. But it was just very recently that word came down to us here that we’d be spending the night.’ He looked to the center of the camp being established, where the supply wagons and the survivors were gathered. ‘I’m supposing, and I don’t know this for a fact – can’t read minds like the Elves do . . .’ He shuddered at the thought, thinking what Elrond or Celeborn would do if he had the skill to do it and tried it on them. ‘Anyways, a lot of the Elves, survivors and warriors, need fixing up a bit I’m thinking before we move on. Rori’s even sent some of us to get bandaged up by the healers.’ He looked to where Lord Elrond was standing talking to a couple of the bowmen. ‘ ‘Course that’s just my opinion . . . could be we’re spending the night so as the Elves can figure out some plan for our next move. Guess we’ll learn about it when they tell us.’

The two brothers had reached the area where the other Dwarves had gathered. Rori Ironfist was in the midst of them, letting them know how their injured fellows were doing. He advised that they all roll out their bedrolls and rest a while, then eat. There were still some Elves out scouting for survivors, but he wanted his company to stay in camp for now. ‘Joke aside . . . we will take the first watch for the evening, alongside some of Lord Elrond’s troops. We’ll need to keep a sharp eye and ear out for any Orc that might come sniffing round.’

[Mithalwen]

Losrian had stood quietly by Ondomirë 's side as he spoke to Elrond. Losrian had seen him from time to time as a child in Lindon but never so closely. She observed him as discreetly as she could, this scion of so many noble lines, whose history and fate was twined with that of Middle Earth.

Musing on this she was slightly flustered when Ondomirë spoke her name. She made herself stop wondering at his confidence in calling her a fine archer when the only time he had seen her bend a bow, the arrow had been pointing at his neck. What a mercy she had let the arrow fall - how dreadful if she had shot him in her panic... Her attempt at concentration failed ot stop her bow being rather more wobbly than the one to her captain and as she met Elrond's gaze she thought she saw a faint hint of amusement in the deep grey eye.

She had heard that the elf-lord was blest with foresight and could read the hearts of minds of others more clearly than usual even among the Eldar. Losrian had neither the guile nor the will to resist his searching regard and her mind was open to him. She sensed he sought to understand not to pry. In return she received compassion and consolation from one whose loss had exceeded her own. She was overwhelmed that one should take such interest in her. He smiled gently "Losrian can you help us?" speaking aloud at last.

"I think we must continue North, my Lord - at least for now - The enemy goes west to Lindon, to the East are only the mountains and there are no passes throught them that we know of north or Caradhras, only I have heard perchance in the far North. To return South, at least immediately might be perilous - the enemy might expect us seek refuge in Lorien or Moria - the enemy might leave a fraction of his army in wait prove overwheming to us without significantly reducing his attack on Lindon" Losrian's face filled with grief at hte thought of her kin at Mithlond facing and attack such as the one on Ost in Edhil.

"If we go north and a little west, we will skirt the end of Hollin Ridge about ten leagues from where the Hoarwell meets the Loudwater which flows from the mountains. We might find some more of our kindred in that region since not all the herdsmen whose stock graze the foothills took refuge in the city. The angle between the rivers might be defended perhaps - but the country is densely wooded further north I am told - I have not been so far myself. " Her voice tailed off and she glanced at Ondomirë for some clue that she had not at least let him down.

[piosenniel]

Maegisil is found and brought in . . .

My Lord Celeborn! We have discovered a small group of survivors. A short way to the west of us. Their scouts came near and we followed them back to where the Mirdain were gathered.

There was a pause before the Lorien scout went on.

It is Maegisil, Lord. There are sixteen others with him. And ‘no’ . . . Celebrimbor is not among them . . .

~*~

Maegisil and his small party were escorted to the encampment of Dwarves and Elves of Lindon and Lorien by the three Lorien scouts who had found them. Celeborn stood at the edge of the camp, his keen grey eyes fixed on their approach. He looked over the small group as it drew near him, his features giving no evidence of the dismay at the absence of his friend, Celebrimbor. Surely he would have been at the side of his counselor . . .

‘We are glad,’ he spoke aloud, ‘that you have been found safe, Counselor. Come, bring your people to our healers.’ He gestured toward the center of the camp, where tents for the wounded had been set up and food was being cooked. ‘Then you and I should speak with Elrond whom Gil-galad has sent.’

Celeborn fell silent as they made their way to the camp center. ‘Gladder still would we have been,’ he thought to himself, ‘if Celebrimbor had been found . . .’

[Envinyatar]

Elrond turned Losrian’s reasons over in his mind for a moment. ‘That more or less confirms what my advisors have offered. And moreso for the fact that you can add the weight of your kin possibly being already in that area. North it is, then. But not until tomorrow. We should have the injured taken care of by then and ready for travel.’ Elrond nodded to Losrian, then turned his attention to Ondomirë.

‘Come to my tent once you’ve set the first watch. We will need to make plans on where to station the troops as our group advances. I don’t know what foe may come against us or in what number.’

Ondomirë watched for a few moments as Elrond passed on to another captain. During his service under Elrond’s command a growing respect and appreciation for the Elf had begun, despite Elrond’s younger years. And Ondomirë had come to see why Gil-galad had sent him as his representative. ‘He will be a great lord among the Elven kindred,’ Ondomirë mused. And in a moment of perceptive clarity he understood that about this Elf would swirl and eddy many of the currents that ran from past to future.

He turned his attention back to Losrian as Elrond passed further on and out of his sight. ‘Well spoken, m’lady,’ he said, nodding in the general direction where Elrond had gone. He leaned back, looking at her speculatively. ‘The first watch will be some of the bowmen and the Dwarves. Shall I put you forward to stand watch? Or will you take your rest? We’ve enough bodies to fill the spots needed, without you.’ He wondered if she might want to spend time with the child that had come in with her, but did not ask. ‘I’ll leave it to you to decide.’ He pointed to where his own tent had been hastily set up. ‘Many of my men have come back from their searches. There will be food to eat, as you wish; and a bedroll can be gotten from the supply wagons so you can stake out your own resting area. First watch will begin just before sunset.

Ondomirë hailed Hensirë, the captain of the spears, as he passed nearby. ‘I’ve got to meet with the other captains for a while. I’ll be back in time to set the watch. See you then . . . yes?’ He gave Losrian a quick smile and hurried away to catch up to Hensirë.

[Arry]

Durelin's post

“We are glad that you have been found safe, Counselor. Come, bring your people to our healers. Then you and I should speak with Elrond whom Gil-galad has sent.”

Maegisil bowed to Celeborn, though he kept it at simple respect, and made it clear that he would not bow to the Lorien Lord as if her were royalty. He had enough of lords and their titles, the formalities and the hours of idle talk and what they considered to be important and careful planning, wasting the time of the entire people they governed. The use of his own title pained him. He could hear Celebrimbor’s voice again in his head, but he shook the memories off.

“Thank you, my lord,” he muttered. Hopefully the bitterness in his voice would be taken for grief. Turning to Sairien, who he had made sure stood beside him, and whispered to her, and she led the survivors they had brought with them toward the center of the camp. He then walked with Celeborn behind them, and spoke more.

“So Gil-galad’s men did arrive?” he asked the elf-lord.

“Yes. Their many delays are obvious, the dangers and the miles were enough to hold them back for far too long, and they do grieve it. But such was the risk the Lord Celebrimbor knew he was taking when he ventured so far from Lindon.”

“I doubt that he knew it,” Maegisil said, barely separating his clenched teeth as he spoke. Celeborn eyed him, but left the topic be. That was more nonsense that would be debated over for hours in some counsel hall in Lindon. If they wished for the Counselor Maegisil’s presence at such a meeting, though, they would not receive it. Anything concerning the former Lord of Eregion that the King and his lords did not already know would remain a secret to them.

After a short silence, Celeborn spoke again, his voice even softer than before. “There is no chance that your lord lived, Counselor?”

Maegisil sighed. “Please, my lord. I am Maegisil, and I am no Counselor.” Running a hand through his hair, he licked his lips and watched the ground pass beneath his feet. “And no, my lord. I can tell you with all certainty that Celebrimbor died with his city.”

[Arry]

‘Well, come on. Sun’s setting and that stuffy Elf is rousting us up for guard duty.’ Skald snorted, loudly, as Ondomirë passed by, knowing the captain was not out of earshot. ‘As if we Dwarves need to be reminded of our duty . . . captain ourselves, we can!’ Rori Ironfoot’s mustache twitched at the uncustomary remark from Skald, and his bushy brows raised at the speaker.

‘I’m tired, that’s all,’ Skald said, his voice sounding weary. ‘I’ll be my usual sunny self once I get a night’s rest.’ He shook his shoulders as if to shake off the fatigue that had settled on him during their brief time in camp. He’d been too restless, thinking of all that had happened and wondering how his family fared at home, to relax and give his body a chance to rest. And now the combination of both had put him slightly on the edge, made his tongue sharp. He clasped his helmet firmly on his head; picking up his buckler and axe he trudged after Bror and the others as they joined half of the archers around the perimeter of the camp.

Some of the Elves took point positions, further out from the line. With their sharp eyes and acute sense of hearing they would be able to spy out any who approached, and relay the message silently to one another.

As the fading evening light settled into darkness, Skald settled in near a rocky outcropping, his eyes scanning the shadows in the distance; his ears open wide for the faintest of sounds . . .

[Mithalwen]

Losrian had indeed spent the time between parting with the captain and sunset with her nephew and indeed with 2 little elf girls - the daughter of the woman who was caring for Gally in the wagons and another, an orphan whom one of the dwarves had found beside her mother's body.

The tale had touched Losrian's heart - this little maid had suffered more even than Gally. The numbers of survivors were so small and mainly women and children who had escaped before the city was ransaked, that it seemed unbelievable that her father or any other relative might be found alive.

If Galmir were old enough for such reflections he might have cursed fate for leaving him with the only member of his family who had not treated him as the centre of their world - but at least he had someone. And his aunt found him easier company now that he had the normality even in such abnormal surroundings of hot food, the company of other children, and something nearer to a bed to sleep on than a cloak spread on a nest of straw.

The children would sleep between the two women. Losrian sang softly as she settled the two orphans and was glad that they began to doze before she had to leave for her watch.

This was duller than she expected. The night was quiet and although her friend Skald was near the duty did not allow for caonversation. And Ondomirë was not there. Losrian felt a pang of disappointment that she chose not to examine to closely at the realisation, categorising as residual gratitude for his great courtesy to her. Her thoughts were distracted by the whispers she heard as her watch ended that Maegisil had been among a group of survivors and was even now ensconced with the lords and captains.

If the counsellor of Celebrimbor had survived, was there hope for the lady Narisiel and her family? Narisiel would surely have been at the palace too. Losrian did not dare hope that it would be the case but memories of her mentor, her husband who had indirectly saved her life this morning and their son whose gentle teasing she had found so disconcerting filled her mind as she slipped off her boots and slid into her bedroll as gently as possible to avoid waking the children next to her.

Losrian woke to find the night was beginning to fade into a clear dawn and a small elf boy had wriggled from his own bedding into hers and was now nestled in the crook of her arm. A tress of her silver hair was wound around his little fist which was held close to his face. Galmir had always loved playing with her hair but this gesture caused something to break in Losrian. In her determination to be taken seriously in the usually masculine world of the smiths she had avoided more traditional female roles and so she had not sought much contact with thechild. Her resistance shattered she. was overwhelmed by emotion and silent tears coursed down her face as she wept for her lost kin and bitterly for her coldness to their child. She gently stroked his face and drew him closer to express her love and to satisfy this new, almost visceral need to protect him.

Soon the camp was stirring and Losrian managed to stem the tears before Gally woke. She did not know wheter he subconsciously repaid her increased affection with cooperation but she soon was able to get him ready for the journey. Once loaded, the slower moving wagons and their escort would set out while the riders, who would soon overtake them, readied for departure. Hoping to use up some of their energy before they were confined to the wagons for the day, Losrian played with the children up until the time appointed for them to leave. Young enough herself not to mind crawling around on the grass with them, Losrian found herself pinned down by three very small elves when she heard a familiar voice " Will you be riding with my company today, milady or will you be other wise detained?"

The voice avoided sarcasm and Ondomirë's face was as calm as ever as he regarded her. It was all she could not to laugh at how ridiculous she must look.

"I will indeed my lord. This trio are about to depart" . She stood dusted the dirt from the knees of her trousers and shook out her hair which fell loose to her waist.

"Very good. Report as soon as the wagons set out", the captain answered before giving his customary short bow and striding away to deal with more important matters. Once her was gone the surpress giggle erupted and though it was a merry fairwell to Galmir, who waved to her as long as he could, the parting though temporary caused Losrian unexpected pain.

She braided her hair, neatly this time and once she had put hte mail back on she was ready to take her place among Ondomirë's "men".

The elf lord spoke little as they rode, he seemed absorbed in his thoughts which Losrian assumed concerned the discussions between Elrond and his captains and allies which had continued late into the night. Losrian concentrated on her staying on her horse - though like all elves she had good balance and an affinity with animals, her opportunities to ride had been limited lately and then to farm horses not restive warhorses. Behind the smoking remains of Ost-in-Edhil reamined in elvish sight at least and ahead the tree clad rise of Hollin Ridge grew nearer.

[Arry]

Several weeks later . . .

The column moved at a slow pace. With the addition of the refugees, all of them on foot save for the children and the injured who rode in the wagons, it was a long day for the group to make even four leagues. Thankfully, for at least a fortnight since they’d left the wooded area north of Ost-in-edhil, there had been no close sightings of enemy troops. And the few that had been seen were moving westward to join the main body of Sauron’s army.

Once they passed the Hollin Ridge and moved a short distance eastward, there were no further reports of Orcs. The mood of the company lightened somewhat, a tenuous sort of hope springing up.

The Dwarves took counsel among themselves one evening as the company stopped to set up camp in a low, hilly area near the northern foot of the Hollin Ridge. There had been talk among them already about how they felt the Elves would be able to make it safely to whatever area they chose as a refuge, without the further aid of the Dwarves. Truth be told, they were eager to be quit of this obligation they had taken on and to return home as quickly as they might.

‘If we head directly toward the mountains we can recross the Hollin Ridge, heading south and make haste along the edge of the foothills until we come to the West Gate. Surely the enemy will have moved on and we can slip beneath the mountains.’ Skald’s tone was hopeful. He had been away from his family’s forge for longer than he cared. And he worried about how they were faring. Had Riv made it back safely? Had there been problems with Sauron’s army as they chased the Dwarves back to the West Gate? He feared some of them may have penetrated the entrance before it could be shut. ‘We can tell the Elves we will see them off tomorrow morning and then leave them to make our own way back home. There are enough of them now to be a strong force; most of the injured are healed and already back on their horses, weapons in hand.’ He looked about the group, most of them already shaking their heads in agreement.

‘Well, then, who wants to be among the delegation we send to Lord Elrond to tell him we are leaving?’

[Envinyatar]

Hensirë slapped his leather gloves he held in his grasp against his thigh, sending up a small cloud of dust. ‘Long ride, eh?’ he said, plopping himself down on bear ground near Ondomirë. The humps and bums and sharp pointed pebbles were not to the captain of the spears’ liking as he sat there. His cape was soon folded into some semblance of a cushion, and he rested his ride-worn haunches more comfortably on it.

‘It’s you spearmen,’ Geldion, eyeing his tall lanky companion. ‘You’re more used to walking along rattling your spears in a frightening manner, than trying to accommodate them as you sit atop a horse.’ He steepled his fingers and smiled like a cat over the tips of them. ‘Now we bladesmen . . . we are born to horse! Dashing and dangerous figures we cut as we drive headlong into battle, swords raised for the kill.’

‘More like you’re born of horse,’ Ondomirë said, grinning widely at Hensirë, with a nod to Geldion. ‘Your attitude, at least, often resembles the equine nether parts!’ Ondomirë ducked as the sword-captain threw a clod of dirt his way. ‘What’s going on over there?’ he asked, lifting his chin toward the gathered Dwarves.

‘Well. I’ve heard that they’re thinking about leaving us soon, Hensirë said. ‘Going back home to Hadhodrond. Can’t blame them, really. They’ve seen us through to this point. No point in wandering about with us. We’ve enough able-bodied to repel what small numbers of foe we might find up here.’

‘Just as well,’ Geldion remarked, his eyes sliding toward the Dwarves. ‘I’m afraid I’m with Lord Celeborn when it comes to the Naugrim. They’re too shifty eyed; too unreliable. Tainted, even. Could take a notion to start doing us in. Like their ancestors. Better we Elves just look out for ourselves.’

Ondomirë snorted in disgust at Geldion’s remarks. ‘You make me apologetic at times that we are kin.’ Geldion shrugged off the remark, turning his head away as Ondomirë rose and walked away.

-----

Losrian had stowed her meager possessions by her bedroll and had just stood up as Ondomirë was passing through the archers’ area of the campsite. ‘Good evening, m’lady,’ he greeted her, nodding as he stopped a few paces from her. ‘Are you going to see the little one?’ he asked. ‘Might I walk along with you, if so? I have need of more pleasant company.’

[Durelin]

It had been two weeks since Maegisil had arrived in the camp of Elves and Dwarves, and he had found it to be a strange mix. There were warriors from Lorien and Lindon, as well as a few from Eregion; the refugees were a combination of both elf-men and elf-women, with a number of young children; and then there were the Dwarves. It was strange to see them all traveling together. Though both the Elves of Eregion and those of Lorien had lived fairly closely with the Dwarves, trade, travel, and a common enemy often bringing them together. But there were few instances when all three of these people were found in one place, much less when those from Lindon spoke directly to a company from Khazad-dûm.

And so the next fourteen days included many a new experience for all, though Maegisil did not find that he could delight in it. Sairien spoke to him of how it cheered her to see such harmony among the groups, talking of how it was ‘good from the bad,’ and something that could give them hope. But the former Counselor had trouble really hearing her words. He spent most of his time with his wife, abhorring the presence of anyone else, as it most often meant informing them of Celebrimbor’s death, or any number of things concerning Ost-in-edhil and its fall. Why they consulted him on such matters, he was not sure.

It was after these long two weeks of moving that what Maegisil considered to be the defeated army passed beyond the Hollin Ridge. Toward where, he did not know. He had heard from few about an actual destination, and it was his only question for several days that he chose to ask whenever anyone attempted to question him. There seemed to be so much confusion, and Maegisil was not used to being out of the loop. As much as he despised the idea of lords and counsels anymore, it was strange to not be among those in Elrond’s tent every evening, discussing further plans.

But then an evening came when the Herald again summoned him, as he had been upon his arrival. Their first talk had been brief. Maegisil had barely spoken, and Elrond had realized quickly that the elf needed time before he would be able to speak at length about Eregion’s downfall. The few words he had said were out of anger, and though the elf-lord had passed them off as the bitter tongue of a tired and grief-ridden man, Maegisil knew he would never regret them. His feet were heavy as he arrived at Elrond’s tent, and when the guards let him in, he was in no mood to waste his energy on even simply the pretense of a bow. He sat almost before the lord motioned for him to.

“I understand that it must be hard for you, my friend,” Elrond began after a deep breath; he looked weary, and his dark flowing hair looked wind-blown, “to bear to see the doom of your own city. And you have been bitter; you have despised and rejected all those who have tried to console you.”

Maegisil looked him straight in the eyes with a blank stare. And I am about to again, he thought, prepared to leave if the elf-lord did not move on to something more important.

“I am not here to console you, though, Maegisil,” Elrond continued. “I finished my part in that on the first day of your discovery by my scouts. Now, I am here to demand answers from you, mírdan, as the Herald of the High King Gil-galad.”

Maegisil practically scowled at the elf-lord. “Yes, great Herald, you are from far away Lindon; you are supposed to be my kin; you abandoned my people to their death. I owe no respect to you, Elrond. I owe you no answers.”

The other elf leaned back in his chair and eyed the former Counselor. His face was of stone, no longer as cool as before, hardened and sharpened by anger. “You will tell me why you sit here now, speaking with me, and the Lord Celebrimbor does not.”

Maegisil gripped the arm of his chair hard, his knuckles turning white. He waited in silence for several moments as if he were waiting for a moment when Elrond wasn’t looking, and he could escape. He felt a twinge of fear for the first time in what felt like forever. Would he ever be able to tell the truth? He suddenly grew angry with himself for cowardice, and felt defiance rise in him. The elf-lord before him could do nothing to him, but yes, he would know the truth.

“Given the choice between the lives of my wife and myself, and the life of Celebrimbor, I chose. And I feel no regret for my decision.”