Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[piosenniel]

The Three ~ A Prologue

Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,
Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.

In the Second Age of Middle-earth, deep within the heat of the forge, the rhyme was fulfilled. Sauron, under the disguise of one named Annatar, had come to the Elven-smiths, the Gwaith-i-Mírdain of Eregion. Dark magic bred deception, and Sauron the Deceiver seduced the Elves, taking on a body fair and majestic. The might of a Maia and the skill of the elven craftsmen brought into the world a new power, a power which few knew the true greatness of. It is unlikely that even its creators knew its full power, besides perhaps the great trickster, the servant of Morgoth. Might and authority, fueled by deep magic from the dawn of time, was poured into the molds in the shapes of rings, and these creations, the greatest of crafts forged by the Noldorin smiths, became the Rings of Power.

The magic of all nineteen of these rings, and one other, would be a part of Sauron’s greatest treachery. Only three would survive and make the journey to Valinor with their bearers. These were the greatest of the Rings, named Narya, Nenya, and Vilya, which had been forged by Celebrimbor himself, Lord of Eregion.

~*~*~*~

c. SA 1590

“It has been quite some time since I saw Lord Celebrimbor…” The Elf trailed off, an unspoken question hanging on the silence that followed. “It has been some time for me as well, Master Annúnfin,” Maegisil replied, speaking as if he was only lightly commenting, but answering his companion quite seriously. He knew it was important business when Annúnfin wished to speak with the Lord Celebrimbor, and when the Elf-lord had been absent from his normal duties for so long. “I will be sure to inform him that you wish to speak with him, when I do see him,” he finished, his last words bringing many thoughts to his mind. When…I hope that shall not be much longer.

It was difficult for Maegisil to explain to all those who wished to receive an audience with the lord that he could not even speak to his master, and had not been able to for many days; this was unexpected, as Maegisil had served Celebrimbor as the lord’s attendant for many years now. Though Maegisil would never be so bold as to say it, he was also a close friend, and an old friend, of the lord.

Celebrimbor had been spending almost all of his time in the forge, sweating over his work, and conversing mostly with the visitor, Annatar. The strange elf – at least, Maegisil believed he was an elf; he was certainly of a fair race, though it was impossible to say which he belonged to for sure – seemed to be some sort of a magician. What business this elf had with the Lord of Eregion was a mystery to Maegisil, as well as to all those who had never even had a chance to speak to the lord before, and those who knew him well. It was bewildering to all except those who worked in the forge with Celebrimbor and this ‘Annatar’, some of the greatest of the Noldorin craftsmen, second only to Celebrimbor himself. For almost seven days now the forges at Ost-in-Edhil had been burning, it seemed, day and night, and had been kept off-limits to most of the city dwellers. Maegisil had ventured to speak to his lord the previous afternoon, and had briefly watched several of the smiths at work. There had been much noise emerging at a constant rate from the forge for those past 6 days, so that Maegisil had barely been able to hear his own voice over the clamor, but now all was quiet, and only the barred doors told anyone that they were still hard at work. Hopefully, though, the silence meant that their task, whatever it was, was nearing completion, and Maegisil would no longer have to wait in his Lord Celebrimbor’s antechamber, spending hours pacing and straightening gemmed statues and chests, and delicately woven tapestries on the walls, and rich cloths over table-tops…none of which needed any straightening whatsoever.

Annúnfin muttered some kind of thanks with a slight bow of his head in simple respect, and turned to go. But Maegisil watched as the elf turned back in one swift motion and looked him in the eye, and he prepared himself for more questions that he could not answer. He was surprised when Annúnfin simply said, “I was pleased to hear you have found yourself a wife, Maegisil.”

Maegisil stumbled on his thoughts for a moment, his mouth open to reply but words coming out. Finally his mind caught up with his mouth and he responded. “Thank you,” he began, a little uncertain, and obviously caught off-guard by Annúnfin’s comment. “It has been wonderful, very wonderful.”

A small smile formed on Annúnfin’s face, his eyes full of an understanding that Maegisil believed he would never have. Master Annúnfin was decidedly his elder, and never left any doubt of this in Maegisil’s impression. The elder elf turned to go again, and this time, Maegisil watched him walk away through the large gilded doors that exited into the great hallway that led up to his chambers. Maegisil’s mind traveled to thoughts of Sairien, his wife. But he did not have long to dwell on these, as they were interrupted by the flinging open of the doors of the antechamber. Immediately Maegisil looked up from the patch of beautifully tiled floor he had been staring at, knowing before his eyes even had a chance to see who was entering the chamber that only one person had ever flung those doors open before, and normally in excitement.

“Maegisil! My dear Maegisil!” Celebrimbor was practically shouting, seemingly frantic with excitement, full of energy, and obviously quite happy to see the elf that he had just found waiting in his antechamber. “I have much to tell you!”

“As have I to tell you, my lord,” Maegisil responded, maintaining an outwardly calm and dutiful appearance, though he was full of happiness to see that his lord was quite safe and healthy, and to finally be able to speak with him. He also felt a certain amount of excitement following Celebrimbor’s entrance, matching the elf-lord’s manner.

“Please, Maegisil, there is no necessity for any ‘my lord’s. These are my chambers, and so you may call me what you please.” Maegisil knew this, though he did like showing what he felt was the proper respect, and was prepared to respond, but he was ran over by Celebrimbor’s words, which rushed out in his enthusiasm.

“But you must know…I have finished them, and they are the greatest of all things I, or anyone, has ever crafted. Perhaps they are great enough even to relinquish my cursed House’s honor, though I doubt there is anything even an immortal can do in this Age or any Age to come that would out-do the power of the Oath of Fëanor.”

The lord paused long enough for Maegisil to speak quickly, “What have you finished, my lord?”

In his haste, he had forgotten to leave off the ‘my lord’, but it seemed that Celebrimbor no longer cared, as he was too deep in thought, seemingly enthralled with this new accomplishment that he spoke of vehemently. “Why, they are the Three. They are the greatest of the Rings of Power, of all 19. Yes, 19, after 90 years. And I fear there must be more to come. They truly are like nothing this world has known, even in Ages past, even with the War of the Silmarils long behind us. Of course, the creation of most of the rings was made possible by Annatar, and now…” He trailed off, his excitement slowly turning from confusion to what could only be fear. That was not something Maegisil was accustomed to seeing on the face and in the eyes of the elf-lord.

“Now what? I do not understand…” Maegisil trailed off, realizing that he really had nothing to say, though there were hundreds of questions running through his mind.

“Now, I am afraid I have made a grave mistake. A mistake that will affect the lives of many in both this Age and the Age to come, perhaps even Ages to come. I am very afraid, Maegisil, very afraid of what I, and my craftsmen, have done, and I am even more afraid of what the one I know only as Annatar has done, and what he will do. O by the Valar, Maegisil! For the first time in my life, I do not know what to do.”

Maegisil felt very uncertain in the silence that followed; he was confused, as well as uneasy and afraid, though he did not even understand why he was at all at unrest, except for what he saw in the look in Celebrimbor’s eyes and what he heard in the tone of his voice.

“What should I do, my lord?” he asked, cautiously, breaking the silence.

“I do not…” he stopped in the middle of this thought, took a breath, collecting himself, and started again, his thoughts renewed, “Soon, the Three must go from here. They must be hidden; they cannot be kept here. Though Annatar is gone, and he has been gone for some time, they mustn’t be within his reach. There is no way to undo what has been done, but, though they seem a curse to me now, the Three will not leave the house of our people.”

~*~*~*~

c. 1600

Maegisil bowed before the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn next to an elf he did not know the name of and their dwarf companions. He and this elf had traveled through Moria at the direction of the dwarves to exit through the eastern gate and make their way to Lorien, where they had recently been welcomed and led to Caras Galadon. Maegisil had been told very little by Celebrimbor, and was given only the instructions to guard his elf companion, and not bring any attention to themselves or their movements. Following orders, Maegisil did not ask the elf his name, and spoke to him only to make suggestions as to what paths they should take to avoid different obstacles of the land. Now that they had reached their destination, Maegisil did not speak at all.

The strange elf rose from his bow as the Lady Galadriel came forward. He turned to give Maegisil a look that clearly meant to stay out of his business. So Maegisil backed away to stand some distance from the elf, gesturing that the dwarves following him. Of course Viss Stonecut and his companions did not like this at all, and they grumbled a bit before joining Maegisil. Viss was the first to move, and the rest followed his lead. At least two of the dwarves present were certainly related to him, and younger, and obviously they held some kind of respect for him. There were only four dwarves, but even four of that race was enough to be quite the crowd, and they looked odd standing in a clump in the domain and presence of so many elves. Maegisil remained removed from them and watched in wonder as Galadriel accepted a small wooden chest from the unnamed elf. The Lady’s face was marvelously frightening as it scanned the faces of those who surrounded her, meeting Maegisil’s eyes for a moment. She did not smile as she had when she greeted them.

Suddenly she spoke, and spoke to all present. It seemed she was not as keen to hiding the proceedings. “Remember that there will always be light in Lorien, as I will bear this Ring, Nenya. You will always be safe here.” And as she raised her hand aloft just slightly, all present realized she had opened the chest and already donned what it contained. The beauty of Nenya startled them all, and left them full of wonder. Soon, far away upon the western shores of Middle-earth, the Elven-kings Gil-galad and Cirdan would wear the Rings Narya and Vilya, and the Three Rings for the Elven-kings, and Queen, would remain as powers of good in Middle-earth until they passed over into the West.

-------

-- by Durelin

[piosenniel]

Envinyatar's post

Early Autumn/Lindon -- SA 1695

It was late in the second day of the council. The sense of urgency had not diminished, nor had the anger. ‘The King counseled the fools,’ murmured Ondomirë to himself, his head shaking at the news that Morgoth’s captain, Sauron, had at last revealed himself. ‘Annatar, he called himself. Lord of Gifts! Pah! Even now the name brings a taste of soured bile to my tongue. Were they so eager for his knowledge that they forgot the hard lessons Fëanor brought upon us?’

Many, many years had passed since the tall, fair-faced Annatar had come to Lindon, offering to teach his skills to the Elves dwelling in the High King’s lands. He’d been sent away then by Gil-galad; his offers to show how Endor, Middle-earth, might be made as fair and lasting as Valinor rejected. Since then, it was told, he had insinuated himself into one of the Elven guilds in Eregion. Teaching them his glamoured skills. And now, dread Wolf that he was, he had pounced on his prey as it contrived to oppose him. His retribution would be swift and overwhelming. Death, and worse, would come to the Elves of Eregion, to their cities, their lands. Sauron’s armies would sweep west over the King’s lands until he and his dark army stood at the borders of Lindon itself.

‘And what does he seek, I wonder?’ asked Ondomirë to himself. ‘He and his Lord always hated the Elves. But reports from Ost-in-Edhil and from Lorien imply there is more than just the wish to subdue the Elven peoples. What have the Mirdain done . . . what has the House of Fëanor done now?’

Ondomirë sat back in his chair, his eyes on Gil-galad at the head of the table as he spoke with various of his trusted captains. He could see the beard of Cirdan as the Elf stroked it, teasing hard answers from it, it seemed, with the thoughtful movements of his fingers. The bright golden hair of Glorfindel gleamed in light thrown from the jeweled lamps. His head moving in ‘yays’ or ‘nays’ as they spoke. And Elrond, his dark grey eyes thoughtful, bent over the map of Eriador, as he traced a route from The Havens to The Hithaeglir, the Misty Mountains.

A frown creased Ondomirë’s brow as he watched Cirdan and Glorfindel deferring to what Elrond was saying. The King, too, nodded his head and clapped Elrond on his shoulder. Ondomirë looked up as the King stood, announcing to the room in general now that troops would be sent to aid Celebrimbor and his people in Ost-in-Edhil. And that Lord Elrond would lead them.

‘Now that is an interesting move,’ commented Ondomirë, loud enough for the Elf to his left to hear him. ‘The King has passed over Cirdan and Glorfindel, both more seasoned than Elrond, and chosen the younger Elf to lead his troops for this battle. Why is that I wonder?’ Brows raised, he glanced at the Elf who was now listening to his out-loud ponderings. In the meantime, the King had called for volunteers to lead the various divisions of Elves he would be sending.

His eyes narrowing as he wondered at Gil-galad’s choice, Ondomirë stood, saying he would gather and captain the archers if it were so wished. ‘Best we give the stripling all the support we can, don’t you think?’ he said quietly as he sat back down.

[piosenniel]

Orofaniel's post

‘Best we give the stripling all the support we can, don’t you think?’ he said quietly as he sat back down.

"Ondomirë, you know better, age and wisdom are not automatically connected," Geldion said under his breath, smiling at the elf, who had just gotten up from his seat to volunteer to lead the archers in the upcoming battle.

It was Geldion turn to get up. "My friend here Ondomire," Geldion started, looking back at the elf, "has just volunteered to lead one of the division," Geldion then said. "Aye, it will be the archers," Ondomirë confirmed. "It would be my honour, my King, if I could lead the division with the swordsmen," Geldion said.

The King looked at him. He didn't look surprised, but curious, or even - in wonder. Why would he volunteer for that, an elf who had not experience whatsoever with leading any force or sort of armies at all? "I know what The King must be thinking. I have not leaded any divisions before. I am merely a humble advisor. I am nevertheless, a warrior as well. I'm highly skilled with the sword, and therefore I would be honoured if the King would grant me the division of swordsmen,” Geldion finished. But just as the words and sentences had slipped from his tongue, he felt as though if he regretted it; this was no place for him. He was not able to lead soldiers into war. It didn’t suit him. He couldn’t do it; he was after all just an advisor. Tactics and strategies was his main field. He was however, a good warrior in combats. He admitted not to be as talented with the spears as with as swords though.

His thoughts circulated for a few seconds, before he opened his mouth again; “It is a task of great responsibility and it is perhaps too much for me to undertake at this point. Thus, I understand if the council wishes me to withdraw and come as a soldier only. Either way, I will do as you command, my King." He straightened his back, not looking the King in the eyes. He found himself trying to avoid the eyes of the elves present at the meeting.

The elves said naught for a couple of moments. All seemed to be in deep thought. Elrond had turned away from the map, and was now looking at Gil -Galad

"I think it only fair that you shall be the captain of the swordsmen," and elf said, but not clear or loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Indeed," another elf whispered. "You have served me well over the years," the King said. "You shall therefore lead the swordsman, but remember not only to use your skills when in battle, but also when preparing for it. You shall go not only as a Captain, but also as an advisor. Remember that," Gil-Galad said quietly. A feeling of great sensation of joy and relief reached Geldion's body and mind as the King spoke. Maybe he had been too critical towards his own abilities. Perhaps he was the right man for this task after all. The king, the man Geldion respected the most, showed confidence in him by giving him the swordsmen division, and thus Geldion promised himself not to fail or be defeated.

"Thank you, my King. I will not fail," he said and thanked the elves altogether, as he bowed. "Let us hope so," Ondomirë said, smiling at him as Geldion seated again.

[piosenniel]

Durelin's post

Late in the year SA 1695

Maegisil rushed up several flights of stairs only to stop and cautiously enter a pair of gilded doors, his mind filled with memories, all that he recalled from a day over a century ago. It did not seem that long ago, and yet the thought that the day he recalled was only several days after he had asked for his Sairien’s hand in marriage was nearly unbelievable.

Entering the chamber behind the gilded double doors, Maegisil found, of course, exactly whom he was looking for, reclining on a long couch and examining a game board with many small, flat, rounded stone pieces on it in designated positions. It was some kind of strategy game that the elf-lord had once tried to teach to Maegisil, praising how consuming it was and how much it put the mind in a struggle, forcing it to think as quickly as it could under pressure. Just what a general needed, he had said. As Maegisil had no interest in becoming a general, and simply wished to remain in his place at Celebrimbor’s side in battle, he had quickly given up on the game.

“My lord,” he began cautiously, interrupting Celebrimbor’s thoughts so that the lord’s head snapped up from the game board with a perturbed look on his face. His face softened quickly, though, and he asked Maegisil what had brought him here.

“Well, sir, we have received word from the King Gil-galad that the servant of Morgoth, Sauron, has grown in power enough that his armies have begun to terrorize the eastern part of these lands.”

“Sauron…much have I heard that name of late.” The elf-lord rose, a troubled look on his face, and began to pace. “He has even been in my dreams,” he paused in his pacing, and in his words, to look Maegisil in the eye, urgency written upon his face.

“It was only a matter of time before he would attack and strike back at our people.”

“But we still are in possession of the Three, and they are safe.” Maegisil cut in, reminding the elf-lord that there was at least one possible advantage.

“I can only hope that they will be more a blessing than the curse that they seem to be,” Celebrimbor quickly said in response to Maegisil’s statement, still unsure of whether or not the safe existence of the Three was in fact a good thing.

“They are not a curse as long as they are safe in the hands of Kings and a Queen of our people," the younger elf assured his lord. “And Lord Elrond has been sent to our aid with a considerable force,” Maegisil said, hoping to bring some kind of relief to his lord, uncertain of what the elf was so afraid of, and quickly growing afraid himself.

“It will be some time before he will reach us here, and Sauron will be moving quickly. Not too quickly – he is too wise for that. But his armies will arrive in Eregion, and they will march upon the gates of Ost-in-Edhil, and he will call upon me. But he does not know where the Three are, nor of the oath I have sworn…”

“We will be prepared for Sauron’s attack, my lord," Maegisil said, again trying to give his lord confidence in the situation. “Sauron is very strong, and our strength here does not match that of Forlindon and Harlindon, but there are many in Eregion that will fight for you.”

Celebrimbor laughed slightly, leaving Maegisil confused. It was almost a bitter laugh, and was the kind of laugh you hear from someone who is distressed and yet finds something to be darkly laughable. “I know you will fight for me, Maegisil,” the elf-lord said, “but I ask it of you and others to fight for our people, for their families.”

Maegisil only nodded, standing grave and silent before his lord, and recalling the day over century ago when Celebrimbor had first told him of the Rings. He was again afraid as he had been on that day, and when he looked at Celebrimbor, tall, fair, and brooding, he knew that the lord felt that same: afraid and uncertain. The biggest difference to Maegisil this time was the more prominent presence of Sauron. Since around the year 1200 of that age, word had it Sauron had been establishing his fortress in Mordor, and now the threat of the Dark Lord was even more of a reality, and all were learning to tremble slightly at that name, most likely to the pleasure of its bearer.

Celebrimbor asked Maegisil if he would bring the King’s emissary to him, feeling it of course proper that he receive them and speak to them himself. The younger elf quickly obeyed and left the elf-lord alone, deep in thought. The master of the Elvensmiths had much on his mind, and few of his thoughts were pleasant.

As he had sworn, the Three Rings, the greatest creations he had ever crafted, which he had hoped would be a blessing to himself and to his people, would never fall out of the hands of the Eldar, as they were hidden safely. They had been for close to a century, as he had long awaited the time when Sauron the Deceiver, or ‘Annatar’ as he had known him for a time, would strike with the power of his Ring. But the other rings were all in Sauron’s possession. Celebrimbor kept coming back to this thought, the knowledge of just how far the Deceiver’s power extended. But, as the elf-lord kept telling himself, he would never have the greatest, the Three. They would be a powerful defense for his people. Or so, at least, he hoped the future of these rings would unfold. I beg of Ilúvatar, let not the Oath of Fëanor mar this.

[piosenniel]

Amanaduial the archer's post

Seated gracefully on the banks of the river, Ost-in-Edhil spread it’s elegant almost lotus-shaped leaves out over the River Glanduin. Bordered on one side by mountains and surrounded by rivers on all others – the Glanduin and smaller Siranon, glancing off the larger river, the tributaries of Nin-in-Eilph, and the majestic Mitheithel – it sat harmlessly in the South of Eregion. In the capital of the ‘holly region’, all was hustle and bustle as always: the year was drawing on yet above the heads of the elven inhabitants the holly leaves still swung gently in the winds, and the sound of the elvensmiths in their forges, always, always sang out among their evergreen leaves. From a birdseye view, little could the eagles that circled regally overhead have guessed what busy little bees had been working on inside those forges – and what evil their creations would bring from over the mountains of Mordor…

As Maegisil was rushing hastily down the stairs of Celebrimbor’s regal dwelling from his master’s rooms on his master’s errand, one of the Lord of Eregion’s other advisors was also working hard, but far away from the finery of Celebrimbor’s rooms, where her lordship played games of strategy. Hers was another type of work indeed: the work that Ost-in-Edhil’s Mirdain were famous for.

The clang of Nerisiel’s hammer rang out again and again on the anvil, the flat-ended instrument chiming out almost musically. The elf took careful aim each time before she clashed iron against steel, but the force with which she smashed down her tool seemed to convey anger more than anything else. Eventually, her pale face glinting in the firelight of the forge, the elvensmith set her hammer down, with a pair of tongs, lifted the object of her attentions from the anvil; and after close inspection, she nodded slightly, her delicate features satisfied, and took the item over to her workbench. Setting the article – a new sword blade – carefully down on the bench, Nerisiel seated herself beside it, her feet curling up around the chair leg in an almost lady like manner that was somewhat contradicted by the loose, dark workman’s trousers that they were clad in, overlaid with the shin-length leather apron common to working smiths. Not that any who came to see the Master Smith would have commented on it – or not out loud anyway. After all, in Ost-in-Edhil, female smiths were not entirely uncommon – but for one to reach her standard of craftsmanship: that was.

Humming softly to herself, the elf studied the blade she had made closely, holding it almost delicately in the tongs although it had now cooled sufficiently to be touched. It was a commissioned blade from one of her husband’s colleagues, a Captain in Eregion’s army, as a gift for his son, and would therefore be rather more ornamental before she had finished with it. After all, her own blade, which hung proudly over her forge as an example of her work, was testimony to the fact that simply because a weapon is a tool of violence, it cannot also be a thing of beauty – and having known the boy to whom the sword would be bestowed since be was a small child no more than about ten summers, she intended to make this article just such. Nothing less would do for Nerisiel, for she was after all a jewel smith above all else. A profession which had come back recently to haunt her… The elf pursed her lips grimly and turned back to the task in hand. Yes, the blade would have to take another heating before the engravings that she planned were carved on it, but not too much: she could begin them today, it was not too late in the day…

“Who is that for?”

The voice came from the entrance to the forge and was one so familiar to the smith that it did not make her jump but instead prompted a smile on her pretty features. She turned, smiling, to face the young elf who leant with his arms nonchalantly crossed against the door post of her workshop, the leaves of the holly that was trained around her doorway lightly brushing hair as dark as his own. Her finest work of art: her son.

“It is for a friend of yours actually, Artamir – Leneslath, Captain Rimborien’s son. A gift from his parents, a reward for his recent promotion?” Artamir nodded, coming slowly forward into the dim of the forge, the light glinting mischievously in his eyes, lighter than those of his mother, as he examined the blade from behind his mother’s shoulder. She turned to watch her son proudly: he would be fifty summers this year and had truly grown into a beautiful young man, a son who both she and her husband were proud of.

Artamir smiled at his mother, stepping back slightly, and then nodded towards the beginnings of a hilt that lay further down the bench. “For the same?” When his mother nodded, Artamir raised his eyebrows. “Silver? Will you be using rubies with it?”

She smiled and shook her head. Although he was bound to be a soldier, as his father was, she was glad that her son nonetheless did not dismiss his mother’s art and had come to appreciate her craft – even to the point of knowing some of her designs. “Emerald. His previous sword was made of the same, Rimborien informs me, and besides, they will suit his nature more: he is a far less fierce young man than yourself, Artamir!” she chided teasingly.

“And where did I get such a trait, I wonder, mother? Not from my father I think…” the younger elf grinned and raised a sardonic eyebrow at his mother. “Am I then to have rubies?”

Nerisiel kept a straight face as she replied, “What makes you think you shall receive such gems in your sword, my son? Why, I had intended simply a plain design for you – nay, in fact, your current training sword shall do just fine, I shall model my design on that!” she teased, referring to the sword that Artamir used for sword training, a plain, blockish instrument that the smith’s trained elf regarded critically as the bare essentials – that is, it had a blade, a hilt, and not much else. Her son’s eyes widened – he still had the innocence of youth enough to be surprised – then he put on a mock sad face. “As you wish, mother…”

Nerisiel laughed and embraced her son fondly before sending him on his way out of her workshop – he had come by on his way home from training with a few of his friends, and he proudly informed her that Rimborien’s son – a boy no few years older than himself – had complimented him on his style. Nerisiel smiled at the doorway that her son had just left. Style, they said? And style his gift would most certainly have, once his coming of age was reached next summer – as Sirithlonnior, his father, would certainly have been able to tell him, had Nerisiel not sworn him to secrecy, for a light came into her eyes whenever she spoke of the sword’s details. The blade she made as her son’s first sword would be one of her finest weaponry creations yet…

Her finest creations yet…

Nerisiel sighed heavily and rubbed her tired eyes with the back of one hand. The thought of those rings, those finest of all pieces ever created, and her part in their making had returned more and more often to her mind of late. Pushing away the sword blade she had been working on, the smith walked across her workshop and stepped out into the street outside to behold the view from the city walls. Although she had the privilege to work for and with Celebrimbor in the innermost forges, she had not wishes to give up her own workshop at the East side of the city, for the memories it had of her earliest days with her mentor, and for the view it held over the Sirannon and the mountains to the East. Maybe this siting was no longer such an advantage: every day, Nerisiel was reminded of the darkness that was growing in the East, over those mountains in Mordor…

Sighing, the elvensmith returned to her desk and, after a slight hesitation, she put aside the soft cloth that she had her hand on with a mind to wrapping it up. No: she had people to see but what use would it be to brood on the dark thoughts on her mind? After all, Leneslath’s blade would not get done itself… Picking up the tongs again and resuming her humming as she tried to lighten her heart, Nerisiel returned to her forge to heat the blade – the engraving would be next. As her humming continued, the elvensmith’s heart lifted as she turned once again to the business in hand – weaponry, rather than those three, beautiful pieces of jewellery…

[piosenniel]

Alcarillo's post

Cainenyo’s hammer struck a glowing rod of iron, casting sparks across his forge. He was as happy as could be while working; there was little he loved more than to create something usable out of what previously wasn’t. Cainenyo turned the long rod of iron over with tongs, and struck it some more, creating a shower of sparks. He plunged the rod in a bucket of water, throwing steam up into the air. After heating the rod to a warm glow in the furnace, set into the wall and where he heated his iron to make it malleable, he resumed striking the iron on the anvil, gradually forming a distinguishable shape out of it.

Cainenyo’s forge was open to the streets of Ost-in-Edhil, separated by only a few arches and two steps downwards. People could come and go as they pleased, purchasing wares and asking for specific items to be made. The forge itself was focused around the anvil, like the centerpiece of a table set for a feast. Cainenyo’s wares were spread about his forge. They lay displayed on tables and hanging to the walls, examples of the blacksmith’s skill. Cainenyo made things to beautify or serve a purpose in the home: trellises, small slender tables, candelabras, braziers, and elegant grills to cap drainage pipes. But Cainenyo could also make knives, swords, armor, arrowheads, spearheads, and other less domestic goods. Cainenyo, as an expert in iron, was not limited to what he could make.

Cainenyo continued to beat his rod of iron, manipulating it with heavy black tongs and crafting it into a delicate shape, resembling a long blade of grass. He was creating a knife, one to be used in self-defense against an attacker. He plunged it into his bucket of water and held it firmly in his hand, swinging it about for a moment and testing it against an imaginary orc. Cainenyo found the knife to be suitable, and placed it in an old chest near the furnace. He would perform the finishing touches tomorrow. The sun was beginning to set and he decided to finish for the day and enter the house to see his wife, Alassante.

Cainenyo wiped his gloves on his leather apron. Removing the gloves, he noticed a tall figure standing in one of the archways. It was his son, Arenwino, who was apprenticed to a silver-smith across the city. Arenwino was not quite as tall as his father, but more slender, with the wavy dark hair of his mother. He wore the gloves and apron of a silversmilth, and hoped to work with the Mírdain when his apprenticeship was finished.

“You’re back. How did today go?” Cainenyo asked his son.

“It was fine. Today Celebdur taught me more about making molds and such. We made some rings for an engaged couple.” Arenwino said, descending the steps into the forge. He looked about the strewn instruments and noticed the flaming furnace and asked, “Were you making something?”

“Yes, a knife.” Cainenyo answered, “There have been a lot more requests for weaponry these days.” He continued after a short pause, “That reminds me. I have a gift for you.”

Arenwino waited in anticipation as Cainenyo moved to a table to the side of his anvil. There he delicately picked up a long sword. Arenwino stood closer, gazing at the long, curved blade. The flames of the furnace danced on its smooth surface. It was handed to Arenwino, who held it admiringly.

“Thank you, Father,” he spoke, “But what is the occasion? I don’t deserve a sword like this one.”

“Well, there is no occasion, as of now,” Cainenyo answered, “But there may be. I hear of orcs harassing the edges of Eregion, and I don’t want my son to be caught without defense if he happens to be traveling abroad and is ambushed. And besides, who knows how far the orcs might come. What if they attack the city?”

“But surely they won’t. We have soldiers aplenty, and why would they attack Ost-in-Edhil?”

Cainenyo picked up the bucket of water. “Well, I’ve heard that that Annatar, who helped Celebrimbor create those rings, has turned against him. He’s sending orcs against us, or so I’ve heard from the refugees entering the city each day.” He doused the flames of the furnace, sending steam everywhere.

“Will you be asked to fight?” Arenwino looked concerned. The sun was now setting.

“I doubt that. I’m more useful staying here and making weapons and armor than going off to battle. But don’t worry. If I am asked to fight I’ve already made armor for myself and I have a sword. It’s getting late; let’s go inside.”

Cainenyo hung his apron on a peg by the door that led into his home and put away what tools were left laying about. They entered the home’s courtyard through an arched doorway. The courtyard was a small space mostly taken up by a square pool for collecting rainwater and a few bushes of fragrant flowers. They were greeted by Alassante, Cainenyo’s wife and Arenwino’s mother. She was pregnant, and the new child was due in four more months. Alassante’s wavy brown hair fluttered in a slight breeze coming through the open doorway. She wore a light, simple dress, comfortable and loose. She kissed both her son and husband, and led them towards the entrance to the house.

Then Alassante noticed the sword in Arenwino’s hands. “Where did you get that?” she asked.

“Father gave it to me,” said Arenwino, “He told me that orcs were crawling all over the edges of Eregion, and that refugees are coming to the city. He said that the orcs might come here, too, and that I shouldn’t be unarmed. Isn’t that true, Father?”

“It’s certainly a possibility,” Cainenyo said, and his wife frowned at him as they entered the house. Arenwino smiled, despite the future’s uncertainty.

[piosenniel]

Esgallhugwen's post

Fëaglin's hammer made a sharp tinging sound as it struck the silver, flattening it into a wide band. He then took a small pair of pliers and twisted the metal to his desired effect, plaiting it along with two other strands in an intricate fashion of spirals and curves, similar to the delicate knotwork of vines.

He laughed heartily as he finished his commisioned task, a spiraling necklace for a bride to be, and nine circlets for the maids in waiting. A fellow silver-smith across the street with a bright young apprentice had made two beautiful rings for the couple. Fëaglin had been close to the furnace all day, so it was no suprise that he thought he deserved a nip of fresh air along with a nip of some fine wine.

The lean Elf cleared his work area, and set the finished silver pieces along a long table made viewable through a window so that others may admire his work, and be inspired to commision or buy some of his pre-crafted vendibles. The sun was setting as he locked up his shop for the night, and made his way into his house, just spacious enough for himself and one other. He shook the stiffness from his fingers.

But there was no other, not yet at any rate and at times Fëaglin grew heart sick in the dark of his room playing with the silver trinkets he had fashioned in his spare time in his forge. One in particular was special to him, a device of curious beauty.

Many loops of silver were strung together with subtle gems interlaced in the finery, and when one would push the outer most ring the others were set into motion, revolving around one another in a dizzying harmony. And if the light of the setting sun were to hit the gems just right an efflorescence of watery colour would sweep across the vaulted ceiling.

He had not revealed this creation to anyone, this creation of his helped to sooth his troubled thoughts and helped to clear his mind. Fëaglin was not blind to the encroaching darkness nor was he insensitive to the greater weight it was now pushing onto his Kin, threatening their very way of life.

Rumours had come of orcs along the borders and of Eregion's impending doom, but also the rumoured hope that help would arrive before all came to naught. Fëaglin hoped with all his will that that were true.

His grey eyes gazed steadily at the sword and bow hanging from the far wall, a growing knowledge came to him that they would have to be used before the end. He stood and walked down into the cellar picking a glass and small bottle of home made wine.

He made his was into the well kept courtyard and uncorked the bottle with the intention to finish it before he crept into bed under the starry sky. His head would be clearer in the morning.

[piosenniel]

Nurumaiel's post

Erinlaer touched a few strings on her harp and the beginning of a haunting tune drifted to her ears. Her eyes brightened keenly, and then softened and gazed absently off into the distance. She kicked her feet very gently back and forth, but aside from that she was motionless. In every respect she seemed to be entirely in another world, one that held nothing but the music she played.

A tall, smiling Elf entered the room and looked fondly at her. She did not even notice him, so he sat down to watch her. Very softly she began to hum, and then she sprang lightly to her feet and began to dance about the room in a very sweet, childlike way. It was not until she tripped on his foot that she became aware of his presence. Her face lit up and she laughed rather shamefacedly.

"I didn't see you, Heledharm," she said simply.

"I came to tell you that your mother intends to visit us," he said. "Your father, too, but this evening. He wants to hear you play and sing."

"And I wish the same of him," she said. "We shall have to play and sing together." She ran her fingers lightly over the well-crafted wood of her harp and smiled gently. "I still have much to learn from him," she said gravely. "He can decide what tune he would like to play and then play it. I can merely play according to what is in my heart and mind. I should learn to govern my music better."

"No, no!" cried Heledharm. "Play as you always have."

A radiant smile swept over her features. "Very well!" she said. "If you wish it."

He could not explain to her how much her music touched him. The quietness or the swell of her emotions translating easily into melody was, he felt, a rare gift, and he would not want her to unlearn it. The light, merry tunes as she skipped happily here and there... the tears that were spilled in music... and the times when she would sit by his side, playing a melody of peace and contentment, that turned to a sweet unswaying love when her eyes fixed on him. He would not have her unlearn that.

"When is mother coming?" she asked, setting her harp down upon the table. "I should be sure that everything is neat and well-ordered before she arrives." She bent down and inspected severely a little stain on the floor. "I fear very much that I've neglected the house these past few days," she said with a sigh. "I hope you have not been bothered much by it." She looked regretfully into his face, and then began to dance from the room. "Never mind!" she said. "In a few minutes everything will be set proper. Mother shan't find fault when she arrives."

And not too long after there was not much fault to be found, for she had danced hither and thither and, though she had gazed several times longingly at her harp, she had set her face grimly and dutifully cleaned house. And once again she was sitting atop the table, singing light and merry.

[piosenniel]

Mithalwen's Post

Losrian passed her mentor's son as she left the workshops; she had given a swift smile in acknowledgment but although they were almost the same age (indeed Losrian was the elder by a few months), Artamir had the confidence of his rank that made her feel a lot younger, even though he always treated his mother's apprentice with the greatest courtesy.

She did not go directly back home, she had her bow with her and there was just enough light to go to the buttes for a while first. Nearly five years into her apprenticeship she was still a beginner as Elves rate such things, and with conflict threatening her skill, such as it was has been directed into the consumables of wars. However she was not downcast by her task - she knew that it would be long before she had the skill for sword smithing, and her interest in archery, and a knowledge of wood learnt from her father and brother meant that making arrowheads had a certain fascination. Her trip to the archery practice grounds was to test different designs.

She fitted an arrow and drew it back to anchor point, grey eyes focussed on the target though it was the flight of the arrow that interested her as she released the string.

"That bow is too short for you now, Lossie" said a familiar voice. Losrian did not need to turn in order to know her brother, Ferin, stood behind her. It would have been risking the next arrow through the throat for anyone else to address her thus...

"Indeed, but in current times, I doubt it will be the bowyer's priority to make a bow to fit the stature of a humble apprentice - and if you come to rebuke me, I will be home to scub floors or whatever in a few minutes". Their last private conversation had involved a thinly veiled "suggestion" that Losrian should shoulder more of the household duties to spare her pregnant sister-in-law, Laswen.

"That was not my purpose", he sighed, "I saw you by chance and thought we might walk home together- though we will all have to do more and make sacrifices unless things turn for the better unexpectedly. Those who dwell in the out lands will seek refuge in the city.... You should have stayed in Lindon, you would have been safer there".

"I do not regret my choice, for I have learned more in five years here than I would have learnt in fifty anywhere else - but here, fifty years would not be enough to learn all they might teach me ....."

"Enough, enough.... how anyone can prefer shaping metal to wood is beyond the understanding of a mere carpenter - and I do not want it explained! Let us get home and eat - and find you a floor to scrub since you seem to have your heart set on the task."

As it happened she was spared it, for once they had eaten, she had exchanged a task she hated for one she did not mind. While Laswen took over stitching the dress she was to wear at the feast to mark her fiftieth birthday shortly (her uncommon winter birthday was as much a reason for her name as her pale colouring), Losrian kneaded the bread, singing softly as she did so. She soon finished her task and offered half heartedly to take back the stitching since in Laswen's expert hands more progress had been made in an hour than had been made in many weeks, and it now looked like something that would in time become a dress rather than a random bundle of fabric, ..."unless, there is something else I can do while you sew ? " Losrian added hopefully.

"All is done for today, but I am happy to sew ..." said Laswen, and the pile of tiny garments already awaiting the birth of her child in the spring were a testament to this .."however it would give me joy if you were to fetch your lute and play while I did so since, I fear there will be little enough to sing about in the days to come.

Privately, Losrian agreed with her, and doubted that any would be in the mood for celebration when her birthday arrived. While she would be pleased by the result, hating as she did to be the focus of attention, the cause scared her as much as anyone, and so she did as she was bid and fetched her lute - a parting gift from her parents - and returned to play the simple songs she had learnt as a child, ignoring for that time the many that told of sorrow and war.

[piosenniel]

Piosenniel's post

. . . The world was fair, the mountains tall,
In Elder Days before the fall
Of mighty kings in Nargothrond
And Gondolin, who now beyond
The Western Seas have passed away:
The world was fair in Durin's Day . . .

Supper, taken late as was the Stonecut custom, was done. The trenchers, already carried to the kitchen, clanked together in the soapy water as Unna washed and rinsed them, and piled them on the counter to her left to dry. Her back was to the oaken table across the length of the stone floor. And she smiled as she heard the off-key bass of her husband’s singing voice rise up to sing a verse of the song.

‘Fairer yet,’ she chuckled as she took up her dishtowel and dried the spoons, ‘if the notes in this part of Khazad-dûm were more harmonious!’

‘I heard that, woman!’ cried Riv, breaking off mid note. His scowl was short-lived as she laughed aloud, her voice ringing within the tall-ceilinged room.

‘Well, I think you have a nice voice, Papi,’ chirped Leifr, coming to sit on his father’s lap. He twirled his fingers round Riv’s braided beard, leaning against him with a contented sigh. ‘Grandma says you sing just like your father did.’

Riv’s chest puffed out at the compliment and was promptly deflated by Unna’s laughter as she recalled to him that the old woman had also said she was certain that Durin was called ‘the Deathless’ because her husband’s bellowed verses could raise the dead from their thick stone tombs.

An hour or so more of friendly, familiar banter, accompanied by the sound of Bror’s harp and interspersed with more singing, came finally to its end. Leifr was yawning by then, barely able to keep his eyes open. Riv picked up the boy where he lay half drowsing on a bear pelt near the fire and carried him off to the deeper caverns where Unna and the other Dwarven women with their children stayed.

The lamps were turned low along the hallways; the lamp swinging from Unna’s hand as she walked beside her husband cast odd moving shadows along the carven stone walls. Her face was wistful as they reached her apartments. Laying Leifr down gently on his little bed, Riv drew the quilts up over his son’s shoulders and brushed a stray hair back from his little face. ‘Mahal keep you!’ he whispered to the sleeping form. He stood then, and took his wife gently into his arms. ‘When this is over . . .’ he said softly, his cheek against the top of her head. She pulled back and laid her first two fingers against his lips. Her glittering eyes held hope and patience within their deep, dark pools. ‘We will wait,’ she promised him, ‘whether the time be short or long.’

She urged him gently toward the door. ‘You must go. Your brothers and Uncle await. There is news to be shared among you. Reports and rumors of goings on in the upper caverns come to us. We know a messenger has come from the Elven smiths. And that an escort is needed for the Elves who will come from the east, sent by the Lady of the Golden Wood. Since your father was often among the Lorinand, bringing them jewels and metals as they needed, I thought that surely you and your brothers would be the ones to fetch them from the Dimrill Stair and bring them through the East-gate.’

He nodded it was so. Smothering her with a last great hug, he turned reluctantly from her and made his way back to his dwelling. Skald and Bror were waiting at the table where he had left them. Their voices were low as they sipped at their mugs of ale, discussing, he was sure, the preparations for the thirty mile journey to the East-gate and the wait for the Elves of Lorien. Orin, their Uncle, had arrived, too, he saw.

‘Well, what have I missed?’ Riv said, fetching a mug for himself from the cupboard. He topped off theirs and filled his from the skin of ale that hung from the peg on the wall. ‘We’re taking a full complement of weapons . . . yes? No telling how long it might take the Elves to make their way up along the Celebrant and cross the valley. Or what might try to follow them.’ He took a deep drink from his cup. ‘There have been reports of Orcs sniffing about the Kheled-zaram. Or so I heard.’ He banged the metal mug down on the table’s top, a little ale foam splashing over the side. ‘Love to set my mattock in a few of their skulls and pick out what passes for brains among the filthy creatures . . .’

[piosenniel]

Boromir88's post

Orin was well aware of the rumor of the gathering of orcs, but he was not prepared on leaving, and had no intentions to. He sat fiddling with his double-bladed battleaxe wondering what this meeting was going to be about. Most of colony had heard the whispering of threats from orcs and other dark creatures. Perhaps it is just to confirm the situation, he thought.

While Orin was deep in thought he had not noticed that he cut his thumb on his axe. He smiled as he was pleased it was still sharp and if the rumors of orcs were true they aren't getting through Moria without a fight. Then it suddenly came to him, a poking pain in his thumb. It wasn't a serious cut, but it felt like one of those annoying papercuts; a sharp pain for days.

Orin cleaned up his cut, grimacing a bit while doing it, and decided he should be heading off. When he got there his two younger nephews, Skald and Bror, were already there, but he had not seen Riv yet. That is odd he mumbled. He greeted his two nephews with friendly hugs and went off to sit with some of the older dwarves. He wanted to see what they knew about the matter. Most of them knew just as much, or less than Orin, which wasn't much. He ran into an old friend, Fawrin, who was full of the latest rumors.

"They say a man named Annatar, who was once a friend of the elves, has turned against them." Fawrin began. "He is beginning to gathering a large force of orcs to launch an assault on Eregion."

Orin stood and pondered these "rumors," and wondered if there was any truth in them at all. "Who was, or is, this Annatar?" Orin asked.

"I don't know. All that's said is he was once a friend of the elves. Why he would all of a suddenly want to attack them is beyond me." Fawrin said.

"If he is attacking them, you mean." Orin chuckled. "Don't put faith in the whispering of the outside world. Especially if they are dealing with elves." Orin said elves in a sarcastic, demeaning way, for he did not like them very much. Except the elves of the lady of the Golden Wood. Her and her people had often had good relationships with the dwarves. Now that his mind was off elves, he still wondered where Riv was. "Have you seen Riv?" He asked Fawrin.

"No I haven't," he answered. "but I haven't gone looking for him either." They both laughed. "Well I better be off. Someone has to do the rumor spreading." Orin chuckled again as Fawrin left. He had always like Fawrin for his humor and ability to bring a smile to someone.

Orin sat down next to Bror and Skald and began to discuss the situation. Orin began to realize that the rumors weren't just rumors anymore; war was threatening and it would surely effect everyone.

"How have I been in the dark for so long?" Orin said to himself, but the others heard him.

"Because you're always locked up in your room working on who knows what." Laughed a familiar voice. Riv had finally come. He greeted everyone and took a seat, as well as getting a mug of ale, and got right into business.

‘Well, what have I missed? We’re taking a full complement of weapons . . . yes? No telling how long it might take the Elves to make their way down the Stairs and cross the valley. Or what might try to follow them.’ He took a deep drink from his cup. ‘There have been reports of Orcs sniffing about the Kheled-zaram. Or so I heard.’ He banged the metal mug down on the table’s top, a little ale foam splashing over the side. ‘Love to set my mattock in a few of their skulls and pick out what passes for brains among the filthy creatures . . .’

"Yesssss." Orin shouted in a bellowsing voice that shook the hall. The mumblings of war and Riv's talk had inspired him.

[piosenniel]

Folwren's post

Bror sat silently, plucking with less heart at his harp as he watched Riv take his wife and son away. They passed from the room out of sight and he sighed and tilted his head a little towards the smooth wood of his instrument. He lifted a second hand and once again the chords sang sweetly, though somewhat sadly.

“I wish they didn’t have to go back there every night. We hardly see them anymore,” he said quietly. A hand clapped him on the back and he looked up over his shoulder at Skald, his older brother.

“Cheer up and put the harp away, we’ve got business to discuss.”

Bror got up from the table and took his harp away a few paces and set it on a chair, possibly to be picked up later. He returned and took his seat again as Skald rose and gathered mugs and a skin of ale to wet their throats while they talked.

He had just sat down again when their Uncle Orin entered. A smile came into Bror’s face and he got up again.

“Good evening, Uncle!” he said. “Take that chair, and I’ll get another...How are you?”

The general formalities were swiftly dealt with and for a minute, the three of them sat together in silence. Bror could not stand that for long. What they had to talk about had to do with orcs, and of all creatures, he thought he hated those the most.

“What do you know of this business, Uncle?” he asked, turning to Orin. “I don’t know how much you have heard.”


“I know no more than the little I have heard from gossip,” Orin replied.

“That’s probably not very much, since there is little known,” Bror said. “All that I’ve been told, and I hope that I hear more tonight,” he added casting a glance towards Skald, “is that a company of dwarves are needed at the East Gate to escort a number of elves through Kazad. War’s brewing, evidently, and though we’ve only heard whispers of it, they are getting louder and the rumors are taking shape into ravenous villains who need slaughtering. It’s rather serious, by all accounts.”

Orin lowered his head towards his mug and Bror and Skald both turned their ears towards him to catch the words he muttered to his ale.

“How have I been in the dark for so long?”

“Because you’re always locked up in your room working on who knows what!”

The three dwarves at the table turned quickly to see Riv walking towards them. He gave them a smile as he passed and got himself another mug from the cupboard and a second skin of ale. He came back to the table and pulled a chair up next to Orin, filled their mugs and then his own, held it between his two hands and looked at them seriously.

“Well, what have I missed?” he asked immediately. “We’re taking a full complement of weapons...yes? No telling how long it might take the Elves to make their way down the Stairs and cross the valley. Or what might try to follow them.” A pause while he took a deep drink of his ale. “There have been reports of Orcs sniffing about the Kheled-zaram. Or so I heard.” He banged the metal mug down on the table’s top almost violently and Bror started slightly. “Love to set my mattock in a few of their skulls and pick out what passes for brains among the filthy creatures,” he said, giving his youngest brother a grim smile.

“Yesssss!” Orin exclaimed with evident excitement and obvious agreement. Bror shifted his eyes from his brother to his uncle.

“So, this is more serious than I imagined. I had no idea you all hated those orcs as much as I did. You were always the ones telling me to calm down and quit shouting that I’d kill a whole regiment.” He turned his dark eyes back to his oldest brother. “Is that what we’re going to do?”

[piosenniel]

Arry's post

Skald leaned forward in his chair, his chin planted firmly on his fist. The fingers of his right hand drummed quietly on the table top as the others spoke of war and killing. His dark eyes were troubled with news he’d heard earlier that day. Not wanting to frighten Unna and Leifr he’d waited to share what he had learned until they were safely away in their quarters.

Before Riv could answer Bror's question, Skald spoke up.

‘Want to know the interesting . . . no, make that disturbing . . . morsel I picked up from the King’s guard today? . . . And from Father, too.’ Riv and the others looked at him expectantly.

‘Father was speaking to the King. About some special delivery of stones . . . no, not now but way back . . . before we were twinkles in his eye I think. Anyway, they were for the head of the Jewelsmiths’ Guild, Celebrimbor . . . and a shipment of mithril, too . . . some very high grade stuff.’ He leaned even further across the table, his voice dropping low. ‘Apparently the Elves used them in some big secret project, according to one of the guards. He said Durin opened his locked iron chest and took out some small carven box. He and Father had their heads together whispering about the object in it. Whatever it was it gleamed brightly when the light caught it for a moment. Then the King locked it away . . .’

Before they could hiss ‘And . . .?’ at him. Skald went on.

‘Well, I asked Father about it. At first, all the old man would do was shake his head, his fists clenched. They were fools, he muttered, looking into the distance past me. Damned, silly fools! he said angrily. Father said there was someone whom the Jewelsmiths placed their trust in . . . someone who taught them some special skills in the art of smithing.’ Skald’s throat was dry from talking and he paused, taking a long pull at his mug.

‘And now the Elves, the King had told Father, had done something to displease this teacher of theirs. They have something that he wants badly and he’s bent on getting it. And what’s worse apparently he’s not the kindly, gracious fellow they thought him. He’s got the force to back up his words. That’s what the Orcs are doing all stirred up and starting to cause troubles.

‘When I asked Father who this fellow was, he grew red in the face and spat on the floor. Mahal take the deceiver! he growled. Calling himself Aulendil! . . . Why, he left Mahal’s service long ago . . . taking after that black-hearted Master . . .’

Skald took another sip, the alefoam glistened on the tips of his thick mustache. ‘The old man ranted and raved for a bit . . . you know how he can go on. I was trying desperately to piece together the dribs and drabbles of information I’d eked out from him. Finally, in desperation, I shouted “Hey!” at him as loudly as I could. Got his attention, it did. Quiet little Skald yelling!’

‘Look, I told him, Riv and Bror and Orin and me along with a few of others of us have been asked to escort some Elves from the Lady of the Wood, under the mountain and out to Ost-in-Edhil. Armed Elves. And there may be more coming through. Sounds like it’s more than just some polite visit from one land to another. What are we getting into? Who’s this person you keep cursing at?’

‘Well, I have to tell you what he said next nearly unbraided my beard!’ Skald rubbed his chin hard with his hand, a familiar nervous habit on his part.

‘The Dark Lord! Father whispered, not wanting to name him out loud.’

‘The Dark Lord! I squeaked . . . yes, I’m not ashamed, I squeaked . . . you all remember the horror stories of the great battles against him and his Orcs and worse . . . before Beleriand fell under the waves. Anyway, I managed to stutter out the question that was now burning in my mind. The Dark Lord had escaped from where The Great Ones put him and was back?’

‘Not him, Father said. . . . but just as foul . . . his bootlicking, black-hearted-as-his-Master, servant . . . Sauron . . .’

‘ “Sauron!” I managed to say in a mangled yelp. I remember dreadful stories about him’

‘Yes, Sauron. He’s got himself a dark place between the Ash Mountains and the Shadow Mountains, the King’s told me. And he’s stirring up the foul spawn his Master made. Orcs and who knows what other fearsome beasts. He’s coming for something the Elves have hidden away . . .’

Skald’s voice drifted off into the silence of the room. His hands were clasped tightly about his mug and he stared into it as if it held the secret to keeping his sense of dread at bay. He looked up at his brothers and uncle . . .

[piosenniel]

Seth Cotton's post

Vaele took up his bow, felt its weight. He nodded for himself and placed the fine longbow on his right side and let it lean against the wall as he took up the rest of his needed equipment. His quite weak breastplate was filled with memories, he sighed as he put it aside in the pile of “Necessary Things”. His longbow, arrows, breastplate, leather armour pads for both legs and arms and his hunting knife were all in the Pile of Necessary Things. As well his backpack with some bread and small, chopped pieces of fruit.

His sister came in, all dressed in white and golden hair. She walked in without a sound and kneeled down on the floor beside Vaele. She stroked him over the forehead and he turned his head slowly over to her and met her gaze. She looked sad, but Vaele knew that she was doing her best to hide it.

“I will come back sister.” He said and forced himself to smile.

“Be careful. I will not stand losing another brother cause of some meaningless fight.”

“I promise you I will return.” Vaele answered and rose up from the floor and began to strap on the armpads. As he came to the strapping on the breastplate around his back his sister helped him.

“Be brave Nilwèn, do not despair because of me. It will not help to griev.”

His sister rose up as well, her cheeks were red. “Do not play a hero!” She exclaimed, almost yelling at him with her lightest voice. He saw that she began to shiver, probably she cried but Vaele was not sure. Nilwèn ran out of the talan and Vaele stood in the middle of the room and looked with sad eyes after her. Vaele growled and took on his robe. He tried to ignore her and her emotional burst, instead focusing on what he had to do. He was not to let this interfere. His fingers nibbled on the robes silver clasp. Attempt after attempt he failed to fasten it.

After a cursing the clasp and a few more attempts without any luck, he managed to fasten it. He had never been good at practical things; doing things with his hands in general. He had never possessed that skill. He lifted up his backpack and took it on. He kept his bow hanging by his shoulder and his knife in the boot. He was all set to go. He left the talan, but stopped in the door opening and looked around in the talan for a moment. It had his been his talan for ages, his sanctuary, his oasis, and now he stood there knowing that he might never return to it again.

He stood for another moment, remembering all the times he had found peace in the quite small talan. He slowly closed the door and decided to bid farewell to his father. His father met him on the small lawn in front of the talan. They embraced as father and son, Vaeles father patted him in the back as he let go. He did not say anything, he didn’t have to, his eyes said it all. He was against it as well, he had complained about Vaeles decision from the day he mentioned that he had been thinking of signing up for it.

It surprised him, he thought his father would be more understanding than that.

“Farewell father.”

“Farewell my youngest son…” He stood quiet; closed his eyes and sighed. “Stay safe”

“I will.” Vaele said shortly and began to walk to the camp for the contingent which was stationed outside Caras Galadhon. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw his sister stand, beautiful and completely silent, looking after him as he walked. Her expression on her face was a memory he never forgot.

He walked lightly and swift, thinking he was already late. The darkness came closer over the talans and he wanted to get there as quick as possible. As he got closer he saw the banners and the many tents with preparations; archers checking their bows, captains giving orders. It was a constant alarm of noise.

“Archer, you are late.” Vaele heard a voice behind him, which sounded pretty annoyed. He turned to see who it was, and as he suspected it was the commander of their contingent.

“I beg your pardon, Commander…” Vaele said and half-bowed.

“Commander Eldegon” The tall, pale elf said with a remarkable superiority in his voice. He sighed and looked at Vaele, kind of examining his possible capabilities in combat. “Good at stealth? Scouting? We need a scout in the first rank. Someone swift and silent, a good hand with bows is appreciated, but by judging your equipment and yourself, you seem to be a pretty skilled archer.”

Vaele just nodded quite baffled. The elf talked clean and unusual quick. He must be in quite a stress, Vaele thought.

“Very well, get in the first rank and prepare yourself. We will march in the daybreak.”

Vaele walked over to where he was directed, the first rank in the lead. He was quite pleased with his given position, and being a scout fitted him well. He saw another elf from the first rank ahead. He wasn’t sure wether this was the first rank or not, so he walked over and asked the elf which appeared to be rather young. “Excuse me, friend, but is this the first rank?”

[piosenniel]

Arestevana's post

Gilduin gazed at the sunlit trees of Laurelindórinan in silence, hearing little of the bustle that surrounded him. It had been many years since he had been so near Caras Galadhon, its protective walls extending in a gentle arc before him. Years ago they had welcomed him with the promise of safety, renewal, and fulfillment. Now they closed him out. Though he was not forbidden passage through the high green walls, he knew he could no more cross the white bridge of the Galadrim than he could return the golden leaves carpeting Lindórinan to their silver branches and reclaim the springtime of his youth.

Gilduin reluctantly withdrew from his revere as someone approached him. He took quick note of his surroundings. A stone’s throw to the north lay Caras Galadhon, its great mellyrn stretching sunward above them. Outside the city a great number of elves had gathered, many of them bearing weapons. He turned his attention to the elf who stood in front of him.
“Greetings, Gilduin Lindorion,” said the elf. “It has been many years since last I saw you. Where have been wandering?”
“In Greenwood the Great,” Gilduin replied slowly, adding belatedly, “Eldegon,” as he recalled the elf’s name. “Who calls the Galadrim to arms?”
“A messenger from the Ost-in-Edhil. We send a company to aid the Mírdain. Will you join us?”

Gilduin, caught off guard, felt himself pulling into a state of deep concentration. Though he had just returned to Lindórinan after years of roving, he needed nothing but what he had. He knew that Eldegon expected him to refuse. I do not want your pity. “I will join you,” Gilduin said at last. “Who commands the contingent?”
“I do.” Eldegon replied. If he was surprised at Gilduin’s decision, he did not show it. “What skill have you in combat?”
Gilduin thought a moment. “No sword-skill, if that’s what you mean. I have no close weapon, save my knife.” He showed Eldegon his dirk and longbow. “I’m a fair shot, and if needs be I can keep my head with a quarterstaff.”
Eldegon shook his head. “I have no need for archers. Three-score already are marching with us, and two-score swordsmen. Will you bear the standard?”
“I will.” Gilduin said, after a moment’s wondering at the request.

Eldegon nodded and led him a short ways south to a hill overlooking the wide clearing where the company was mustering. There he departed momentarily, leaving Gilduin to stare out over the many ranks of warriors. There were six ranks of archers, ten elves in each rank, and ahead of them four ranks of swordsmen. Behind the archers was a line of light wooden carts, laden with food and supplies for the march. The horses that would draw them were tethered a short ways away from the company.

Eldegon returned, carrying the standard of Lindórinan. “You said you could handle a quarterstaff. Can you keep formation while bearing a standard or polearm?” He asked, continuing when Gilduin nodded. “Good. You will march at the herald’s left, in the first rank with myself and my captains.” He handed the standard to Gilduin, who hefted it to feel its weight. The oaken shaft was straight and smooth, and the fabric of the banner, though light, was very strong.

“When do we march, commander?” Gilduin asked with a glance at the sun, which had long passed its zenith and was nearing the horizon.

“Not today,” Eldegon replied. “Tonight the captains meet with Lord Celeborn. Tomorrow we will march, or perhaps the day after.” With that, he nodded briskly to Gilduin and headed toward Caras Galadhon, pausing briefly to speak to another elf before continuing to the city’s gates.

Reluctantly, Gilduin hefted the standard in his hand and left his hilltop post, seeking out his place in the marching order. He reached the first rank and sought out the herald, introducing himself with as few words as possible and taking his place on the elf’s left. He glanced over his shoulder at the green-walled city as dusk crept over the restless company, a thin sliver of sun clinging desperately to the horizon on his right. One by one, lanterns appeared on the walls, until Caras Galadhon gleamed like a jewel, or perhaps a star which had wandered from its place in the darkening heavens. Beside him, the herald had lit a lantern, and by its light Gilduin noticed a green-garbed archer approaching the rank. He occupied himself with the standard and did his best to look busy, but the elf stopped directly in front of him.

Shying away from speech, as he so often did, Gilduin sought for the correct syllable by which to vocalize a noncommittal murmur. He wished to disappear, as did that final finger of golden sun in the face of inexorable night, as the elf addressed him.

“Excuse me, friend, but is this the first rank?”

[Durelin]

Maegisil watched as a bird fluttered its way through the deep green leaves of the holly to perch on a branch. The tree grew just to the right of the small balcony on which the elf stood as he watched the eastern sky to his left grow pale as the sun inched its way up from behind the Misty Mountains. The bird remained all but perfectly still on its branch for some time, and Maegisil did the same, keeping his eyes on it. The sight of it as he perceived every slight movement brought to his mind thoughts of a time and a place where birds could speak to men and men could speak to birds. But soon he no longer really saw the creature, and his mind traveled to somewhere that he knew must be only a small distance away. There were Orcs to the east. The threat of Sauron weighed upon his mind and heart in the ghastly forms of fear and despair.

“Fly away, little bird,” Maegisil said softly, watching the bird’s beady little black eyes search the sky, “This you may do, and no one shall think any less of you for it. Not so is the case with me. I must show a face of bravery to the eyes of many, particularly those whom I love…”

“Whispering your worries to the birds again, my love?”

Maegisil was startled by the soft feminine voice from behind him, and abruptly spun around to see who it was that spoke, though he knew it to be his wife. His sudden movement startled the bird and caused it to fly quickly from its perch, seemingly taking the advice of the elf. Maegisil regretted its departure, and cursed himself for being so on edge. At any other time, had he not been so deep in thought and thus separated from most anything that went on around him he would have heard her approach. And such a familiar voice would never have surprised him had he meant for her to hear anything he said. By the look in her eyes, it seemed she had heard all.

“Why not whisper them to me? You do not have to be brave for me…”

“O my dove, but I do,” he cut her words short, his sharp and quick speech, full of frustration, contrasting and easily overcoming her soft, slow words, which she spoke in pure love and concern. “I cannot trouble you, nor anyone, with my cowardice. I must be strong for you, and not be so weak that you must hold me up.”

“Many a time have you held me up, my dear Maegisil,” she quickly responded, while still remaining unrushed with her words. “Will you so disgrace me as to not allow me to do the same for you in return?”

“There should be no need for you to do anything in return, Sairien.” He always felt as if he said her name to a song in his heart that resonated through his whole body when he thought the unspoken words ‘I love you’. Actually voicing these words was unnecessary, as they were clear in his eyes and his voice, and had been said so many times before.

“You know that my heart would want me to say the same to you, and yet you would not accept this if our roles were switched.” Sairien’s eyes searched his with a meaningful stare, piercing him and seeming to find exactly what they were looking for, and bringing this to his attention.

Maegisil sighed heavily. “Forgive me, my dove. I do need your help; I need it greatly. And I will ask you for it.”

Sairien stepped forward to place a hand to her husband’s cheek, softly saying, “Thank you,” and kissing him. They embraced for several moments, Maegisil sighing once more, but this time much more lightly and contently. Then, pulling his wife away from him to look into her eyes, he said, “We will speak more at length tonight, my dear. Now I’m afraid I must be away to attend to my lord.”

The elf woman sighed, looking away from her husband for a moment, sadness creeping into her eyes and her expression. “Yes…well, send the Lord Celembrimbor my greetings. And tell him that I miss happier times when I accompanied you to his house and we talked of lighter, more blessed things than war, death, and fear.”

“I shall,” Maegisil said. “Farewell, my love. I will return as soon as my lord does allow me.” After one final kiss he broke away from his wife’s tightening grip upon his arms, as she wanted to pull him back to her.

“I shall miss you,” Sairien said quietly, turning as he began to walk away. He stopped only to say, “And I shall miss you.”

Departing from his house, he entered the street with his mind even more full of worry than before when he was speaking only to the little bird. The weight of despair that the thought of Sauron brought upon his heart was made even heavier by the troubling concerns he had for his wife. Being a husband as well as a faithful servant to a lord was nearing impossible for him in these disquieted times.

But even in all the clutter in his mind, he resolved to do one thing. It had been some time since he had taken even a moment to truly show gratitude to his wife. He wished now to give to her a gift of materialistic beauty that might symbolize her own, which to him was beyond comparison. For several years now Maegisil had spent very little time at all in the forges, and though he dearly missed the beauties and the wonders of the art of crafting, he knew he did not have time to spend with tongs and a hammer in hand. But he recalled one craftsman – or really, craftswoman – in particular, and who he knew to have worked with his lord Celembrimbor. Knowing that she must be a true master jewelsmith to have done so, he thought her the perfect person to go to for such a commission as he had. Also, though he would never have admitted it to anyone, he assumed he could count on an elf woman knowing what he should give to the elf woman he loved.

The sun had now slipped two-thirds of the way from behind the Misty Mountains, but he still had time before his lord would begin to demand his presence. So Maegisil headed east across town to the jewelsmith’s forge, thanking the Valar that he had always in the past noted where most every notable craftsman or craftswoman had his or her own small forge and shop. The greatest elvensmiths did not have any real need for a simple ‘shop’, but could be commissioned, Maegisil knew. He only hoped that the mutual connection with Celembrimbor would help him in gaining the master craftswoman’s skill for the making of his wife’s gift.

Coming to his destination, Maegisil was thrilled to find that there was in fact some activity within. He read the small sign above the door. Narisiel Mirdain. Entering into the small forge, he found Narisiel with her back turned to him, working meticulously on a sword: a long, curved blade of astonishing magnificence. He silently watched her at work for a few moments, hating to disturb her when she was creating something so beautiful, and yet wishing to speak with her as soon as he could. At last he felt the strength and urgency enough to speak.

“Excuse me for my disturbance,” he began in a loud voice, though he nowhere neared shouting. When she looked up from her work and turned to him he made a small bow of respect before he continued. “I wish dearly to speak with you, if I may, to commission your skills, though I know you to be a master of your craft and thus perhaps above my concerns. But I have worked alongside the Lord Celembrimor as you have.”

Narisiel seemed to smirk at him, not unkindly, but appearing simply in some way amused. “And if you have worked beside the greatest of the Mírdain, why then do you need my skills?”

Maegisil was almost taken aback by the quickness of her response, as well as its sharpness. Hurriedly he collected his thoughts, responding with the truth. “Much to my sadness, I no longer spend my time with my lord in the forges. In these times, it is spent only in counsel and disparaging conversation with him.” He paused to briefly consider whether he should say more or not, deciding after a moment to add, his voice full of kind sincerity: “In all truth, I envy you.”

[piosenniel]

‘Sauron!’ Riv’s gruff whisper rasped out across the uneasy silence that followed in the wake of Skald’s words. ‘Mahal take him indeed!’ It was all he could do not to jump from his chair and run down the paths to the chambers where Unna and Leifr were quartered. His mind told him they were safe, hidden deeply in the lower caverns with many stout guards placed along the way to bar intruders. But his heart, beating fast now in anger mixed with dread against the Dark Lord, made him want to rush with his mattock and war hammer to defend the entrance to his wife and son’s chambers.

His wife’s face, her brows raised at him came to the fore of his mind. He could almost hear her, as she admonished him gently. ‘You’re right . . . you’re right!’ he said to her fading image. ‘You two are well protected. The King will close the doors tightly to Khazad-dum should any threaten us. And I should be getting on with my own task. Lend the use of my axe and hammer to bring the Elves from the Golden Wood to the City of the Smiths.’

‘Let him come!’ he growled deep in his chest. He brought his thick fist crashing down onto the table’s top. ‘Let him come, the overblown pup of the Dark Lord with his misbegotten Orcs and men. My hammer will make the river run red with their foul blood.’

Riv looked up from his cup, realizing he had been speaking aloud to himself, and gathered his wits about him. ‘Well this brings us a new vein to mine, doesn’t it?’ he said to his brothers and uncle. ‘We must be even more careful now we know the rotter behind things. There should be more Dwarves in our party, I think. Some to guard the eastern gates until we can bring the Elves into the caverns.’ He looked carefully at each of the others. ‘If there are Orcs that try to enter while we are fetching the Elves from the Dimrill Dale, the gates will have to be closed against them. We could be cut off for a while, before we can re-enter. What do you think? How many shall we bring? And full battle gear, I think, eh? Especially once we leave the safety of the mountains.’

[Folwren]

‘I think if we’re in danger of being cut off for a while, we should make sure we have plenty to eat,’ Bror said in answer. No one seemed to appreciate his small jest, so he continued after an awkward pause. ‘If you ask my opinion, which I wonder that you do at all, I think we should take quite a few other dwarves and several weapons. I didn’t think...’ He was about to say he didn’t think it was that serious, but no one had, until Skald had rambled off his lessons.

Sauron? He had heard very little of that name, but he had learned enough that it was one to tremble at. He took another drink of his ale as he studied his oldest brother through narrowed and considering eyes. He had always looked up to Riv and seeing him so affected by Skald’s tale caused him more alarm and fear than anything else yet said.

‘I don’t know,’ he finally said softly. He got up, leaving his mug on the table and went to his harp. He picked it up and carried it back to his place and sat silent running his fingers over the strings as though contemplating a song. ‘Well, Skald? Uncle Orin?’ he said, lifting his eyes to the two of them. ‘Something has to be decided on, and I don’t think it’s going to be me who decides it.’

[Envinyatar]

Late Autumn/Lindon – SA 1695

It was early afternoon, and the two friends were sitting in a small drinking establishment near the quay in Mithlond. The Belaying Pin or simply The Pin as it was more commonly called. There was a crackling blaze in the fireplace, and the welcome heat from it drove the increasing cold of the northern autumn from the room.

The man from Númenor stifled a smile as Ondomirë shifted again on the booth’s hard, oaken bench. Alcarfalon, as he was called, folded his thick woolen cape into the rude semblance of a thick cushion and passed it across the table to his friend. ‘Here,’ he said in a low voice, ‘try this.’

With a grateful nod, Ondomirë slid the padding between the unforgiving wood and his bruised hindquarters. A barely stifled gasp preceded his whispered, ‘Thanks!’ as he eased himself onto the makeshift buffer. He smoothed the grimace from his face and fixed a barely less than miserable smile on his face.

Alcarfalon could not hold back his laughter. It rang in the booth between the man and Elf, causing many to turn their way. ‘Why do you always think you need to manage everything yourself, my friend?’ he asked, pouring the pale honeyed wine into both their cups. The light from the small lamp above their table caught the golden liquid as it eddied against the metal sides, making it glint from within. ‘If I were you, I’d have me an assistant. You know . . . one who’d do the more dangerous work.’ He swallowed another grin. ‘Saving you the possibility of injury . . .’ He ducked, barely in time, as Ondomirë threw his leather riding gloves at him.

‘I acquiesce to your superior management skills, my friend,’ Ondomirë said, turning his cup in circles on the table. He took a drink, appreciating the light, sweet taste of the wine. It teased his tongue, relaxed him, and left the promise of ease for his aching joints if he drank a large enough dose. ‘But seriously, who knew the accursed beast would take such a dislike to me and throw me to the ground. He was certainly mild enough with you aback.’

Ondomirë took another drink and sighed, in a rather melodramatic fashion. ‘Of course, it has always been my lot to have those four-legged demons hate me. And the King, of course, is an excellent horseman as is the Elf he chose to lead this expedition. Elrond . . . do you know him?’ Alcarfalon shook his head ‘no’ to the question.’

‘Anyway, we are going east, overland, and in some haste once the troops are made ready and the snows have ended. By foot is out of the question . . . too slow, it was decided. So, I am cursed with having to ride those many miles on a creature who will surely detest my very presence.’ He leaned across the table and looked Alcarfalon in the eye. Tell me you didn’t pick the most ill-tempered of the herds just because I ordered them.’

‘It was Minastir who chose those horses for you,’ Alcarfalon protested. ‘The Queen’s nephew. He assured me they were the gentlest of beasts. He holds Gil-galad in high esteem, I assure you, and would do nothing to jeopardize whatever this expedition is he’s planned.’ Alcarfalon knew better than to inquire too deeply into Elvish plans. ‘I’ve brought you one hundred of our finest from the Mittalmar. With those you said you could muster here you should have plenty.’

‘Ah, you know I really am grateful!’ returned Ondomirë, grinning. He refilled the man’s cup and topped off his own. ‘I thank you for your haste in bringing them across the sea and Minastir for his generosity.’

The door to The Pin opened and a tall, slender figure stood outlined in the entryway, blinking as his eyes grew accustomed to the level of light in the room. Cries of ‘Close the door, Elf! You’re letting in the cold!’ greeted the newcomer.

‘Over here, Geldion!’ said Ondomirë, waving to the Elf. ‘Come and meet Alcarfalon. He captains the Lintaramë out of Numenor. An old friend of mine.’ With a grimace, Ondmirë scooted himself over in the booth. ‘He’s brought us the last of the . . . horses,’ he said in a lower voice.

All respect to the Vala Yavanna! he thought to himself as Geldion took off his cape and slipped into the booth. But what was she thinking when she fashioned those impious creatures?

‘Some wine?’ Ondomirë offered, pushing a cup toward Geldion

[Boromir88]

Orin was deep in thought, almost as if he was in a trance. He was so deep in thought he didn't even hear Riv's shouts. Sauron was a dark name and the news Skald gave was even darker. The thought of Sauron launching an assault against the elves was troubling. Orin was puzzled on what to do. It was not that he liked Sauron, in fact he hated him, and if he wanted to go through the mines it would be over his dead body. But, he figured this was Elven business, they did something to make him angry, and now they're pleading for help. What if we just close the doors, Sauron won't get in and therefor he won't bother us? He pondered. No, no, no, his might will grow and even the sturdy doors of the dwarves will not be able to keep him out. We must do something. I must do something.

"Well Skald? Uncle Orin?" Orin snapped out of his trance. He was oblivious to what had been discussed.

"What?" He asked kind of grumpily.

"What do you think we should do? Something has to be decided on and I don't think it's going to be me who decides it." Bror replied.

"Oh," Orin mumbled, he was ashamed for snapping at Bror, but didn't what to say.

Riv filled his uncle in, realizing that he was lost. It wasn't like Orin hadn't been paying attention, just when he thinks too hard he becomes completely unaware of what's being said around him. "Lots of Armor? What? You know how I hate armor. A good warrior does not need armor, it's only bulky and slows you down. Well, suit up in whatever way you like but I'm not taking heavy armor."

"It may slow you down uncle, but not us." Skald said and all three chuckled. Orin let out a bellowing laugh. He knew Skald had basically called him old, but he would feel a lot safer if he could wear the armor he was able to wear in the past.

[Arestevana]

“Is this the first rank?”
Gilduin barely registered the question; he was far too accustomed to avoiding conversation to fashion a reasonable reply. He tried to ignore the elf and withdraw into the safe, familiar realm of his own mind, but he could not escape the stranger’s gaze. He stared for a moment at the other elf, taking note of his appearance, which was becoming more difficult to discern in the growing darkness.

They were close in age, Gilduin noted. He guessed he was the elder of the two, but the stranger exuded such confidence and intelligence that Gilduin was unsure. In the glow of the herald’s lantern he saw the pride in the archer’s eyes, and a flicker of tolerance that suggested the stranger felt he had been slighted. As the object of the other’s stare, Gilduin realized that he was undoubtedly the source of the offense. He searched his mind, trying to remember what affront he had recently committed.

When he could not recollect doing anything conceivably offensive, Gilduin realized with chagrin that the elf must have spoken to him. He tried desperately to remember what had been said, mortified at the thought that he had been rudely staring at the elf for the past few minutes. The silence had grown distinctly uncomfortable when at last he recalled the stranger’s question. He could think of only one reason for an archer to seek out the first rank, and with a sinking feeling he realized that the elf must be a captain. He wished to disappear, but forced himself to speak.
“No—I mean, yes, sir.” Gilduin said, knowing how flustered he must sound. “Yes, this is the first rank.” He gave a short bow, more to hide his reddening face than as a courtesy. “My name is Gilduin Lindorion, sir. I am the standard bearer.”

[Alcarillo]

It was morning, and the rising sun was ascending the Hithaeglir, shedding light across Eregion. Cainenyo was still in his nightgown, and kneeling at the pool of his home’s courtyard. Surrounded by aromatic flowers, it was here that he washed his arms, legs, and face each morning before he got dressed. He usually spent this time thinking about the day’s work and making a list in his mind of the day’s chores.

I must finish that knife today, he thought, still sleepy. It would be for his wife Alassante, who was still asleep upstairs. The knife would be a gift just to prepare for the troubled times ahead. I might get some nice silver decoration on the hilt, something like vines, or flowers, he thought as his mind wandered over the image of the completed knife that Cainenyo had had in mind for months. I could get Arenwino to do it, or maybe Celebdur. I must stop by the silver-smithy district later today and shop around for the best quality and price possible. Cainenyo stood and stretched his limbs, and reentered the house, only to emerge moments later in his work clothes and holding a glass of blood-red wine, his usual breakfast.

He crossed the courtyard, where the shadows of the flowers were now somewhat shorter, and entered a cool arched passage, which led to his workshop. Cainenyo noticed a few people walking about the street, which would become busier as the day moved into the afternoon. He took a sip of his wine and set it on a table to put on his apron and gloves, which hung on pegs near the door. Kneeling, he removed a long key from an apron pocket, unlocked a large chest near the furnace and found the long knife he was working on yesterday. Cainenyo dropped it into one of his deep pockets.

Eager to begin his work, he hurried back into the house, where he found Alassante already awake and plucking some flowers from the courtyard. She held a blue vase under her arm, where she deposited the flowers. She looked up from her work at Cainenyo. “Hello, you’re starting today’s work?” she said smiling. It was still morning, but the sun had now risen to sit on the mountains.

“Yes, but I wanted to tell you that I’ll be searching for a smith to work on the hilt of a knife. I want some floral decoration added to it. I’ll be back later, by noon.” He explained. Alassante frowned somewhat. She enjoyed her husband’s cheerful humming drifting through the house while he worked at the anvil, and she was slightly troubled by the weaponry Cainenyo seemed to be making more and more often these days. “If anybody comes and asks for me, please tell him that I’m away at the moment and he can come back later,” Cainenyo added. He brushed back his wife’s long brown hair and kissed her on her brow. She waved good-bye as he stepped through the doorway into his forge.

Cainenyo took another sip of the wine left on the table, and then set out into the city to find a suitable smith. Alassante always thought it silly that Cainenyo wore his apron and gloves into the city, but Cainenyo explained that it was a status symbol and that others would know his craft by his clothes. As he walked down the cobblestone street he decided to head to Celebdur, the silversmith to whom Cainenyo’s son was apprenticed. His shop was across town, near the other silversmiths, but Cainenyo welcomed the exercise and fresh air.

[Arry]

‘Look, Uncle,’ said Skald, his moment of good cheer fading. ‘In all seriousness . . . I . . . and I think we all . . . want to see you with enough protection to keep your head on your shoulders should the Orcs have at us with those nasty blades of theirs. I know I’ll be wearing my helmet and a sleeved shirt of light mail over a woolly vest. And I’ll tie my thick leather vest over it. My small shield . . . the one you made me covered in bronze; it’ll be with me. I’m putting leather protectors on my lower legs, too. They’re fierce beasties, the Orcs – they’ll cut you anywhere they can.’ He raised his thick brows at Orin. ‘You know if you don’t promise to wear something to our liking, we’ll stand round you in battle like two-legged pieces of armor!’

Skald grinned impishly at the threat, then tried another tack. ‘Can’t have you getting injured or worse yet killed! Whose gonna stand with me when I finally find and marry my heart’s delight?’

[piosenniel]

‘Marry? Heart’s delight?’ Riv chuckled. ‘Good one, brother!’ He looked toward Orin, gauging his uncle’s reaction. ‘Not quite sure you’ve sold him, though!’ He narrowed his eyes as if he were considering it more seriously. ‘However, since that may take a good number . . . no, make that a very great number . . . of years to accomplish, we just might have to make sure that our dear Uncle lives til his beard reaches the toes of his boots!’

Riv poured himself another cup of ale and offered the skin round again. ‘Little brother’s got a good idea. We should make sure we take a good supply of food with us. We’ll hit the supply room in the level below us. We can use one or two of their hand carts. Some we can carry out with us; some we can cache near the East-gate. There are any number of rocky outcroppings we can hunker down in for defense if need be.’

He looked at Skald and Bror. ‘What if we send the two of you ahead early tomorrow morning? We’re going to need more Dwarves to stand with us. No use in bringing food if we’re dead and can’t be eating it. Uncle Orin and I can bring your armor along with us; pile it on the food cart if need be – you can put it on just before we leave the East-gate. You’ll be able to go more quickly that way, raising call for more to go with us. Stop at your friends’ forges, ten or so more fighters would be good. Uncle Orin and I can raise the hue and cry here in the west halls.’

‘What say you?’

[Orofaniel]

It was something in the weather that told Geldion that it was indeed the end of autumn. The leaves that used to have the slightest scent of summer, were long gone, and not to be sensed for another year. And perhaps; never again. The gentle wind had slowly turned into some harsher and slightly bitter tones, and it washed away all the warmth that remained in the elf's body. The cool breeze in his face, made him feel slightly dizzy. This did not suit him. It did not suit him at all.

Entering the Pin the elf felt as though his spirits were lifted. The warmth of the room and the crackling fireplace greeted him and any other guest that would enter the room sooner or later. The light hit him quite suddenly, and his eyes had to get used to it and thus he stayed in the shadows for some moments. He then heard a familiar voice. It was, without much doubt, his good friend - and now also a fellow Captain - Ondomirë. The elf hurried over to the table, set for four, although at the present there were only three of them; Ondomirë, himself...and someone he did not recognize. There was however no need to think more about it, because Ondomirë introduced him quickly to the stranger that was smiling so gently towards him.

"This is Alcarfalon," Ondomirë said once again. "And this, Alcarfalon, is my friend Geldion," Ondomirë. The two elves that had been strangers to one another until now, greeted each other. Both of them seemed to enjoy the new acquaintance. "An old friend, you say?" Geldion then asked Ondomirë after having been offered some wine, which he gladly accepted. He seated as well, as he suddenly was aware of that he had been standing all along, while the other two had offered him a seat- in what seemed to be a comfortable cushion. He paused, and put down his cup of wine hoping for a refill later that afternoon.

"Indeed," Ondomirë replied quickly. "You are an elf full of surprises," Geldion sighed. "I would think that after all these years, I would be acquainted with most of your 'old friends'. Perhaps you came before me then?" Geldion then said, giving a short laughter,. The other two were quick to follow. "Well, I met Geldion a long time ago, during the establishment of our beautiful Lindon,” Ondomirë told Alcarfalon. “My ancestors fought with the elves a long time ago in Beleriand. Ondomirë is has been a friend of my relatives for many years, and he has always been welcome there…” Alcarfalon then informed Geldion. “Ah of course. My memory is worse than I thought. Ondomirë has mentioned you in several occasions. It’s a shame we haven’t had the chance to meet before,” Geldion then said.

Nothing more of those matters were said, because the company was slightly interrupted by another elf entering the Pin. It seemed to be the elf that had volunteered to lead the troops of elves with spears.

[Folwren]

Bror declined Riv’s offer of more ale and kept his eyes on his brother’s face as he suggested his plans.

‘What say you?’ Riv asked in conclusion. Bror considered it carefully for a minute. Then he put his head down and lightly plucked a simple tune on his strings before speaking.

‘Well, if you don’t mind my saying so too much, I don’t think it’s a good idea to raise any hue and cry just now. If you spread the name of Sauron around there will be terror in the streets and nothing will be accomplished half as well as it should if it were only known by a few. If you meant something else than that when you say hue and cry, then please explain.

‘But about Skald and me going on to gather a few extra people, I’d be up for that. As you said, we’d be able to move more quickly without the extra armor and that’d give the fellows we gathered a little time in advance to make preparation to go. Are there any dwarves in particular that you want?

‘If you’re gathering the food,’ he went on with hardly a pause, ‘please bring something other than cram. I’d think that we’d have thought of something better than that when we have to go off and do something. Sure, I know, I’ve never been on a real mission before, but I’ve tasted the stuff that you all take with you and I can’t say it’s too appetizing!’

[Amanaduial the archer]

Narisiel looked up at Maegisil, surprised and half-smiling, as if expecting him to be grinning back. But when she saw the other elf’s solemn expression, the amusement faded from her own as she looked away, her fingers tracing the engravings she had started on Leneslath’s sword blade. “You…you shouldn’t,” she replied softly, her pale face looking suddenly more wearied even in the warm light cast from the forge. How can he know of what price she fear I may pay for my craft…how dangerous those rings could be in the wrong hands… But her melancholia only seemed to last a moment, for, closing her eyes, she sighed gently and then sniffed suddenly, blinking a few times, and glanced shrewdly back up at the king’s counsellor. “My apologies, Maegisil, it has been a long day – I have several commissions at the moment that have pressing deadlines…”

“Oh, well if you do not have time, do not worry about it–” Maegisil replied hurriedly, turning away, but the elvensmith shook her head hastily, reaching for his arm and interrupting, “No, I…I did not mean that – my commitments are not so that I could not fit another in, depending on its nature. Although I do warn you,” she added with a smile. “If you wish me to make yet another blade, I shall strongly resist the urge to scream.”

The older elf smiled back gladly, shaking his head. “Then do not fear! No, I intended to commission your skills for something which I believe is an area of your particular expertise, or so I gather from my Lord Celebrimbor.”

There is not a craftsman alive who does not appreciate sincere flattery from those who know what they are talking about: Narisiel smiled, blushing slightly, and cocked her head to one side questioningly. “Oh ho, really? And what would this be then, if not weaponry?”

“Jewellery.”

The simple word could not have startled the elvensmith more, and she actually visibly flinched at it, suddenly firing up with the anger that she had been noted for in her younger days. How could he know what she had been thinking of just moments before? Jewellery, yes, that had been her expertise – but why did Maegisil ask about it now? It seemed unusual to make such a frivolous commision, to be sure, when war seemed imminent – unless it was not as innocent as it seemed, for had the other not just mentioned his ‘jealously’ of Narisiel?! The thoughts swelled through the elf’s mind on a wave of paranoia and she gave Maegisil a very straight, fierce look. “Why do you say that?” she replied quietly.

The other seemed taken aback at Narisiel’s sudden fierceness and frowned, but stood his ground. “Because you were one of those who helped Lord Celebrimbor with the forging of the rings,” he replied levelly. “But also because I know, as any other in the city, that you are one of the foremost jewelsmiths in Ost-in-Edhil.” He looked coldly at her, then nodded stiffly. “Good day to you, Narisiel.”

“Wait. Please.” This time she did not reach out for his arm and as Maegisil turned back, he saw the smith wipe her eyes wearily with her fingers, smoothing them back across high cheekbones to rest on the sides of her face then rested them with the fingertips meeting in a steeple between her eyes, almost as if she was praying. Those dark, sharp eyes regarded Maegisil pensively, then she sighed and let her arms hang down by her sides, shaking her head and looking away once more. “I am sorry, again, Maegisil. I…well, I cannot pretend the rings have not been on my mind of late.” Looking up, her expression and voice softened to an almost motherly expression of concern. “How is Lord Celebrimbor?”

“Have you not seen him recently?”

Narisiel shook her head, turning away towards a tall, locked cupboard, fumbling on her belt for the right key. “There are certain worries on my mind that have prevented me from seeking out my Lord in recent times, although I know I must talk to him,” she replied, finding the correct key. Raising an eyebrow, she looked back over her shoulder at the other elf. “And I am not talking about commissions,” she added quietly. The latter nodded, understanding. “The rings.”

“The rings,” Narisiel repeated meaningfully. Twisting the key deftly in the lock, then in another two which were more surreptitiously and cleverly placed on the hinges, the craftswoman slowly pulled open the doors, then paused when barely a crack was visible. Smiling mischievously, she inclined her head, signalling that Maegisil should come forward, then her face became serious once more. “I cannot muse on those particular…objects…for too long, Maegisil, or I would be sure to go mad, to become obsessed with them – as any who had seen their power is at risk of doing. Please don’t ask me about them,” she continued hastily as the other seemed about to speak. “Please.” Then her smile resumed its place on her pretty features, both mischievous and strangely fond at the same time as she returned her gaze to the cupboard and began to open it slowly. “I would prefer to talk about this particular piece of jewellery you wished me to make. I presume it is a gift?”

“For my wife,” Maegisil replied, nodding. Narisiel nodded in turn, as if satisfied. “I thought it would be.”

“And why is that?” This time Maegisil seemed almost edgy. Narisiel glanced sharply at him, but did not reply, simply contenting herself with shaking her head, then swung open the cupboard doors. Maegisil could not contain a slight gasp and Narisiel smiled proudly, her eyes glittering as the other ran his eyes over the jewels that were displayed there. “Welcome to my little box of tricks.”

[Orofaniel]

The newly arraived elf was waved towards their table by Ondomirë. Now Geldion realized why they were all gathered here. The table, as Geldion had noticed when he arrived, was set for four.

“So, will you feed us while we’re here?” Hénsirë asked Ondomirë with a great smile on his face. He too had probably noticed the table that had been set. Hénsirë was a tall figure with broad shoulders. He was a warrior with great strength and fierceness. His face however, had very clean and bright features and seemed more gentle than the personality it represented. The elf in front of them was by all means, nice and decent, not to mention noble. At the same time however, he represented stubbornness and perhaps little self awareness. He was a bit ruthless, and quite arrogant at times. Nevertheless, he fought with the strength of ten men, or perhaps more. And thus many looked up to him; he would make a decent leader, Geldion thought, disregarding his personal faults.

“Indeed, if that is what the gentleman wants…” Ondomirë said and gestured the newly arrived elf to take a seat. “I think another cup of that excellent wine will do, for my part at least,” Geldion said politely. It was then Hénsirë noticed his presence ad greeted him as a friend. “Captain Geldion,” Hénsirë started, eyeing him. “I never got the chance to converse with you at the High King’s meeting. A real shame, as I’ve heard much about you and your skills with the sword,” Hénsirë then continued. Ondomirë took another sip from his cup. “You are too kind, Captain Hénsirë,” Geldion then forced, not knowing what else to say. “It is by far time you lead a small troop,” Hénsirë said before Geldion could finish his sentence. “I mean, after all those years, loyal advisor to the High King….”

“Well, I’m honoured that the Hight King would grant me such a position of great value. I am grateful for what He has given me,” Geldion replied. Hénsirë then smiled and turned to Ondomirë.

The moments of silence were interrupted by a few sips every now and then.

“So, when do you reckon’ will get the warriors and the supplies ready?” Hénsirë then asked.

It was a question that had dwelled in Geldion’s mind as well. “Hard to say,” Geldion said. “We ought to have some sort of control over the supplies we need, and the troops as soon as possible. The arranging of the troops will be the most difficult task I expect. There are many warriors and a lot to keep up with,” Ondomirë continued. “Not to mention the supplies that has to be arranged before we leave. Remember; there is a long journey in front of us, and getting short of supplies is the very last thing we need,” Geldion then finished. Hénsirë nodded and so did Ondomirë. It seemed that Alcarfalon was now sitting in his own thoughts, not minding the conversation going on between the three of them.

[Arry]

‘Have to agree with you on cram, Bror.’ Skald raised his mug to his brother and grinned. ‘Just as soon eat my boot soles than try to chew a piece of it, much less swallow it.’ He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘I’m sure our dear mother most likely makes the finest, most serviceable cram beneath the Misty Mountains, but I’ll be a rock lizard’s uncle if even her stuff doesn’t suck the spit right out of your mouth at first bite.’ He took a long swig of his ale. ‘Let’s go heavy on the dried meats and fruits and bring just a small amount of the Dwarven bread, eh Riv?’

‘And don’t let this go to your head, little brother, but I’m going to weigh in with you on not spreading the word about Sauron being behind all this trouble. I got the idea from Father that while he felt alright sharing this bit of news with us, he didn’t want it going any further. I think perhaps the King means to take counsel with all us Dwarves is what he was getting at – allay any fears and put a stop to any panic at the news.’ Skald shrugged his shoulders. ‘Just thinking off the top of my head, really,’ he said. ‘Nothing firm on that.’

‘About tomorrow . . . I’ll leave my gear piled here in the kitchen, Riv, for you and Uncle to load up on the cart. And Bror, there are several stonemasons’ halls I’d like to call in at as we travel along. There are a number of Dwarves round my age who were apprenticed at the same time as I. I’m sure they’d be able to lend us a hand with fetching the Elves.’

He drank down the last of his ale and pushed the cup away from him, shaking his head ‘no’ when Riv held up the ale-skin. ‘I think I’ll say good-night. Get my gear in order for tomorrow.’

Skald stood up from the table and grinned at Bror. ‘Think you can make it out of bed for an early start?’ he asked.

[Folwren]

Bror choked suddenly on his last mouthful of ale. He swallowed desperately and fell to coughing, turning bright red in the effort to get the liquid out of his wind pipe. His brothers laughed and Skald bent towards him to slap him on the back. In another minute, Bror was recovered and he turned with furious indignation towards Skald.

‘Of course I’ll be up!’ he exclaimed, gasping for breath at the same time. ‘By heaven, I’ll warrant I’ll be up before you when morning comes!’ A quick and rather stern warning and check from both Riv and Orin halted the words that might have followed and Bror shut his mouth with a snap. Skald continued to laugh.

Bror got up, still scowling, and with his harp in one hand and his other on the back of his chair, he addressed Orin and Riv.

‘I had better go to bed, too, seeing as...someone-’ a quick, darting glance towards Skald ‘-doubts my ability to get up in the morning. I’ll leave what I need brought with his stuff. I don’t know if we’ll be off before seeing you in the morning or what. You, I won’t see, Uncle Orin, but Riv might be up. Goodnight, then!’ He turned to go, but half way to the door, he turned back around. ‘What time do you want to be off?’ he asked Skald.

[Boromir88]

Orin smiled at Skald's jest of marriage, but still refused to wear lots of armor. He'd probably dress in a mail hauberk crafted by himself, a wooden shield, a helmet (which sounded like a good idea), but nothing else. "I will take a suit of mail, a shield, and a helmet, but refuse to wear anything else. Nothing else is necessary. Even the best armor may be pierced by a sturdy strike." Orin said sharply. "You better not wait too long to get a dwarf lady." His expression had now changed to laughter.

If you are asking for my input, "I think you have all grown to be able to make your own decisions and there's nothing for me to add." They all nodded, Orin continued, "I'm sure Fawrin would like to join, as he seems to have more interest in this than myself, and I'm sure I can round up some other lads."

They continued to discuss the plans. Orin began to doze off when Bror suddenly began yelling at Skald. Orin snorted and quickly jerked up in his chair, hoping no one caught him napping. Orin was taken back by Bror's defensive reply. "Well, I'm sure you two know him better than me, but that certainly did not seem like the Bror I've grown to know." Orin shook his head puzzled by Bror's reaction, "He must be under a lot of stress, because of the news." Aren't we all he muttered under his breath.

[Seth Cotton]

For a second he got the feeling he was ignored by the Elf that quite obviously tried to focus on something else, appearing busy, but he didn't fool Vaele. Vaele snorted quietly and put his arms in the sides. He looked at the Elf, that still glanced up a little at him, sort of examining him. He raised an eyebrow at him.

The Elf seemed shy and that he would rather avoid Vaele by all means, but something pulled the Elf to answer. Was it that Vaele was maybe a bit older? At least Vaele guessed he was. And finally, when Vaele was to ask him if he was a mute he opened his mouth.

'No—I mean, yes, sir.' Gilduin said, knowing how flustered he must sound. 'Yes, this is the first rank.' He gave a short bow, more to hide his reddening face than as a courtesy. 'My name is Gilduin Lindorion, sir. I am the standard bearer.'

'Ah, very well.' Vaele nodded and then forced a smile. He hurried to bow quickly, forgetting he should reply in good manners and introduce himself as well. 'Vaele Andarion, scout and marksman of the First Rank.'

He looked at the other Elf that fiddled a bit nervous with his banner. Was it the fear of going to war? Or perhaps something else. Vaele was pussled but didn't mention anything of what he was thinking even though he really wanted to ask all his questions.

'Maybe we get to march together then?' Vaele grinned and took his bow from the shoulder. He began to adjust the bow string and glanced from time to time upon Gilduin that stood looking at him.

[Durelin]

“I thought it would be.”

Surprised by this response, Maegisil asked, “And why is that?” sounding a little sharper than he meant to. The look Narisiel gave him matched the sharpness of his voice, and he no longer expected an answer. She only shook her head, and then opened the large cupboard to which she had turned. What Maegisil saw upon her pulling back the doors made him gasp. Upon the shelves were displayed countless jewels of varying sizes and colors, all cut seemingly to perfection, and, as even the untrained eye could see, most were very precious items. Recognizing the value of many of these jewels, and marveling at their beauty, Maegisil could only stare for a moment. When he once again remembered why he was there, he noticed Narisiel was again smiling at him with amusement in her eyes, as well as a certain amount of pride.

“It seems that what I heard of you was true, Narisiel Mirdain.”

“And what exactly would that be? That I am the mirdan of a thousand jewels?” she asked, light sarcasm clear in her voice. Maegisil smiled again, and quickly his mind traveled again to Sairien.

“Surely you would not waste such precious jewels on me and my request? A simple gift for my wife may be important to me, but it is of no matter to you, and I would not expect it to be.”

Narisiel shook her head again, giving Maegisil a rather flat look. He was confused again, as his endless formalities made it hard for him to understand what the elf woman meant by any of her looks and silent responses. Being married to Sairien had not helped him in reading people’s faces, as she knew her husband was too formal and straightforward for too many subtleties, and thus she was always equally as direct with him, though less proper and official. Over the years, she had weathered away his stony outward appearance towards her also, and she still worked on smoothing his features even more. No one would ever have noticed this if they had not seen he and his wife together, as he was a servant to the Lord Celebrimbor, a soldier, and a counselor as soon as he left their home. In earlier days, he had been a young swordsman and celebdan, but duty and the passage of years had changed this.

Glancing out a window of the shop that faced the east, Maegisil saw that the sun had now risen a little farther in the sky to hang as an orb seemingly held up by the mountaintops of the Hithaeglir. Soon his lord would be expecting him. But risking tardiness, he turned his mind and his eyes back to Narisiel. Most likely Celebrimbor would not mind Maegisil’s delay if he heard word concerning the elf woman. It seemed it had been some time since the two had spoken at all, and now was a good time for old alliances and friendships to be renewed.

[Arestevana]

“Vaele Andarion, scout and marksman of the first rank,” the archer corrected with a smile.
Gilduin murmured a vague ‘pleased to meet you’. Now that he thought about it, it made perfect sense for a scout to be marching in the first rank. Glancing around, he saw that most of the elves near them were dispersing for the night. The captains were returning to Caras Galadhon, presumably to meet with Celeborn. The other warriors were resting or wandering among the trees, conserving their strength for the march the next day.
“Maybe we get to march together then?” Vaele asked, after a moment.
Gilduin suppressed a rather hopeful ‘maybe not?’ and tried to change the subject, not wishing to explain that he found it difficult to communicate with people. “Are you prepared for the march?” he asked. He continued without waiting for an answer. “You should rest until the commander returns. I do not know how early we will leave.” He gave a polite bow and turned away, seeking solitude among the star-crowned trees.
~
Gilduin wandered, half-dreaming, in the silent darkness of the Golden Wood. Though he stayed close to the city, his mind roamed far, finding strength in the power of Laurelindórinan. In the still, dark hours before dawn, a melodic horn call summoned the contingent together. Withdrawing from his nighttime reverie, Gilduin slowly joined the muster to find his place in the first rank. The noise of the contingent was muted, as if no one was willing to disturb the predawn stillness.

“Ah, Lindorion, there you are.” Eldegon addressed Gilduin quietly, looking harried. “Our lord Celeborn has decided to lead the contingent himself. There’s been a slight change in the marching order, but it shouldn’t affect you much. Make sure you are ready to march: we leave as soon as the contingent is assembled.”
Gilduin checked his weapons and the standard as the commander left. Finding nothing wrong, he waited while the ranks fell into place. Vaele Andarion, the scout he had met the previous evening, took up position on his left. Gilduin gave a mental sigh, but found he did not mind seeing the other as much as he had expected. To his surprise, he found it comforting to see a familiar face.

Slowly, the sky began to lighten. Celeborn, Eldegon and the captains walked up and down the ranks, speaking quietly to the elves. At last the full company was assembled, and the leaders took their places in the first rank. The herald played one long, sweet note on his silver horn. From the city many voices answered: the Galadrim sang to greet the dawn and farewell their warriors and their lord. From his position on Celeborn’s right, Eldegon gave the call to march, and the contingent moved forward, past the city, with the rising sun behind them.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Narisiel fixed Maegisil with a flat look that verged on skeptical as he seemingly put down his own wish. But her gaze seemed to make him almost uncomfortable and, with a quick smile, he looked away hastily, staring out of the window. The smith did not speak for a moment, surprised, and finally answered, hoping her look had not been misinterpreted to cause offence. "Maegisil, you are absolutely correct when you say that it would be of no matter to me - but if it was not of great matter to you, I do not think you would have sought me out.”

Was that a faint blush on the other elf’s features? “It is just a gift–”

“I take pride in my work, Maegisil,” Narisiel interrupted firmly over Maegisil’s protestations. “Besides, you were right when you said I had a particular interest in crafting jewellery – no matter the other commissions I have, as I said earlier, if you had given me another weaponry job, I would have had to have you hounded out of my shop,” she added, deadpan. When Maegisil looked unsure, she cracked a grin, smiling sincerely at the other. “It would be a pleasure, Maegisil, a pleasure.”

The elf-lord’s counsellor smiled gratefully and turned his eyes back to the rich selection of jewels in front of him, the luscious items of Narisiel’s trade. But as he did so, Narisiel saw his eyes flicker over to the window once more, in the direction of Celebrimbor’s palace, an action that was not missed by the elf woman – and maybe it was not meant to be, she sceptically added to herself. “A meeting with your Lord, Maegisil?”

The other smiled knowingly, giving a small shrug, then looked back to the cupboard, running his fingers through a delicate filigree box of rubies, glittering like the teardrops of the setting sun. Turning back to business, she ignored this and began to question the other on what sort of gift he wished to present his wife with. “A necklace maybe? If it is a precious gift that can be easily worn and on show most of the time, maybe this would suit…or a more discreet pendant maybe, although those rubies would perhaps not be the best for such a piece – they are really more– ” she faltered slightly, then continued, “–more suitable for setting in a ring.”

Maegisil nodded thoughtfully, apparently unconcerned, but Narisiel was finally unable to resist asking the question that had been nagging at the corner of her mind: concerning Celebrimbor. She had not conversed with the elf-lord for long months now, and had not seen him on a more personal basis for even longer – it seemed she was only summoned for occasional, puny matters which barely related to her status as one of the master smiths – almost as if Celebrimbor was trying to skip over the fact that she was a smith at all. But although it was a distant relationship, Narisiel was nonetheless fond of the other, and when he had been almost an invisible figure for so long, she was concerned – not only for his wellbeing, but for the political climate that may have reduced him to silence. She was the lord’s advisor as much as Maegisil himself, after all. Hesitating, she voiced the question, her dark eyes serious and maybe even a little anxious. “How…how is Lord Celebrimbor, Maegisil?”

[Arry]

‘What time do you want to be off?’ Bror asked, turning back from the door.

‘Before First Light, I think,’ answered Skald, his brow wrinkling with calculations. ‘It’ll take us two and a half days to reach the East Gate . . . and that’s without stopping to pick up a few extra strong arms with axes to take along. And they’ll need to gather their gear and make their goodbyes . . . so, I’d say it will add at least another day to our travels.’ He drank his ale down and turned the cup upside down on the table.

‘What do you say, little brother? Think the younger Stonecut brothers can get done what needs to be done and meet the old folk at the East Gate chamber by then?’ He grinned at Riv and Orin, ducking as he finished his statement. Riv’s hand was on his empty cup and Skald knew his brother had a quick arm when it came to chucking stones . . . an all too accurate arm, as he recalled from games of ‘Capture the Ledge’ they’d played as children.

He grinned again at Riv and waved a white dishtowel left on the table in surrender. In a more serious vein he straightened up, saying, ‘Shall I tell the others you’ll bring food for them, too, Riv? It’ll cut considerable time off their getting ready to go along?’

[Folwren]

Bror nodded as Skald made his answer and took the last few steps towards the door. Skald's last statement stopped him again-

'What do you say, little brother? Think the younger Stonecut brothers can get done what needs to be done and meet the old folk at the East Gate chamber by then?’ The little brother lifted his head and looked around sharply, and then smiles broadly as Skald prepared himself to dodge the mug Riv seemed to threaten to throw. His older brother did not expect an answer and he left them to finish making plans. If anything new was brought up, Skald could tell him in the morning.

For now, he said to himself, I've got to make sure that I do get up in time. To bed, then, and to get myself up before Skald...we'll see what we can't devise for his morning's welcome.

Bror’s forehead furrowed in consideration. This wasn’t exactly the time to pull any pranks, but Skald was asking for it. After all, Bror had only missed rising time twice in the last month. He’d have to think it over, but even now he thought it would be a bad idea and wouldn’t be accepted well at all. Bror guessed that he would think even less of it in the morning.

'Until then, though,' he muttered aloud, and put away his harp.

[Envinyatar]

Mid-winter - the turn of the year/Lindon – SA 1695-1696

‘The seas are becoming too rough,’ said Alcarfalon, stamping his boots on the snowy quay. ‘Even for such a sea-worthy vessel as the Lintaramë. This will be the last voyage for my ship and crew until the Spring winds come.’

It was mid-winter; the northern lands cold with snow and ice. Alcarfalon’s ship had managed the passage from the northern reaches of Forlindon but barely. She had picked up the last of the Elven troops from a small port just across the northern sea from Himling. One hundred warriors – fifty spear wielders, twenty five bowmen, and twenty five with swords.

Many of them came from Elven families who had fought under the command of Maedhros before Beleriand was sunk beneath the waves. There was no love lost between them and Sauron. They had heard stories from their kin who had seen him and his foul creatures slay many of the Eldar to prepare the way for his Dark Master’s return. And now they knew he would do so again, but this time the Elven deaths would be for his benefit alone.

Elrond, himself, had come down to the dock to see these last troops disembark. He had thanked Alcarfalon for his help in getting them to Mithlond in a timely manner and had walked among them, greeting their captains as he went and once again expressing his appreciation for their coming. His aide had stayed behind once Elrond had gone and had taken the new captains and their troops to the snug wooden barracks that would be their winter quarters.

-------

It was Ondomirë who bought the first round for the table. The server had grown so used to seeing them there a number of days a week that he only nodded as the Elf raised his hand to call him over. He knew what it would be – a flagon of the deep red wine from Edhellond. Had the ship’s captain ordered, he would bring the golden ale; for the one named Hénsirë, the spear-captain, the ale dark as night. The server swallowed a laugh as he thought of the third Elf. Geldion, he recalled. He was the smart one of the bunch, in the server’s estimation. By the time the other three had ordered rounds for their fellows and all had partaken, their thirsts were slaked enough that Geldion need order no more.

‘First time I’ve seen Lord Elrond at the docks to meet the ship,’ said Hénsirë raising his glass to the others. He threw the comment casually out onto the table, his own feelings masked as he looked from man to Elves.

Alcarfalon shrugged it off for the most part. ‘Seemed a nice enough fellow,’ he offered. ‘I’m sure he must be quite busy and all . . . with the preparations for your . . . excursion.’ He took a sip of his wine and grinned at Ondomirë. ‘Good! For wine, that is.’

‘Yes, he’s busy, I suppose,’ said Hénsirë. ‘But I have to say we’re much busier than he right now,’ he went on, nodding toward Geldion and Ondomirë. ‘Wouldn’t you say so? What with organizing the troops under our command, their captains, the supplies they need, keeping their skills honed . . . it can be quite a large headache.’

‘Quite true,’ smiled Ondomirë in agreement. ‘It rivals, at time, the headache one gets from spending too much time at The Pin enjoying the fruits of the vine and the grain.’ He drained his glass and poured another. ‘I, for one, will be quite glad when the snows thaw and we set out for the eastern regions. How about you, my friend?’ he asked, topping off Geldion’s drink.

[piosenniel]

‘Tis alright, Uncle,’ Riv said, pointing at Skald and Bror as they traded remarks with one another before leaving for their quarters. ‘By virtue of your years, I think, you are afforded some measure of respect from the young one. Make no mistake, the two are fond of one another, but Bror must have someone to devil, and I am too staid in my old ways as husband and father. But Skald . . . he’s the one to take the heat or be the focus for our youngest brother’s little jokes and pranks.’

His eyes twinkled and he laughed softly, recalling a few. ‘And truth be told, I can’t think of a more deserving victim! Skald was a little terror when we were younger, and I was ever in trouble for defending myself from his antics.’ He winked at Orin. ‘Let him be paid back now in kind by his little brother!’

‘We should drink up our cups and head off, too, I think.’ He stood and hung up the much depleted ale skin and gave the cups a quick rinse, setting them on counter to dry. ‘I’ll see to my friends and their axes tonight before I sleep. Tomorrow, once you’re done talking to Fawrin and the others you know, let’s meet at the supply hold – the one a level down from here. Can you and your friends bring a few small hand-carts? We’ll load them up with food and mayhap some bandages and such. Mahal forbid we have need of the latter!’

[Folwren]

Bror turned over on his bed and opened one eye. It was dark in the room that he slept save for underneath the door where the light of one of the dim night lamps flowed under. The stillness of the place around him told him that it was still early and outside the mountain, morning was still dark, but it wouldn’t stay that way for more than an hour. He got up and half rolled out from under the blankets and walked silently to the door to open it a crack, allowing a little more light in. Making as little noise as possible, he dressed himself and then took up the few weapons and armor that he would need on the trip in his arms.

He bore everything to Riv’s kitchen, passing as silently as a shadow in the halls, for he had left his boots beside his own door. Skald had set his stuff on a chair the previous evening and Bror piled his armor and weapons with his cloak beside that. After casting a last glance over his things to make sure that was all he needed, he walked to the counter. The four mugs that had been used the previous evening for ale were still sitting on the counter top. He stopped and considered them carefully. After a moment, he gave a determined nod and stepped forward, took two of them and filled them both with water and then left the place as quietly as he had come.

Going as swiftly as he could with full mugs of water, Bror made his way to Skald’s room. He stopped outside the door and with bated breath, leaned his head towards it to listen for any movement from within. There was none, and he ventured to push the door open.

It swung in noiselessly and he entered. No light was lit and in the utter stillness, Bror could hear above the blood moving in his own ears, the sound of Skald’s breathing. He still slept. The young dwarf tiptoed to his bedside and putting both mugs into his right hand, he very gently moved the blanket down and cleared Skald’s chin of it.

Bror nodded with satisfaction. His left hand took back its own mug and then he extended both hands above Skald’s face, stepped back half a foot, and let both water contents fall in even, flowing streams straight onto the sleeping dwarf’s sleeping features.

Bror bounded backwards as light as a deer, still clutching the mug handles in his hands, as Skald sat up with a roar. The water streamed down his beard and neck, most of it being soaked up in his hair, but the rest wetting the bed clothes. Bror retreated to the lighted hall and then stuck his head back in to venture one comment.

‘I would have rigged something far more complicated and far more satisfying for the both of us, but there wasn’t any time, and there wouldn’t have been time to clean it up afterwards anyway.’

[Durelin]

Expecting such a question, Maegisil smiled slightly as he turned to Narisiel, drawing his eyes away from the jewels. Yet when his gaze rested on the elf woman’s face, his smile disappeared, remembering, and seeing the graveness in her stare. He wondered how long it had been since the two had spoken, and he briefly considered what might have gone on between them. But tossing his musings aside, he sighed, and he dropped his eyes to the floor.

“My lord is…well, has been…quite distraught, over many things. Most likely you assumed this…” he paused, looking again at Narisiel. Letting out another sigh in a long and troubled breath, he settled his mind on telling her what he felt in his heart. “I tell you with all sincerity that I have not seen him so overwhelmed by events in all the years I have known him.”

Narisiel seemed to expect this answer, just as Maegisil had predicted her question, and yet she remained silent. It could not have been a surprise to her that Celebrimbor was so disturbed by the Rings and what were seemingly the repercussions of their creation. She appeared equally troubled; her mind did not appear at all at rest, and Maegisil doubted that the craftswoman had made a ring in over a hundred years.

“And yes, a necklace would be perfect,” he said, breaking the silence, and changing the subject momentarily, “I doubt my wife would wear a ring, for fear of losing it.” He chuckled lightly, but his light-hearted voice and expression did not reflect his true thoughts or feelings at all. It was not his goal to change the topic of conversation completely, but he knew that a temporary change of subject would garner a response from Narisiel, as would the mentioning of a ring yet again; or so he hoped.

Maegisil’s words did appear to have some kind of effect on the other elf. Perhaps it was specifically ‘for fear of losing it’ in conjunction with the mentioning of ‘ring’ that caused her to seem so anxious, but the elf-lord’s servant realized he had opened up yet another thought in Narisiel’s mind, one which had been kept locked up for at least a century.

“Your talk of losing rings…”

“Has nothing to do with the Rings,” Maegisil said, cutting her short of asking any questions. “The Three, at least, are safe. You know about the others.”

She nodded slowly, staring at her cupboard of jewels but not really seeing any of them, thoughts crowding her head, and trying to pick out which one to voice next. Maegisil spoke first, though, as he suddenly realized he had not verified his reasoning behind part of his last statement.

“Did Lord Celebrimbor not speak to you concerning the Three Rings?”

[Encaitare]

The mountains had been growing before them for many miles, and at last the regiment had come near to the place where they would camp for the night. Boldog and orc captain Glûtkask halted the regiment with a barked order. Two hundred orcs, weary from the cold and the day's march, stopped in their places. The rest of the regiment was following in divisions of a similar size, for this attack would not require risking their full strength.

Glûtkask observed their surroundings. The terrain was already growing rougher and rockier; the Misty Mountains themselves stood but few miles away. He thought with derision that some of the fool Elves nearby probably considered it a beautiful sight. His withered lips parted to reveal crumbling teeth as he thought on how much improved the scene would be as soon as some elven carcasses were left to rot on the stone.

The two lietentants, one for each company of 100, came to him awaiting orders. They were an unsightly pair, orcs who had proved their mettle enough to be trusted with some authority. The captain surveyed them with yellow eyes, not wanting the encampment process to take any longer than necessary.

"We're three miles from the valley," he told them, his voice like wet, grating stones. "That's close enough that we can ambush the Elves coming from Lorien" -- he managed to twist the fair name into something less savory -- "when they come alone, but far enough that they won't see us until it's too late. The scouts'll be returning soon to tell us of their progress." He glanced eastward. "The sluggards had better be back by nightfall. For now, get your companies into some sort of order when they set up camp. I'm not going to command a regiment in shambles, hear me? It's just temporary, remember. We'll not be settling in; we're striking as soon as the Elves are in sight."

"What're the plans for them? The tactics?" asked one of the two, a squat creature called Lushurd with a cloak of rodent skins -- heads and all.

"Later," Glûtkask growled. "Report to me when your companies are set. Then we'll talk tactics."

[Firefoot]

At the captain’s order to halt, Grimkul threw down his pack right where he stood. He was tired of forced marching, tired of being forced to do anything. More than once in the past several days he’d had half a mind to simply desert and set off on his own, though Ulwakh’s good advice had prevented him from doing so, saying he would not get far in this barren terrain before being spotted. Grimkul didn’t particularly care; he figured he could fight any that came after him. Ulwakh knew better than this, too: large as Grimkul might be for their small breed of Orcs, he wasn’t a match in size or strength to most of the Orcs in the camp, the Captain included.

And he had more than half a mind to slip away now. They were close, oh so close, to the Mountains now, the same mountains where the pair had once lived. “What say we slip away, now, Ulwakh? They won’t see us now, eh, in the setting up camp? We can hide up in the mountains, be done with this filth. Be just like the old days.”

But Ulwakh was shaking his head. “We’s too far south – this ‘ere mountains are Dwarvish holds. We’d ’ave to go north first, ’fore heading into the mountains… and we’d not get far. See how far you can see? There’s not any cover for us. We’d be brought back and punished for sure… and that captain ain’t exactly a nice one.”

“So let’s be done with the captain,” said Grimkul, looking on his companion with irritation. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you didn’t want to go back to the mountain tunnels.”

“I do, I do!” Ulwakh rushed to assure him. He had seen that light in Grimkul’s eyes before – the one he got when he was getting ready to knock off a head or two. Ulwakh preferred to keep his head. “It’s just, we’ve got to be smart about it.” That was a bad thing to say; Grimkul didn’t like it when he mentioned smarts. And while Ulwakh would never say it out loud, Grimkul didn’t have a whole lot of smarts, but he still got angry if he thought anyone was offending his intelligence. Ulwakh hastily covered up, “We’ll get our chance, you’ll see.”

Grimkul chose not to respond. Instead, he took out his scimitar and began searching around for some small animal. He felt like fresh meat tonight. Ulwakh still didn’t know why Grimkul preferred the scimitar for hunting and such; weapons like his own knives were much more efficient. Once again, though, he would never say this out loud.

Grimkul’s blade was poised over a rodent hole, ready to kill the unsuspecting creature that showed its face. Too bad they didn’t have any bats around here – bats were tastier than rodents. In fact, Grimkul liked bats so much that he had made his jerkin out of batwings. He was distracted from his thoughts of bats as a nose and whiskers appeared at the bottom of the hole. Just a little bit farther…

“Get this camp in order; it’s in shambles!” called out their company leader as he walked by. “Captain’s orders!” Grimkul’s rodent disappeared back into its hole. He scowled at the leader – Lushurd, his name was.

“I’ll give you orders,” Grimkul muttered, but he was mindful of Ulwakh’s restraining hand on his arm and did nothing for the time being. Ulwakh feared for the day he did decide to “give the captains orders.”

[Kath]

Having been sent out as a scout to find out what the terrain ahead was like and whether there was a good place to conduct an ambush from Ugburz was getting hungry. He'd thought as the leaders made camp that he'd have a chance to go hunting or at least pilfer something from Gradakh, an orc he had developed a strong dislike to. Instead he had been sent out with orders not to come back til he had something worth reporting. As he had left he had seen Gradakh sitting on a rock, smirking as he stuffed something into his mouth.

Brooding on his misfortunes he suddenly noticed a movement. Looking over to where it had come from he quickly realised what he had seen and ducked down behind a bush. Looking through the leaves was difficult so he slashed some out the way with a knife, grinning to himself at the thought of destroying something the Elves held dear.

As he watched he saw a lone Elf creep through the shadows opposite him. It obviously thought it was too quiet and unobtrusive to be noticed, but Ugburz had not been chosen as a scout for nothing. He had keen eyes for an orc and the ability to keep still and breath quietly so as not to be noticed. The Elf paused for a moment, looking towards the bush behind which Ugburz sat, but his tricks seemed to have worked as it looked away again and moved on. For a moment it looked toward the mountains, and then it disappeared into the growing darkness.

Ugburz remained still for several moments, knowing the Elves used their abilities as dirty tricks. The Elf could still be there, just waiting for him to think it was safe and get up. Then the second he did it would shoot him, with that uncanny accuracy that would leave him no chance of staying alive.

Finally he crawled out from behind the bush, staying in a low crouch to create as small a target as possible. Once he'd reached the relative safety of the taller rocks he ran full pelt back to the encampment. The rules were to tell one of the faster scouts but he wasn't going to let some young thing take credit for what he had seen. And he wanted something to gloat to Gradakh about as well.

Reaching the camp he headed toward his leader's tent and barged past the orcs standing guard outside. The orc inside looked up in anger and Ubgurz shouted out his news before he could be dragged off.

"I saw an Elf! One of their scouts. They must be close!"

"Did it see you?" he asked rising from the floor.

"No I was hidden."

His leader smiled grimly and headed out of the tent past Ugburz toward Glûtkask's area of the camp.

Assuming that his work for the night was done Ugburz stole the remainder of the meal his leader had been eating and loped back to his patch of ground, desperate to find Gradakh and inform him of the evenings events.

[Amanaduial the archer]

“Did Lord Celembrimbor not speak to you concerning the Three Rings?”

Though the question was sensitively asked, there was still no concealing the surprise that tinged Maegisil's voice - and that, along with the assumption in the wording of the question, made Narisiel shoot the other a very sharp look. But his features told her immediately that he was not mocking her, far from it: he was simply inquiring. And the surprise in his voice, she realised, mirrored her own - her own shock at how far she had distanced herself from her lord.

"I haven't spoken much with him recently- that is, he hasn't called upon- or rather, I haven't..." Narisiel trailed away, folding her arms and shrugging as she faltered to a halt. Raising an eyebrow at Maegisil, the craftswoman smiled ruefully. "I'm making excuses," she stated simply. Trying again, she said carefully, "No. No, Lord Celebrimbor has not spoken to me of the Three - or not of what finally became of them."

Maegisil's grey eyes studied the other's face silently, but even through his silence, Narisiel knew what he was going to suggest yet. As he opened his mouth to speak, she butted in quickly. "Maegisil...Celebrimbor is expecting you tonight?"

"I am getting later as we speak, indeed," the other replied with a smile. His face regained some of its solemnity as he continued, "Lord Celebrimbor does not see many of his counselors regularly any more - but that simply means that he has plenty of time in which a meeting could be arranged."

The statement had all the subtlety of a labelled brick thrown through a window, and its point was not missed by Narisiel. Unfolding her arms and wiping her hands nervously on her apron as her eyes darted to the window, the words thrown to the edge of her lips but refusing to spill over. It had been long since she had spoken to Celebrimbor, indeed, but...well, maybe this was not such a bad thing. If there was talk of the Rings, if Maegisil, one who had not been involved in the work of those innermost forges nearly a century ago, knew of them and spoke of them as if they may be of concern to the smith... perhaps it was better if she kept herself and her family out of such matters. She had her husband, her forge and responsibilities, and her very own, most precious jewel: Artamir. Narisiel knew the power of the rings: if they were to go off, the repercussions...

You are one of Lord Celebrimbor's advisors - as such, you have responsibilities, no matter what.

Narisiel sighed, her eyes still fixed distantly on Celebrimbor's regal dwelling, biting her lip slightly. No matter what he concerns she could not escape that truth. Coming to a decision, Narisiel turned suddenly back to Maegisil who immediately turned his gaze to the cupboards in a badly concealed cover of the fact that he had been curiously watching her.

"A necklace it shall be then." A new edge of decisiveness leant itself to her voice as she turned back to business matters. "I will draw up a few rough designs orf ideas that I think appropriate and will deliver them to you as soon as I can, either through my apprentice or...well, or by hand." Maegisil smiled slightly and Narisiel returned it, nodding thoughtfully. "And when I am up at the palace, who knows what else I may get done?"

Maegisil bowed his head formally, still smiling with a decided air of satisfaction that Narisiel knew was not entirely to do with her agreeing to take his commision. "Good evening, Narisiel."

Narisiel ducked her own head slightly and bid the other goodnight as he turned out of her forge. Turning back to her 'box of tricks', the smith let her hands stray absently into one of the boxes that Maegisil's fingers had run through earlier. The dying sunlight as it faded behind the high walls of the city glinted through the luscious gems within, the very essence of the sun seeming to swirl inside the fine, beautifully cut rubies. With a smile, Narisiel lifted her hand a little, letting the rubies fall through her fingers until only one of the tiny jewels remained, glowing from within from the borrowed light from the sun - and even as she watched, as she sun sank lower, the light died suddenly, leaving only the blood-red teardrop resting on her palm.

The elf's smile vanished. Replacing the ruby quickly, she hastily locked the cupboard up, tidied her work away and made for home.

[Arry]

Skald spluttered awake and staggered to his feet. Any other day and a boot would have gone flying after Bror’s form. But Skald did not relish the thought that his brother might be just as likely to pick up said boot and hide it somewhere. Bat-brained changeling! he growled under his breath. Surely we are not sons of the same mother! He snorted with irritation. I’ll pay you back in my own time, mud-worm!

He knuckled the sleep from his eyes, yawning and stretching himself awake. Pulling his soggy night-shirt over his head, he used the drier hem of it to rub dry his face and hair. Tossing it over the wooden trunk which stood at the end of his bed, Skald reached to his bedpost where he’d hung his breeches and tunic the previous night. He pulled on his clothes, found a relatively clean pair of socks, and jammed his feet into his boots.

The beard was another matter. With it, he took more care. He combed out the thick length of it, then divided it and made two neat braids that hung down from either side of his chin. Each was tied off with a wrapping of thin leather cord and a gleaming brass ring affixed over it.

Riv was already up when he entered the kitchen. The two brothers acknowledged each other with nods and a few communal grunts as Skald filled the small knapsack he’d brought with bread, cheese, and smoked fish. He could feel Riv about to comment on the quantity of food, but he held up his hand to stave him off. ‘Don’t plan on going hungry from here to the East-gate brother! Now hand me a small skin of wine and I’ll be off, if you don’t mind.’ He eyed Riv for a moment. ‘And yes, I’m a bit snappish this morning. Seems there’s a leak in my room . . . over my bed . . .’ He said no more, but hurried out to the outer chambers and made for the path that went eastward.

-----

Bror and Skald met up as agreed in the large chamber east of theirs, off which a number of other families had their quarters and workshops. Skald refused to give his brother the satisfaction of seeing him resentful or angry and was all briskly businesslike instead.

‘I’m going to see the Grimsteel’s first,’ Skald told his brother. ‘I’m sure Bildr and Bisi will want to lend their hammers to our company. And I know they’ve just finished the project the King had set for them, so they will be at loose ends and ready for a bit of action.’ He chewed on the side of his thumb, in thought for a moment. ‘Meet you down the way where path dips down toward the King’s bridge. You have some fellows near here you’re going to round up, yes? I won’t call on any others until we reach the eastern chambers . . . the Brassbeards and the Hardhammers have a few strong arms they can send with us, I’m sure.’

Skald set off at a run down the chiseled path leading north to the Grimsteel forges . . .

[piosenniel]

Riv could not sleep. The news from Skald about who was behind the increased activity of the Orcs kept his mind churning. And what had begun as a small rankling ember of displeasure had now become a hot flame of anger. The long remembrance of enmity against the Dwarves from both the long gone Dark Lord and his whelp fueled it; fear for his wife and son fueled and fanned it.

He had caught what rest he could on the couch in his wife and son’s chambers. They were sleeping when he came down to bed. His mind was already churning and he knew if he slept beside his wife his tossing and turning would awaken her. ‘One of us at least, he grunted to himself as he stretched out on the couch and pulled the bearskin over him. ‘One of us should at least sleep peacefully this night.’

Up long before dawn, he made his way to the kitchen above and gulped down a steaming cup of tea by the light of the small banked fire on the hearth. Skald it seemed had left his armour for him already; Bror’s would appear when he wakened. He washed out his cup and left it on the counter. Taking down one of the lanterns from its peg on the wall, Riv checked it for oil and lit it with a sliver of kindling. He was off, then, heading into the southern chambers, toward the forges of the Glitterfists.

~*~

Afi, the oldest Glitterfist son, was up already, sorting through a tray of gems that were yet uncut. He welcomed Riv with a surprised smile and offered him a cup of strong, dark tea laced with honey and a stool to sit in at his worktable. His face darkened as he listened to Riv; his fingers clenching and unclenching about the wooden handle of a rock chisel. He was one of Riv’s closest friends and from him, Riv held back no detail of what he had learned from Skald.

In the end, Afi woke his brothers, Brand and Dari. And they in turn brought their younger apprentices who slept in a small room off the forge - Egil Deepdigger and Odi Ironforge.

~*~

Their gear stowed in great packs on their backs, the five companions quickly followed Riv down into the storerooms below the Stonecut chambers. The six Dwarves made short work of loading up a small cart each with dried meats, skins of ale, and the Dwarven journey-bread, cram. Once done, they headed back up to the main floor and eastward to the place where Riv had promised to meet Orin and his companions.

[Nurumaiel]

Araorë smiled up at Heledharm, a smile that was not lacking in pride. Whenever she saw him she was quite pleased with herself for having arranged him as her daughter's husband. It had turned out as wonderfully as could be wished. Heledharm and Erinlaer adored each other, and Araorë's own husband thought Heledharm a very fine young Elf.

Araorë heard the sound of harp music and faint singing coming from another room. For a moment her eyes grew hard, and her lips set in an annoyed line, but then she tossed her head back and smiled. It was not a crime if Erinlaer wished to sing once in a while, or even most of the day, if Heledharm did not mind. The place looked tidy enough. It was only when she spent her whole day playing her harp, singing, and dancing that it was not a good thing. And then it was for Heledharm to take care of.

The music stopped, and through one of the doorways Erinlaer came, her steps light and breezy and her face full of delight. She took her mother by both hands and stood up on her toes to kiss her cheek. "I'm so pleased to see you, Mother," she said. "Heledharm said you would be visiting some time soon, and I have been anxiously waiting."

"You don't look anxious," said Araorë, brushing her lips on her daughter's hair. "No, you look fresh and young and happy. Your music sounded exactly as you look."

"I couldn't play anything gloomy today," said Erinlaer. "I feel more at peace than I can possibly say. I have had all the day to play my music; Heledharm has listened to me, and sometimes he would sing to my music. And now, Mother, you are here! I could ask for no more, except that Father would come."

"He is close behind me," said Araorë. "He will be here very soon. Now come and bring me to your music, if it is pleasing you so much." She glanced about, her eyes searching and critical. "Everything is very clean," she said, her voice sounding well-satisfied. "These rooms seem to sparkle and shine with cleanliness."

"I knew you would be glad if it was," said Erinlaer. "I worked very hard at it."

So she had only made an effort to keep things tidy because her mother was coming. Perhaps rather because it would make her glad if all were proper, she thought she would be angry if things were not. Araorë shook her head. That was very foolish. At least the place was not falling in ruin. At the least the girl had pulled herself away from the music to work, whatever her motive for it might have been.

"Come, let us sit and you can talk to me," said Araorë. "I do not see you as often as I would like. No, you cannot play music for me. Your father can understand your thoughts through your music, but I need you to speak. Come along. You will have your music when he comes."

[Orofaniel]

First Geldion had to laugh at Onormirë’s last comment regarding the so called headache the Captains supposedly were suffering from.

"You're asking me, old friend?" Geldion replied when he had returned to his usual face expression. Ondomirë was curious to know whether Geldion was sharing the same excitement for the upcoming task; Setting out with the troops for the Eastern Region. "I am," Ondomirë confirmed, looking at Geldion, obviously expecting an answer straight away.

Geldion thought for a moment. He was, whether he admitted it or not, a bit anxious to set out for the eastern regions. It wasn’t only the journey that concerned him, but also the horrors that perhaps awaited him there. He felt a certain anxiety lurking inside of him as his thoughts were spinning. After all, this whole experience was quite new to him. It was a new period in his life. He had evolved and he felt himself surrounded by a completely new, and a perhaps more tense, atmosphere. He knew that in these times he could not expect any less, but all the same, things were not the same after Geldion had been appointed to lead the swordsmen as their captain. Of course, he was very grateful, and he had no regrets, but still there was something lingering inside of him.

"I too will be glad when we finally set out for and reach the eastern region," Geldion then said.

"But.." Ondomirë then said questioningly. Geldion should have known; Ondomirë knew him better than most people, and there seemed to be nothing that accidentally could pass the elf unnoticed. Geldion gave a shot laugh and looked at his friend, who understood that he had hit a somewhat soft spot.

"Well, the new times makes me weary. Things are not the same. Changes are not always good," Geldion told him. "Do you wish to withdraw from the Captain position?" Hensirë then asked bluntly. He was a bit bold when asking this, and thus the two elves and Alcarfalon laughed merrily. "No...no..I'm grateful. It's an honour," Geldion then answered. “An honour it is indeed,” Hénsirë said and raised his glass. “Let us cheer for that,” he suggested and drank until there wasn’t a single drop of vine left in his glass.

Hénsirë gestured that it was time for a refill. Geldion now noticed that both of the two elves had been drinking quite a lot of the wonderful vines offered them. He eyed Alcarfalon as he offered Hénsirë another glass of the liquid that the elf Captain loved so dearly.

[Folwren]

Bror paced the end of the large chamber that he was to meet Skald in. His hands thrust in his pocket, and his boots clumping softly as he went from one entrance to another and back again. After several minutes, Skald appeared at the far end and came towards him. Bror looked up expectantly, but Skald showed no signs of having had nearly half a gallon of water dumped on him less than an hour ago. There was not even the shadow of any anger or intended revenge on his face. It did not truly fool Bor, though, and the younger brother just smiled broadly, knowing for a fact that Skald hadn’t forgotten and was just putting up a mask of disguise.

‘I’m going to see the Grimsteel’s first,’ Skald said when he reached him. ‘I’m sure Bildr and Bisi will want to lend their hammers to our company. And I know they’ve just finished the project the King had set for them, so they will be at loose ends and ready for a bit of action.’ He paused to think a moment and Bror waited patiently. ‘Meet you down the way where path dips down toward the King’s bridge. You have some fellows near here you’re going to round up, yes?’ Skald glanced at him and Bror nodded. ‘I won’t call on any others until we reach the eastern chambers . . . the Brassbeards and the Hardhammers have a few strong arms they can send with us, I’m sure.’

‘Sounds like a good plan to me,’ Bror replied. ‘It shouldn’t take longer than today to get down there, so I’ll see you later on.’ They both nodded and turned away from each other to take different roads in their own direction.

Bror set off at a rather swift clip down the passage way. He greeted the dwarves around his age with a merry ‘Good morning!’ and gave a more sober bow of the head as he passed the older, respectable dwarves.

After a time he turned off of the main road he had been following. The sound of several hammers filled the air around him and he went on into a smaller room with high, vaulting roofs. Four dwarves worked at two anvils and one, large furnace. Bror walked towards them and waited silently until he was noticed. One of the dwarves, the oldest one and father of the other three, soon caught sight of him from the corner of his eye as he set the iron that he was working into the coals.

‘Why it’s Bror Stonecut!’ he bellowed. ‘What are you doing here, sir?’ he asked, burrowing the thick metal into the red, glowing coals with his tongs.

‘I’m here to gather recruits, Master Ironfoot,’ Bror replied, ‘and if you can spare Fundin, Fori, and Tori for a few days, we’d certainly appreciate them.’

Master Ironfoot walked away from the fire and stroked his beard thoughtfully. He looked down at Bror in consideration for a moment. The other hammers fell still and the three sons listened expectantly. ‘What are you going off to do?’

‘There are elves coming through the mines and my brothers and I have been given the job of escorting them through. We’re meeting them out beyond the East Gate. But Riv figures we may have trouble with orcs on the way and so we need more dwarves.’

Ironfoot grunted and turned back to the fire. He removed the iron with his tongs and studied the heated metal and returned it back again.

‘I can spare them. Things are not too busy here at the forge.’

‘Thank you, sir!” Bror said, a grin breaking out immediately on his face. “All you fellows need is your armor and weapons and enough stuff to munch on until we reach the East Gate. Riv’ll have provisions after that.’

The four of them were off and on their way in another ten minutes. They made a jolly group and talked much. Bror was the youngest of them, but no one seemed to mind at all. They were all less than a hundred, though Fundin was almost there, and were all still quite merry.

Along their road they gathered two others. By the time the dwarven smiths were leaving their work and heading for home, Bror and his five companions reached the King’s bridge. Skald was already there waiting for him with the dwarves he had recruited.

‘Hollo!’ cried Bror from the top of the dip. Skald looked up and merely waved. In another moment, the two groups were together and greeting each other. Bror clapped Skald on the shoulder.

‘Well, here we are, big brother, right on time and ready to go. They’ve got their axes and hammers and we’re all in high spirits. May as well walk more tonight. You lead.’

[Boromir88]

Orin nodded at Riv's hint of getting some sleep. Everyone was going to need it and Orin was pretty sure he wasn't going to get much tonight. "Good night Riv, and watch over your brothers. I'll see you after I've gotten everyone and everything ready."

As Orin was leaving he noticed Fawrin was still there with another dwarf; he recognized him as Gram. "Greetings Orin, I'm surprised you're still up." said Fawrin.

"What is that supposed to mean?" joked Orin. "Are you trying to say I'm old?"

"Oh..not at all. Of course not."

"Well, boys I'm still here because I need to ask a favor of you." He now had the full attention of both dwarves. "You may have heard that orcs have been multiplying and the elves are getting restless. Their afraid of something, or someone, and are now trying to gather their full strength, preparing for whatever it is to come. We have been asked to escort the Lorien elves through the Mines and now I ask you to join us as we are going to need as many strong lads as we can spare."

Fawrin and Gram looked hard at Orin, and after a long pause Fawrin spoke up. "You have not told us everything you know or everything you deem to know, but I have no doubt the Elves are scared over something. It's not usual for Elves to get frantic, but it has to be something big if the Lorien Elves need a passage through the mines."

"I assure you I've told you everything I am certain to be true. I'm sure you are the one that knows more than me, Fawrin. All I know is the Lorien Elves need a passage through Moria and we are called to help them. So, now I call you to lend us your axes, and come to aid us."

Fawrin made a gesture to Gram, Orin was sure they agreed to join. "We will help in whatever ways we can." Gram said. "What are the plans?"

"Well I am to meet up with my oldest nephew, Riv, and from there we head off to the East-Gate. Pack lightly as my other nephews are going to gather more lads and plenty of food. I would also suggest to bring whatever armor for battle. You never know what problems or run-ins might occur. Please try to gather any other strong dwarves you know and come to my room when you are ready, and we'll meet you there."

"Aye," said Fawrin, lowly. "You better get some sleep you look awful."

Orin chuckled and with that he said goodbye to his newly acquire companions. He was glad they agreed to help, especially Fawrin. Orin always appears in a much more cheerful mood when Fawrin is around.

He got to his small room and looked around. "I'm going to miss this place," he sighed. "Oh well, I'm sure to see it again some day. Atleast I hope to." He looked around and wondered if he should start packing or if he should just lie down and drift to sleep. He knew if he was to go to sleep he would wake up much later then he would like and thought it would be best to get ready while he was still up. However, the thought of rest was too strong and he laid down to sleep. Despite what he had thought earlier in the day, he went fast to sleep, and had a peaceful, dreamless slumber until morning.

~*~*~

When Orin awoke he knew he had overslept. He guessed it to be a little before noon, but atleast he was fully refreshed. But, now he needed to hurry as he didn't wish to keep Riv waiting long. Quickly he gathered his own armor and whatever food he could find. Some dried fruit, lots of cram, and the rest of the salted pork (his favorite).

As he was scrambling around his chamber there was a knocking on his door. He figured it was Fawrin and Gram and wondered if they found anyone else. He thought he got everything he could carry and thought he needed. He went rushing to the door and sure enough it was Fawrin and Gram with two other dwarves. Orin had seen them before and Fawrin introduced them as Regil and Mar.

"We better set for Riv's chambers immediately as I fear I've kept him waiting too long." Orin said. The others agreed. They got to Riv's hall, by this time it was well past noon, and Orin was hoping Riv was still the patient dwarf he had known him to be.

When Orin and his companions had walked in Riv and five other dwarves were still busily getting things together. "Wow and I thought I was going to be late" Orin said loud enough for Riv to stop.

"Uncle!" Riv exclaimed. "Just walk right in, as you can see I'm still not ready. I think we should be leaving soon, Skald and Bror have already set off. Perhaps we could have something to fill our stomachs before we go?"

Orin liked that suggestion as he totally slept past breakfast. "Pardon my rudeness lads, but this is my nephew Riv. And Riv, this is Fawrin, Gram, Regil, and Mar. They're coming with us."

"Good, glad to have you lads." said Riv. "This is Afi, Brand, and Dari. Plus their apprentices Egil and Odi."

"Ahh, Afi, Brand, and Dari, huh? I know your father well. Glad to have you."

After they had a hearty meal and were completely filled it was nearing 3 o'clock. They were all ready to go and soon set off on the long journey. Although none of them knew what they were in for and how long their journey was going to be.

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo walked through Ost-in-Edhil until he arrived at his destination: the cobblestone street of Celebdur's shop. Cainenyo walked towards Celebdur's, an old crumbly building, but another shop directly across the street caught his eye. A wooden sign proclaimed that it was owned by Fëaglin Lómë. He walked towards this shop instead and was impressed by the quality of the jewelry in the window. A myriad of sparkling silver stood before him, shining like the moon. Tiny jewels shed colorful light on the silver, and the effect was mesmerizing. Cainenyo knocked on the old door, deciding to try this smith instead.

There was no answer, so Cainenyo knocked again. Still no answer. "Master Lómë, sir," Cainenyo said with a somewhat raised voice. He banged on the door a little harder. "Sir, are you home?" There was no noise of a forge, and his question wasn't answered, so Cainenyo assumed that Fëaglin Lómë indeed wasn't home at the time, and so turned his back on Fëaglin's shop and went to Celebdur's across the street.

Cainenyo knocked on Celebdur's red-painted door. At least I can count on one celebdan being home today he sighed. The sounds of work inside halted for a moment, but was then resumed (by Cainenyo's son, no doubt), and the door opened to reveal Celebdur, who was rather short for an Elf, and with a rather stubby nose. Cainenyo always assumed that this was due to being struck by a hammer in the face one day, but he did not voice this thought to anyone save Alassante. "Cainenyo, it is good to see you again! I have not seen you in this part of town for an age! What can I do for you? Are you here for Arenwino? He's very good with silver, like a fish to water, I'd say."

Cainenyo raised his hand a bit to show that he wanted to speak. "No, no, I am not here to speak with Arenwino. I came to commission a piece for you." Celebdur folded his arms and now focused his full attention on Cainenyo's hands as they reached into one of his deep apron pockets and removed a knife, long and like a blade of grass. "I would like some silver-work done about the top of the hilt, about here," he indicated with a finger, "I'd like some vines to twist around it, with some flowers, if possible."

"Ah, I'll see what I and your son can do," Celebdur responded. He took the knife into his arms, holding it almost like a precious child of his own, and ascended the doorstep. "Come back about this time tomorrow. It should be done by then." He opened the door and reentered his shop, leaving Cainenyo standing in the street.

Cainenyo walked home as the morning turned into noon, where Alassante informed him that a man had arrived looking for him. "Really? Was he here to commission a piece?" Cainenyo asked her. She answered yes, and that the man, named Eregedhel, had asked for a candelabrum, just like one that stood in Cainenyo's forge, only taller. She disappeared into the house and he started work on his new commission.

He heated iron in crucibles, and poured them into molds, and hammered away on his work, only stopping for the lunch his wife served and to finish the wine he left on the table that morning. He was joyful to make one of his favorite pieces, a welcome break from knives and armor and swords. The shadows lengthened as the sun drifted across the sky, and the distinct beginnings of a candelabrum were beginning to take shape in Cainenyo's forge.

It was growing later, and his work was almost finished when Alassante stepped into the forge from the courtyard. "Dear," she said, laying a hand on her husband's shoulder, "It is growing late, and Arenwino usually comes at this time. Will you go find him? I am worried."

Cainenyo was more worried by his wife's concern than his son's tardiness, but he complied and set down his hammer and, kissing his wife good-bye, retraced his steps back towards Celebdur's shop. There were noticeably less people on the streets than there were earlier. Most people had already arrived at their homes after a solid day of work. The sun drifted towards the Undying Lands, and it was soon, not far from the silversmiths, that Cainenyo spotted his son walking down the almost empty street. Arenwino wore an apron and gloves, and looked remarkably like his father as he made his way through the city. "Where have you been?" Cainenyo asked when they met.

"Did mother send you out to find me?" He asked, knowing the answer. "I'm sorry that I'm late. Celebdur and I worked all afternoon on one little knife, and he wanted me to finish it before I left." Cainenyo grinned. So I'm the cause of my son's lateness, he thought. "At least somebody will be very pleased by his new knife," Cainenyo added. They walked home in the light of the dwindling sun, where they knew Alassante would greet them with an opportunity to rest after a long day of work.

[Firefoot]

After Lushurd passed on, neither Grimkul nor Ulwakh made any attempt to “get the camp in order.” Grimkul had returned to his task of spearing rodents (without any luck), while Ulwakh was paying more attention to what was going on in the camp – in particular, to the returning scouts. Grimkul may not care, but Ulwakh had found it to his benefit to know everything that was going on. It was the best way to avoid attention from those higher up, an essential for a smaller, less strong Orc.

Ulwakh soon spotted one that he knew: a burly creature by the name of Ugburz. “Hey, Grimkul,” said Ulwakh, not taking his eyes off Ugburz. Grimkul didn’t look up, though still listened. “Let’s go find out what’s going on from Ugburz; he was one of the scouts tonight.” Now Grimkul did look up, and his features were twisted in irritation. He was hungry and concentrated on his task, and Ulwakh wanted news?

“Can it wait?” The mouse’s whiskers appeared at the bottom of the hole again. “Why don’t you just go by yourself for once?”

“Um…” Ulwakh debated. Ugburz seemed to be going someplace, and Ulwakh was not so bold as to interrupt such a large Orc once he was busy, and going alone was out of the question. The whole army was liable to be irritable after such a long cold march, and he was a mighty easy target without Grimkul’s protection. “It won’t take long, then you can come back and eat,” Ulwakh evaded.

Grimkul’s mouse seemed to become suddenly wary of danger and once more ducked out of sight. “Pushdug rodent!” Grimkul snarled. “Fine, where’s Ugburz at?”

“That way,” Ulwakh pointed, picking up his pack. He didn’t dare leave anything unguarded in this camp. Grimkul followed suit and the pair threaded their way through the rather haphazard camp.

“Ugburz!” called Ulwakh as they caught up. Grimkul stood behind, still thinking about his dinner (or lack thereof). When Ugburz turned around, Ulwakh continued, “You were a scout tonight, weren’t you? What’s happening with those filthy Elves?”

[Kath]

Hearing his name being called from behind Ugburz hurriedly stuffed his ill-gotten gains into a hidden pocket inside his armour and turned round to see a pair of orcs. He knew they were members of Lushurd's company and that the bigger one, Grimkul was supposed to have a reputation for being a bit unstable. Ulwakh the little one just looked like he was begging for a beating, cocky little thing, but Ugburz wasn't stupid enough to pick a fight with that hulking protector around, so he left it be for now.

“You were a scout tonight, weren’t you? What’s happening with those filthy Elves?” asked Ulwakh.

"Not sure. There's some of them around thats for definite, I saw one skulking along on the lookout so they must be getting close. Told the boss but he just disappeared off afterwards so I don't know what the plan is yet. I guess we'll be getting ready to fight, or we would if they had any sense. Right now though I don't really care, I just want some food. Those blasted leaders sent us off the second we stopped to camp, and I've had nothing to eat all day!"

He turned away again and began to walk off when a large hand clamped down on his shoulder and twisted him back around. He found himself looking into the gleaming eyes of the larger orc.

"And what food is it that you've got?" growled Grimkul.

[Durelin]

It was already well into the afternoon when Maegisil reached Celebrimbor’s house, and the sun was beginning to set by the time the elf-lord was finished idly speaking of the day’s events, of the comings and goings of members of his court, of the arrival of refugees from outlying towns, and of preparations for the war. The last subject was one that Celebrimbor did his best to talk about lightly, avoiding any details concerning the war, and remaining outwardly indifferent, as if he were only engaging in casual chitchat. Maegisil knew this outward appearance was nothing more than a mask. He was not about to interrupt his lord, though, and he chatted with Celebrimbor for at least two hours, perhaps more, until he found an opening to bring something to the elf-lord’s attention.

“I spoke with someone of interest today as well, my lord,” he said lightly, as if the person he was talking about was only an old friend; and that it was, though not to Maegisil.

“Oh?” Celebrimbor questioned, staring out a broad window overlooking the eastern part of the city, his back to where his counselor sat. Maegisil knew the elf-lord could not look to the east and not think of the threat that lay far beyond the Misty Mountains: far, and yet not so. “Who was that?”

“Narisiel Mirdain.”

The lord immediately turned around to face his friend. “What did you say?”

“I spoke to Narisiel Mirdain today. I was looking to request something of a mirdan, and I remembered she was your friend, long ago.”

Celebrimbor sighed, looking to the floor as he sat back down on a low gilded couch. “Not so long ago, Maegisil.”

“No, I suppose not… She asked of you.”

“Did she?” the elf-lord asked, looking up at his companion with sudden interest, “What did she wish to know?”

“She only questioned me concerning your health. She seemed quite concerned, my lord.”

Celebrimbor did not respond, but only let his eyes travel around the room to rest on a tapestry that he must have stared at a thousand times before, deep in thought as he was now, sprawled comfortably on a couch but not looking at all at ease. He had always been a thinker, and a bit of a dreamer, able to spend hours just sitting and staring at the same spot on the walls of his chambers, contemplating far too many possibilities, probabilities, and worries. Perhaps this was why he had befriended Maegisil, who felt as if he understood how his lord’s mind worked. He empathized with and felt akin to Celebrimbor more than the elf knew, and more than he would ever dare to tell him.

Reading his friend’s face, Maegisil guessed that Celebrimbor’s thoughts were on Narisiel and the past. Feeling it time to break the silence and bring his lord out of his thoughts, he said, “Narisiel spoke of wishing to speak to you. She will be visiting the palace within the next few days…I hope you will be able to take the time to see her.”

The elf-lord looked up at his advisor once again, looking into his eyes and searching them. Maegisil was reminded of how Sairien has searched his eyes that morning and found what she had looked for, whatever it had been.

“Thank you, dear Maegisil. I am glad to hear from Narisiel… I promise you that I will have time to speak to her,” he paused, and a smile appeared to lighten his features, “or make time if I do not.”

Maegisil returned his lord's smile, and his spirits were lightened, even as the world around him darkened.

[Arry]

Skald let Bildr take the lead while he fell back to talk with Bisi. The two Grimsteel brothers were twins and his closest friends in the western caverns. They were engravers like him; though most of their work was done on the metalwork of helm, shield, and weapon. Bildr was the first born of the two by the very small space of a few moments and claimed himself the leader by virtue of it. It was natural that he should head up the little group of companions and lead the way.

Spirits were high as they walked along, and none of the Dwarves in Skald and Bror’s company complained of being tired. There were jokes and singing and brave curses against the Orcs as they trod the main east-west roadway through the cavern. A sense of camaraderie and boldness prevailed as is common among young men who go to battle. And if there were fears, none showed - save by the way that even here in these safe havens of Moria they might clutch their weapons a little tighter when the Orcs were mentioned and speak their oaths against them with a little more force than needed.

Bror, Skald could see, was enjoying the company of his friends. They buoyed each other up with their lighthearted merriness. In one of those moments that happen between siblings, Skald felt a deep affection welling up as he looked at his little brother. Then a shiver crept between his shoulder blades, though no breeze blew in the caverns, disrupting the pleasant sensation.

Mahal and my right arm see you through this! he vowed quietly to himself.

On his left, Bisi spoke to him, asking him some question, and Skald pushed away for the while his feeling of foreboding . . .

- - - - -

Near morning found the Dwarves well past the halfway point on the road. A short ways to the south was the workshop of the Brassbeards and next to them the Hardhammers. Skald picked up the Brassbeard cousins, Fastor and Grimsi; Bildr went on to the other forge and brought back the three Hardhammer brothers – Manni, Vetr, and Tef.

Grimsi Brassbeard, seeing they companions looked rather tired despite their protestations, brought them back to the Brassbeard quarters and fed them. Full bellies and a few mugs of ale and soon the Dwarves who had marched through the night were taking their rest, sprawled out on the great bear rugs near the common room hearth.

- - - - -

In the late afternoon, Grimsi woke them and the group, now swollen to fourteen, proceeded on their way. By late evening they were near the Eastern gate, about ten miles from the doors. ‘Let’s stop here,’ Skald said. ‘The Hardhammers have an uncle with quarters nearby. We’ll get a good night’s sleep and arrive at the gates tomorrow morning, well rested. Riv and Uncle Orin should be along soon after that.’

[Arestevana]

A piercing melancholy fell over the elven warriors as the contingent left the trees of Lindórinan behind. Gilduin found himself wondering if he would ever return to the Golden Wood, or if he would be buried in the land across the mountains. As they left the golden shadow of the trees, though, he felt his sadness dissolve in the bright sun. The contingent had kept only a loose formation as they moved among the trees; now at last the ranks could draw together. As they halted to reform, a basket of lembas was passed up and down the ranks. The waybread would sustain them for a full day of marching.

After a moment’s rest the company was moving again. As he slipped back into the familiar rhythm, Gilduin decided that he was glad to have left the woods behind. While he was not inept at marching with the standard, it had been many years since he had kept formation while bearing a polearm of any sort. He had found it difficult to maneuver among the trees with the banner catching on branches above his head, and more than once he had tripped up himself and those marching beside him.

Vaele had thus far proven himself to be an irrepressibly good-natured companion, despite the fact that Gilduin cold-shouldered him at every opportunity. Gilduin was gaining a reluctant respect for the scout, who seemed both imperturbable and indefatigable. On Celeborn’s orders, Vaele had been scouting some distance ahead of the contingent since they crossed the Celebrant at midmorning. It had taken over an hour to move the full company and the carts across the river, and though Gilduin was sure they had calculated for this delay, the commanders seemed to be in a hurry, pressing the contingent for speed. Gilduin suddenly realized that he did not know what they would be facing when they reached Eregion. He was not sure what he had expected: a band of yrch, maybe, from the mountains farther north. Now he realized that it had to be something more: the mírdain were not defenseless, and lord Celeborn would not lead the Galadrim to battle unless the need was great.

I wandered overlong in Greenwood the Great, Gilduin thought, and overlong avoided the affairs of my people. Now I do not recognize the foes of the Galadrim.
Catching a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, Gilduin turned his head and saw Vaele a short distance ahead of the contingent, likely returning to report to the commanders.
“Daro, Galadrim!” Celeborn’s strong voice rang out, and the contingent halted obediently. Gilduin decided to speak to Vaele if the scout returned to the marching order. If I am going to battle, I should know whom I will be fighting, and why.

As in the previous rest, the contingent halted only briefly as the commanders consulted. Gilduin glanced at the waning sun and wondered if they would press on until nightfall. When the command to march came again, he was glad to see Vaele fall into step beside him. Gilduin noted with admiration that the scout seemed still unwearied. He recalled that Vaele had been far ahead of the contingent when they received the day’s rations, and wondered if the archer had taken any sustenance that day at all. Gilduin decided abruptly to withhold his questions about their march until the contingent stopped to rest. He tried instead to remember how one framed a polite query, thinking ruefully that it had been to long since he had had a real conversation with a sentient being…Which is entirely my fault, He realized. I avoid people like a sickness, and when they do speak to me, I ignore them. So often I am lost in my own thoughts… He gave a silent, bitter laugh. …as I am now. After moment he shook off his dark musings and turned to Vaele.
“How do you fare, my friend?” Gilduin asked at last.

[Firefoot]

Grimkul’s wandering attention had been attracted by Ugburz’s mention of food. Already in an irksome mood, he had been greatly irritated by the idea that this Ugburz might have food when he didn’t. And the possible combination of getting food and possibly knocking a head off to get it was greatly enticing. Not that he’d relieve Ugburz’s shoulders of his head if he didn’t have to – those higher up didn’t look kindly upon dispute in the camp.

So instead, he stepped up to Ugburz as he turned to go and laid a hand on the slightly smaller Orc’s arm. Ignoring Ulwakh’s plead to leave Ugburz alone, he growled, “And what food is it that you've got?”

“None right now,” answered Ugburz, curling his lip. His eyes shifted about in a slightly panicked manner, however, betraying the bluff. He tried to step away from Grimkul’s grip, but Grimkul grasped a little tighter.

“You’re lying,” stated Grimkul, glaring Ugburz down.

“I am not,” said Ugburz flatly. “I was going to scrounge up some food just now.” But Grimkul was certain that the other had food now, and he was getting angry now. He moved his face just inches away from the Ugburz’s as his hand strayed to his dagger hilt.

“Well, I think you’ve got food. And I think you’re going to give it to me,” growled Grimkul. At this point, Ulwakh stepped in and tried to ease Grimkul away. Grimkul did not take kindly to the interruption and slapped Ulwakh’s face with the flat of his blade. The latter drew away, cursing.

Ugburz took full advantage of Grimkul’s distraction and deftly twisted away, breaking Grimkul’s grasp on his arm. Before Grimkul could react, Ugburz had taken off sprinting, soon disappearing amongst the horde of Orcs.

With a howl of frustration, Grimkul took his dagger and slammed it into the rock at his feet as hard as he could. About a third of the blade snapped off at its contact with the unforgiving ground. Infuriated now, he picked up the remnant of his dagger and jammed it into its sheath. Then he stormed off towards their patch of ground at a great pace; Ulwakh was practically running to keep up (at a safe distance).

Even though there were numerous Orcs in the camp larger than Grimkul, they all gave him a safe berth as he passed. No one interfered with Grimkul in a temper. Upon arriving back at their camp, Grimkul found that some squeaker had thought to take over their space. In absolutely no mood for an argument, Grimkul hurled his now shortened dagger at the small Orc’s head. His aim was true, and the Orc fell dead on the spot. His mood little improved, Grimkul sat down heavily on top of the Orc he had just killed and tore into a piece of dried meat from his pack. That Ugburz was going to pay for it.

[Folwren]

Skald's suggestion of stopping for the night sounded excellent to Bror. Everyone else agreed and they took the paths that led to the said Uncle of the three Hardhammer brothers. Manni, Vetr, and Tef explained things to their surprised uncle and within a few moments, his astonishment at seeing nearly a score of young, tired, and hungry dwarves standing on his threshold turned into warm hospitality and he welcomed them in.

There was much talking during the supper he provided and afterwards, the old Hardhammer was talked into telling one of the old stories that he knew so well. He was and old, silver bearded dwarf known for the way he told the old tales and he knew the best ones to relate. So, after seeing that the fire in the hearth was huge and all of the dwarves had places to sleep once the tale was done, he launched into the story.

Try as he might, Bror could not keep his eyes open. The warmth of the large, hospitable hall filled with friends and comfort, and the voice of their story teller, pulled him farther and farther into that other world until he fell into a complete and dreamless sleep.

-----------------------------------------

Tori Ironfoot woke him the following morning, nudging him until he woke with the toe of his boot.
'Come along, sleepy,' he said laughing. 'You fell asleep during the story and you're still abed while the others are at breakfast. Hurry up, or even I shan't wait for you, nor will I save any food. Don't expect the others to.'

Bror got up quickly. 'Why didn't anyone call me?' he grumbled, stuffing his feet into his boots. 'It's not like I've an alarm in my own head.'

Tori only laughed again and went out.

-------------------------------------------------

After breakfast, the company of dwarves took their leave of Master Hardhammer and went away with many thanks.


They walked on swiftly, Skald with Bildr and Bisi in the lead. There was little talking on this last march. Their minds were occupied with what the near future would bring. Most of them had been out of the mines before, but few of them had ever gone out to fight. None of them were frightened, or had the whisper of a thought to go back, but no one, regardless of how stout of heart, will leave their home without some moments of silent thought.

They went down wide, shallow stairs and came to the Second Level. Many dwarves passed in these halls and there was much coming and going. Skald continued to lead them straight on. Bror stared about him in awe. He had seen these halls a few times, though not many, and every time he passed, his wonder increased. The pillars that went up from the smooth, level floor to the rocky ceiling were carved in the most intricate and beautiful fashion, branching out at the top and bearing the resemblance of huge, silver trees.

They passed from the first hall and entered another. High in the walls, shafts of sunlight from outside the mountain streamed down through the wide windows. At the end of the hall they passed through huge, stone doors that stood open. Guards were at either side and they nodded as Skald passed through and the others followed.

Before them was the gate. The bright light from outside poured through, for they were open. Many Dwarven guards sat and stood about it.

‘We’ll wait for Riv and Uncle Orin in here,’ Skald said, turning around and facing his company.

The place they were in acted as a courtyard between the Eastern Gate and the door they had just passed through. It was brightly lit, for in the ceiling were cut windows. A blue sky could be seen from where they stood on the ground, and some white clouds floating peacefully across it.

They walked to the right and stopped by the wall to talk and rest until the others should arrive. Bror kept half an eye on the door to the mines as he carried on conversation with the dwarves.

[Encaitare]

A black, ragged tent had been erected in the center of the encampment, and it was here that Glûtkask was sharpening his axe after having had a meager supper of dried meat. The stone against the metal axe head gave off little sparks that quickly faded into ash. Off somewhere he heard an angry howl. He paid it little attention. There would always be skirmishes among his soldiers -- at least, until they were given a common enemy to dispatch first.

In came Lushurd, grumbling loudly. "Pugnacious little slime can't even spend an hour in camp without causing trouble..."

"Eh?"

Lushurd jerked his thumb in the direction he had came. "One of them in my company just stuck a knife in someone's head. That's one less able fighter for us."

Glûtkask shrugged. "What for?"

"Took his camping spot or something. I'd probably have done the same, come to think of it. Actually, I'dve had his head if he wasn't a big one himself," the lieutenant said. "Good in the front lines if he don't kill off half the company first."

"Forget it. It's not important," the captain growled as the other lieutenant, a small and sneaky orc called Kharn, entered.

"Tell you something that is important," he said. "Scout just told me he spied an Elf lurking about. They'll be coming along soon."

"Did the filth see him?" asked Glûtkask.

"He said no."

"Good." The captain hung the now-sharp weapon at his belt and spread out a crudely drawn map. "Now you'll get your tactics, Lushurd. We're behind this circle of low mountains, round the valley." He pointed to the eastern edge of the circle he described. Now, there's a pass one of our scouts that went ahead found. We'll go through there and take shelter behind the outcrops. I want our archers to rain down on them before they even know we're there. Mind you, we're not sending all our forces in case it goes bad, so use what brains you've got to pick out who to send. About a company's worth ought to do it."

Lushurd looked as though he were thinking very hard before replying, "And then?"

"And then if it goes well we go down and finish them off, of course!" Glûtkask said nastily. "Now, attacking a valley's not easy. But it's only a few of the accursed creatures. I reckon everything'll go alright."

At that moment, another shriek sounded; it seemed that there was another quarrel.

"They'll alert every Elf nearby to our presence with all that racket!" Glûtkask shouted. "Go and tell your men that if there's any more noise like that, I'll crush their worthless skulls in."

[piosenniel]

It was a full two days’ marching to reach the great hall which stood before the Eastern Gate. Along the way, other Dwarves’ hands had helped pull and push the handcarts filled with food and whatever supplies Riv and his companions had thought necessary for this venture. It had been a hasty gathering, their minds more on the task which lay ahead than on how their bellies might fare in the doing of it.

Riv paused on the threshold of the brightly lit chamber and scanned the various Dwarves who were going about their business. There, by the far wall - the one nearest the door, stood Bror, his eyes also scanning the small crowds as they came and went. Riv raised his hand, waving it in the air to catch his brother’s attention.

In a few quick steps, Orin and he and their small group had crossed the hall. The wooden wheels of their handcarts clattered on the paving stones, announcing their arrival.

[Arry]

Most of the Dwarves gathered for the escort party knew each other already, and those who didn’t were quickly introduced, their fathers’ fathers’ names trotted out to hook them firmly into their new acquaintances’ memories. Skald poked through two of the carts looking at the provender his brother and uncle had managed to gather. ‘Not bad. Not bad,’ he said looking at the dried meats and the neat packets of cram, the skins of drink.’ Fond of his food, a frown puckered his brow. ‘What! No desserts stuck in!’ he cried in mock anguish. Afi Glitterfist laughed loudly and clapped him on the back. ‘Tis not an outing which calls for dessert, young one! You come to my kitchen when we’re done and my Sinta will make a honeyed cake that will melt in your mouth!’

Skald pursed his lips as if considering the offer. ‘Well I suppose that is a prize to look forward to. The carrot at the end of the stick, eh? I’ve heard quite favorable reports of Sinta’s cooking.’

Glancing once again at the line of carts Skald asked Riv if he intended to take all the supplies with them, or did he think that perhaps some of them should be cached in the small cave at the mountain’s base, the one halfway down the path that ran along the edge of the lake.

As he waited for his brother’s answer, Skald dug out his armour and handed Bror his pile, too, to put on.

[Nurumaiel]

When Araorë saw her husband enter the room, she almost let out a sigh but caught in time, and smiled instead. Her feelings of pleasure at the thought of an evening spent with all in her family was much stronger than her feelings of regret. True, it was rather regretful that when Erinlaer and her father were together they could do nothing but play music. But Araorë had been able to spend some time talking to her daughter and hearing long answers. And that was not an exceedingly common occurrence.

Culhir greeted Heledharm, but briefly, for he was compelled to turn right away to catch Erinlaer, who flung herself into his arms as if she were a little child. "Why, daughter," he said, smiling fondly into her face, "you look fairer than ever."

She silently stepped back, took his hand, and brought him over to sit down. She took up her harp and they smiled at one another. He brought his up, and they began to play. Araorë heard and appreciated the sweet harmonies that they produced, but she knew that they would play on until it was time to bid farewell. She moved over to stand beside Heledharm, and glanced up at his face. His face showed not the slightest sign of regret, but on the contrary was quite radiant as he watched Culhir and his daughter play together. Araorë dropped her eyes again, and gazed thoughtfully at the ground. Then, hesitantly, she spoke, very lowly, so the harpists would not hear her.

"Heledharm," she murmured, "have you found my daughter Erinlaer a good wife to you?"

The happiness in Heledharm's face vanished and was replaced by an expression of deep amazement. "Why, of course!" he stammered, searching Araorë's face in a bewildered fashion. "Why do you think that perhaps I do not? Has anything I have said or done make you think this?"

"Oh, no, not at all," said Araorë. His great puzzlement did not bother her. She did not speak hastily, or apologetically, as if trying to clarify what she had said. Her tone remained very slow and very thoughtful. "But she is not, you know, the most reliable of wives."

He was silent for some time, and then, "You speak of her music."

Araorë nodded. "I do not doubt that you love to hear her play," she said. "When she was still living in our home I found her music a joy and delight. When she was very small she would dance about and sing in such a sweet, childish voice. And as she grew older and her voice grew clearer and her steps more graceful, the beauty of her song thrilled me. And when her father taught her to play the harp, and they would play together... well, you know what wonderful music they make! But sometimes I found she paid too much attention to her music. She neglected her other duties. Do you not find that because of her music other things are left undone? Even when she is not playing she is listening to songs in her head and forgets everything else about her. Does that cause her to be an annoyance to you?"

"Not at all," said Heledharm firmly. "She is my pride and joy... and more because of her music than anything else. I have found, if I am to be entirely honest, that she does neglect other things on account of her singing, dancing, and harp-playing. But..." He turned his eyes to his wife, who was playing rapturously, her eyes lifted bright and earnestly to her father's face. "But when I see her playing her music and singing, there is such happiness and peace in her face, and it's impossible for me to care whether she attends her other duties or not."

Araorë sighed. It was relief to know that Heledharm did not find Erinlaer a trial. But, all the same, her lack of responsibility was worrying.

[Esgallhugwen]

Fëaglin Lómë felt as if his head were being bombarded by rocks. Knock knock knock. And more rocks fell upon his already bruising head.

In fact so insistant was the knocking that the Elf rolled clear off his bed to try and get away from it, landing on his face. "Gruomph!", he sat up and rubbed his aching head.

Had someone been at the door? he thought dazily, after all the sound of the rocks hitting his head sounded more like wood than bone. What time was it anyway?

Fëaglin opened the curtains and his jaw dropped, he had slept in! Oh, for Ilûvatar's sake, he slept in! He lept over his bed as he pulled on a pair of breeches and a tunic and rushed into the forge firing up the furnace.

What if that had been a customer? Fëaglin shook his head and tsked himself for being so mindless.

Once the furnace was roaring away he set to work on another commision, a fair number of ceremonial daggers. To be given no doubt as badges of honour, the Elven militaries seemed to prize their assortment of nick-nacks, but they were well deserved.

And thus he continued with his day.

[Kath]

Having just managed to escape from one skirmish Ugburz was in no mood to start another back in his own camp. He ignored Gradakh, walking straight past him in search of a hidden corner to sit and eat his stolen dinner. The other orc would not be so easily disregarded however, and followed him into the darkened recess of a small cave.

"Where are you skulking off to?" Gradakh asked, standing in the entrance so Ugburz could not get out.

"Away from you for some peace and quiet!" Ugburz snarled back, desperately wishing the other orc would just leave so he could eat. Unfortunately Gradakh seemed in a mood to talk.

"So what did you see? News is there was an Elf sighting." He spat on the ground as if disgusted by the mere name.

"There was, it was by me. There was just the one of them, a scout I'd guess come to check out the paths. Happy now?"

Giving up on the idea of waiting Gradakh out he got up and pushed past him. He quickly disappeared into a group of larger orcs and crawled through some undergrowth near the edge of the camp. He could see Gradakh in the distance, scowling but obviously with no idea where he had gone. Sighing with relief he settled back into the grass and finally wolfed down his food.

Exhausted from marching all day and then having to scout most of the evening, he fell almost immediately into a deep sleep even despite the noise of the camp all around him and the fighting of the orcs between themselves.

He did not wake again until the next morning when someone fell over him on their way out of the camp.

"Curse you! What are you doing lying where you can't be seen?" asked the orc suspiciously.

"Keeping out the way, now get off me!" he replied, shoving the other orc of him and scrambling to his feet. He looked up and saw the sun beginning to rise over the horizon. Hurriedly he shuffled into a nearby tent, trying to avoid the light and in search of anyone who might know what the plans for the day were.

[Firefoot]

“Grimkul… Grimkul, wake up.” Ulwakh tentatively prodded his companion into wakefulness. “We’re getting ready to move out.” Grimkul’s yellow eyes opened into blaring sunlight.

“Blasted sun,” grumbled Grimkul. “Not natural, marching in the daylight… I wouldn’t mind going back to the old days, when all our raids were at night.” Frankly, Ulwakh agreed, but he said nothing of it lest he instigate another one of Grimkul’s ideas of escape. Ulwakh didn’t want to have to refute it, and in Grimkul’s continued foul mood, he might not listen to reason anyway. Grimkul apparently took no notice of Ulwakh’s silence and continued, “We’re moving out, you say? Where to?”

“They’re saying there’s a little valley a few miles from here… we’re going to ambush the Elves there.” A light of hatred sprung into Ulwakh’s eyes at his mention of Elves. Personally, he preferred the rare captive (there hadn’t been any for him to play with since they had been enslaved), but killing them was fine, too. And they would certainly die today…

Grimkul had stopped listening after the first few words, however. Something else more pressing to his mind had caught his eye – that evil little rodent that had plagued him the previous night had finally ventured from its hole. With surprising stealth, Grimkul pulled his scimitar free of its scabbard and leveled it towards the mouse. In a flash of speed, he speared the mouse on the point of his sword.

“Haha! You filthy rodent scum won’t be troubling me anymore!” jeered Grimkul at the mouse’s lifeless form. Grimkul did not bother to remove the mouse from his sword before ripping into its rather stringy flesh.

His mood thus improved, Grimkul merely grumbled about the Lushurd’s new orders when he came around rather than quietly threatening the commander. Muttering once more about marching in the daylight, Grimkul hoisted up his pack and prepared for the short march to the ambush site, still munching absently. Ulwakh was greatly eased; when Grimkul was in one of his moods, there could be no saying who he would lash out against and Ulwakh was an easy target.

Their march to the valley was short – about three miles or so. After that, they were led up into a narrow pass overlooking the valley. “Now,” explained Lushurd, “we wait. Quietly, might I add, Captain’s orders.” He eyed the company viciously, his gaze seeming to linger a mite bit longer on Grimkul, who returned the look with an even uglier one. Lushurd either didn’t notice or paid no mind. “Then, the Elf scum comes through this valley and we catch them with a rain of arrows. Then we go down into the valley and finish them off. Got that?” Grimkul had stopped paying attention. Ulwakh idly wondered how many times the captain had had to explain the plan to Lushurd before the commander got it straight. The other Orcs in the company seemed to be somewhere between these two states of mind; Lushurd, being perhaps a little larger than Grimkul and only bright enough to repeat the Captain’s orders back to the troops, did not command the respect of his under-Orcs save in lip-service.

So the pair settled in to wait, bows at the ready. Grimkul idly scratched at the wood of his bow with his fingernail, wondering just how long it would take the cursed Elves to get there.

[piosenniel]

‘Don’t be daft!’ Riv snorted at Skald’s question about the provisions. ‘Of course we’ll not be packing it all to our meeting with the Elves. I was thinking we would do as you said in the second part of your suggestion. Place at least half of it in the shallow cave along the mountain base. And leave three of our fellows to keep watch over it.’

‘If there are Orcs about we may end up retreating back to them, hopefully with the Elves in tow. It’s a fairly defensible place, being a little above the narrow plain between the foot of the peak and the lake shore. I’ll make arrangements for the guards that keep look-out above the Eastern Doors to watch for our return. They can raise a hue and cry should we be pinned in by foe.’

He looked to Bror, making sure his brother had gotten his armor secured. Others in the small company had also taken time to see to their equipment, he noted. Riv spoke quietly to the Dwarf captain whose men were manning the doors that day, letting them know where they were going and when they expected to be back. Arrangements were made with him as Riv had outline to his brother, and the captain cautioned the group that there had been signs of increased Orc activity in the area.

‘Mahal’s hammer strike down any who come against you!’ the captain said, motioning for his men to open the gates.

The little company made its way down the stairs to the path that ran along the edge of the Mirrormere, the Kheled-zâram, and headed south toward the head of the valley. At the mid point of the path along the lake, they stopped as planned and stowed most of their provisions in the cave. Dari Glitterfist and the two young apprentices, Egil Deepdigger and Odi Ironforge agreed to stay there and keep watch for the returning Elves and Dwarves. They would raise the alarm if needed, keeping watch for the signal Riv and they had agreed on - Brand would shoot a polished, silver-shafted arrow high in the air by day or a flaming one by night to signal for help.

'Let us hope we do not need such measures,' grunted Afi Glitterfist, following his brother and Riv out of the cave and back down the path . . .

[Boromir88]

"Aye, Mr. Glitterfirst." Orin said. "But, don't fret, it will be the Orcs that will be screeching for help if I have anything to say about it. If the rumors of orcs prowling are true that is." Some of the company broke out in laughter, especially Fawrin.

Soon the company was out of the safe halls and into the open. Orin had all the armor, he brought along, suited on. A chain hauberk, with a large round shield, and an iron helm. Orin looked at Skald, who appeared to be unimpressed with Orin's armor selection. "Don't look at me like that Skald. Atleast I brought the helmet like you suggested. You know, my plump old body can't carry as much when I was your age."

[Durelin]

When Sairien finally saw the arrival of her husband late that evening, she greeted him as if no worries had been on her mind for many hours as she sat alone. With a warm embrace and a swift but tender kiss, she did her best to smile back at Maegisil as he looked down at her with more joy in his eyes than she had seen in several years. Recalling happier days, all her concerns from only moments ago returned, though they had never really gone away. It became more difficult for her to look her husband in the eye and almost impossible for her to share in his cheerfulness. She knew it was not fair to him, but she knew there was no clearing her mind.

“Oh my love, what troubles you?”

Sairien sighed. He was always quick to notice when something was wrong.

“Nothing but my usual worries,” she said, trying her best to sound reassuring, but knowing that she probably was not at all convincing. “I grew concerned for you, as I always do when you are gone.”

By the concern in Maegisil’s eyes, which only grew, she obviously needed to try harder to smile. “But I am here now…”

“Then let us not worry about anything… We are together… We have nothing to worry about. We need only each other.” Sairien was starting to sound more and more like she was trying to convince herself of something, and she knew it.

Maegisil knew it as well, and he sighed, his eyes downcast, as he seemed to read his wife’s mind. “Are you thinking about our children again, my darling?”

Sairien was silent. She could not look at her husband, though he could see her eyes begin to glisten as tears welled up in them. He wanted to just hold her, but he knew that she did not want such comfort right now. He gave her her space, knowing that she would come to him when she wished. She had always been stubborn. After several moments of silence, she spoke, her voice thick with emotion and about to break.

“We have no children, Maegisil. You have no son!” she said passionately, almost shouting, growing angry at a situation she had no control over.

“I have you.”

“But you have always wanted a son. I have always wanted a son. You should have an heir. The son of Maegisil should be as well known as Maegisil himself!” Her voice broke, and all her needless anger and despair and shame overflowed into tears as she pressed herself up against her husband and he wrapped his arms tight around her. He held her there as she cried for quite some time, wishing he could cry himself. But he was unable to express the pain he felt in such a way. In his false sense of duty to be strong and supportive, as a husband and a counselor, he had not cried in at least four centuries, if he had ever cried at all.

~*~*~

After a long, almost restless night, kept from entering into any kind of serenity by his persistent mind, it was time for Maegisil to leave his wife alone for most of the day once again. This time it was several hours after dawn, at least, and he had been able to spend a little bit of his morning with his wife. He worried constantly about Sairien, but he knew that his duties as a counselor to his lord could not wait. Unfortunately, he never stopped to wonder if perhaps his duties as a husband could not wait either.

Sairien wished he might consider that. As he turned to leave after a final kiss, she prayed to Ilúvatar that he would turn around again, deciding to stay. She wished that everyday, and it had been far too long since it had come true. And today was like every other day; thus only a quarter of an hour later, Maegisil was taking the stairs up to Lord Celebrimbor’s chambers two at a time. As soon as he entered the antechamber, his lord greeted him enthusiastically, and his worries concerning Sairien were temporarily forgotten.

“Maegisil, my friend, today is a gorgeous day!” the elf-lord exclaimed, his voice loud and booming, though he did not sound at all as if he were shouting. He smiled as he turned away from his companion to look out of his large eastern window.

Maegisil could not help but smile as well, though he asked, “What makes you say that, my lord?”

Celebrimbor turned to his friend with a pretend look of shock. “Why, Counselor Maegisil! I should have you flogged! How many times have I told you it is not ‘my lord’? No, no, not how many times, but for how many years?” he said, skirting the question for the moment, and chuckling kindly at his friends persistent formality.

The counselor let out a short laugh, and his smile grew as his face reddened slightly, silently laughing at his own embarrassment. “I know, I know…”

The elf-lord laughed harder as he watched Maegisil’s face. “A great lord I am, if I can make a great Counselor and warrior blush!”

“That you are, my lord,” he said, making Celebrimbor laugh even harder. Maegisil laughed as well, knowing that it had been a long time since the two had laughed this way together. While remembering those days when laughter was more frequent between them, he suddenly recalled the times when Sairien had joined them, and he had been able to enjoy the company of his two dearest friends. He stopped laughing, but he kept his smile, holding on to it, so his friend would not question his mood.

“You have not answered my question,” Maegisil said.

“Yes, yes…” Celebrimbor paused for a moment, his smile disappearing for a moment, “Well, I did not answer before, simply because I am not sure how to answer. I cannot explain to you why I feel it is a good day, particularly since it has barely started.”

“Are we having premonitions now, my lord?” Maegisil asked jokingly.

The lord smiled again, and laughter was in his voice as he spoke. “Could be, could be…” He momentarily grew silent, but then a twinkle of amusement returned to his eyes, and he smirked. “I do hope these ‘premonitions’ are accurate…”

[Envinyatar]

Early Spring - before the first thaw/Lindon - S.A. 1696

The last of the snows had been a fortnight ago. It had been a light one, but still the icy layers lingered and no warm wind from the west had come as yet to melt the frigid crust that locked in solid the dirt beneath. Hénsirë jabbed hard at the ice with the sharp point of his practice stave, taking his frustrations out on it. Winter had been too long a fearsome guest in this northern land and timid Spring had not yet dared a challenge.

‘Lighten up a bit!’ Ondomirë hissed at him beneath his breath. ‘By the One - set a good example for your troops these last few moments we must idle here!’ Hénsirë straightened, resting his stave against his shoulder and looked casually about at the assembled Elves. Their eyes he noted were not on him, but on the Elf who had just stepped up to the raised platform to stand next to Lord Elrond. Hénsirë’s heart gladdened at the sight of him. It was Gil-galad, and in his fist he bore his spear, Aiglos – ‘Snowthorn’. Its great length he held aloft as he greeted the assembled troops and it caught the sunlight, gleaming like a radiant, deadly-pointed icicle. Hénsirë’s men raised their own spears and shook them in greeting, giving forth a mighty roar of recognition as they did so.

Ondomirë nodded toward Geldion as they and their troops greeted the High King with a welcoming shout and a show of raised sword and bow. He could feel that old first thrill of setting out on a campaign. A few words from Lord Gil-galad, a last directive from Lord Elrond; then, they would be heading toward Eregion and the city of Celebrimbor.

Lord Elrond, Ondomirë noted, had begun to make a few welcoming remarks. The usual litany of praise and sword rattling phrases as others of his rank had done to stir up the spirits of those under their command. His voice drifted into a dull buzz in Ondomirë’s mind as the Commander of the Elven Bowmen took stock of his own men. One hundred and fifty of the best bowmen Lindon could muster stood at rest, their attention of Elrond. Ondomirë felt a swell of pride as he looked at them. Most were already seasoned warriors, and those new to the ranks had brought considerable skill with them.they would do well, he thought, against any foe who dared face them.

Geldion and Hénsirë also had a good body of warriors they each led. Two hundred swords formed Geldion’s command; one hundred spears followed Hénsirë. Each type of weapon division was broken into small fighting units of ten Elves each, captained by seasoned veterans. They had trained hard and long in the winter compound and all were now ready to see Lord Elrond’s plans come to fruition.

Plans . . . hmmm . . . Ondomirë shifted from foot to foot as he stood on the ice, his toes feeling the creep of the cold through his boots. Beyond the initial phase of getting the small army and their supplies moving, there really had been no discussion of plans. Perhaps it was a function of not knowing the lay of the land where they would be fighting; perhaps Lord Elrond was one to keep secret his larger plans, waiting until whatever stage he decided had been accomplished before letting the next small set of instructions be implemented. Ondomirë shook his head as a pernicious line of thought crept in . . . Perhaps there are no real plans at all and he thinks to make them up as he goes along . . . which would not prove all that ill, save for the fact that this is his first engagement as a leader and really he has no experience . . . oh, let him not be playing this off the cuff as it were . . . too many of my men and those of Geldion and Hénsirë have families that I would like to see them return safely to . . .

He cast a glance down the line at the other two commanders. What were Geldion and Hénsirë’s thoughts on this he wondered . . .

The voice buzzing at the edges of his conscious mind had changed, he noted. The High King was now speaking:

“I speak to you in this solemn hour for the life of our Kingdom here in Lindon, of our kinsmen in the east, of their allies, and, above all, of the cause of Light against the encroaching shadow. A battle is raging in Eregion, focused on the Elven city of Ost-in-Edhil. An old enemy of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth has arisen. Sauron, the foul whelp of Morgoth Bauglir, has raised himself up and is looking to bring all lands and people under his dominion. His wrath is turned upon the Elves of Celebrimbor, and he would slay them or worse yet, enslave them to his dark purposes if he may . . .”

Gil-galad’s sonorous voice gathered in the Elves, holding their attention as he laid out the grave situation in the eastern region of Eriador. Ondomirë could feel the martial spirit kindling in his breast as the High King spoke on. His speech, in sum, was not too long, it kept his listeners nodding ‘yes’ with vigor at his words and vowing silently in their hearts that he would not be let down.

The King paused, his voice falling into the silence of his attentive listeners. The cadence of his speech had been like a drum beat, and now it fell into a slower and more somber rhythm:

“Today is the day we Elves of Lindon stand against him. Ages ago words were spoken to be a call and a spur to the faithful servants of Truth and Light: ‘Arm yourselves, and be ye men of valour, and be in readiness for the conflict; for it is better for us to perish in battle than to look upon the outrage of our kindred and the loss of all that is fair and good in Arda. As the Will of Eru is in Aman, The Blessed Realm, even so let it be here in Endóre, Middle-earth."

There was deep silence as his last words were spoken, then the Elves raised their weapons to him as one and facing westwards, cried out in accord that it would indeed be so. Ondomirë, too, found himself lending his own voice to the resonant harmony of the others.

It was Elrond, then, that raised his sword and taking his place at the head of his army of five hundred warriors, led them out of eastern Mithlond. He turned south as they reached the eastern foot of the Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains, intending to continue to the end of that short section of the chain. From there he and his followers would head east across Minhiriath toward Eregion.

[Arestevana]

“I am well,” Vaele Andarion said brightly, in his calm, unruffled manner.
“May I ask what you saw ahead of the contingent?” asked Gilduin hesitantly.
Vaele laughed. “No few miles, to be sure. There’s a fine site for a camp a ways ahead.” He paused, gauging the angle of the sun. “We should reach it by sunset or the hour after.”
Gilduin nodded and was silent for a moment. At last he cleared his throat. “Vaele…why do the Galadrim march? I know that we go to the aid of our brothers and sisters in Eregion, but what foe do we face? What enemy assails the Mírdain?”
Vaele did not reply immediately, and his expression was troubled. When he spoke, it was without his usual cheerfulness. “The Mírdain are beset by one they once counted a friend,” he said quietly, and related the tale of Annatar’s treachery as the sun sank in a firey crimson sky.

As Vaele had predicted, the company halted shortly after sunset, in a sparsely wooded area with a small stream running through it. The ranks dispersed, but all the elves remained close together, and Eldegon posted a guard. Celeborn ordered that no fires be lit. The night was surprisingly mild and there was no sense of evil in the darkness, but the commanders seemed uneasy. Gilduin felt a growing disquiet within him, which had begun when Vaele told the story of their enemy. It was less a fear of present danger than a foreboding of troubles to come. He could envision the journey beneath the mountains in his mind, though he had never traveled that road before. Beyond the mountains, though a shadow obscured his thoughts. He could not visualize the city of the Mírdain, nor the battle they would face when they reached it. In years past he had often imagined the fair buildings of Ost-in-Edhil, but that time seemed long ago. Now all that remained was an unseen future, at once inaccessible and inescapable.

[Amanaduial the archer]

It was due to the sounds of laughter that also caused Narisiel to awake, but like Maegisiel, she had had a restless night, claustrophobically full of thoughts but desolately empty of dreams. Eventually, in the early hours of the morning, she had fallen asleep, sinking into a dream of rubies, glittering with blood, of emeralds shining with the fallen pride of the City of the Holly... Unlike those of her Lord, the smith's 'premonitions' were not so fair.

As her husband lay as blissfully silent and peaceful as she had been distracted - even though, she noted ruefully, she had tousled and pushed around the covers until they mostly lay in a heap at the foot of the couple's bed - Narisiel sat up and swung her feet around to gingerly alight on the floor silently, rising and all-but tiptoeing to the window to look out at the source of the merriment outside. As she did so, the pressure of her bare toes caused the wooden boards of the floor, sunwarmed from the tall windows that looked into their room, to creak softly in sleepy protest at action at such an early hour. Wincing, she turned to see whether the sound had disturbed Sirithlonnior, but her husband lay still, one arm lazily thrown around his head, the other on the cover that remained around his waist, sleeping eyes watching her obliviously; as she watched him, Narisiel couldn't help but smile, his sleeping face warming her as much as the sunlight outside. Two hundred years later, she was almost surprised to find how much she still loved him; no matter how independant she was in the world outside this room, she was surprised but how much she depended on that smile. The action softened her face and the elven smith turned back to the window, lifting and drawing aside the filmy, full-length curtain.

Outside, the winter sun had barely had time to stretch her warmth into the morning, but thoughts of the night had been nearly dispelled; despite the early hour, the streets of such a thriving city are, in truth, rarely, if ever, entirely empty, and so a merry few were already scurrying, like children from this high view of a third storey window, through Ost-in-Edhil. The people of the dawn, those beings of the very early morning who wake with the sun and greet her as she first lazily rubs her fingers against the walls of the waking city when the rest are still fitfully turning in a dream-scattered world of sleep, had already been and gone, leaving little in their wake but those necessities, vital but small, the quiet fairies. The later group were waking and getting up: those going to work, waking slowly and allowing themselves that precious five more minutes; those who worked for the higher society, for the lords and ladies who needed them from the word go, already predecessing their idler counterparts; and the children, already in the streets, already full of energy, already welcoming the sun with all its innocence and warmth. It was the latter on whom Narisiel now looked down from her high chamber: a pair of younger elves, a girl and a boy, not quite adults but already with a resentment at being called children, probably within a decade of her own son's age. The girl had stopped the boy, talking passionately about some topic that Narisiel was not privy to from the height she watched from, but nonetheless something that clearly incensed her. The boy seemed to disagree with her serious position and shook her head, an indulgent smile on his lips - his mistake. Not liking his condescending behaviour, his friend shoved him lightly on the shoulder, her face full of impish anger; her pushed her back lightly, jovially and, with a mock-outraged cry, the girl launched herself at him. As he held her back they ended up laughing, locked in what was almost an embrace - and, cheekily, the boy leant forward and kissed her lightly on the forehead. She looked startled then, resuming her thread, began to berate him once more, but with a little more of that fondness in her voice.

Narisiel watched them, unseen, a dumb god, as they walked on, fingers lazily threaded together almost rebelliously, a grown-up image with childish voices. She smiled at them, but was that a tinge of sadness in her expression? They have all the time in the world for that. Why start so soon, why not let them hold onto that innocence for just a little longer...

"They are just children, Narisiel."

Percieving her thoughts perfectly, Sirithlonnior's face cut smoothly into his wife's thoughts and she span around immediately, her hands behind her back like a guilty child to see her previously 'sleeping' husband propped up on one elbow, calmly watching her. She narrowed her eyes. "You weren't asleep," she replied accusingly.

He merely smiled.

Like the child in the street below, the elf smith gave a cry of indignation and, dignity discarded to the wind - who was there to catch it, in the privacy of their marriage chamber? - Narisiel hurled herself at Sirithlonnior in a laughing, incoherent heap, a mirror of the couple below. For a while, for some instances, time was allowed to simply stand still.



But it was a privilege that did not apply to the whole world. As she selected her clothes for the day - her 'battledress' Sirithlonnior mockingly called it - her husband questioned her choice.

Holding up the offending item, a fine dress of dark, wine-red with loose sleeves to the elbow, and a full-sleeved undergarment of a strong yellow, Narisiel held it away from her, turning it critically in the light. "Oh, why? I think the smudges of silver would compliment the red, and don't you agree that soot would go well with the yellow? A bold contrast, that's what we like-"

"You're mocking me."

Narisiel turned her face to her husband, tipping it to one side as she smiled impishly, her dark eyes glittering. "Would I?" Laughing as he raised an eyebrow, she conceded. "I am to go to the palace today. I thought it was appropriate not to scare the ladies in waiting."

Sirithlonnior did not pick up on the humour of the second statement, his face becoming more serious as he sat up from his lounging position. "The palace? You are to see Lord Celebrimbor?"

Narisiel did not return his gaze for a moment, looking down to fiddle with the dress, but that was the only outward sign of her anxiety before she shrugged and looked back at her husband. "Not necessarily, Sirith. I have a commision from one of his courtiers - I need to show him the plans."

"So send Losrian."

"I cannot do it myself?" The question had a little too much snap in it and Sirithlonnior's face momentarily darkened as he fell into silence. Narisiel's anger faded away and she rubbed her eyes with one hand, looking away and then looking back. "I'm sorry, Sirith. It's...it's just..."

"You have been happier since you stopped working so closely with Celebrimbor, Narisiel. Something about you changed when you started that...that work with him." The word 'work' was spoken with a barely audible distaste, but Narisiel picked up on it; she knew was that made her husband uneasy. It was the fact that she had never really told him about those three wonderful creations - and, when they told each other so much, it was a silence that quietly scared him. How much of that fear is founded, Narisiel? Why didn't you tell him? Her face softened and she nodded, still looking at the material in her hands. "I know, Sirith."

She looked back up at her husband's handsome face and gave him another ambiguous shrug and a quick smile. "But I won't be seeing him, will I? Just Maegisil."

"Maegisil?" Her husband recognised the name and the conversation eased into a different vein, easier, less stressful, as the tension slipped away. But although she breathed a sigh of relief, Narisiel could not altogether dispel the tension which Sirithlonnior had raked up - the tension at the thought of meeting with Celebrimbor after so many sleepless nights contemplating the meaning of what they had made in the forges.

[Durelin]

The quiet entrance of a servant interrupted the Lord and his counselor, though he only intruded upon silence. Maegisil recalled his name as Taurnil, but he was not sure. His encounters with him were always very formal, as he only saw him when in the presence of Celebrimbor. He noticed the servant’s entrance before his lord did, who had lapsed into silent thoughtfulness once more, and considered briefly what a shame it was that he had not spoken to the elf standing cautiously just inside the door, which he had closed behind him with the greatest of care. Seeing Taurnil hesitate to disturb his lord, Maegisil smiled and caught the servant’s eye, and the uncertain elf seemed surprised to find the counselor looking at him.

Maegisil then quickly turned his eyes to Lord Celebrimbor, and reached across from where he sat to touch his lord on the arm. Celebrimbor’s eyes snapped up from looking down at the floor and then followed his friend’s gesture toward the servant.

“Oh, Taurnil,” he said in absent-minded surprise. Maegisil was glad to hear that he had remembered the name correctly. “I’m sorry, you’re too stealthy for me these days. You’ve always been a good woodsman.”

For a moment Taurnil looked at his lord, wondering about his all but random comment, but a smile quickly grew on his face as he tossed his wonder aside and looked only upon his lord’s kindness.

“Forgive me, my lord,” he said with a bow. After a short and rather awkward pause in which the servant most likely awaited a question concerning his presence, he continued, answering all unspoken questions in the other elves’ minds. “Narisiel Mirdain is here to see Counselor Maegisil concerning a commission.”

At these words Margisil jumped slightly in his seat, and not due to any surprise at Narisiel’s arrival, but instead because of what Taurnil had called him. He could not remember ever being called ‘Counselor Maegisil.’ He had never asked for a title, nor ventured to earn one, and he was young yet to receive the title of ‘Master,’ except by mere children.

Taurnil was leading Narisiel into the chamber, following the order of the Lord of the Mirdain, of course, as Maegisil was recovering from his mild shock. Pushing all his wonders concerning his sudden new title to the back of his mind, he rose to greet the jewelsmith, ducking his head in a slight bow of respect as he had done when he met her in her shop, and thanking her for coming. Being too grand in his formalities had often led him to embarrassment in the past, but he still felt some sign of respect was necessary to most people he met, as well as as much politeness as he could manage without overdoing it, which he did often.

Lord Celebrimbor also rose to greet her, but he found it harder to smile than did Maegisil. This was a much more awkward meeting for the two of them, and as Narisiel’s eyes turned their gaze to the lord, any sort of smile disappeared from her face. She did not forget the bow that was proper, though Celebrimbor would have liked it if she had. It only made the distance between them clearer.

“It has been a long time, Narisiel,” the elf-lord said, only voicing part of what was on his mind.

“Yes, it has,” Narisiel responded simply. A short silence followed, which Maegisil decided to rescue them from.

“I am surprised, and very grateful, that you have had the time to complete the plans so quickly,” he said. Then, remembering his manners, he gestured to the two small couches that the counselor and his lord had been reclining on earlier and asked, turning to Celebrimbor, “May we sit, my lord?”

“Oh, yes,” the lord said, sounding surprised again. It seemed he had forgotten his manners as well, but Maegisil knew there was more to it then that, as did Narisiel. Celebrimbor was the last to sit, and he sat alone across from Maegisil and Narisiel, trying to look comfortable. The mirdan began showing Maegisil the plans for Sairien’s necklace when the elf-lord suddenly spoke again, drawing both his companions’ minds from necklaces to rings.

“I am sorry to interrupt, but Narisiel…I must know if you are willing to speak to me.”

[Mithalwen]

Losrian was the first of the household to surface. This was not unusual in the winter months when her sole chance of a little daylight time was just before she started work. The air had a hint of frost and she wrapped herself in her dressing gown before running downstairs from her small chamber, trusting on speed rather than shoes to keep her feet from the cold of the stone slabs of the stairs and kitchen floor. Nevertheless she was glad to wriggle her toes in the sheepskin hearthrug. Laswen's family farmed in the outlands and this small luxury was one of the benefits. She knew her path well enough in the dark and mindful of the need for thrift only lit one candle to guide her preparation of the fire. As soon as it was lit she set the kettle on the stove. She got the breakfast things ready, butter, honey, the herbs for tisane and cut a thin slice of cheese and took just one store apple and wrapped them in a muslin cloth, ready for her midday meal. By now the water was nearing the boil and she poured some into an ewer mixed with cold to wash in and ran back upstairs. Although she dressed swiftly - having grown somewhat since the last cold winter she had a small choice of garments that were warm, fitted properly and were suitable for her work - and tied her hair in the simplest braid, her brother was sitting in the kitchen when she went back down toasting the old bread. He poured her a cup of tisane.

"Off to work so early, Los? I thought you said Lady Narisiel would not be there this morning? I hope my apprentices will be so diligent.."

"If you can ever find anyone who wants to learn ... may be someone who none of the smiths will take.." his sister responded cheekily. Ferin gave her a long, hard stare but refused to take the bait.

" I am going to take my wife some tea. " He said, evenly then noticing her frugal lunch added "things aren't so desperate that you have to starve yourself yet - you are still growing"

"Yes, Ada" replied Losrian in mock obedience, earning another 'elder brother' stare from her sibling. " I hope I don't grow more - I am not trying to catch you up'". At six feet she was already tall and her brother was a good hand taller.

Left alone again, Losrian consulted her notebook while she ate and drank. Then with the first light filtering in through the shutters she took the fresh baked bread from the oven, and having cut some for herself prepared to leave.

She retraced her steps of the evening before, making hte detour back to the buttes. Her breath vapourised in the air and she wrapped her hands around the still warm bread. She had rather more time for her trials of arrows than last time but she became a little self conscious when she realised that a couple of the sentries on the ramparts, bored with gazing out had turned their gaze inward to watch. She was a good enough shot but it was affecting her aim - especially when she realised one of the sentries was Artamir. Time for work she decided and trying to make it look as if her departure had nothing to do with being watched, she packed up her things as casually as she could and walked away with a careless air.

With still a little time to spare she lingered by the windows in the shops of Rath Celebdain. The work is lovely but seems a little frivolous with war threatening. Nevertheless, Losrian wonders if she will ever equal their art. One of the many advantages of her apprenticeship was that Narisiel was skilled in all types of smithing and Losrian would not be limited to one metal for her studies.

As she opened the atelier and prepared the forge for the day's work she remembered her first visit there, when she had sought apprenticeship. Narisiel had asked her - as her brother and father had done - why she wished to be a smith when there was a fine family tradition of working wood. She had replied

"When you work wood you must shape it according to it's nature, its grain shapes the work not your will. Metal may be shaped to your will. with wood you are the slave, with metal the master".

"And do you seek mastery, Losrian?" Narisiel had asked with a catch in her voice.

"Only of metal, my lady".

As soon as the forge had heated she became absorbed in the work in hand and ceased wandering in memory.

[Arestevana]

The Galadrim assembled silently at dawn. The sun was rising, but little light penetrated the grey clouds. The misty mountains, now so near, dominated the horizon. Their black silhouettes were sharp and unforgiving against the pale sky. The mood of the contingent was subdued somewhat by the darkness, but proximity to the mountains brought a feeling of success: they neared their destination.

It was past noon before the sun broke free of the clouds, at last revealing in full the towering majesty of the mountains before them. It was an awe-inspiring sight, and Gilduin found himself staring in wonder, though he had seen the mountains before. He turned to say something to Vaele before remembering that the archer was once again scouting ahead of the contingent. It was perhaps an hour before he returned to the company.
“Celeborn wants us marching with full ranks when we reach the mountains,” he explained, falling into step easily. “We will be entering the Nanduhirion Valley soon. Have you traveled this way before?”
“Once, many years ago. I recall little.” Gilduin said. “It is a beautiful place.”
Vaele nodded in agreement. “See how the arms of the mountain surround us? Now we are in the valley, which the dwarves call Azanulbizar. We will march a while longer, and then we will see the Mirromere.”
Gilduin glanced at the sky. The sun was poised above the mountains: in a few hours it would be resting on the highest peaks. A call to halt came suddenly from his right, and the contingent stopped. Celeborn and Eldegon called several curt directions: the first rank was to separate from the contigent and form a separate division to speak to those who would guide them through the mountains. Vaele and Gilduin obediently found positions in this smaller group, which moved forward a short ways ahead of the full contingent as they resumed their march. Before them lay the shimmering expanse of water that was the Kheled-Zâram, and beyond that, the Misty Mountains.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Having seated herself on one of the fine, velvet and mahogany couches in Celebrimbor's room, Narisiel pulled two sheets of parchment, rolled and tied with ribbon, from inside a slim cylinder case. Spreading them across the low table in front, she glanced up at Maegisil, who was standing awkwardly and uncertainly beside her. She didn't want to smile, but couldn't help giving him a quick grin. "Please do sit, Counsellor," she said softly, her voice mocking but gently so. The other elf's cheeks coloured slightly, allowing Narisiel to feel a little embarassed herself at the possibility of seeming rude, and he hurriedly sat down beside her, almost being overly careful not to sit on the folds of rich damson coloured cloth of her dress. In the corner of her eye, the smith saw a slight smile lift Celebrimbor's lips - amusement or fondness at her boldness maybe. She looked down again quickly and briskly began showing Maegisil the plans for the necklace.

"I planned two designs; I was not sure which might suit best, as I do not really know your wife more than by sight. Sairien, isn't it?" Maegisil nodded, looking a little surprised as he glanced at Narisiel. She smiled, shrugging but not elaborating, before nodding towards the first design - the one on the topmost piece of parchment. "This is the one I personally prefer. It is a simpler design than the other, and so you may prefer the latter, but it has both a delicacy and a strength that I believe...well, I should be pleased to achieve it, and the result would hopefully please you also."

Maegisil murmured some affirmation of this, an almost mandatory formality to him, and Narisiel shot him a quick smile, brushing a spare strand of hair behind her ear nervously - Celebrimbor, rather than having left the room as she had expected and rather hoped, had instead stayed and was watching his two counsellors from where he stood at the window, half turned as if to survey the view outside, but with his keen eyes trained on them - or, more accurately, on her, as Narisiel knew without looking up. But the nervous gesture caused her to lift her hand from the plans unthinkingly, and the side of the parchment sprung up, eagerly making a break for it's previous rolled up position. Maegisil's hand darted forward, pinning down one corner even as Narisiel, flustered, seized it herself. She smiled briefly at him, and, taking advantage of now having one hand free, she slid her slim fingers across the rough parchment, beginning to focus on more specific points of the design. "You admired the rubies the other day, and although these are a fine choice - your wife's dark hair would be complimented by the rich red of a larger ruby stone, maybe - they are also a relatively popular choice, and I planned a little something different."

She pinpointed six roughly sketched gems which were interwoven into two intertwining chains of silver, and ended with one finger resting on a seventh, larger gem which was at the centre of the necklace - the centre piece. It was not an especially large gem, but was quite significantly bigger than the smaller gems around the sides of the necklace - centralised and fine without being audacious or overly-showy, she explained. "I planned on saphires, if this would please you," she continued, with the air of one whose plans were flexible, but was quietly confident that they would be accepted. "The smaller gems would be, say, the size of the rubies you admired yesterday, although I would be able to cut or procur even smaller, more delicate ones; the centralised one would be larger, as I have said. It allows a design that seems simple, but the interwoven silver chains within which the small gems would be delicately buried would allow a fragility and intricacy that...well," she shrugged, knowing that Maegisil would understand. She was gaining confidence now, almost forgetting the third prescence in the room. But after she had continued for a few more moments, Maegisil occasionally nodding or murmuring some comment or question, the extra prescence was to make itself known.

"I am sorry to interrupt, but Narisiel...I must know if you are willing to speak to me."

Celebrimbor's words surprised her, and she momentarily stiffened, but it was a movement and shock so controlled that it was only Maegisil who noticed, as the smith's hands stiffened slightly, stretched as they were over his arm. Uncertain and barely breathing, he glanced at her, only his grey eyes flickering to scan her face. But Narisiel merely took a deep breath....then looked up again, her face a mask of perfect, porcelain politeness. "Speak to you, my Lord?"

Celebrimbor, seated across from the pair on an opposite couch, hesitated, and bewilderment flitted over his face, just for a moment. He nodded wordlessly. Now was the moment that Narisiel had wondered about, had dreaded even - yet was also excited by. Part of her was even irritated - if only he had let her finish explaining her plans to Maegisil, she would at least have had a chance to escape. Escape... For a moment, the ludicrous idea of hitching up her skirts, sprinting across the room and leaping through the window flitted across her mind. Why, the skirt would probably even suffice as a parachute of some sort...gently float down and, by careful rudder use of the petticoats, direct myself to my forge...

The image that this momentarily conjured up was such a comical one that the smith smiled - then realised that the gesture had escaped and froze it, cursing inwardly. But then, hadn't another part of her secretly been waiting for this meeting, been planning it since...well, since when? How long had she been waiting to release all the curiousity and frustrated excitement and anxiety about the rings that had pent up inside her?

Did Lord Celebrimbor not speak to your concerning the Three...

Maegisil's words from yesterdays meeting at the forge surfaced in her mind. Narisiel made up her mind: looking directly into Celebrimbor's eyes, she let a moment pass, then relaxed into her smile. Standing, she sighed and looked away, taking a few steps towards the window, before she half turned to look back the still seated elf, not without warmth this time.

"Speak with you, Lord Celebrimbor?" She hesitated once more, then made the plunge. "Nothing would allow me more pleasure at this moment, Celebrimbor," she replied finally. And with that informal first-name use, Narisiel felt a burst of rekindled friendship - and a slight chill, as the events of one hundred years tugged, always, at her mind.

[Firefoot]

The wait was lasting just long enough for Grimkul to become impatient; he wished the Elves whom they were going to ambush would hurry it up. He strained his eyes towards the mouth of the valley, hoping to maybe spot them.

And, perhaps by chance, he did! He gave a cry of glee, which fortunately did not echo. A dirty look from Lushurd quieted him, though not before he had returned said look equally nastily. To either side of him, Orcs were drawing their bowstrings, waiting for the signal to shoot. Grimkul and Ulwakh followed suit.

The short minutes that the Elves took to march into the valley seemed to stretch on for ages. As they drew nearer, Ulwakh noted that they were marching in two contingents, the smaller one in front. Grimkul could care less about this seemingly petty matter.

Lushurd raised his arm, and it was understood that they should fire when he lowered it, which he did when the Elves had drawn even with them. With a twanging of bowstrings, the first volley of arrows was released. As Grimkul fitted a second arrow to his bowstring, he had a moment to catch sight of the moment of pandemonium beneath them. Almost immediately a second round of arrows was fired. Grimkul sneered as his arrow found its mark and an Elf fell dead. By the third round, the Elves below had figured out what was happening and had drawn their own bows and shields. They fell into battle formation surprisingly swiftly, some with shields overhead so as to guard against arrows and others shooting up into the pass.

The Orcs no longer held their silence as the element of surprise was no longer a weapon. Grimkul rattled off a string of insults as he shot his next arrow.

Lushurd made his voice heard above the others: “Fire at will!” Grimkul took little time to carefully find his marks as Ulwakh did beside him, but instead simply fired into the mass of Elves. Surprising only to him, just one of his next four arrows found a mark and felled an Elf, irritating Grimkul immensely. He was, however, heartened when an Elvish arrow clattered harmlessly to the rocks nearby. His jeers were cut short, however, when one arrow found its mark in the Orc next to him, and Grimkul hastily continued to shoot.

The fray seemed to be going well, and the Orcs were at advantage, being higher up. However, they soon realized that the Elves were steadily moving through the valley even as they fought back. Their commander apparently noticed this and ordered the Orcs down into the valley – “They can’t reach the mountains!”

So the company began to spill down the slope wherever it was passable, intent on cutting the Elves off from their intended route. Grimkul gleefully drew his scimitar and was among the first of the Orcs to crash into the ranks of Elves. Intent on their quarry, none of the Orcs noticed the attackers coming up behind them. . .

[Durelin]

“Nothing would allow me more pleasure at this moment, Celebrimbor.”

There was something so familiar in Narisiel’s voice when she spoke that the elf-lord was warmed to the heart. All the tension he had felt before she gave her answer was released in an explosive feeling of happiness, and the confusion and uncertainty that had been apparent on his face before were replaced by a smile. Remembering how he had felt this day would turn out, his spirits were raised to a new height by what seemed to him to be a fulfillment of his premonitions. Celebrimbor caught Maegisil’s eye, as the other elf was looking upon his lord with a smile of his own, and saw that his counselor was thinking along the same lines. And perhaps there was a slight look of ‘I told you so’ in his eyes, as well.

Then, as he brought his eyes to look at Narisiel, his demeanor stiffened, the graveness of what he was about to say, as well as the awkwardness for him, taking away his smile. “Narisiel…” He paused, receiving a good feeling from using her name again in speaking to her. “From my heart, I apologize to you, for my error. For my many errors.”

The elf-lord dropped his gaze, feeling all of his shame return from the day so long ago, when the deception had first become clear. In his pride, and in his blind desire to create, he had not considered the consequences of what he was about to make, nor did he wonder what was behind the plans or ‘Annatar.’ He, the Lord of the Mirdain, had been utterly deceived, perhaps to the destruction of him and his people.

Narisiel knew his shame, and tried to ease his worries, as she had always done when they were close friends, working together in the forge. “We were all wrong, Celebrimbor. The blame does not lie just on you. It lies particularly on me, as well.”

She stopped, seeming only to pause, but Celebrimbor would not hear anymore, as he was more than convinced that he was the only one to blame. His mind and his heart were filled with sorrow and guilt, and he was unable to consider that anyone else could be responsible for this. “No, no it doesn’t. I am the Lord of my people, and I should have had the safety of my people in mind before I took any action. I have been very selfish.”

The elf woman sighed, knowing the lord’s way of taking blame, taking more responsibility than was really his. Maegisil knew this, as well, as he had seen his lord sit for hours in thought, and then speak only to say how much he had failed. At times like these, he did not know what to say. He felt as confused as he did sometimes when his wife would become suddenly sad. Now, he found himself speaking.

“Please, listen to Narisiel. It is time you both spoke your minds.”

Sighing, Celebrimbor ran a hand through his flowing dark hair, and then looked to his counselor with a small smile, glad that Maegisil had left out any ‘my lords.’ He then turned back to Narisiel, his features smoothed, and his voice calmer when he spoke.

“Forgive me, my friend,” he said, then, bringing both his hands up to his face, he ran them down across his eyes and his cheeks, as if he were wiping tears away, though neither his eyes nor his skin glistened. “I simply cannot explain to you what I have felt these many years.”

Celebrimbor began steeling himself for the conversation that he knew he had begun, finding it harder to face the past than ever in the presence of his old friend. It was as if those ghosts of remembrance had followed her to the palace and into this very chamber, when before they had merely hovered just within the boundaries of his mind. They were easier to deal with when they were mere, abstract thoughts. But now they were brought to life in his mind, heart, and his very soul, as if he were reliving them. He could not bear that, knowing now what he had not known then.

[Arry]

It was only a few miles from the cave where they had stored their supplies to the southern tip of Kheled-zaram. As they made their silent way down the narrow track that led along the side of the mountain, the Dwarves could see in the distance the banner and glittering shields of the Elves. Skald paused and shielding his eyes from the bright sun looked hard toward the advancing troops.

A volley of arrows followed by harsh Orcish cries disturbed his sighting. The Elven troops closed ranks and advanced at a faster pace as they defended themselves from the foul missiles.

The Dwarves flattened themselves down behind the rocky outcroppings that edged their path. Inching forward their gaze scoured the mountain slope, looking to see the source of the attack on the Lorien Elves. The source was soon found. Orcs had hidden on the lower parts of the slope seeking to ambush the Elven contingent. Some of the Orc arrows had found a mark, Skald could see. And in return, there were Orcs falling from the accuracy of the Elvish bowmen.

The Dwarves with bows were just beginning to nock arrows and take aim at the Orcs when suddenly there were hoarse cries from one of the creatures who appeared to be in command. The Orcs were up in an instant and running pell-mell toward the Elves. From what he could see, the Orc troops were nearly double the size of the Elvish warriors.

From their position behind the Orcs, the Dwarves made haste to scramble down the mountain side after them. As they closed the distance, the creatures who lagged behind the others were at first cut down by the Dwarves’ arrows. Those Orcs who stopped to see what was happening as their comrades fell, found themselves faced with the sharp blades of mattock and pole ax and battleaxe.

The Dwarves roared a fierce and mighty battle cry as they closed with the Orcs.

Skald swung his poleaxe in a deadly arc as he reached the raged back line of the Orcs. As a scythe through wheatstalks the Orcs fell as he advanced. At his side, the Brassbeard cousins swung their poleaxes as well. The Hardhammer brothers, Manni, Vetr, and Taf, were deadly in the skill with which their throwing axes thunked decisively and deep into Orc flesh. Bildr and Bisi plunged into the fray with a grim sort of glee, their shields raised on their left arms as their mighty right fists wielded large oaken clubs studded with sharp metal points. Orcs fell, their heads caved in, crushed as easily as hollow gourds.

[CaptainofDespair]

The heavy thudding of footsteps echoed throughout the cavernous hall. At the far end stood a menacing door, with images of craven beasts and other wicked things carved into its massive frame. A figure shrouded in darkness, wrapped in the wreath of wickedness, approached the gateway slowly, pausing here and there to seemingly admire the arches and carvings notched out of the walls and ceiling. The footfalls continued to ring throughout the hall, as the figure neared the door, billowing dark brown robes swirling about their legs, trailing after them.

Two Orc guards, who were supposed to be standing watch at the doorway but had dozed off, were awakened by the deep voice of the figure. “The Dark Lord needed better servants than you foul Orcs.” Quickly snapping into action, they grunted, and slapped their pikes in front of the newcomer, and demanded he tell them why he had come to the sanctuary of Sauron. “Stand aside, or your heads will be on those pikes you carry,” came the response from the hooded warrior. Looking at each other with a slight glint of fear, the guards stepped aside, allowing the figure to make his entrance into the chamber.

The chamber was dark, lit only by an eerie light surrounding the rim of a circular platform in the center, and few torches at the edges of the great hall. From the darkness came a voice, terrible and menacing, that made the guards beyond the now sealed door shudder in utter terror. “So, you have come at last, to serve the Dark Lord. As I knew you would.” The figure waited in stillness, lit by the platform he now stood upon. “You know nothing, Sauron. You deceive yourself in thinking that. Your mantle of Dark Lord is stolen; it does not belong to you.” Silence now enveloped the room. Sauron’s anger flooded every niche of the hall, dripping from the ceiling, gurgling forth from the walls and floor, but only for a moment. Regaining his composure, he replied to the brave, or foolish, figure. “I did not summon you here to reignite our war. I have a mission for you, one you might be interested in.” A cloaked arm shot out from underneath the heavy brown robes, and made a cut through the stale atmosphere of the crypt-like room. “I am not one of your pathetic servants!” From the Dark Lord, a dire response was issued. “You will serve me, as you did my master, or you will find nothing but sorrow.”

Many silent moments passed, as the figure brooded and debated his new situation. He shook his head, as he thought to himself, obviously pondering something that was not wholly satisfactory. Folding his arms beneath his cloak, he uttered his own response to Sauron’s command. “You are not my master. I am only a servant to the true Dark Lord. But, I will serve you, for now.” A deep laugh, terrible and wicked, came from the throne of Sauron. “Excellent.” Gorthaur paused, and then continued, giving the cloaked figure his orders. “I am tasking you with bringing the Elven land of Eregion to its knees. An army will be prepared for you, and you will set out with it at once.” The figure nodded, and turned to depart the presence of the Dark Lord. As he was dismissing himself, the Lord of Barad-dur mentioned something else to him. “The descendant of an Oath-taker resides in Eregion. He should be the target of your malice.” A slight rippling of the deep, brown hood signaled a compliant nod.

The robed man turned once more, and strode out of the cavern, the taste of decay lingering on his lips. As he passed the guards at the gate to the chamber, he smirked. “I had better not receive such pathetic whelps for my army.” Once again, the heavy thudding of footsteps echoed through the arched hallway, slowly dissipating into the distant muffle of Mordor’s heavy, clouded atmosphere.

[Encaitare]

In the camp remained around one hundred orcs and a captain. Glûtkask had not gone to the battle, having entrusted Lushurd to carry out his instructions. He knew that Lushurd was scarcely cleverer than a pile of dung, but the lieutenant could follow orders. In his tent, he gnawed on a bit of dried meat and squinted at the rough map. When his lads got back, they would take a little rest and then start moving again. They would have to cross the mountains; there was supposed to be a pass through which they could travel. Glûtkask grumbled to himself at the thought of traveling through the mountains in this damnable cold. Not only would it be unpleasant for him, but all of the soldiers would find it unpleasant as well, and they were sure to gripe about it all the way to the other side.

Finishing the meat and rummaging in a hairy rucksack for more, he wondered when they'd be getting back. There were only a few of the Elvish scum coming to the valley, so ideally, Lushurd would be bringing the company victoriously back to camp soon, and they'd be off again with a nice high morale. Maybe they'd be in a good enough mood from having bashed the brains out of the enemy that they wouldn't mind the weather so much.

As this more optimistic thought crossed his mind, a panting scout burst into the tent.

"Captain!" he managed, through his uneven breath.

"What? Have you got news from the valley?" By Sauron's hairy toes, it'd better be good, Glûtkask thought.

"Yar. They..."

"Speak up, scout!"

The scout swallowed, and talked quickly. "I was waitin' halfway between the valley an' here, in case there was news. An' then someone came rushin' up to me, told me to take a message back to you. He said things was going fine until out of a door in the mountain came a bunch of Dwarves an' trapped ours between them an' the Elves."

Glûtkask growled. "And our lads can't take care of a few Dwarves?"

"He said it was somethin' near a score of them. Too many for them to take. They're goin' to retreat." The orc scout looked very much like it wanted to leave the tent as quickly as he could.

"Retreat?!" he shouted.

The scout cowered. "Probably better to save what lads they could..." He stopped speaking at a fearsome glance from the captain, and then scurried outside.

Last time I trust that half-wit lieutenant to do a job for me -- assuming he's still alive, that is. Glûtkask planned to give Lushurd a piece of his mind; he figured the wretch could use it.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Artamir watched Losrian depart hastily from her archery practise, his eyes, as sharp as his father's, following the young elf-girl's back until she turned under an arch towards the smith's quarters and was lost to sight. Raising his eyes to Leneslath, he started slightly as his friend caught his eyes directly. Ever a clown, he exaggerated the movement comically; Leneslath grinned, then nodded down in the direction that Losrian had taken. "Taking an interest are we, Artamir?" he asked, slyly.

The other grinned back and shook his head, bracing his hands on the cold stone of the ramparts and jumping up backwards to sit on them, swinging his feet casually, the heels of his leather boots thumping dully against the stones that guarded the city. "My mother's apprentice," he replied, by way of explanation, then added, "Nice try," with a wink. His older friend rolled his eyes and swung his feet up on the ramparts beside Artamir, settling comfortably back against one of the battlement pillars as if about to go to sleep. The other slapped at his legs playfully, knocking them down. "Hey! Fine example of Celebrimbor's service you are," he scolded, grinning. Deepening his voice, he made his face sterner, looking at Leneslath as if over a pair of spectacles. "After all, we all have a solemn duty here, all of you young rogues should come to realise that-"

"-for we are the defenders of this city," the older youth continued, doing a near-perfect mockery of Captain Dimloien, the soldier whose unfortunate task it was to train the young elves. "The upholders, the protectors, the line of defense that...et cetera, et cetera." Leneslath made an exaggerated hand motion as if bowing, then turned to Artamir, pointing a shaky, accusatory finger at him. "Especially you, you Aramir, Atamor, whoever you are! Pay attention, or-"

"-Or you'll end up just like that no-good scallywag Leneslath!" his friend interrupted triumphantly, ducking as his scandalised companion took a swipe at his head. Jumping off the rampart, he nodded to the newest of the sentries, who had come to join Leneslath - Artamir himself was not actually a sentry, not yet; that duty would wait until he came of age this summer. Performing a low bow to the two elven soldiers, he swept an imaginary hat off his head. "Gentlemen, I shall leave you!"

"Someone's in high spirits today..." muttered the newcomer sourly as Artamir turned to go, an elf of roughly the same age as Leneslath - the younger elf's antics were playing havoc with his headache, the very same reason he had turned up late and with bags beneath his eyes. Artamir merely grinned back over his shoulder and turned down the narrow spiral staircase in the city walls.

~*~

In the palace overlooking the ramparts that bordered the citadel, Narisiel's eyes did not take in her son's antics, merely turning to the window as an excuse to look away from Celebrimbor while she swallowed against the lump that had lodged itself in her throat. She had thought about this conversation, had run it through in her head again and again the night before, but faced with Celebrimbor himself now, she felt out of her depth.

"Forgive me, my friend; I simply cannot explain to you what I have felt these many years."

Narisiel glanced sharply over at the elven Lord, but his expression seemed genuine. But how could she know? After all, even as she stood so civilly in his rooms facing him, the elvensmith doubted that the older elf could ever guess at the depths of betrayal that she could feel boiling at the back of her mind, stagnant from years of waiting, unreleased, in years of silence. But she would remain calm. She would. She had to - had to know what had become of the rings?

"Forgiveness is a high price to pay from a century of silence, my Lord," she replied, her voice soft and almost croaky coming from a throat dry from nervousness. Celebrimbor did not flinch: he took the words calmly, inclining his head in acknowledgement and looking away from a moment but then, to his credit, looking up once more to meet Narisiel's eyes. She appreciated the gesture and, after a moment, gave a single nod, and asked for the answer that she needed to know to put her mind to rest.

"Tell me of the fate of the rings, Celebrimbor. What has become of them now?"

And even as she asked it, Celebrimbor's expression told her that she was probably not going to like the answer...

~*~

[piosenniel]

To his far right Riv could see Skald moving in a deadly forward march against the back line of the Orcs. The Brassbeard cousins and the Hardhammer men flanked his younger brother, lending their fury to the attack. The Grimsteel brothers advanced in a death dealing dance of shield and club.

On his left, somewhere in the melee were Bror and Orin, their companions forging their way through the scrambling Orc line with fierce determination. Riv gave a grim smile, acknowledging his youngest brother’s burgeoning skill.

Caught unaware by the unrelenting fury of the Dwarves, the Orcs seemed unnerved and had begun to retreat from their attack on the Elven warriors. The Elves, for their part, were fighting coolly back against their foe. And though they had lost several of their company to the Orcs’ weapons, it seemed that a fair number of Orcs had also fallen to the Elvish blades and arrows.

Riv pressed his advantage as the Orcs began to take rout. He and Afi Glitterfist laid into the Orcs with their warhammers - the sharp spikes and great heavy heads cutting and smashing at the hateful adversaries. Then one of the Orcish captains rallied his troops and they turned from their flight for at least a moment. They seemed more willing to face the weapons of the Dwarves than to go against the wishes of their leader.

The Orcs now pressed their own attack, their sheer number forcing Riv and his companion backward. ‘Best you send up the silvered arrow, Brand,’ Riv grunted at the Dwarf on his left. ‘Despite the defense of the Elves against the foe, if this rally of theirs continues we will be undone. We will need more Dwarves to aid us.’

Riv stepped forward, putting himself between the stirred up Orcs and Brand. Afi, too, moved up beside Riv, giving his brother time to draw back his stout bow and send the shining arrow high into the sun’s light. The nearby Orcs bore down on them even as Riv and Afi swung their heavy hammers with all the force and speed they could muster.

Afi was cut down by a wicked blow to his head as he fought back two large Orcs; one wielding a great iron club, the other slashing wildly with a jagged blade. Riv grasped his weapon in both hands and swung it hard against the Orc with the club. The brute lurched back, his upper arm broken by the force of Riv’s hammer. The Orc with the blade, however, seized the advantage and ducking beneath Riv’s upswung arm, drove his blade in a slicing manner against the exposed right underarm of the Dwarf, where the chain-mail did not reach.

Riv, bleeding freely, stumbled back. Transferring his warhammer to his left hand he attempted to hold off three other Orcs who had now turned their attention to him. Brand by this time had nocked another arrow and took aim at the largest of the advancing trio, sending the feathered shaft deep into the Orc’s chest. His foul companions paid his demise no heed. With gruesome grins on their faces they struck out at Riv, knocking him to his knees.

The larger of the two raised his stout wooden club, intent on making mincemeat of the Dwarf’s head . . .

[Folwren]

The heat of battle blazed about Bror and his companions. At their feet lay the orcs that had fallen, most were quite still, others still twitched, but no one noticed them. Their bodies were trampled as more orcs came and the dwarves found proper footing to wield their weapons. The vile creatures had redoubled their attack after attempting to retreat. Why they didn’t retreat, Bror wasn’t aware, but they seemed to have pulled together and their assault was stronger and he and his friends were pushed back.

About him fought the Ironfoot brothers with Kerrin and Geln, the others he had recruited. Close with them was Orin and his dwarves. Bror smiled grimly, as another orc fell at his feet and he jerked his spike from its skull. The foe seemed to lessen where they fought and he paused to look up in the direction of his brothers, to his right.

His heart sank and his courage weakened. Brand stood behind the wall made by Riv and a couple others, raising his bow towards the sky. The sunlight flashed off the shaft of his arrow as it was released and shot upward like a silver flame.

‘Well, no wonder they thought we needed to do that,’ he said to himself, glancing about him. ‘We have most of the dwarves.’ And instantly acting upon that thought he began to forge his way towards Riv and his companions.

They was only a few paces away, really, but with so many orcs in between and all trying to kill him, it seemed like a lot farther to Bror. He hewed right and left with his axe, cutting their legs out from under them, and then finishing them off with a second blow.

He looked up again when he thought he had almost reached Riv’s side. He almost had, but almost carries no weight, and he was still out of reach, and his axe would be of no help. Riv was bleeding, the blood coursed down his right side from somewhere beneath his arm, Afi lay beside him, stretched out on his face and one side of his head apparently crushed, and two more orcs were surging on, almost on top of Riv.

Bror saw it all in a flash. A lumbering orc stumbled in his way, with a furious roar, he knocked him to the side and lunged forward.

‘I’m too late! I can’t get to him!’ He dropped his axe and groped at his belt, pulling out his favorite weapon. He didn’t think of it now, nor did he consider the training he’d given himself, the hours spent figuring out the angles and the strength needed in the twist of the wrist. The throwing axe spun from his hand and the orc that had just knocked Riv to the ground stumbled backwards and fell. The second orc lifted a club and Bror bit back a terrified cry, snatched at a second axe, and let this one go faster than the first.

His aim was true. The hideous beast fell back. After staring for scarcely a second, Bror stooped and picked up his battle axe again and ran to Riv. Forgetting everything else instantly, he fell to his knees by his brother’s side, dropping his weapon for a second time to support Riv as he appeared to be losing consciousness.

The battle still raged on about him. He heard Dwarven voices above him, shouting in some confusion. A movement uncomfortably near from the orcs’ side caught his eye and he turned his head in time to see a small, wiry orc taking a swing at his neck with his sword. Bror threw himself back out of its path, dragging Riv down with him, and then struggled to his feet.

His hands were empty and his mind was black with fury. He cursed himself and the orcs viciously, searching with his eyes for his axe. He dove under the second swing of the orc, and having caught sight of the desired weapon, snatched at it, turned again and lifted it in a desperate attempt to block the next attack.

It turned it partially and the sword glanced off the haft and struck his right shoulder. His armor turned it and he could almost have laughed. His mirth was cut short by a violent shock from his left. The wind was expelled from him and his body flung back into the midst of his fellow dwarves. His senses reeled, and lights flashed in his eyes. For only a moment, and then all went black and still.

[Firefoot]

Within minutes of the Dwarves’ attack, the advantage had shifted unexpectedly and completely. Faced with foes on both sides, the dismayed Orcs were forced into a retreat. Grimkul fell back only reluctantly; fighting was the one thing he excelled at, and in the furies of the fight he was a fearsome figure. At Ulwakh’s urging, however, he fell back with the main company. Ulwakh, being neither large nor strong, disliked battle on principle. His work was self-preservation, and battle utterly defied this goal.

As they neared the slopes which they had only just charged down, Lushurd reversed the orders: “Stand and fight, you cowards! Or you’ll catch it hot back at camp!”

Grimkul returned eagerly to the fight, Ulwakh less happily following along nearby. Somewhere along the way Grimkul had replaced his scimitar with a heavy wooden club, which he swung at any Elf or Dwarf unfortunate enough to stray near. Though less handy for killing, the club was an excellent tool for rendering its victims disabled or unconscious.

But on occasion, Grimkul had a clear shot to bash in the head of his opponent. One of these opportunities came along when he, Ulwakh, and a third orc who had hooked up with them found a badly wounded Dwarf in the midst of the battle. Another Dwarf took out the third Orc with his bow, though neither Grimkul nor Ulwakh gave their fallen fellow a second look. With cruel sneers on their faces, they bore down upon the wounded Dwarf mercilessly. Grimkul raised his club for the killing stroke when he was struck in the chest by a flying axe. He fell back, winded and bruised more than anything else, for his chain mail had turned the blade by some kindly trick of fate.

As Grimkul recovered, Ulwakh darted in, wielding his scimitar with expert precision that Grimkul could never hope to achieve. He caught the pair of Dwarves off guard, causing them to dive to the ground under his scimitar, one of them apparently unconscious or near so. The other Dwarf fought valiantly to counter his attacks but was too distracted by Ulwakh to notice that Grimkul had sufficiently recovered and was charging at the Dwarf who had robbed him of his kill. With a mighty swing, the club struck the Dwarf in his left side. The Dwarf fell to the ground and did not get up, but Grimkul did not have time to pursue the kill because at this point the force of Dwarves seemed to swarm upon them, forcing Grimkul and Ulwakh back.

Their retreat was not quick enough for Ulwakh, however; as he parried the blow of one Dwarf, another’s axe found its mark in his lower leg. Black blood spurted from the deep wound, and Ulwakh howled in pain, reeling upon the offender. Grimkul had not the resources to defend his comrade as he was busy fighting off Dwarves on his own.

It was the same way across the battlefield. Despite being outnumbered, the Elves and Dwarves had rallied phenomenally, and the fierce battle cries of the Dwarves echoing in the hills instilled slivers of fear into even the staunchest Orcs. Lushurd’s orders to stand and fight turned into pleads as the Orcs ignored him and retreated once more. It was now the Orcs who were outnumbered, and they had no cause to fight for. Grimkul took an arrow in his shoulder as they reached the slopes; Ulwakh was limping badly and it took near all his effort just to keep up with the much reduced company. They had only to reach the little pass… hopefully they would not be pursued. Even Grimkul was downtrodden; he delighted in killing not being massacred.

Lushurd seemed to realize his was a lost cause. “Retreat! Retreat!” he cried. Though the main body of the Orcs already had. Upon reaching the sheltered pass, most of them turned and fled back towards camp, Grimkul and Ulwakh among them. Neither knew nor cared whether those stragglers who were behind the main force lived or died; it was everyone for himself now, and none of them fought a losing battle.

[Arry]

The Lórien Elves


Nearly a score of Elves had fallen with the first onslaught of the Orcs. And at least as many had been wounded to some degree in the ongoing battle. Others of the Elves, those unscathed, closed about their injured fellows helping them along . . . protecting them from further insult from the base and twisted foe. Those who had died must need be left where they lay. The others could not carry their dead weight lest they in turn be killed.

The steel grey eyes of the Lorinand glittered harshly in the sun’s light as they kept their gazes steady on the Orcs’ attack. Great anger smoldered in their depths, moving from mind to mind among them as they saw the hroar of many of their kindred being made sport of. It grieved them to witness the filthy hands of the murderous Orcs claw and rend the fair Elven bodies.

The Elves doubled their own attack in an effort to break through to where their Dwarven escort fought fearlessly to reach them. Almost as one the Lorinand hewed their way through the thinning line of Orcs.

A great yell, a fearsome roar, went up from the Dwarven line in their ancient tongue. And even those ears which were not as keen as those of the Elves rang loudly with the mighty rallying cry . . .


-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-


Skald and his companions


Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd aimênu!

^*^

Axes of the Dwarves! The Dwarves are upon you!


He had not seen Riv fall. The forms of the Dwarves about him were a blur as they pushed hard against the dwindling Orc line. The blades of the Elves swung high and low, the glints from them growing brighter as the two companies approached each other across the thin, seething mass of Orc bodies.

The Orcs were pulling back a bit, squeezing out from the deadly lines of Elf and Dwarf they found themselves caught between. Some, their escape cut off as the Elves and Dwarves closed in, were unable to head back south; instead finding themselves harried northward. Their rage piqued by the escape of victory for themselves, they harried mercilessly those smaller islands of Dwarves and Elves they came upon.

Skald saw the Elves chasing the retreating Orcs for a short space, until they were no longer a threat. He thought at first to lend his axe to their sword, but a mighty grip took hold his left arm and he turned, axe raised to deal with whatever foolish Orc had dared come near him. He lowered his axe, seeing it wasTaf Hardhammer and was about to give a warning in jest. Taf’s eyes were wide with urgency and he turned Skald more to the left, pointing down to another group of Dwarves further on.

It was Bror! An Orc had swung his weighty club and knocked his brother hard. He was falling . . . falling . . . in slow motion, it seemed as Skald’s breath caught in his throat. Even were his feet to sprout wings, there was no possible way for him to reach Bror. A great cry of rage welled up from within and erupted from him. Taf shook him and pointed again to where Manni and Vetr stood their axes flying from their hands at Bror’s assailants. Skald did indeed fly himself, then, Taf and the others hard on his heels. They swung their weapons relentlessly as they covered the distance to Bror, clearing a path before them.

Skald knelt beside his little brother, bending down to cradle Bror’s head against his arm. The battle had all but dissipated now; the Orcs either dead or run away. Bror’s helm had tumbled off with the blow; across his left cheek was a large bright red and purpling abrasion, swelling gloriously into a hillock of a bruise. Bror’s breathing was easy and what blood had flown from the injured flesh had all but stopped. He was still quite knocked out though, and unresponsive to any of Skald’s questions or prods. Skald rocked him gently, willing him back to consciousness.

Another Dwarf, Brand, had come to kneel by Skald. His face was strained with grief, his speech coming in short gasps as he told how Riv and Afi had protected him, giving him time to send his silvered arrow up as a call for aid. ‘Afi is dead,’ he managed in a strangled voice. Alarmed, Skald grasped Brand’s forearm . . . ‘And Riv . . .?’ he asked, his voice gruff with fear. He glanced about and could not see his older brother from where he crouched.

‘He lives, still. Though he is badly injured,’ Brand managed. He nodded toward where two of the Lorien Elves knelt down their bodies blocking Skald’s view. ‘They have placed him on one of their shields and will bear him up to the gate on it.’

The Brassbeards, Fastor and Grimsi, had made one of their cloak into a sling on sorts, securing the ends to the shafts of their poleaxes. ‘Come, Skald, let us get your brother into this and start back to the East Gate,’ they directed him, lowering the sling to the ground. ‘And Brand, you come back with us, too. The guards in the East Hall have sent more Dwarven warriors to bring back our fallen.’ None were surprised when Brand shook his head and stood up, going back to stand where his brother had fallen.

Fastor and Grimsi hoisted the makeshift sling and moved at a quick pace away from the battleground. Skald followed along beside for a number of paces, looking to see that the Brassbeards were taking care not jostle Bror unnecessarily. He spoke to Bror as they went along, telling him that Riv was alright and that he had seen Uncle Orin, too, making his way up the slope to the path. ‘I’m going to walk with Riv for a while now,’ he told Bror, giving his brother’s forearm a squeeze of assurance. ‘Some Elves have loaded him onto one of their long shields and are bringing him back, same as Fastor and Grimsi are doing for you. He was hurt . . . some, too,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you up in the Great East Hall,’ he called, veering away from Bror’s litter.

In a little louder voice, he called out to the swaying form as it pulled away from him. ‘And don’t think you’re going to get out of retribution for that trick you pulled on me, mudworm! You owe me little brother . . . and I mean to collect!’

My life and skill pledged to you, Mahal . . . he whispered in a low, rough tone as he ran on. Just keep my brother this side of the West’s Stone Halls . . . both of them!

His swift feet brought him soon into the company of the Elves who bore his older brother’s still form . . .

[Durelin]

The elf-lord was putting words together in answer to Narisiel's question before she voiced it. He knew he had explaining to do, and he would not shy away from it as he had before. It was time for the two of them to bring to an end the old tension between them that had completely ruined their friendship, as well as Celebrimbor's friendship with her husband, Sirithlonnior.

"Tell me of the fate of the rings, Celebrimbor. What has become of them now?"

"I should have told you right away what became of them, but I was fearful, mainly of my own shame. All the great Rings are in the hands of that Annatar now, all except the Three." Celebrimbor buried his face in his hands, now unable to look even at the faces of his companions. Maegisil knew what he was going to say, but it was still painful for him to speak those words that revealed all of his guilt. "We were deceived. I was deceived. It was I who worked with that...that thing..." His voice was growing cruel and bitter with disgust, as he was sickened both by the servant of Morgoth and by he himself. Narisiel watched and listened in confusion, but waited, knowing that Celebrimbor would explain.

"Sauron now has the Rings, except the Three."

"Sauron?" Narisiel blurted out before she could catch herself. Both Maegisil and Celebrimbor had expected this response, as the counselor knew his lord had kept almost everything concerning the Rings secret, even from many of those who helped make them.

Maegisil had been disappointed with his lord, as it seemed he had turned the creation of them into a personal project, and of course the Dark Lord had kept him under that impression. But he was not so disappointed in the fact that the Lord of the Mirdain was deceived, rather he had been saddened that Celebrimbor had not invited him to help in the forges. For a moment, Maegisil's mind dwelt on the possibility of making his own magic rings, and he briefly daydreamed about how he would have doubly deceived Sauron and kept the rings and used their power himself. Then he realized what it was he was thinking about playing with, and he shook those thoughts out of his head.

"Yes, Annatar was indeed the dark Deceiver," Celebrimbor said softly, almost choking on every word. It was getting hard for him to speak. He was revealing things that he had not told anyone in over a century. Maegisil was the only person he had told, as he had been unable to hide anything from his friend, who had waited for him, and who had been there the day his task was completed, and he had marveled at the beauty of his Rings. He had been particularly fond of Vilya, and he had picked it as his own, slipping it on and wishing to make it an heirloom of the Lords of Eregion...

"He felt the evil as soon as he donned the Ring," Maegisil said, and then, though he did not know it, paused just long enough to give his lord time to be pulled out of his thoughts and realize that they were talking about him.
"Which one was it?" the counselor then asked.

"Vilya," the elf-lord said, the name feeling strange on his lips. His mind drifting back deep into thoughts of the past, he spoke as if he were talking to himself. "I believe that to be the finest, though all three are equal in their power."

"They are now hidden, in the hands of worthy bearers of our people," said Maegisil, trying to explain more to Narisiel, knowing that his lord's words were most likely only helping to confuse the elf woman. He understood that Celebrimbor was at the moment unable to speak directly concerning the Rings, but he could not help but feel disappointed again, as he had many times since the creation of those rings. It seemed that the Lord of Eregion was not completely able to face his past, and it had seemed that way for far too many years.

"And yet I expect them to become the bane of our people." The Lord of the Mirdain had not yet brought his head up from resting in his hands.

"But the most powerful of the Rings are in the hands of our people, and their power protects them from the threat of Sauron," said Maegisil.

Finally Celebrimbor raised his head up to look at his companions. Several tears ran down his otherwise composed face. "There is no power here in Eregion to protect us."

[piosenniel]

Pain . . . there had been pain . . . he remembered that . . . and then a deep blanketing darkness . . .

Muffled sounds broke in on his reviving awareness. The sounds of boots echoing against stone and the flow of voices. His brother’s voice. Skald – worried and demanding. The soft calm voices of others . . . like gentle breezes soughing through leaves, he thought.

There was the sound of crying and the cool touch of a hand on his brow. One fat tear fell splashing near the corner of his eye, skidding in small warm rivulets into the thick tangles of his beard. His eyelids unglued themselves and fluttered open. A familiar face swam into view, followed by another crowding over him.

‘Riv?’ The ragged voice of his wife called out his name, a hint of hope lifting it at the end.

He could see his brother turning now to call someone else over. Then the faces of Skald and Unna drew back as an unfamiliar face loomed over him. Dark haired, angular, free of any beard. Grey eyes that glistened, as granite does when it catches the light. An Elven face!

‘Welcome back, Master Dwarf!’ the Elf said. His hand and arm slid under Riv’s shoulders and brought the Dwarf to a sitting position. ‘Your wife has made some rich, good broth for you. Will you try a little, now that you are fully awake?’

Riv blinked his eyes, bringing the rest of the room into focus. It was the great gathering hall for the Stonecut family. About it were a number of beds holding Dwarves and Elves with varying degrees of injury. Among them came and went a number of Dwarven healers from the different families and with them strode a number of the Elves, conferring over those hurt.

The Elf who had raised his head for him must be a healer, Riv thought. Having checked Riv’s bandages, the Elf stepped back as Unna and Skald rushed in to support him. They piled pillows and cushions at his back; then, Unna, a smile of welcome and relief on her fair face, fetched up the bowl of broth she had made and began to spoon some toward his lips.

‘Here, now, wife!’ growled Riv, looking disconcertedly at her. ‘I’m no babe in diapers to need feeding!’ He reached toward the spoon with his right arm, bringing on a deep groan from the awakened pain.

Unna laughed, a bright, light sound that spilled through the space between them. Skald smacked him soundly on his left shoulder with a, ‘What do you think you’re doing, you great blockhead! That Elf just got you stitched back together! And now you want to start bleeding all over yourself again!’

With a snort of bare acquiescence, Riv settled back against the piled cushions and took a mouthful of broth. The pain in his left side and arm was beginning to dull again as he kept it still. Before he took another bite, he glanced about the lamp-lit room.

‘Where is Bror?’ he asked. ‘And Uncle Orin? And those others of our companions who went with us?’ He shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs from his memory. ‘Last I remember was Brand, knocking an arrow, the silvered arrow, to his bowstring. There were Orcs, then, rushing madly at us.’ Riv frowned, and shook his head again. ‘After that, there is only darkness . . . until now . . .’

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo moved through the city streets, coins jingling in his deep apron pockets. He was on his way to Celebdur's workshop, eager to see what Celebdur had done with the knife. Cainenyo passed through a long, shadowy alleyway, a shortcut he saw two boys take yesterday, and emerged on Celebdur's street. Crows huddled on rooftops and watched as Cainenyo knocked on Celebdur's red-painted door. The sounds of smithy-work echoed through an open window and Cainenyo heard the brisk footsteps of the silversmith. The door soon swung outwards and Celebdur stood in the sunshine. "Hello there, I've got your knife right here," he said at once and he reentered the shop before Cainenyo could say a word.

Cainenyo whistled a half-hearted tune and watched the people go by as he stood in the street. This awkward patience did not last long, for Celebdur was back at the door, presenting a long package of string and paper to Cainenyo in pure regal-fashion. "Here it is, adorned with silver blossoms by your very own son." Cainenyo took it into his hands, considered for a moment whether to open the package now or later, decided on the latter, and slipped the knife into one of the deep pockets of his apron.

"How much do I owe you?" Cainenyo asked, thrusting a gloved hand into another pocket and fishing around for a handful of silver coins. He knew that good silver was becoming expensive these days.

"Nothing at all!" Celebdur exclaimed, "It was made by your son, my apprentice. Think of it as a gift." He turned back into the shop. "Good-bye, Cainenyo," he said.

"Good-bye, and thank you," Cainenyo said back as the red door shut. Cainenyo had some extra cash and some free time. He had already finished the candelabra this morning, an Alassante could handle any customers. Cainenyo darted through another alleyway, next to Fëaglin's shop, and avoiding clothes-lines and crates of fresh vegetables headed to market, Cainenyo made his way to his favorite part of town.

Cainenyo paused for a moment near Celebrimbor's palace, where he heard the joyful voices of young soldiers on the ramparts. Cainenyo could make out the faces of servants and councilors in the tall windows, and watched their expressions, trying to watch what was happening in the home of the Ring-Maker. But Cainenyo did not tarry long. Soon he was again roaming the streets, heading towards the docks on the river.

[Arestevana]

A violent blur of noise, color, and emotion filled Gilduin’s memories of the past moments, hours, days. He could not think how long ago he had stood at the edge of the Mirromere in those terrifying moments when the first arrows flew. The forward party had made a hasty retreat to the main contingent before knocking arrows to string. Barely had he fired his first shot when the enemy was among them, cruel blades cutting mercilessly. Gilduin remembered little of the fighting he had done. His first arrow had fallen far short, and there had been no time to shoot a second before the orcs closed.

Far outnumbered, the contingent had retreated to the mountains, leaving behind them the bodies of their dead. Etched into his mind were images of the horrors to which those corpses were abandoned. Every step toward the safety of Hadhodrond was tortuously slow, beset as they were by orcs, and the jeers of their attackers echoed through the valley. The arrival of the dwarves was their salvation. The orcs had retreated when faced with the fury of the dwarven attack, though not without inflicting grievous injuries on many warriors, elven and dwarven alike.

Now they were gathered somewhere beneath the mountains, in a great hall of stone. The injured were being treated by healers of both races. Gilduin heard a deep voice nearby and saw a dwarf looking up at him.
“Are you injured, Master Elf?” the dwarf asked.
Gilduin, about to reply in the negative, realized that he did not know. He paused and glanced down at himself. The lower portion of the standard shaft was covered with black orc blood, and his clothing and armor were stained black and crimson. Some of the blood was his own, he realized abruptly, noticing for the first time a long cut on his left arm.
“It appears so, my good sir,” Gilduin said, slightly shaken.
The dwarf nodded and peered at the wound. “It does not look deep. Hold still, and I will dress it for you.”

Gilduin waited patiently while the healer cleaned and bandaged the cut. Then he thanked the dwarf and moved away, scanning the large room for any sign of Vaele. He wondered how his friend had fared in the battle. The archer had shot several arrows before the orcs closed, Gilduin recalled, but he could not remember seeing Vaele in the fray. Making his way through the diminished gathering of the Galadrim, Gilduin glimpsed a familiar flash of dark green.
“Vaele!” he called hopefully. “Vaele Andarion?”

[Folwren]

Bror’s head pounded. The figures in his sight were blurry and it hurt to try to focus. He shut his eyes and shuddered. The Dwarven voices around him grated on his ears and he wanted to tell them to go away and let him sleep, but he thought that it might even hurt to talk, so he remained silent.

After a few moments of lying in what he thought to be perfect misery, his senses became clearer and two voices became distinct. They were speaking near him, one was familiar and the other was quite different than what he had ever heard. At the moment, he couldn’t decide if he liked it or not.

‘Yes, I’m sure he’ll be fine,’ it said. ‘When he wakes up, he’ll have a ferocious head ache, but little other damage. The bleeding was minimal, and nothing was broken. I have to say he was very fortunate. Such a blow as your son described him to have taken could have easily taken his life.’ Bror opened his eyes again and turned his head.

‘There. He is awake,’ the stranger said. A tall form moved slightly towards him. ‘Go on. I’ll continue checking the others.’ Bror shut his eyes tightly to try to clear them of the fog and dimness of everything and then reopened them. A dwarf was approaching him and in a moment, he recognized his father. A weak smile came to his face and he held out his hand as though he were a child. Viss Stonecut made the last few steps to his side and took his hand.

‘Father,’ Bror said raspily.

‘Well, Bror, you met your first battle in a way to be proud of. You saved Riv’s life.’

‘Is he here?’ Bror asked, looking up at him. ‘He wasn’t killed?’

‘Yes, he’s here. He wasn’t killed. He’ll be alright.’

‘What happened?’

Viss told him what Skald had related to him when they had met. All of the battle leading up to the regrouping of the orcs, and how he had seen Bror knocked down and had run to him, frightened that he might have been killed. Bror managed another faint smile.

‘Dear Skald,’ he muttered. Then he sighed. ‘I should have been with Riv. We had most of the Dwarves on our side. Uncle Orin and all the others we had brought with us.’

‘Don’t think about it now. You both will be up on your feet in little time at all. Soon you’ll be quite ready to be back hammering. For now, just rest. I’ll see what I can get you to eat.’ Bror shut his eyes and nodded and Viss drew away quietly.

[Arry]

A week had passed and most of the Elves were on their feet, Skald noted. ‘Saw some of them take mighty hard blows. That one there took an arrow clear through his leg. Must have the constitution of a slab of granite.’

His father chuckled, nodding his head ‘yes’. ‘More like diamonds,’ Viss said. ‘Full of clear light and near impossible to crack.’ He glanced for a moment toward Riv who still looked pale. ‘We’re the granite, I think,’ he went on. ‘Hard to rend . . . hard . . . but it can happen.’

Skald touched his father lightly on the forearm. ‘But he’s alright. The healers say he will soon be well. And Bror, too! Look there where he’s up and about.’

Viss smiled at his middle son and clapped him on the back. ‘You’re right . . . you’re right . . .’ He watched, the smile fading on his face, as Skald crossed the room to scoop up Leifr and deposit him on Riv’s lap. ‘For now at least . . .’

----------

In a fortnight, all were well enough to don their mail and helmets; to pick up their axes and spears and bows. Thirty-five Dwarves were mustered to bolster the remaining eighty Elves. King Durin was taking no chances that the Orcs had not somehow crossed the mountains and would harry travelers on the western roads.

Riv and Bror and twenty of the other Dwarven warriors led the party out of the West Gate and east down the wide track that ran along the northern bank of the Sirannon. Skald and Orin were with the others of Dwarves who formed the rear guard.

Five days at a steady pace and they would reach the Elven city . . . Mahal willing . . .

[Durelin]

When her husband had left that morning, Sairien was troubled by countless possibilities of what could go wrong. Even she had heard the whispers of war, and she knew that these were far more than just rumours, not simply by her instinct, but also by the way Maegisil reacted when she questioned him. “Please, do not talk of war, too!” he had said several days ago, obviously exhausted by a day of counsel with his lord. She wondered how late her husband would return tonight.

There was too much on her mind to succeed in getting anything done around the house, and far too much for her to simply sit around and occupy herself with various things. She had to find something…but not here. Memories and worries and concerns hung around her home, clinging to every wall and strung across every door. Sairien had to get out of the house.

Soon she was in the streets of Ost-in-Edhil, and her head cleared a little with the freshness of the air and thoughts of her destination. Today was like most other days, when she decided to escape for a little while, and dream of being someone else, or at least, somewhere else. To help her depart from the concerns of her everyday life, she always went down to the river, by the docks, where there were still people, but she was still quite alone.

The river always reminded her of the sea. She knew there was a great difference between the two, even though it had been so long since she had seen the sea. She would never forget any detail of the ocean landscape as she had seen it. Practically every day she missed it, and there were days when she missed it for more reasons than simply its beauty. She had looked across the sea and known that many of her people had crossed over it into the West, and she had felt something calling to her, and more than the sound of the gulls… Sairien had held on to that feeling, keeping it deep in her heart and not allowing herself to forget that sensation, a feeling of joy and a feeling that she was soon to reach her home if only she took a few steps into the sea, and yet a feeling of sadness and fear that if she left she would leave behind too many things. That was before she had met Maegisil, and now she knew some of the things she would have left behind had she had gone over the sea.

But sometimes, like today, she could not help but feel that something more waited for her. And she knew that her husband could depart with her, if only he didn’t still cling to this Middle-earth, to Eregion, and to his lord. He clung to his wife as well, but she knew he could not pull him away from Ost-in-Edhil and Celebrimbor.

Arriving at the docks, Sairien walked cautiously along a small stretch of wooden planks that spanned a short distance across the water. This small outcrop of the docks usually was unoccupied, and she had stood upon it or sat upon it, looking down into the water, across the top of it, and down its winding path of snake-like flowing. But today, there was another. It was an elf who Sairien vaguely remembered seeing before. She recalled he did ironwork, but she could not be sure. She moved quietly across the boards to where he stood at the edge of the dock.

“May I join you, sir?” she asked in a soft voice.

“Why, of course,” the elf responded, smiling at her kindly.

“I am not used to finding anyone here… I love this place, but I suppose it was only a matter of time before someone else discovered its beauty,” she said, returning the smile.

“Well, I am both sorry and glad to be the first to do so,” he said with a small laugh. “My name is Cainenyo.”

“And I am Sairien.” Cainenyo…the name did not ring any bells, which irked her. “Perhaps you know my husband, Maegisil?”

[Encaitare]

The orcs straggled back into camp, snarling in resentment at their defeat or tending to their wounds, in many cases both. Glûtkask spied Lushurd trudging at the head of the bitter group, holding his right arm. The lieutenant looked up, and seeing Glûtkask, came towards him. He looked as though he was in great pain, but that was not important. They had failed to carry out Sauron's orders; he would be most displeased.

"Report, lieutenant! How many did you lose, and why in the name of Mordor did you retreat?"

"More than half," Lushurd replied wearily. "We would've crushed them if the Dwarves hadn't snuck out from behind. We were, we were felling 'em like trees..."

"And you could not stand and fight?"

Lushurd fixed on him a narrow-eyed frown. "That sounds like Elvish talk to me. What did you want us to do, fight to the last man? When it's our skins on the line out there, I'd rather live to fight another day, thank you." He turned to leave, but Glûtkask lay a heavy hand on his shoulder and wheeled him about. "What?"

"I'm not yet finished with you," the captain said through bared teeth. "What's the state of the survivors?"

"Some have minor wounds, and some got banged up pretty bad." Lushurd glanced down at his arm, which he was still clutching with the other. "And some got lucky and aren't hurt at all... though I'm inclined to think they're just yellow-bellied and decided to stay out of the fray," he said slyly.

Glûtkask did not miss the implication; his voice became lower and harsher. "Let's see that wound of yours, then, shall we?" He tore Lushurd's grasp from the injured arm; the orc howled in pain. This attracted the attention of the soldiers, who looked on with interest. This was good -- sometimes a good example was just what they needed. The wound was deep; a sword had slashed nearly to the bone. Black blood had been clotting around it but was flowing freely once again now that the stop was removed.

"Coward, am I?" Glûtkask hissed at the seething lieutenant. "And you think you're going to fight another day? With your sword-arm nearly hacked right off?" Lushurd's hand went back to covering the gash.

"Yes, Boldog, I--"

The all-too-familiar sound of steel punching through armor and burying itself in flesh cut short his words. Lushurd crumpled to the ground, Glûtkask's axe protruding from his torso.

"Wounded like that is as good as dead," Glûtkask informed Lushurd as he drew his last breath.

He placed a booted foot on the deceased's chest and pulled the axe free. "Kharn!" The now sole lieutenant came forward. "Lushurd has died from the wounds he so... nobly sustained. We'll be setting off tomorrow a bit before noon. The sun'll be high, but it'll make the cold more bearable." He glanced disdainfully at the corpse at his feet, knowing that the orcs would soon fall upon it like scavengers. "Get this bit of carrion out of here."

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo was unfamiliar with that name, and responded to Sairien's question, "I'm afraid I have not heard of him before. I am an angdan, so perhaps he has purchased some of my wares once before, but I do not remember him." He brushed some dirt from his apron and gazed across the sparkling river. It was now that Cainenyo got a good look at Sairien's face. It seemed to be filled with both grief and joy at once, and all sorts of other subtle feelings he couldn't exactly make out.

"Maegisil, is he one of the city's smiths?" Cainenyo asked, out of curiosity. There were few people in Ost-in-Edhil he had not heard of, and Maegisil was one of them.

"No, he is one of Celebrimbor's counselors. They are close," she said. Sairien sighed and her voice turned more secretive and worried, "Have you heard the rumors of war? I have asked my husband about them, but he won't answer me."

"Yes, I have heard rumors, but I am just as lost as you, "They say that orcs are mustering in the mountains, and that Annatar has betrayed us." Cainenyo felt the worry gnaw at his heart. Would his family survive if the city was attacked?

He and Sairien began to walk together along the dock. A breeze blew from the south, and Cainenyo brushed the hair from his face. It felt good to be able to one's worries and fears. Cainenyo's mind eventually turned to his wife. Alassante only dismisses the rumors of battle as nonsense, he thought, doesn't she listen to the signs? She knows I have forged many more swords these days than candelabras. Why won't she listen? Cainenyo considered voicing his thoughts to his new friend.

"My wife, Alassante, says the rumors aren't true. I hope they're false, but I know that war is coming. Everybody knows. "Cainenyo said. He stared at his feet and the planks of the dock. "What do you think will happen to the city?"

[Firefoot]

The surviving Orcs arrived back at the camp more or less together in a straggling, drawn out group. Grimkul and Ulwakh were near the back; Grimkul was mostly unharmed, but Ulwakh could barely walk. The bleeding had only let up not stopped, leaving a straggling trail of black blood on the cold ground where he walked. Ulwakh kept up only because he had to - an Orc that stayed behind was not merely left behind but very likely chopped to pieces by other Orcs for sport.

To all appearances, Grimkul was of little help. He provided no shoulder to lean on or any moral support – in fact, he seemed not even to notice Ulwakh at all, keeping up a running monologue about the pushdug Elves and Dwarves. What he did do was threaten with snarl and brandished scimitar anyone who seemed to be entertaining the idea of attacking his weak companion. Thus in his own way did Grimkul show his slightly twisted loyalty and in the same way Ulwakh was appreciative, though he said no word of it.

Though he tried to deny it, Ulwakh was excessively weak from pain and lack of blood by the time they reached their patch of ground. No longer able to support himself, Ulwakh collapsed to the ground, barely retaining consciousness. Wordlessly, Grimkul dug into his pack and pulled out a container of a brownish-colored paste-like substance. He removed a glob of it with his fingers and smeared it on Ulwakh’s wound.

The medicine, if it could be called that, had few if any healing properties. Its chief purpose lay in stopping the blood flow and keeping the wound closed, and it did not work as well in cold temperatures such as these. It also burned like a cold fire upon application, and tended to itch fiercely once it had dried all the way. It was healing of the most rudimentary sort, and its use was the furthest knowledge either Orc had in the topic.

In his passing moments of clear thought, Ulwakh was worried. He knew from his information gathering that the Captain intended to head over the mountains once this attack was over, and he worried that he would be unable to keep up. He would have had enough trouble on a regular basis, but with the strenuous crossing of the passes, he couldn’t even be sure that the wound would stay closed.

But there wasn’t anything that he could do.

[Durelin]

Sairien was beginning to feel that she was not the only one lost, and it did not comfort her as she expected it would, to not find herself alone; it frightened her even more. How could everyone be so naïve? She knew it was not their fault any more than it was hers, and she felt slighted that Celebrimbor and his mighty court only allowed whispers and rumours of war to drift to the ears of Ost-in-Edhil’s citizens.

“What do I think? I think we will not have time to think before our enemy is upon us,” she said, feeling all her fear crashing down and flowing through her words like the water in the river before her. She turned away from Cainenyo, shaking her head. “I am sorry...”

“Do not worry...” the elf cut her off, “any more than you already do, any more than we all do.”

Sairien thanked him. He understood: he had a wife, and most likely at least one child. A child... Sairien felt tears form in pools at the bottom of her eyes, and he vision blurred. She tried so hard to hold them back, but she was forced to blink, and a couple tears ran down her face. Cainenyo pretended not to take notice, knowing that it would only make it worse if he was too consoling. If only he knew why she really cried. It was not because of the anticipated war. It took her only a moment to compose herself.

“I think Ost-in-Edhil is a grand city,” Cainenyo began again, breaking the silence, “and I think she can withstand any attack from a rabble of orcs.”

Sairien heard his words as hollow. She was not sure if he meant them, if he truly believed that the city was safe, but either way, she could never believe them. She had seen her husband return home looking ragged, as if the war had already started and he were returning from the front lines. She had even heard him talk in his sleep of war, of death, of fear... Those late nights when she was kept up by thoughts and bad dreams left her helpless.

“I think we both know that there are more signs that point to more than just a rabble of orcs,” Sairien said after another long pause. “And I think we both know the name that hangs on the edge of all of our tongues, but slips off it as soon as it is about to be spoken...”

Cainenyo only looked at her. Sairien met his gaze for a moment, then turned back to watch the sunlight flit upon the water. Somewhere between them, one name floated unspoken amidst all their fear: Sauron.

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo felt a deep sadness come over him. He knew in his heart that the city was no more than a house of cards in a foul wind, ready to fall at the slightest breeze. He placed a gloved hand on Sairien's shoulder for a brief moment, and turned to leave the glittering river. Now he truly noticed the dismal outlook of the future and the way the city seemed so frail and fragile when set against the might of Sauron.

As he passed Celerimbor's palace Cainenyo felt in his heart a new anger. He felt anger towards Celebrimbor and the Mírdain for believing Annatar's deceits, and how they too readily let him ride into the heart of Ost-in-Edhil to forge his wicked plan. And Cainenyo also hated Sauron himself for ensuring the city's doom. How could the Mírdain have accepted him? How could they have so happily welcomed the Lieutenant of Morgoth? Cainenyo passed the palace with a fiery heart.

And how many villages must be razed to the ground for Celebrimbor to act? Death tolls were rising, and even more refugees poured into the city each day. The city was not a haven, but a trap. Within these walls the people would be slaughtered if arms would not be taken up, if soldiers were not mustered, if the people lived in silence and did not do something.

With these words in both heart and mind he passed through the city. Cainenyo bought a few flowers for his wife at a florist with the coins in his pocket that were intended to pay for the knife. He was soon passing through the shadowy alleyway next to Fëaglin's shop. Across the street he saw Celebdur's red door open and Arenwino stepped out. A cool wind was now whistling down the street and Arenwino was dressed in a dark grey cloak. He spotted his father emerge from the alley.

"Hello there, father," Arenwino said, "what have you been up to?" His voiced sounded too joyful for these dark times.

"I was just down by the docks," he told his son, recalling Sairien's distress. They walked together down the street. After some moments of silence Cainenyo finally said, "Are you worried for the city?"

Arenwino was surprised by his father's question. "The city may be attacked, but we are not without allies." A weak glimmer of hope grew in Cainenyo's heart.

[piosenniel]

Five days of steady traveling had brought the thirty-five Dwarves and eighty remaining Lorinand to the crest of low-lying hills just above the place where the city of the Jewelsmiths lay. It was a fair morning, the early light filling the land west of the shadows of the Misty Mountains with the promise of a day well begun. Below the small hillocks on which they stood was the Sirannon, and there just beyond it, the juncture of it with the River Glanduin.

In the clear light, the river and the stream seemed shining fillets of bright silver. And there upon these fair wrought bands was the city of the Mírdain, set like a fair jewel; its structures the well-made facets that caught the light and sent it forth again. Pennants and banners of silks in many colors flew in the morning’s breezes. It was an altogether breathtaking sight. And no matter the number of times that Riv had stood in this same spot looking down upon it, still his dark eyes glinted with the beauty of it.

Lovely . . . lovely! he murmured to himself. I would be hard put to make a setting and gem so fair as this. He shivered a little as the fingers of a colder breeze curled round his neck, raising the hairs along his forearms. The old Dwarf saying came to his mind as he drew up the collar of his cloak. ‘Rock lizard walking over my tomb!’ his grandmother would say.

Riv shook off the chill, calling for the Elven standard bearer to come forward. ‘Unfurl your banner, Master Elf. And Uncle Orin, give a call on your horn. Let them know below we’ll be there soon.’ He laughed, shading his eyes as he stood, hands on hips, looking down on Ost-in-edhil. ‘Though, in truth, those keen Elven eyes have already spied us out and who we are and how many. Still, we’ll keep to the courteous forms and announce ourselves as friends.’

Orin raised the curled, silver horn to his lips and gave three blasts . . . two long punctuated by one short.

Their spirits raised by the pleasant sight of the Elven city, the Dwarves and Elves of Lorien made their way quickly to the city gates and were welcomed in.

[Encaitare]

The camp was busy the next morning; the orcs gathered up their scant belongings and bundled into whatever extra bit of clothing they could use to protect themselves from the cold. When they moved out, the only evidence to their presence were a few spent campfires and the odd corpse -- several of those who had been badly wounded had not lasted the night.

Kharn took a position at the very back of the regiment, ready to goad anyone who started to fall behind. Glûtkask was at the very front; Kharn was glad to get away from him. The captain had been in a fouler mood than usual since yesterday's skirmish, and he had kept eyeing Kharn as if daring him to do the same as Lushurd. Kharn, however, preferred to mind his own business. As for the rest of the soldiers, they seemed to have forgotten the brawl entirely -- after all, these things were not uncommon.

Grimly silent, they started off through the mountain pass.

[Kath]

Ugburz limped along behind his troop, cursing under his breath at the Elf who had got him in the leg with an arrow. The wound wasn't deep but it was making it difficult to move as quietly as Glûtkask had demanded when they set off and the orcs around him shot him glares as he shuffled along. His only source of comfort was the memory of the way he had killed the Elf who had shot the blasted thing at him. He grinned cruelly as he remembered the gurgling sound the creature had made as he had stabbed his knife into its back.

He hadn't seen a great deal of the battle as he'd been at the back of the regiment when it marched in and had been fighting on the sidelines, unable to get any further in due to the flailing of various arms and limbs. It would have been more dangerous trying to get through his fellow Orcs than fighting Elves the way things were going. It was only later after the order to retreat and their arrival back at the camp that he realised this apparent panic had in fact been exactly that. Those at the front had been caught between Elves and Dwarves and while they were trying to retreat the orcs behind were trying to advance, causing the crush.

Back at the camp it soon became apparent that Glûtkask was not happy with the way things had gone. Ugburz had quickly made himself scarce, trying to patch up the hole in his leg while he had the chance. The night had passed quickly if coldly, the remaining orcs had been swiftly organised into lines and they had set off before the sun had even cleared the horizon. They had been walking now for hours and Ugburz was both hungry and in pain, but it didn't look as though they were going to be stopping until Glûtkask had marched himself out of the foul mood he was in. Muttering under his breath Ugburz hefted his pack further up on his shoulders and walked on.

[Firefoot]

The march was cold – no one could deny that. It could hardly be considered inordinately difficult, though; that is, unless that one was Ulwakh.

He limped along, doing the best he could to keep up, and for the first hour or so he did fairly well, once some of the initial stiffness (resulting mostly from the cold) had worn off.

Then, conditions seemed to take a turn for the worse. The company reached the start of the mountain pass, and the terrain grew to be rougher and rougher. Ulwakh’s limp became more pronounced, and the now-hardened goop which Grimkul had spread upon the leg to stop the bleeding cracked. In this lay the one benefit of the cold weather: the blood had thickened, so that the flow was not nearly as heavy as it might have been. After a little while, it stopped of its own accord. This did not help Ulwakh, though, who was still recuperating from his severe loss of blood the previous afternoon.

Once more, Grimkul did what little he could to help, fending off other Orcs with a nasty look or, in an unusual display of what was almost affection, catching Ulwakh by the arm to keep him from stumbling too badly.

In the grand scheme of things, however, these helped little. Very slowly at first but with increasing rapidity, the pair dropped back through the ranks until they were almost in the very back. Once or twice Ulwakh glanced back and saw Kharn eyeing him, as if considering a choice word or two.

Ulwakh’s old reluctance to attract the attention of anyone higher up resurfaced. For a little while he redoubled his efforts to keep up, knowing his very life might depend on it. In doing so, however, his wound reopened and this time it was not nearly so quick in mending itself.

About half way through the march, Ulwakh knew that he was nearly spent; save by some happening of extraordinary luck, he doubted he would be able to continue at this pace. He stumbled.

“You mountain maggots aren’t even fit to march!” jeered Kharn from behind. “We shoulda left you back at the camp this morning – you’re just holding everyone else back!” Ulwakh scrambled back to his feet with difficulty – he had to hang on, had to keep going…

But Grimkul’s irritation awakened – no one insulted Ulwakh but him, and as for ‘mountain maggot,’ well, he came from the mountains, too! At Ulwakh’s fierce persuading, Grimkul held his peace for the moment, but Kharn had noticed how easy it was to cow the smaller one and took more frequent opportunity to insert his jeers, and not just towards Ulwakh, either. Grimkul did not take the goading well and finally refused to be knocked into submission any more. An ugly look on his face and hand on sword hilt, Grimkul turned to face the larger, higher-ranked Orc.

“Grimkul, don’t,” pleaded Ulwakh vainly.

“You,” said Grimkul, putting a particularly ugly emphasis on the word, “leave him alone.”

Kharn appeared somewhat surprised by this resistance but largely unfrightened. “And what are you going to do about it? Attack me?” he scoffed, though he had moved his hand to his own weapon lest he be caught defenseless. Ulwakh cursed to himself, knowing the direction this was headed and not liking it at all.

Thus provoked, Grimkul drew his scimitar; the sound echoed faintly in the mountain pass. Snarling, he launched a furious blow towards Kharn, who had just enough time to get his own sword between the opposing blade and himself. Hearing the ring of metal upon metal, the entire company stopped. Ulwakh sank to the ground, taking the opportunity to rest for a moment for its full value, though he did keep a pair of twisted throwing knives at hand should they prove necessary.

Grimkul backed off for a moment in the stunned silence. Kharn, thinking that Grimkul had learned better, lowered his weapon slightly. There was a shout from the front of the line – the Captain, thought Ulwakh – which diverted Kharn’s attention for the barest second, which Grimkul took advantage of. No longer heeding his scimitar, Grimkul simply lunged upon Kharn, bringing him down with his momentum. They hit the ground with Kharn on bottom and within moments Grimkul had his broken dagger pressed to Kharn’s throat.

“Now, what were you saying?” Grimkul snarled.

[Arry]

In the city of the Jewelsmiths

‘Too exposed here. Don’t you think?’ Skald stood with the others in the great square while the leaders of the city welcomed their kin from Lorien. The Dwarves had fallen back, as the Mirdain crowded about the company sent by the Lady. Riv’s eyes, he noted, moved here and there taking in the sights of the city. So engrossed was his older brother in his own thoughts that he did not hear Skald’s whispered observation.

Skald stepped a few paces away to where his younger brother stood. Bror, too, was looking about. Skald could not tell if his thoughts about the Elven city were positive or negative. ‘Well, what do you think, little brother?’ Skald asked, jutting his chin toward the great, light structures that thrust up from the earth like tall crystals. ‘It’s too . . . well . . . open . . . for my taste. No place here to make a stand, if you ask me. Which no one did, of course. But seems to me if you’re going up against . . . that black-hearted bootlicker . . . you’d best have some good thick rock between you and his filthy Orcs and such.’ He shifted from foot to foot, anxious for the meet-and-greet to be over. They’d seen the Elves safely to the city; their task was done in his mind. The sooner they were safe within the halls of Khazad-dum, the better he would feel.

[piosenniel]

Encaitare's post


Kharn was pinned to the snow-dusted ground, still holding onto his sword but unable to use it. He glared up at Grimkul, being careful not to move too much lest the blade cut him.

"Get off me, you stinkin' rat. You'll make the captain angry, and then you'll have more to worry about than whether your useless friend over there can keep up." Grimkul did not move, and Kharn actually feared for his life. He was careful, however, to let his face betray nothing but arrogance. "Didn't you hear me? Or are you deaf as well as daft?"

There was silence as the two fiercely stared at one another, neither moving; the orcs nearby looked on, wondering if they were going to witness the second killing of their own in two days. Another shout was heard, louder than the first, from Glûtkask up ahead. Kharn had no doubt that the captain would not hesitate to kill Grimkul on the spot.

"Grimkul," the orc on the ground said, twisting his head in the direction of the noise. Grimkul turned to look at his friend, and Kharn seized the moment to deliver a punch to his assailant's throat. As Grimkul gasped for breath, Kharn was able to push him off and climb to his feet. Grimkul tried to get up, but Kharn kicked him and he stayed down, catching his breath.

"No need to fret about your friend," Kharn said cruelly. "I think I can help him move along. Now get up." He waited for Grimkul to pull himself up and move in front of him, casting anrgy, resentful glances his way. Kharn wasn't about to let some crazed, murderous soldier behind him -- that was an invitation to get your back cloven or your throat cut. Why was he so protective of the injured one, anyway?

He took a whip that hung at his belt and let it roll out. He cracked it, watching with relish as some of the orcs flinched at the sound and what it forbode. "Here's some motivation for you slugs," he grinned, looking evilly at Grimkul and Ulwakh. "And especially for you two. Now move!"

[Folwren]

‘It is very open,’ Bror answered absently, his eyes roving about the structures. ‘But they are beautiful.’ He felt an uneasy movement from Skald and he finally looked back down to earth at him. ‘What’s gotten into you?’ he asked, half amused. ‘Anyone would think that this Sauron fellow has got you scared stiff without even giving you a glance at him. You’ve been too serious since Riv told you about Him and all that. Why worry? Our walls are thick, even if these walls aren’t. His shadow will not trouble us beyond that which our mountain already casts on our halls.’

He stopped and looked back up at the white buildings around him. A second thought passed through his mind and a shadow of some sadness crossed his face and clouded his expression. The great caverns in which he lived may remain untouched, as he truly believed, but he suddenly realized that it would be a grim and woeful day when such a city as this were destroyed and laid in ruin on the ground.

His dark, foreboding thoughts were broken before long. Skald was tugging at his sleeve and Bror turned impatiently. ‘Come on,’ was all his brother said.

What in world’s bothering him? Bror wondered. He hasn’t hardly been acting himself at all these past weeks. I ought to do something about that... And with thoughts of how he might get Skald out of his quiet, uncomfortable mood (Bror thought it was uncomfortable) with different pranks that would have to call for some sort of revenge, Bror followed his brothers and the rest of the dwarves back down the wide, fair streets and out of the gates.

The road home was before them - well known to a few of the dwarves. Their futures also stretched in front of them, but no one had trod that path before, and likewise, no one could tell where it would lead.

[Arestevana]

“Unfurl your banner, master elf,” called out the rough but pleasant voice of one of their guides, a dwarf called Riv.
Gilduin gladly stepped forward and loosed the standard to display its colors. Beside him the one named Orin gave voice to a silver horn. Though not the clear, poignant song of elven horns, the call still sent a shiver down Gilduin’s spine, ringing through the hills like the voice of the earth itself. As the echoes faded, the elves of Lindórinan and their dwarven guides went down to the city of the Mírdain, glittering like a bright gem in the morning sun.

They were met at the gates and welcomed inside, where they gathered in a great central square. While Celeborn and Eldegon talked with Celebrimbor and others leaders of the great city, the Mirdain crowded around the contingent with welcoming smiles. Some of those from the golden wood had friends or kinsmen among the jewelsmiths, and there were joyful excalamations as they found those they knew among the crowd.

Gilduin, recognizing none of the smiling faces of the Mírdain, looked instead at the fair white buildings of the city. Themselves a work of great craftsmanship, they rose with graceful strength to proud spires adorned with bright pennants. It seemed that every part of the Ost-in-Edhil had been crafted with most loving attention. Both delicate and diamond-strong the city seemed, composed as it was of silver and white. Bright flowers and vibrant silks ornamented the streets and buildings like jewels.

As mithril to silver and gold is this city to Gondolin and Lorien the Fair. Gilduin thought, transfixed by the beauty that surrounded him. He turned to Vaele, who stood beside him.
“Surely, my friend, this city is the greatest work of the Mírdain!”

[piosenniel]

‘Mami! Mami!’ came the high piping voice as he spied the smiling face of his father peer round one of the entryway’s stone uprights that led into the Stonecuts’ kitchen area. Leifr ran fast as his little legs would carry him, his feet slap-slapping over the smooth, polished floor.

‘There’s my boy!’ cried Riv, crouching down, arms outstretched. He gave the boy a gentle bearish hug; then holding him at arms’ length he kissed him on the brow as his fingers went up to brush back several errant curls. Leifr clung to his leg, giggling, as Riv rose up, taking a ride along one his father’s great thick leg as he made his way with one stiff leg across the kitchen to his wife.

Unna was watching from her place by the granite sink. She had turned at Leifr’s cry, her eyes kindling with relief and laughter. Leaning her back against the lip of the sink, she dried her hands on her apron, watching with delight the approach of her husband.

‘What?!’ said Riv in a deep voice, his brow raised as he stopped and looked toward her. ‘Where’s my girl? The one who used to come running when her handsome hero returned from dangerous missions?’ He motioned for her to come over to him. ‘I’ve one leg left, my dear. Wouldn’t you like a little ride about the kitchen with the little lizard on my other leg?’

A bright ripple of laughter escaped, filling the space between husband and wife. ‘Oof!’ returned Unna, her laugh now quieted into a smile. ‘I’m sure I would crush your hero’s feet, boots or no, if I were to take up your offer.’ Her hand strayed down to rest on her great belly. ‘I’m afraid while you were gone my weight’s gone up a stone and a half at least!’ She drew near him and placed his hand on her rippling belly. ‘The baby’s dropped. And I’m eating constantly . . . seems he . . . or she,’ Unna said, looking up into Riv’s face, ‘needs food, food, and more food for this last spurt of growing.’

‘Grandma says she’s like a starved dragon, Papi,’ Leifr put in. ‘Eat anything not hidden under a rock.’ Both his parents burst out in laughter at this passed on comment.

‘Come, sit down,’ said Unna motioning to Riv’s chair at the table’s head. ‘I’m not that ravenous. There’s a bit of ham left and a loaf of bread from today with sweet butter. And you’re in luck, I just finished tomorrow’s soup and left it near the fire to gently cook.’ She soon had a hearty meal set before him, and a cup of ale. For Leifr she poured a small cup of cider and gave him a sugared cookie, studded with nuts. Seating herself to Riv’s right, she picked at pieces of his buttered bread, watching him fondly as he ate. ‘Is this the last of the Elves coming through,’ she asked as he chewed on a bit of ham and bread. Will you be close about now . . . at your own forge?’

He smiled, knowing the answer she desired . . .

[Arry]

The months since the trip to the Elven city with those from Lorien had been quiet ones. Stay at home ones. Safe ones, for the most part, save for the reports that came in with increasing frequency telling of more Orcs and other foul beasts that crept like a dark blight west from Mirkwood and Sauron’s black lands, and south from the old tunnels in the northern Misty Mountains . . . all heading toward Eriador. The Dwarves had gathered themselves safe inside their halls. Venturing out only if great need called them. There was plenty for them to do at their own forges . . . and truth be told, they liked their own company best of all . . .

His niece was born a month after their return from Ost-in-edhil. It was a joyous event, the birth of a fine, healthy baby . . . and doubly blessed in that it was a little girl. Ginna, she had been named, her father holding her high above his head in the great hall that all might see her and give welcome. Her dark brown curls had glints of red that lay deep within them; her big, dark eyes glittered like faceted obsidian beneath the bright lights of the glassy lamps set round to light the room. She was a welcome gift and for a long space of time the joy of her coming pushed back the shadow that niggled in the background thoughts of Stonecut family.

----------

‘Ach! You’ll pull out my beard little nieceling!’ Skald sat in the oaken rocker by the fire, his feet propped on the raised hearth. The baby, now four months old, lay on a little quilt spread out along his leather clad thighs, her dark eyes catching the light from the crystal lamp above. Little stars glinted in the inky darkness of her pupils, as she watched with rapt attention the movement of her uncle’s face above her own. Skald’s beard had come near enough her fat little fists for her to entwine her fingers in it. And she wriggled and cooed as she yanked on the hairy toy.

‘You know,’ he said softly to her as he gently disentangled his beard from her hands. ‘You know you were almost called Dagny, don’t you? Your mami wanted to name you after one of the long gone aunts of hers, her favorite. But your papi, Riv, he’s my big brother, you know, he took one look at you and said your name was Ginna. “Enchantress.” ’ The baby’s eyes followed the nodding and shaking of Skald’s head and the smiles that creased his face as if she understood his every word. ‘It’s a good name, that one,’ he went on, letting her wrap her sturdy fingers about the thick little finger of each of his hands. ‘You’ve certainly enchanted your old uncle, here.’

He raised a brow and putting on a serious face, snorted at a sudden thought just come to him. ‘And don’t think when you get a little older you need to be trying your magics on any of the young bucks that come hanging round, hats in hand. No dimpled smiles or peeking looks from beneath those long lashes of yours.’ Skald hmmmph’d and nodded at her. ‘They’ll be having to pass my inspection before they get in arm’s length of you, little Gem!’

As if in protest at the unfair boundary he’d declared, Ginna puckered up her little face and began to fuss. Her legs and arms stiffened out and she let out a wail of complaint. Unna, hearing her daughter’s howl, scooped her up from Skald’s lap. She cuddled the little one against her shoulder, rocking her gently until the protests subsided. ‘Never tell a woman what she can and cannot do, brother-mine,’ she said, her mouth curved up in a smile at him. ‘We don’t tend to take that sort of thing well, at any age.’

‘Well, then, I’ll try to remember that, m’lady ,’ Skald answered, an abashed grin bowing his lips at the corners. ‘Nonetheless, the young scamps will have to get by Riv and Bror and me before they go bothering her with their calf eyes and such!’ Unna laughed quietly and shook her head at him.

Skald rose from his chair and fetched a cup for Bror and himself. Taking the ladle from the hook hanging near the hob, he dipped into the small kettle of mulled wine and poured them each a generous portion. His younger brother had sat near him and the baby, playing some soft melodies on his harp. Between the two of them, they had learned a number of lullabies and little songs that Ginna seemed to like. Bror’s head was bent over as he listened closely to the quiet notes his fingers plucked. Skald’s back was to the inattentive musician as he fixed the potation and stirred the steaming cups with a small wooden spoon.

‘Put your harp away and have a drink with me while Unna puts the baby to sleep,’ Skald said, placing a cup in front of his brother. ‘Riv should be done soon. He’s finishing up some helmets for the Hardhammers; setting them with those blood red beryls he and his crew got from one of the lower mines. He’ll join us, I’m sure, when he comes up.’ Skald set an empty cup on the hearth near a chair he’d drawn up for his older brother. His own cup he picked up, and raising it to Bror, winked, saying, ‘To your good health little brother!’ He took a large swig and swallowed it, his glittering eyes on Bror.

His guard down, the youngest Stonecut brother, set his harp carefully on the floor beside him and picked up his mug. He joined Skald in a big drink. No sooner had the warm liquid hit his tongue than he spluttered, turning red in the face at the vinegary taste, and spit it back into his cup.

‘Gotcha!’ Skald laughed aloud, and was as quickly shushed by Unna from the corner where the cradle stood. ‘Oh, here!’ he said, clapping Bror on the back as he continued to sputter. Skald dumped the contents of the sour drink down the sink, and in full view of Bror, ladled him out another. He handed it to him with a wink and sat down in his chair, rocking back as he thrust his feet toward the coals. Bror glared at him as he sipped the undoctored drink, trying to drive the sour taste from his mouth. Skald laughed again, this time quietly and shook his shoulders.

‘Oh well,’ he sighed, grinning a little at his brother’s discomfort. ‘I suppose I shall have to be on the look out now, won’t I . . . for some payback trick of yours . . .’

[piosenniel]

Folwren's post



‘Oh well,’ Skald sighed, still having the impudence to smile at him. ‘I suppose I shall have to be on the look out now, won’t I...for some payback trick of yours.’

Bror’s look was almost black as he sized his older brother up. The taste clung to his mouth and it seemed nothing he did would cure it. ‘That’s low, Skald,’ Bror finally said, scowling. ‘It’s a dirty trick.’

‘Most of the things you do to me are considered dirty tricks, too.’

‘Yes, but I haven’t done one for months.’ One corner of his mouth pulled back in consideration and he stared at the dark wine in his mug before taking another drink (not that it helped much). ‘Well, it’s not been for a long time, anyhow. And, yes, to reply to your question, you will have to be on the look out. But I’ll tell you now, your eyes won’t be sharp enough, nor your ears keen enough, to avoid the trap I’ll lay. You’ll only know what hit you afterwards.’ Skald only laughed at him, and Bror, already having something forming in his head, smiled back. To his surprise, Skald threw his head back and laughed again, even louder.

‘Skald Stonecut,’ Unna said with some sharpness on the edge of her voice, ‘either halt that din of yours, or leave at once. Ginna will never get to sleep if you keep on so.’

Skald looked somewhat abashed and Bror’s smile turned into something rather impish before he had the wits to hide it behind the mug. Neither of them had the chance to say anything more before Riv walked in. He looked tired, and whatever Bror’s merriment was left instantly dried up. Skald and he glanced at each other.

‘Hello, Skald and Bror,’ Riv said as he passed them. Bror and Skald watched as Unna greeted her husband and they went to the cradle and talked in low voices as Riv watched his daughter sleep.

‘I wonder what’s gotten into him,’ Bror said. Skald just shook his head.

‘Nothing but a hard long day’s work,’ he answered.

‘He is kind of late, isn’t he?’ Bror commented, looking away from Riv. ‘What did you do all day?’ And so a conversation got started. Riv joined them with his mug after a few minutes. They talked of small matters. Nothing was said of the growing whispers of war. The shadow had not touched Bror, and as yet, he wasn’t aware of it affecting either of his brothers, though Riv may have thought some on it.

After a while, Bror finished his second mug of ale and pushed back his chair. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you fellows,’ he said. ‘Old Jollin wants me at the forge early tomorrow. Goodnight.’

His brothers bid him goodnight as he picked up his harp and went out. He sang quietly to himself as he followed the dim corridors to his room. Before going to bed, he sat for some time in deep thought and consideration. The taste of vinegar - or whatever it had been that Skald had so backhandedly put into his drink - had finally left his mouth, but the thought of it remained. He couldn’t leave him unpaid, and he didn’t intend to. Besides, it was far better to do something against Skald when he had some sort of reason to. Then he might at least have some sort of chance to escape payment.

‘Not very likely, though,’ he muttered finally, pulling off his boots. ‘If you end up successfully pulling this off, Skald won’t be accepting it as revenge for that tiny prank that you got tonight. There will be some serious reckoning to do...’

But Bror wasn’t one to decide against something that could afford such fun because it might get him into a little bit of trouble with his older brother. So, satisfied that he had a workable plan, he laid down, pulled the covers up over his head, and instantly fell asleep.

---------------

During the next few days, Bror did nothing out in the open in preparation for what he intended to do for Skald. While in his room, he worked with ropes and knots, pulleys, and other things that he thought may help him in his plan. Finally he was satisfied with the trap itself. The only thing he missed was bait. At first he thought it would be simple enough to rig the thing right in front of Skald’s door, but studying the situation, he found that there was no place to hang the ropes, and besides that, it was too visible.

A chance soon offered itself when Skald one evening told his brothers of a commission he had been hired for. He would be leaving early the next morning to take some of his workings across the mines to an old dwarf.

‘You’re leaving early?’ Bror asked, studying Skald carefully. The older brother only nodded. ‘Really early? Before any one else is up?’ Skald nodded again, raising an eyebrow expectantly. ‘Oh, I was only wondering. You’ll still be eating here, I guess. Well, good,’ he said, after Skald had given him yet another affirmative answer. ‘I’m happy for you. I hope it all goes well. Good luck.’ He got up and excused himself and hurried to his room.

He took out his stores of ropes and then settled down to wait. Before long, everything was quiet in the halls and corridors. He cautiously set out from his room and retraced his steps to the kitchen. No one was there and everything was dark. He stepped back out to the hall and fetched one of the night lamps and then bore everything with him to the pantry at the back of the room. Skald usually came here in the mornings before work and since he would be leaving early, there would be little or no chance that Unna or Riv would come there before Skald.

He worked silently setting the ropes. The hooks in the ceiling used for hanging pots and pans and sometimes meats served to hold the cords. His hands moved quickly, tying knots here and twisting them there, some to move, and some to remain fast. Finally, he was finished. He studied his handiwork and then bound the end of the rope to another hook in the wall before taking the night lamp back out and leaving the pantry and kitchen as silent and dark as it had been when he had come.

A long string he rigged from there to his room. On the end he attached a small bell. It would wake him as soon as his victim was caught and he would go untangle him. As soon as that was finished, he cast himself on his bed and slept.

The violent ringing of his bell alarm woke him. He started up out of bed, feeling as though he had only slept a moment, and went running out towards the kitchen. He arrived there in less than a minute. A lamp sat on the table, turned low and a cap belonging to Skald was on a chair. A large smile broke out on his face but the next instant it was wiped off as he realized that two voices came from the pantry, belonging to both of his brothers. Riv must have gotten up early as well, to see Skald off, Bror figured.

The light from the lamp did not reach back there, so he picked it up and took it with him. He stopped at the door. One of the two brothers hung by his foot upside down, with his head a few feet from the stone floor. The other stood on the ground, searching with his hands some rope to cut to try to get him down. Bror stood for a minute in the doorway with the lamp upraised. The brother on the ground turned to look at him. His eyes glittered in the light and Bror’s mouth dropped.

It was Skald looking at him. He had caught the wrong dwarf.

[piosenniel]

Arry’s post


Skald was in two minds about this trap that Bror had set. It was elaborate, ingenious, even. A worthy response, indeed, from the baby brother. It had only taken him fifty years or so to bring the art of practical joking to this new pinnacle.

And best of all, to Skald’s way of thinking, it had rebounded on Bror in a way much better than any revenge Skald might come up with. The silly git had neglected the first rule of practical joking – make sure the target you aim for will be the one you hit. He chuckled quietly as he fussed about with the web of cords that entangled his older brother. Riv, for his part, was red in the face, his eyes narrowed dangerously, as he twirled like some great last leaf of autumn on its spindly stem.

‘Who do you think taught me the art of playing tricks on someone?’ came the muffled question from Skald as he fished about for the right rope to cut. He’d turned his head back for a moment to see who’d crept into the room behind him. ‘You are dead, little brother, so-oo-oo dead!’

He reached up with his knife and began to saw on a likely looking cord . . .

-------------------------------------------------

Pio’s post


‘By the King’s long beard! Stop your yammering and get me down from here! Or you’ll both be dead!’

Riv took a swat at Skald’s shoulder to emphasize his point. The motion, however, did nothing but make him sway on the cord and swivel about precariously. This only made him more angry, and he bellowed out a few more blazing incentives for his quick release.

‘And you!’ he growled dangerously at Bror. ‘This is all your doing, isn’t it? Get over here and show the plodder here what he needs to do.’ He put his hands to his already pounding head and shook it. ‘How is it that I am saddled with such fools for brothers?’

‘Perhaps you should not say such things about your rescuer,’ Skald mumbled, his knife sawing at one of the taut lines.

Riv glared at what he could see of his younger brother. ‘Rescuer? I wouldn’t be in this fix if you and Bror were not always trying to one-up each other!’ He swung round to where Bror was standing. His youngest brother’s eyes were wide as he stared at Skald, his finger pointing in a trembling manner. Gibbering sounds were coming from him. ‘And now what is the matter?’ Riv asked, frowning. ‘Tell me . . . wha . . .’

The command was cut off as Skald’s knife severed the rope. It slid through his hands like quick-fire as he tried to catch it, burning them raw with its passage.

Riv hit the floor with a hard thump. He’d twisted enough to land on his shoulder, the poor joint jammed against the unforgiving stone floor with all the heft of his body behind it. He cursed as he tried to get up, a sharp pain coursing through his left chest. Skald stood waving his rope burnt palms in the air, hurling loud invectives of his own.

‘What is going on you three? You’ve wakened us all with your yelling?’ Unna had come running from her and Riv’s quarters when she’d heard the raised voices. Her hair was all undone, her eyes still puffy from sleep. In her haste, she’d thrown on her husband’s robe and now stood pulling it closer about her as she gazed at the scene in the kitchen. ‘At tricks again! When will you ever grow up?’

Leifr peeked around the length of her robe, wide-eyed at the cursing and the tangled heap his father was in. ‘Papi? Are you alright?’ he whispered.

‘I’ll be alright in a moment,’ Riv said, trying to gather his wits about him, not wanting to frighten his son. ‘Maybe you and Mami can fetch me a little something to drink. I’m thirsty.’ Leifr nodded his head slowly and tugged on Unna’s hand. ‘Your uncles, here, can just give me a hand up.’ He waved off his wife and son, then motioned for Bror and Skald. ‘Gently does it,’ he grunted softly as they helped him up to a chair at the table. Sharp pain lanced through his left shoulder whenever it was moved. By the time he was seated, his face was pale and slick with sweat. With his right fist he grasped Bror and drew him near, whispering so that Unna and Leifr did not hear.

‘Get the healer. Tell him I think my collarbone is broken.’ He winced as he drew a deep breath and nodded for Bror to be off.

[Envinyatar]

Folwren's post


Bror turned away from Riv and walked quickly and half blindly towards the door. He stumbled against Skald and looked up. The blood that had left his face when he first saw Riv instead of Skald hanging from the ceiling, came flooding back. He grabbed his shirt sleeve and before Skald could resist, had pulled him in silent furry into the hall outside the kitchen.

‘You great blundering idiot,’ he fumed, ‘anyone would know how that trap works if you only stopped to think for a moment. Where’re your brains? You should have known that cutting that confounded rope would have brought him down faster than a boulder. Now I’m off to get the healer ‘cause Riv thinks he’s broken his collar bone.’

‘It’s not my fault!’ Skald replied shortly.

‘If you weren’t such a -’ Bror seemed to stumble on the next word - ‘fool then it wouldn’t be your fault and none of this would have happened. At least he wouldn’t have fallen. Do you think I’d rig such a thing and be stupid enough to not have a way to let you back down when you stumbled into it? Why was he there, anyway? Why weren’t you? Oh, never mind,’ he growled, and before giving Skald a chance to reply he turn and ran off as quickly as he could go. He tore up the hall to his own room, dressed himself properly as quickly as he could, tugged on his boots, and headed back out to get the healer.

The dwarf doctor was very surprised at being woken by Bror pounding on his door so early in the morning. He came out and as soon as he heard Bror’s report, hurriedly got what he thought would be needed and went out with him.

‘How on earth did Riv Stonecut break his collarbone before dawn this morning?’ he asked as he and Bror hurried along the dim corridors and halls. ‘Did he fall out of bed?’

‘No,’ Bror said sourly, ‘he got tripped up by some ropes.’

‘Ropes, was it?’ the old dwarf repeated, glancing shrewdly at Bror.

‘Well, I set a trap for Skald,’ Bror admitted, wanting to talk too much to keep silent, and being completely unable to tell a lie just now, ‘but Riv stumbled into it and Skald, the bloke, cut a rope and sent him tumbling. I didn’t even have a chance to tell him he could just untie the thing and let him down as safely as...well, the upshot of the matter is, Riv fell and says he thinks he broke his collar bone and I was sent to get you and I don’t think he wants his wife and son to know because he told them he was just fine.’

‘Ah. I see.’ He asked no more questions for the rest of the way and Bror remained silent.

When they arrived at Riv’s kitchen, Skald had gone. Unna was there, dressed and prepared for the day, making breakfast. Leifre sat at the table with his hands on the table in front of him and his eyes wide and moist. Unna looked up from the stove where she was frying eggs and her eyes were sharp and piercing as she looked at the healer.

‘He’s in the other room. I think he’s waiting for you.’ The dwarf nodded and went off. Bror began to follow him, but Unna’s words stopped him. ‘You can’t go in there, Bror. Riv wouldn’t like to see you just now I don’t think. Besides,’ she added in a gentler voice as a look of pain crossed Bror’s face, ‘Leifre needs company. He’ll be alright, though,’ she said even more quietly.

Bror nodded and turned to go to Leifre. ‘Want to help me take down the rest of these ropes while we wait for breakfast?’ he asked. The boy looked up at him and then got down from the chair. Bror was surprised when he came and took his hand and practically led him to the pantry.

‘Yes. Will you tell me what happened? Papi wouldn’t tell me.’ They stopped in the doorway and Bror looked with fallen and crushed pride on the ropes that hung loosely from the ceiling and lay limp on the ground.

‘I was trying to catch Skald, but your Papi stumbled into it instead. Then when Skald cut the wrong rope...well, then you know what happened. Come on.’ He dropped the lad’s hand and bent to work. Leifre stood still with his head to one side.

‘It was supposed to be a joke?’

‘My dear Leifre,’ Bror replied with his back to him, ‘this was the best prank I’ve completed ever. It was pure bad luck that it was Riv who happened to land in it. And it was even sorrier luck that Skald got to him before I did.’ He stopped and bit his lip, coiling a length of rope as he thought. The bad luck hadn’t stopped. He had known as soon as he saw Riv hanging there, before Skald had told him he was as good as dead, and long before Riv had just about confirmed the statement by telling Skald that he probably was dead, too, that his prank had gone wrong in more than just one direction. He knew that Skald may have been angry with it, but he wouldn’t have been into very much trouble, but Riv had done nothing to deserve this. Bror would never have dared to intentionally hang Riv upside down like a ham. Now he’d done it, accidently, to be sure, but he’d done it nonetheless, and Riv had gotten hurt, which made it ten times worse, and he had no idea what his older brother would say (or do) once he was in some sort of state to do so.

All he could do now, though, was wait. Leifre was there by his side now, untangling ropes and helping him coil them and when they were finished, they took them back to Bror’s room. When they returned, breakfast was ready and Unna invited him to eat with the two of them. He accepted her invitation.


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Pio's post --- a truce is called for . . .


‘Hold still!’ Riv stopped his wriggling as the healer manipulated his shoulder area, sending lancets of pain coursing through his chest. ‘This isn’t the first time this collarbone’s been broken, is it?’ asked the healer, running his fingers along the thin bone’s length.

‘Well, no . . .’ Riv answered cautiously, the tips of his ears reddening as he recalled one of Skald’s pranks. There had been a set of seven smooth stone stairs leading down from Skald and Riv’s room in their younger years. Sometime, in the middle of the night, Skald had sneaked out of his bed and oiled the second and third one from the top. Riv, as was his routine, bounded out of bed and made for the stairs at the sound of breakfast being made in the kitchen. He’d lost his footing, of course, and managed to slip and tumble head over heels to the landing. The sound of his brother’s laughter still echoed in his ears.

He’d gotten back at him, though, the very next week. A half dozen old and fetid duck eggs tucked carefully inside Skald’s pillow. His younger brother had lain his head down intending to get a good night’s rest, only to have the stench of rotten eggs come fuming up from his pillow; along with the sticky goo that came through the ticking and clung to the side of his face and hair.

Riv’s thoughts were wrenched back to the present as the healer bade his assistant hold the thin, flat bar of unbending metal against Riv’s chest as he bound it on tightly, wrapping the wide strips of cloth over it and around Riv’s broad chest, then over each shoulder in a figure-of-eight pattern. It hurt like the blue blazes for a moment as the bone was pushed into placed. Riv bit back the string of curses hovering at the edge of his tongue. Leifr had already expanded his vocabulary this morning he was sure, and needn’t hear his father add a few more choice phrases. Once, though, the sling was in place, the pain subsided and Riv found himself able to use his left arm in a limited manner. With the aid of the healer’s assistant he was able to get his tunic back on. And by the time he’d reached the entryway to the kitchen, he’d managed to let his temper cool.

He stood in the shadows of the doorway looking at Bror and Leifr as they sat at the table and Unna as she moved about the kitchen making and serving them breakfast. Bror, he noted with some satisfaction, had a guilty, sort of shamefaced look about him. And Unna, he saw, seemed to be keeping up a steady stream of commentary as she poured the tea and milk or scooped the eggs and ham onto the plates. ‘Good!’ he thought. ‘She’s giving him a pointed lecture on the error of his ways!’ With a barely suppressed smirk on his face he made his way to his chair to sit down.

‘And just what are you smiling about?’ Unna asked him as he looked up at her. She pinned him with her dark eyes; hmmmphing as she served him up a plate. ‘You’re the oldest brother and the one who started all of this, I’m sure. Skald first and he, of course, carried it on with Bror. And didn’t I just hear my own son asking if it was a joke? And in a manner that made me think he’s quite interested in the whole process!’ She stabbed at Riv’s piece of ham with his fork and cut it into manageable pieces for him with forceful cuts of her kitchen knife.

And all the while asking the grievous question of how was it that she had given birth to only one son and yet had to deal with the actions of four childish males. Her voice rose sharply as her complaint continued and soon, the baby began to cry. ‘Now look what you all have gone and done!’ she declared. With a swish of her robe, she turned and left them staring at her retreating back.

‘Mami’s quite tired, son,’ Riv explained in a gentle voice to the wide-eyed boy. ‘Ginna fussed most of the night and wouldn’t be quieted by any but her mother.’ He smiled encouragingly at Leifr. ‘Let’s finish our breakfast; then you can help us clean up the kitchen. I’m thinking I’ll be needing a little help sorting through the new gems we got in yesterday. You can be my assistant.’ Leifr’s face brightened at the prospect of a day with his father and he began shoveling eggs into his mouth.

Riv sat back, picking at his own breakfast with his fork. Bror, still quiet, sat looking at his own plate of food. ‘Well, little brother,’ Riv said, looking closely at Bror. ‘What say we call a truce for now? My collar bone will take a good six weeks or so to mend. And my dear wife . . . well she will most likely be frazzled until the baby lets her sleep the whole night through. She’s more likely to snap than my collar bone if we do any more ‘tomfoolery’, as she terms it. If you’re agreeable, I’ll let Skald know where we stand.’

Leifr had finished his meal and gone to the slops pale on the other side of the kitchen to scrape off the few remaining crumbs of breakfast from his plate. Riv leaned toward Bror, his eyes twinkling with the thought of some future mischief, and said in an undertone, ‘After I’m healed, though, and Unna’s back to her sunny self . . . the white flag comes down and it’s every Dwarf for himself!

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Folwren's post

‘That sounds good,’ Bror said, looking up for the first time since Riv arrived. ‘At least I won’t have to worry about it for a while.’ He looked with a deal of chagrin at Riv. His older brother was composed, but something in his face told Bror that he was still in some pain. The white bandage and cast around his shoulder made him wince and he looked back down at his half eaten breakfast. ‘I ought to be going. Jollin will be expecting me soon.’ He pushed back his chair and got up slowly, as though he were tired from his rather exciting night. He paused with his hand on the back of his chair and looked again at Riv. ‘I’m sorry, Riv,’ he finally said. ‘It wouldn’t have happened like it had it gone my way.’ A small smile came to Riv’s face.

‘No, I dare say it didn’t happen like you wanted it. I would have much rather have seen Skald up there than myself. But, ah well, it can’t be helped. Until later, little brother.’

Bror turned and went out. His spirit lifted and he actually smiled again.

‘You actually got out of there unscathed,’ he murmured to himself, turning his feet in the direction of work. ‘But it won’t last like that for too long, don’t expect it to,’ he added quickly. ‘Until Riv is better and Unna is her old sunny self.’ He smiled even broader. ‘By that time, I may have been able to invent something not quite so dangerous, but as equally fun! Every Dwarf for himself, he said. That joins him in the game.’

But then a voice from the other side of his head replied. ‘That meant you, Bror,’ it said. ‘He’s not going to show the least amount of kindness when it comes to luring you into some sort of trap. You can expect something rather uncomfortable.’

However that may be, Bror could feel no worry about it at the time being. There were many weeks between now and when Riv said the white flags would come down and until then, Bror put it out of his mind.

[CaptainofDespair]

“The gears of war slowly turn…”

The shrouded visitor to the Dark Lord now stood before an assembled army. It was impressive, both in the sheer volume of troops, and in the vast multitude of its contingents. Easterling spearmen and swordsmen from Rhûn, Variag axemen from Khand, and numerous assortments of Orcs from Mordor, were the backbone of this army. It seemed unstoppable to those who prepared to march beyond the land of the Shadow, but the mysterious cloaked warlord thought otherwise, and he voiced this to his new underlings.

“Captain…”

“Yes, milord?”

“Is my army prepared? I grow weary of this choking atmosphere,” answered the seemingly mystical being wrapped in the heavy cloth. “Indeed, it is, milord. We are ready to depart as soon as you give the command.” A heavy sigh emanated from the hood. “Excellent. But first, there is a small matter to attend to,” responded the lord. Beckoning with a metal clad hand, the warlord summoned his captain closer. “Captain, it is your duty to keep this army organized. I will not have it running about plundering at will. That is not the purpose of this expedition.” The captain, an Easterling, was well regarded amongst his own soldiers for organization. But, he knew he might not be able to handle the orc rabble. This, if anything, would get him “relieved” of his duty, and he feared it. “I will do as you command, milord. But, the orcs are not easily commanded. They might prove difficult.” A hideous and wicked laugh rose out of the depths of the warlord’s hood. “You need not command them to keep them in line. Use fear. Make them fear you, and they will do as you order. Show them no mercy.” The captain bowed, and turned to depart, hoping to be given dismissal of his lord’s presence. But, as he turned away, the brooding voice of the warlord stopped him. “One last thing, commander...” A shiver of cold fear ran up through the spine of the Easterling. “Yes, milord?” Sensing the distraught fears of the captain, Angoroth smirked, and laughed inwardly. “Give the order to march.” The captain sighed, relieved of his burden of fear for the time being, and departed.

The army lurched forward, and began the arduous journey to Eregion. The muffled thudding of thousands of iron-shod feet shook the earth in its monotonous drone. It marched at a steady pace, so as not to tire the force en masse, which in turn produced a great roar of unending movement. At the borders of Mordor however, Angoroth departed the army, leaving the captain with a single message; “You will meet me at the borders of Eregion. I have…things…to do.”

-----------------

Having departed his legions, Angoroth rode hard into the north, leaving only dust in his wake. For many days he pressed on, his horse nearly dead from exhaustion. Riding through stone and wood, river and field, he at last came to his objective apparent. A small hill, covered in dying brown grass, with a lone, gnarled tree upon the crest.

There, he abandoned his mount, and went to the base of the seemingly dead tree, and began ripping at the bark and limbs, tearing much away. He then laid out the bark in a circle around him, tossing a strange powder upon it, and placed the branches in the center. Using another branch, which he had put to the flame, he ignited the circle of bark, and then finally set ablaze the centerpiece of his fiery portal.

As the flames rose higher, he began to chant indecipherable words in a tongue that only he knew, one of his own devising, praying to his master. Dropping the hood, he revealed his face to the fire. The crackling and flickering flames imposed an eerie glow on his unmarred visage. His eyes told a silent tale as they reflected the light of the blaze; his past, his failure. Ever silent, he drew forth a knife, blackened but unused. He fell to his knees, and plunged the blade into the flames. Watching the flames violently engulf the knife, he smiled a wicked smile, and withdrew it. Slowly, he pressed its glowing, dull edge to the contours of his face, and drew it along the bone, letting the blood run forth freely. Pulling the blade from his cheek, he plunged it again into the flames, and cleansed it of his tainted essence. With its edge heated further in the flame, he ran it along the lines he had slashed into his face, searing them with hot metal. Breaking his painful silence, he uttered a message into the glowing flame. “From the fire, life is born. In the fire, all is cleansed. In the fire, life is ended. And in the fire, lies redemption.”

With a circle of flame still burning about him, he cast his now blood-soaked cloak into the engulfing fires, watching it turn to ash with sickening delight. He finished his prayers and chants to his former lord, Morgoth, and rose up from his kneeling position. Stepping through the still burning ring of choking flames, he left behind his failure, and thrust forward to his atonement.

[Durelin]

Early Spring - 1697 S.A.


The arrival of allies brought new hope to the majority of the residents of Ost-in-Edhil, the small contingent from Lorien seeming much larger than in reality. This may have been the feeling of the citizens, but the Lord Celebrimbor and his counselors did not share in it. The imposing certainty of war was only a more ominous presence in their minds, seeing that it was not long their city that had heard the call to war. The entire Elven race in Middle-earth had heard it, and even the Dwarves had been brought out from their rich caverns. Celebrimbor had started sending out small companies to quell minor raids on outlying towns in Eregion, and already those who had suffered orc attacks were coming into the city, alive and dead. The reports from the troops were always the same: complete destruction. This was Sauron’s goal.

But it could not be reached yet. An army was being assembled; anyone who did not wish to remain as ignorant to the danger as possible would realize that, and would prepare for it. Celebrimbor realized it, though he avoided coming face to face with it. All knew that Ost-in-Edhil was not completely defenseless, and thus many had much hope for the city, and Celebrimbor did his best to encourage this feeling. Most were more than willing to fight to defend their homes, and the lord of the city called all of the Elven men to take up arms. The forges around the city now worked only with iron and steel, and many craftsmen took up the sword – something they had not done in hundreds of years.

For over a year, the Lord of Eregion oversaw the preparation of his city for war. All of the faces he saw he tried to fix in his mind, and would hold them there, hoping to only ever see them again alive and well. By the early spring of 1697, as an unusually mild winter was coming to a close, one that had falsely led the Elves to a renewed hope, Ost-in-Edhil was feeling ready for any attack from a rabble of orcs.

No one had seen anything that could be called an army yet. Scouts had very little to report, and the quiet made Celebrimbor even uneasier. A few suggested that maybe there would be no war, that the small raids that they had suffered the past year were all there was, and as those had seemingly been put to an end, it was time for the city to return to its normal and more productive state. Few saw swords and shields as a sign of production like they did fine crafted jewelry and similar more beautiful creations.

But no one could help but look to the east, and wonder what lay beyond the Mountains of Mist, especially when the sun rose red from behind them. Celebrimbor was all but tormented by such images, seeing his city covered in blood in his dreams. He would walk through the city late at night, jumping at almost every shadow, his hand always at his belt, groping for a sword hilt that had not hung there for many years, and expecting an orc to jump out at him from behind every building and outcrop. Maegisil often stood out on the small balcony on his home, and saw the dark, frightened figure of his lord on the street below, and every time, Celebrimbor noticed his gaze. Neither dared to call out, each not wanting the other to know that they could find no rest, as they both saw their fear as weakness.

But though his despair was deep, Celebrimbor was glad and very grateful to the Elves of Lorien who were willing to fight for a land that was not their own. He was gladdened to see that the Elves were still united against the Enemy, and felt that if such remained the case, there was no way they could be destroyed. An Elven lord would always rule somewhere in Middle-earth.

He had met with the Lord Celeborn and the commander of the Lorien contingent, Eldegon. The Dwarves who had escorted them and the Lord of Lorien had returned to his forest home, both wanting to be with their people if Sauron’s destruction began to spread beyond Eregion, but Celebrimbor was very glad to have Eldegon and his troops, all skilled, determined, and loyal.

He had met several of these troops personally, and he tried to recall as many names and faces as he could. The names Vaele and Gilduin both stuck out in his mind, particularly the latter, the standard bearer. There were so many of these soldiers that he knew the names of, had spoken with…he was so determined not to let them die, though he knew that there would be little he could do. But his own life was not on his mind, only his obligation to his people. Thus was he able to harden himself, and save his tears for when he was alone.

Then, the torturing calm before the storm came to and end, and all fears were suddenly more real, as scouts returned, barely able to speak, with a new report. The army had been seen on the borders of Eregion itself. They saw orcs, easterlings, and all manner of strange creatures by the thousands, the tens of thousands…they did not know. And though Elgedon, who Celebrimbor had appointed as the military commander of the defense, demanded a more detailed report from the scouts, the elf-lord had heard enough.

He dismissed them, glancing at Maegisil to see that fear was also in his eyes, though there was no surprise. The Lord of Eregion held onto his composure for a few more moments, instructing Maegisil to accompany Commander Elgedon and call a council, the first official council Celebrimbor could remember holding in almost a decade. Alone, he closed his eyes to see hundreds of familiar faces, empty and lifeless, and he shook with fear.

[Amanaduial the archer]

The bright sun through Artamir's closed eyelids gave a deep red-tint illumination to the darkness of his eyes, his head tilted slightly towards it like the petals of a delicate flower. Once more, the young soldier was reclining somewhat precariously on the city walls, head propped up by his rolled-up cloak, one knee casually raised and one loose hand hanging somewhat dangerously down on the outside of the wall - one hand venturing out of Ost-in-Edhil's boundaries, and most of his mind venturing away with it as he dozed in the sunlight on his precarious perch like a sleepy cat...

"You again? You young scruff, tell me: what do you actually spend your days doing, besides cluttering the place? Any chance of any work being done, or is it all play for-”

Artamir initially started, sitting bolt-upright like a sleeper waking from a nightmare, before he recognised the face that went with the mocking voice – Leneslath, his voice deepened so as to mock their commander, but on his shoulder, the early morning sun glinting off them smartly, his new officer’s stripes were anything but fake. Maybe war had not yet broken, but already the pot-shots taken by the orcs and wild men were paying, Eregion was counting her casualties, and their guilty subordinates were rising into the shoes of dead men. Such dark thoughts were far from Artamir’s mind though as he relaxed, sitting back against the parapet against which he had been resting earlier. “Ah, hush, Captain Windbag; I am not due on watch yet. Not ‘til second watch…” he sighed lazily and shrugged himself more comfortably against the cold stone as into a goose-feather mattress.

“Captain Windbag nothin’. And this is second watch, you great lazy lummox; unlike some, I am not in the habit of hanging around the sentry posts for fun.”

“Lummox yourself,” Artamir muttered petulantly, opening his eyes into narrow slits, the whites glittering brightly as he glared balefully at the older elf. Finally conceding, he swung his lithe legs wearily off the wall and stretched his arms and shoulders up and back as if unaware of the perilous drop not half a foot behind him. Lenesltath didn’t take the bait by flinching towards him as he usually did – the young officer was more naturally a foot soldier and wasn’t exactly overfond of the heights with which Artamir was so at ease with and so gleefully teased him – and instead leant the unfurled standard he had been carrying against the wall and took off the pack he had been carrying, kneeling down to fish efficiently inside it for something or other. From a foot above him, Artamir looked down, his head cocked to one side as he blinked, still clearing sleep from his eyes. “I thought I was on watch with that grouch Tereborn this morning? Forget not a morning person, that boy isn’t even a…a life person—”

“He’s ill, Artamir.” Something about the way Leneslath’s hands paused and the tone in which he said the words made Artamir stop, taken aback. His friend looked up, biting his lip, a gesture that made him look even younger. “The villagers who came in last night brought their dead with them, or as many as they could carry. Seems that…that the dead bodies were a little older.”

Artamir grimaced, nodding and wishing he had chosen a better wording for his previous supposedly-humorous sentence. Despite the occasional casualties among the citizens of Ost-in-Edhil, those who lived in the villagers that sprawled for miles around the great city were far worse off, and the exodus of villagers from the countryside into the Ost-in-Edhil more than made up for the losses – much more. Even the affluent, well-spaced city was becoming crowded, and where there is crowding, even a hint of sickness spreads fast…

Squinting up at Artamir against the sun, Leneslath changed the subject to a hopefully less depressing topic for such a bright morning. “But what about you; you have been sat here since…when? Do you just live here now?” he teased with a grin. Artamir returned the gesture, but his smile was a little sad as he raised a hand to try to smooth down his dark hair. “Maybe, maybe!” he replied with a somewhat rueful laugh. Leneslath frowned, giving him an odd smile, but didn’t speak, bidding him with his silence to continue. Artamir sighed and jumped down from the wall, turning to face the rising sun, now hanging some way in the sky, although the moon was still visible in the West. “My father is spending more time with his platoon, and my mother more time still either in her forge or with Lord Celebrimbor. And when they are both together…” Artamir paused, looking at his fingers as he curled them almost protectively into fists. He shook his head, looking up once more into the sun, then sun shining boldly onto his handsome face. His friend nodded, rising from his knees and standing just behind the other. “I understand,” he replied quietly. He shrugged, although the gesture was lost on Artamir. “Both your parents are needed, now that—”

“I know, I know. But when they spend so much time away, and then finally when they come together…” the younger elf interrupted abruptly, his fingers tightening. His face softened once more as he straightened out his long fingers slowly over the stone, the surface smoothed from years of the hands and boots of bored sentries. He half turned to face Leneslath. “I wish I knew what was happening. I wish I could help.”

The other elf nodded, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder; he knew that Artamir was not only speaking with regard to the strain that had been put on his own family by the plight of the city. When Eregion they were sworn to protect seemed to be entering such dark times, yet everyone seemed afraid to openly declare the inevitable… Leneslath gave Artamir an awkward, comforting pat. “I know how you feel, Artamir,” he said softly. “Everyone does now.”

~*~

Not one hundred metres away but invisible to her son, hidden as she was once more in her forge, Narisiel was also caught up in thoughts of her family. Leaning against the door, looking out under the eaves of the holly bush that remained flourishing around the entrance, her arms folded, she stared up at the walls, imagining the whereabouts of her small family, where they could be, what they were doing. Nowadays she didn’t always know. During the days she was away in her forge, meeting with others of her own profession as they, with the rest of the city, made practical preparations for the unspoken war; going to the palace to speak with Celebrimbor; or just sitting here, on her own, wishing, wishing so hard that there was only something more that she could do. But it was not only the strain on the city that had recently caused Narisiel’s unhappiness…

A sharp, shouted command from the archery practise ground not far from the smith’s workshop caused her to turn slightly, so appropriately fitting in with the object of her thoughts as it did.

Sirithlonnior.

Ever since the forging of the rings, when the betrayal had become evident and Narisiel had shyed away from Celebrimbor and his household, separating herself from the Lord of Ost-in-Edhil in hopes of unravelling herself from the whole sorry business, her husband had supported her in her decisions, and had himself become more remote from Celebrimbor; the two men had once been good friends, but the distance of one hundred years and Narisiel’s broken trust had stretched between them. And in that time, although her mind sometimes did come back to dwell on the rings, the pair had been happy, had flourished, had had they precious son…

But now, ever since Narisiel had begun to work more closely with Celebrimbor once more, another distance had grown, this time between herself and Sirith: as she and her Lord became closer, she and her husband seemed to drift further apart. And bridging the distance seemed so hard now… She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the memory of last night’s argument, a row in the aftermath of which she had left silently in the morning without waking Sirith, a row in which he had said things, thrown about accusations, which he would no doubt wish to take back later, but which seemed to hurt all the more even for that.

“Remember what he did to you before, Narisiel, remember how he dropped you into such a dangerous business – do you want to get into that again?”

“A dangerous—?! For gods’ sakes, Sirith, doesn’t that seem a little rich coming from a soldier?”

“That’s what I do, Narisiel! That is my job! At least I'm honest about it, I’m not the one working under alterior motives—”

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I am wondering whether it isn’t so much the draw of Celebrimbor’s counsel that is taking my wife from me, but maybe the great Lord himself…”

Narisiel squeezed her eyes tight shut, forcing back the tears that she had cried silently onto her pillow last night after she had left the room without another word, hounded by her husband’s all-too-belated apologies. Words spoken in spite may exaggerate feelings, dramatise and dress up what is not there, but sometimes, maybe more often than not, they reveal the true feelings, opinions that have brooded and festered under the surface and now explode like a filthy wound, leaving so much hurt to both parties in their wake. Did her husband truly believe what he had said? How could he think that…

“Good morning, Narisiel.”

The smith’s eyes flew open wide abruptly as her head snapped around to face Maegisil. She relaxed: the voice had surprised her from her thoughts, but her fellow counsellor had become more of a friend in recent years. Both of them kept their silences on many things, but nevertheless they were able to talk, and to laugh. Now, looking at other elf, a man who would not judge her and who knew her just well enough to confide in, Narisiel felt her worries bubbling up, needing a release… But they would have to wait for a while, it seemed; Maegisil’s expression was grave.

“A council has been called, Narisiel; Lord Celebrimbor wishes you, and the others, to come to the palace as soon as possible.”

“A council?” Narisiel straightened up, surprise written on her pale face. “An official council? What has provoked this?” Maegisil did not immediately answer, and the sense of foreboding in Narisiel’s chest began to grow. “Maegisil?” she pressed. “What is it?”

The other did not reply for a moment, looking up at the walls where the sentries, oblivious, made small talk as they watched the horizon for the threat that would all too soon come; where Narisiel’s so-precious son was growing up, a soldier, threatened by a danger that Narisiel herself had helped to create. When he looked back, after a moment’s silence, his solemn eyes confirmed her fear. “The enemy’s army,” he replied simply. “They have been sighted.”

The elven smith stared at him for a moment then, without further ado, she fumbled to undo the sturdy leather apron and, with the female elf still wearing her workman’s clothes, the pair made for the palace as quickly as possible.

[Mithalwen]

Like Artamir, Losrian was sitting high on the city walls tucked in a niche. Her life had changed rather in the past months and it seemed to her that this was one of the few places one could breathe freely and she was protected from any stray arrows by over a foot of pale stone. Despite the sun she was glad of her cloak as she ate her habitual midday meal of bread and cheese and watched the people milling around the city.

So many people now... her own household had doubled in size. Laswen's parents had arrived from the outlands. They would have come anyway for the birth of their grandson but with the danger increasing they were also refugees. Losrian had yielded her chamber in the house to them and now slept in a tiny room - part of the loft above her brother's workshop.

She was not sorry for all activity in the house now revolved around her tiny nephew. While he was adorable the constant baby worship got a bit much for Losrian... especially when he was newborn she hadn't understood how the others could just look at him for hours - it wasn't as if he did anything apart from gurgle and wave his tiny fists in the air. Oh,and pull her hair - for some reason the infant had seemed to find her silver tresses so much more appealing than the dark ones of his parents. Part of her wondered if such focus on the child was normal or if it was enhanced by the desire to think of anything but the approaching menace. The child had been named Galmir by his father but his mother name was the bleak, if realistic, Dagorion - scion of battle.

Now just on a year old Galmir was more entertaining but also more demanding as he toddled about engaging the adults in his childish prattle. Losrian was content to return to the house only for mealtimes. Laswen's parents had brought as much of their stores and stock as they could and they were fitted in wherever possible - part of the workshop was a makeshift byre and the rest of Losrian's loft was filled with grain and so forth. many of the outland dwellers had done likewise and the city seemed bursting with people and beasts, all feeling the tension of the storm that approached, a powderkeg that was waiting to explode.

Losrian filled her days with activity. She had fewer domestic tasks but there was plenty of work for the smiths. She could not even guess now how many scores of arrows she had crafted - for the past few months it had not been a question of developing her skills but putting such that she possessed to best use. And she kept up her archery, now using a longbow to match her stature - a coming of age gift from her brother. It had been a slightly incongruous gift - especially as that day Losrian had looked "like a lady not a tomboy" in the dress that Laswen had crafted - but it was one they all feared she would need.

[Firefoot]

Life since the passage of the Misty Mountains had not been going well for Grimkul and Ulwakh. In fact, this was the worst life had ever been since their enslavement to Mordor several years back. Ulwakh regretted it every day that he had not taken Grimkul up on his suggestions of fleeing; even Grimkul understood that there was no chance of that now. Kharn made sure of it.

Kharn made sure of a lot of things. He made sure that if an example needed to be made, the example was either Grimkul or Ulwakh (usually Grimkul). He made sure that they were always strapped with the worst of the camp duties when there were duties to be done. He made sure that the frustrated Grimkul never got his way with any Orc who, knowing that Kharn would indirectly protect him, took advantage of either of them. And if Grimkul did put a foot out of line… there was always the whip. He wouldn’t actually kill either of them – Grimkul in particular was useful on the front lines, and besides, Kharn enjoyed the bit of sport. And if the Captain asked… well, Kharn could always say that they had been causing trouble. Such was not unheard of from Grimkul. Not that he regretted his past actions; he mostly just wanted to add Kharn to his list of conquests.

Only occasionally were Grimkul and Ulwakh able to temporarily escape Kharn’s notice in the bustle and confusion of camp, and these times were a blessed relief.

Kharn had not forgiven Grimkul the embarrassment of being put into such a vulnerable position in front of the rest of the troops, and he wasn’t going to let Grimkul forget it. So almost daily, Grimkul’s infuriation and humiliation grew, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. The instant he had the chance, he would put a knife in Kharn’s back… except he never seemed to have the chance. Not a good one, anyway; Ulwakh had always dissuaded him for if he were to kill the second-in-command, Grimkul would be killed, too. So Grimkul was stuck biding his time until he got an opportunity in which he could pass off the killing as either as an accident or “someone else did it.”

And Ulwakh needed Grimkul as much as, if not more than, ever. His leg had never really healed, and he still walked with a slight limp. The wound might seem to be finally healed, only to open up again after a hard day’s march. More often than not, the open wound became infected. This repeated process had left his calf little more than a dark mass of tough, scabby skin. And once more, Kharn was no help: during the marches, Kharn became quite free with the whip when Grimkul and Ulwakh were stuck near the back, and by the frequency with which the whip hit his leg, Ulwakh figured he aimed for it.

Life was a misery, and the only respites had been village raids, when all Orkish cruelty was turned towards the Elvish settlements of Eregion. Each village was raided, pillaged, and plundered, and any inhabitants they found were cruelly killed. Then the villages were burned to the ground, nothing left but ashes. Grimkul took a moment to reminisce over the last such village, two days previous. They had been fortunate; the Elves living there had not already fled as in some other villages. He smiled maliciously recalling the terrified screams of the children and the horror and helplessness etched out in their Elvish faces. The villages had all been too small to give real fight, and Orkish casualties were minimal.

He knew that this last village was one of the last that they would destroy; even he was not so dull-witted as to not realize that the company was hastening south with increasing speed, and Ulwakh had gathered that they were going to meet a much larger army, one to quash the great Elvish city. Small raids weren’t the objective any more; the Dark Lord wanted greater conquests. So while Grimkul hoped there would be at least one more raid, Ulwakh doubted there would be.

Grimkul was startled out of his pleasant memories by Ulwakh’s hiss, “He’s coming!” This was one of those nights where the two of them had managed to steal away from Kharn’s attention, and whether he was just wandering this way or if he was looking for them, neither wanted to find out. They quickly picked up and moved in the other direction, into the heart of the camp. They settled in, inconspicuous among the other Orcs. Grimkul’s murderous gaze never left the second-in-command, though. Ulwakh might be content to play hide-and-seek, but as for Grimkul… One of these days, he promised himself. One of these days, Kharn would wish that he had left Ulwakh and him alone.

[CaptainofDespair]

A bedraggled horse slowly passed by the lines of soldiers, and they stood in silence, alert and fearful. It had been a hard ride for Angoroth, but it was necessary. Everything was necessary now. Another horse, though slightly smaller, trotted up beside the Dark Lord’s servant. The Easterling captain charged with bringing the army to Eregion, was ever fearful, more so than any of his men, for a great burden was rested upon his shoulders.

“Milord, the army is assembled, and prepared to march to the City.”

“I can see that, Captain,” was the monotonous, and yet angered response from the Commander of Mordor’s Armies. “You are also late, Captain. You were to have arrived here three days ago.”

“I know, milord. But, we were del…” His response was cut off by a simple gesture from the black armored Commander. “I do not want excuses. You were given a relatively simple task. You failed. And failure is rewarded in only one way, Captain.” Another gesture from the Maiar summoned up a squad of horsemen, who escorted the ex-commander from the presence of his lord. Turning to one of the other horsemen, who remained behind to receive further orders for the execution of the captain, Angoroth spoke. “You, lieutenant, are the new captain. Do not fail me.”

*~*

The army had marched only a few more miles into Eregion, and had now set up a large, bustling camp only a two day march from Ost-in-Edhil. Reinforcements arrived daily, they were reserves intended to depart with the army, but could not be mustered in time. Scouts were also being dispatched, to locate Elven resistance forces outside the city, and to locate forward expeditions; orcs and men sent months ahead of the main force to cause havoc and pave the way for the main battle group.

Word now reached Angoroth that a sizeable force of orcs was just arriving in the camp, one that had been out raiding and pillaging in recent weeks. His new captain now reported this to him, with great angst, for he knew the mind of his commander, and his thoughts on Orcs. “Milord, a large contingent of orcs has arrived in the camp. They are seeking accommodations, and they wish to join our battle force.” Angoroth rose up from his chair, from which he had spent many hours in quiet contemplation, and addressed his underling. “It’s as if we didn’t have enough of that rabble.” Sighing, he finished his thought, “Very well, send them to the western palisade with all the other orcs.” The captain nodded eagerly, bowed, and casually left the presence of his commander, careful to not show too much fear.

The hustle and bustle of the large camp was a welcome sight to most of the arriving orcs, who much desired rest and food. The orc leadership, save for a few who were needed to sort their troops, was escorted to meet with their new commander. The Easterling captain, whom Angoroth did not yet know the name of, presented them in proper fashion to his master. “Milord,” piped up the captain, “these are the orcs who have led much of the havoc of the past few weeks in Eregion.” He paused, allowing his lord to scan the motley group. “They are, in order of rank, Glûtkask and Kharn, both of whom led the forces against the Witch’s Elves, milord.” Angoroth, with his barbute helm obscuring his face, only nodded and uttered a short message. “Thank you, captain. You may return to your duties.” The captain bowed, and retreated at his dismissal.

With the departure of his captain, Angoroth was left alone with the new orcs. Masking his disgust for the creatures, he began a sort of dialogue with them. “I am Angoroth, the Hand of Sauron, tasked with the destruction of Eregion. Whatever your orders were prior to this, they are to be forgotten. Only mine are to be followed.” The orcs muttered and nodded grimly. “Excellent. Now, rest yourselves, for war comes soon.”

[Envinyatar]

Through the great forests to Tharbad and turning northward to Ost-in-edhil - Spring 1697 S.A.

‘The trees seem fewer here than I remember,’ Ondomirë said, shifting in his saddle to look about the forest. ‘Were they not thick as a lamb’s wool in the winter? At least, that is how I remember them. But then that was long ago, before the seas rose and swallowed fair Beleriand.’ He narrowed his eyes and looked through the well spaced trees. ‘What has happened here, I wonder?’

One of his bowmen, one with as many years as himself, rode up beside him. ‘Men!’ he spat out. ‘Men are what has happened here. How Lord Elrond’s brother can have chosen them is beyond me.’ Ondomirë looked at him curiously. ‘How so?’ he asked, wondering at the vehemence in the Elf’s voice.

‘There were once small enclaves of men who lived near these forests. The forest met their needs. Animals for food; wood for shelter and for warmth. And they in turn respected the gifts, taking only what was needed and with thanks.’ The Elf paused, shaking his head at his thoughts. ‘Now those men whom the Valar have favored with Elenna have traveled in their great ships back to these shores. Their navy is great; they are hungry for wood. And their little island cannot supply such grand trees as these and in such number to satisfy their needs.’ The Elf’s chin lifted slightly, his eyes shifting to some backlit shadow that moved in the distance. ‘Look there, sir,’ he murmured.

It was tall, very tall, Ondomirë thought. Moving with an easy grace, the shadow moved close to one of the trees. It’s head, seeming crowned with leaves and branches, bent near the tree’s own crown, and sinewy arms with long slender fingers touched something on the bark. For a moment the two were still, the tree and creature, then crown and head dew apart from each other. Turning sideways in a measured movement, the tall creature pulled back, disappearing in a few long strides beneath the further canopy of trees.

‘Was that what I think it was,’ he asked, his eyes lit with a deeper wonder. ‘I had heard of them but only in vague tales and those from some of our woodland kin.’ He looked quickly at the Elf beside him. ‘Not to offend by the use of that term . . . woodland. It is only that they have such an interesting and varied set of stories they tell about the places where they dwell. Much of which I have had no experience of.’

‘No offense taken, my captain,’ the other Elf said, his brows raised at the quick apology by Ondomirë. ‘We are fond of stories . . . we woodland kin,’ he went on, a grin crinkling his eyes. ‘And yes, that is what you think it is. One of the Onodrim, shepherding his trees, caring for them as he might.’ He looked upward to where the taller trees fingered the morning sky. ‘There is still a great peace and harmony here among them. Yet on the edges of their thoughts it seems a sort of fear has grown. Fear and some brewing hatred. Though not against us, I think. There is still some recognition of the Eldar. But suspicion hovers in the shadows and they are not as welcoming as they might be.’

The leafy branches of a nearby tree brushed his shoulder as they rode by. Ondomirë repressed a small gasp as some ancient awareness flitted at the corners of his mind. ‘Pardon my intrusion,’ he said, nodding at the branch he had ridden into. The other Elf laughed, watching as his captain nodded courteously toward the tree. ‘Why, sir, you would make a most capable woodland Elf . . . what with your courteous ways and your quick mind!’

For a space of time, the two companions rode together, Ondomirë picking the other’s mind as they went along. The forest took on a life of its own with the words of the other Elf. And Ondomirë wondered at it as he looked upon the trees and their lands with fresh eyes.

A number of weeks passed as the large company continued its eastward trek, nearing the River Gwathló. There was a crossing there, at one of the mannish towns, Tharbad. They would skirt the town and cross further south at a deeper ford, then head north toward the Mirdain city. Three weeks, Ondomirë thought, and probably a bit longer. Lord Elrond would want to spend a few days resting his troops and consulting with his captains. Scouts would have to be sent out; the approach to the city looked at. The enemy’s movements taken into account . . .

[Durelin]

On their way to the palace, Maegisil tried to inform Narisiel of the most recent events, speaking more hurriedly than he usually did, as well as more casually, being on much more familiar terms with the elf woman than in the past. Over the past year and a half or so, he had come to regard her as a friend. He had no idea if she shared this feeling of friendship, but they spent some time together. He had been worried that Sairien would take his associating himself with another woman the wrong way, but she had yet to say anything of that sort. Narisiel and Sairien had met before, and his wife seemed to get along with her quite well.

You’ve never asked, though, have you?

He quickly disregarded this thought, knowing it was for another time, but knowing also in the back of his mind that he had been putting off so many things, particularly surrounding his wife. But no one could have known from his voice that so many things troubled him.

“Lord Celebrimbor has been completely silent the past few days, and this news has only made him worse. I’ve asked him what he wanted done, but he didn’t say more than three words to me until today. And still, he talks very little. But that is why I hurried so to get to you. He’s finally called for council, and if we slow down at all…” Maegisil trailed off, having too many words to choose from.

“He might change his mind…” Narisiel said, finishing his thought.

“And he might not ask for any help again,” he added gravely, “which he needs.”

Narisiel nodded, and Maegisil went back to watching his feet moving quickly below him. He picked up the pace a little bit, his feeling of urgency increasing as he recalled events before he departed from the palace, picturing the fear he had observed in the faces of all those present. The Lord Celebrimbor had tried to hide his fear, and perhaps to those who did not know him so well, such as the scouts and Commander Elgedon, he appeared quite calm. But Maegisil had seen immense distress on his lord’s face, though the elf-lord’s whole demeanor had been tainted with sadness and stress for many years now. The counselor recalled a different Celebrimbor from long ago.

“I’ve almost forgotten how Celebrimbor used to smile and laugh with my wife and I at dinner, when I would never have dreamed of being called a ‘counselor,’” Maegisil said after they had walked in silence for a few moments. He spoke more slowly and cautiously, unsure of himself and of confiding in Narisiel; not because she was not a friend to him, but because he often got needlessly embarrassed about sharing anything at all personal. He had always been that way, even with his wife, which he knew frustrated her to no end. Sairien had always gotten him to open up in the end, though. At least, she had in the past.

Narisiel looked at Maegisil, and, catching his eye for a moment, said, “So have I. Almost.”

She smiled slightly, and her companion could not help but smile back. But the two fell into silence again, each with a head crowded with thoughts, walking as quickly as they could without making fools of themselves in the city streets. No one spoke until they reached the palace, and they merely exchanged surprised glances when Taurnil met them in the entrance hall and said he was to lead them to Celebrimbor’s chambers. Maegisil had expected that the lord would hold a council in the great Hall, inviting all of his various counselors and courtiers to inform them of the situation. But it seemed that councils, courtrooms, banquets, and performances were things completely of the past in Ost-in-Edhil. The Hall of the palace had not seen more than about five people for many years. The forges were the only things that had not gone silent.

The two found the Lord of Eregion sitting in a large, ornate wooden chair, looking gloomy, pensive, and worried, and yet still quite regal. Maegisil paused in front of the door, tucking away the image of his lord in his mind. He was not sure why he did so, but suddenly he felt that he could almost cry. But then the moment passed, and he stepped forward into the room, looking around him. Commander Elgedon had returned, and one of the scouts from earlier was standing behind and slightly to the right of where he sat on one of the couches, but other than that…

“Yes, Maegisil, this is the ‘council’ I have called,” Celebrimbor said in a weary voice; he had read the look on his friend’s face. The counselor felt a twinge of pain and sadness, hurt slightly by his lord’s tone. Narisiel did not seem happy with the elf-lord’s attitude, either. Maegisil noticed her glare at him, even if he didn’t.

“Well, if this is who you wish to aid you in a time of war, then so be it,” Maegisil said simply, meaning every word of it. Celebrimbor seemingly ignored him, turning to Narisiel. “So he dragged you into this, as well?”

“I thought that was your wish,” Maegisil cut in, sounding a little indignant, but the lord silenced him with a gesture and continued.

“I am sorry that what we did has come to this. To think that a few rings could have brought Eregion to an end…my glory to an end… It has brought me to an end.”

His words and the tone in which he spoke frightened his two friends, and Elgedon eyed the elf-lord with great concern. Celebrimbor had done what Maegisil had been afraid he would do for the past two years: he had given in. And for a moment, the counselor wondered if his lord had not given in to Sauron over a century ago.

[Arry]

Khazad-Dum . . . Spring 1697 S.A.

Patrols went out more often now, and no longer just into the area beyond the East Gate. Now the Orcs and other dark creatures were roaming in the land beyond the West Gate, too. Guards had been set to keep watch ere Sauron’s minions came too close to the gates. And Durin’s Tower now was kept fortified against any intrusions from that direction.

With the lengthening of the shadow from the east, Skald had returned to those early skills taught him by his father. The forging of iron tips for arrows, the barbed tips for oaken lances – these filled his days now. His skills for engraving on stone were put aside; the chisels wrapped in soft leather, the hammers all hung neatly from their hooks. There was armor, too, to be made. Thick helms lined with leather were to be proof against the cudgels and swords of the Orcs. Chainmail, greaves, and vambraces. Metal coverings for the small wooden shields that would hang on the stout arms of the Dwarven warriors.

Swords and long-knives were an altogether different set of skills. One which Skald had not sought to learn. At the Steeledge forge where he was bound this morning with a load of fine iron bars from the Stonecut smelter, he knew he would find Oren manning the bellows for his brothers as they plunged the cold iron into the red coals and brought it out again to be laid on the long anvil and beaten thin, and reheated, and folded and beaten again under the stern eye of their father, Nori. Sharp, serviceable blades would emerge at last, fastened to sturdy grips. Double edged and hefty enough to slice through the neck of a filthy Orc with one swipe.

He’d declined Oren’s offer to make him a sword, saying that it was still the axe that fit best in his hand. ‘A sword will only make me more likely to get cut down,’ he told his friend. ‘Even a sword a finely made as those by your family, still it would take some sort of magic for it to be of any use to me.’ He clenched his fist as if closing it about the thick wooden handle of his axe. ‘A mattock or my pole-axe and I’ll hew down Orcs as easily as a sharp knife cuts butter.’

Skald made his good-byes and headed back toward his family’s workplace. ‘Remember,’ he called back to the Steeledge men, ‘tomorrow evening, there’s to be a gathering in our Hall. My father is tapping the kegs of ale he’s been brewing this last month. Riv and Bror brought in two deer that we’ll be roasting; Unna’s baking bread . . . you can bring what’s needed to fill in the corners of your appetite.’ He grinned at Oren’s father. ‘Your wife’s dried apple pie would be a most welcome addition to my trencher!’ With a last wave, he turned down the hall and headed homeward at a quick pace.

[Nurumaiel]

The sound of music drifted to Heledharm's ears, and he followed it. He walked with his head bowed, and his expression was perturbed. When he found Erinlaer, strumming softly on her harp and skipping back and forth every so often. He watched her solemnly, and gradually she became aware of his presence. She looked up brightly, but her smile faded when she saw his expression.

"Is something the matter?"

"You do know," he said, speaking slowly and thoughtfully, his eyes lowered, "that we are preparing for war?"

"Why, yes," she said. "But I don't believe that war will come." He raised his eyes quickly to her face, and she laughed lightly. "I have heard talk of war from you, and from my mother and father," she said. "But I couldn't possibly believe that it's true. Everything seems the same... all light and happiness."

"It seems so to you, perhaps," said Heledharm, "but it is now war is considered a certainty. There will be war, Erinlaer." He hesitated, and looked away. He was afraid of her eyes when he told her what he had to tell. "An army is being assembled," he murmured, "and I have certainly decided to be part of it."

"It's quite right of you," she said with a smile. "It will certainly give my parents pride."

"You feel no fear?" he cried.

She tilted her head and gazed up at him in genuine bewilderment. "Why should I?" she asked. "Certainly nothing will happen to you." Then she lifted up her harp and began to play again.

He turned abruptly and made for the door. When he reached it he stopped, and half-turned his head, and almost made the decision to go back and speak with her again. But he decided against it, and left the room. Her music followed him... bright and merry, unburdened by any cares and fears.

He had been afraid that she would be frightened and distressed at hearing that he was to be in the army. He had not wanted that. But he was disturbed even more by her steadfast disbelief that evil might come, her insistence on cheerfulness. He wanted her to realise evil while he was there to comfort her, not when evil touched her by his death.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Narisiel noticed with surprise the way Celebrimbor silenced Maegisil, but it was not only that that caused her own indignation and almost disappointment in Celebrimbor. To see him so hunched in his chair now, to see him shoot down an old friend, to treat her like an afterthought merely 'dragged in' by some whim of Maegisil...what Lord acted in so petty and almost melodramatic a manner when on his borders lay...well, what?

Catching the Commander, Elgedon's, eye, she saw in his eyes the same sort of emotion - but along with it was such a look of defeat that the fear began to swell inside Narisiel's darkest worries. Turning to Celebrimbor, she raised her chin defiantly and spoke firmly, as if to an unruly child. "My Lord Celebrimbor, please, speak plainly to me: what has happened, exactly?"

"Maegisil did not tell you?" Celebrimbor looked up, surprised, but did not direct his at the male counsellor as well, and Narisiel once more wondered about the distance and formality that seemed to be growing between them. Was she doomed to such cold treatment as well, after the closeness that had grown up between them. But Celebrimbor gave her a soft, sad smile, the fondness in his eyes soothing her worry, before she caught herself in realising how petty it was. But he did not answer her question immediately, instead turning sharply away and staring intently out of the window. Bewildered, Narisiel turned instead to Elgedon. The Commander glanced at Celebrimbor as if for permission, but when the elf-lord made no move, he cleared his throat uneasily and stood stiffly. "We...we have sighted the dark army."

Something about the coining of such an ominour phrase made Narisiel question. "'Dark' army? Do you mean to say-"

"There are not only orcs," Elgedon finished shortly. He glanced at the scout in the side of the room, standing mutely with his eyes on his hands. Not only orcs... Although Elgedon seemed unsure of whether to continue or not, the sense of panic was speeding through Narisiel's mind as the sands of time seemed to be slipping from beneath her feet and the very foundations of her city. It was not the done thing, but as etiquette seemed to be of little matter now, she addressed the scout directly. "How many? What did you see?" she asked, not quite managing to keep her voice steadily.

The young scout looked up, startled, and glanced at Elgedon as if for permission to speak, a strange symmetry drawing itself between Elgedon's silent request to speak from the mute Celebrimbor. It seemed that no matter what their level, every individual was feeling the uncertainty of their world as it slipped towards the maw of war. When the scout spoke, his grey eyes were shining with the memory of what he had seen, widening as if he once more saw some fearsome sight even in the quiet, still rooms of the palace. "There...there were not only orcs, my Lady," he replied, his voice almost a croak. He glanced once more at Elgedon, then continued, blurting the words out. "Orcs...Uruk-hai, even some kind of goblin; and men, men by the thousands - Easterlings, Southrons, we could not get close enough to see clearly, but what we saw..."

"How many?"

The scout swallowed, licking dry lips as his eyes faltered away from the smith's, before he looked back and replied. And this time all the military training of the worlds best commanders could not hide the shake that was in his voice. "Tens of thousands, my Lady. At least twenty thousand - and that was merely what we could see straight away."

Narisiel closed her eyes and felt herself sway slightly, as if a gentle breeze shook her. This couldn't be happening, and yet had they not ll foreseen it, the entire city, building and building for over a century, had they not prepared for it? The armouries were stocked, military training ever fiercer, yet more elven men turning to the army, women preparing their families and their houses; and yet, after all of their hard work, the climax of the preparation of the busy bees was to have their hive totally smashed.

Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes and turned slowly to Celebrimbor, still seated gloomily, gazing intently out of the window as if willing the enemy away with his very eyes; but as she looked more closely, the smith was sure that she could see tears in his eyes. Shocked, she looked away, ridiculously embarassed, and looked back to Maegisil. The other elf's expression was rigid, but his eyes gave it away: unashamedly despairing. Yet within the fear, she noted, there was no shock. And neither was there in her eyes, she supposed, however terrible the news was. She had known. They all had known.

Following Celebrimbor's eyes, Narisiel breathed deeply, forcing her calm exterior to remain firm and still, oil over turbulent waters. But strong though she was, she could feel the panic and upset inside her that was purely female, a fear not so much for herself as for her way of life - and for her family, soldiers both...

"When will you tell the city?"

The question was a statement as much as a query, and Narisiel knew it: the time for waiting and whispering had passed. The busy little bees were to know as soon as possible, before that unruly child was to stomp on their hive - although little good it may do them now...

[Child of the 7th Age]

A single Wainrider bearing a curved blade stood stiffly poised outside Ulrung's tent, snapping a sharp salute in greeting as the Easterling captain approached. No mere footsoldier, Janeer was one of the elite charioteers, a scion of an aristocratic family. "Sire, if I may speak," the sentinel nervously intoned.

"Aye," growled Ulrung in response, hastily returning the military salute, "speak now. For there will be little time for words once battle begins."

"It is only this. Your officers have heard the news. We are well pleased that you have been made second to Lord Angoroth. The fortunes of the Wainriders ride high. We will no longer bend our backs to the Balchoth or other riffraff, but can soon take our rightful place as masters of the Sea of Rhûn."

Ulrung gave no hint of approval at these words and countered gruffly, "Silence! Keep your thoughts to yourself. What is given can easily be taken away. This Angoroth, whatever or whoever he is, is no fool. He will countenance no disobedience or idle talk. Go now. Retire for the night but tell the others to hold their tongues, or I will slice them out of their mouths."

Ulrung turned abruptly and, pushing aside the lowered flap, disappeared inside the inky shadows of the tent. He threw himself into a chair beside the small table, yanked off his boots, and lit a single candle, placing his head between his hands while emitting a weary sigh. If truth be told, the same sentiments had already occurred to Ulrung. He too was sick of bending a knee to that Easterling cur, the leader of the Balchoth tribe, who had served as second in command to the great Lord. He was not sorry to see him fall. The Easterling confederation was united in its desire to see the Elves and Men of the West fall to ruin. Other than that, however, the tribes agreed on little, and Ulrung was no exception in this regard.

Ulrung did not know if Angorath was aware of all the jostlings for power that transpired between the differing tribes that hailed from the Sea of Rhûn. Their Lord was no fool. Perhaps, he knew exactly what he had done by elevating one of the lowly Wainriders to a position of power. Then, again, it was clear Angorath had greater goals on his mind and may not have been wholly cognizant of the complicated relations between the differing tribes and their leaders. To him, they were only tools to be employed.

If only he could hold on to his newly won position as chief commander under the Dark Master, the Wainriders could emerge victorious, with power and wealth untold, lording it over the other eastern tribes as well as the men of the west. If he failed..... But, no. He would not think of that. Failure meant death and dishonor, both for himself and those Wainriders who served under him. There must be no failure. Let them destroy Eregion, grind her and her filthy Elves into the ground. And if the Dwarves stood with them, they must also be swept aside.

Lying on his cot, just on the verge of falling asleep, Ulrung stopped for a moment to wonder. Why Eregion? Why is the Dark Lord so intent on striking a blow against Ost-in-Edhil? Is there something there he desires, or some reason he bears the fortified city a special grudge? It was not the only place in Middle-earth where he might want to gain a hold. Somewhere, underneath the great Lord's grim visage, Ulrung sensed an untold story, some reason for the smouldering anger that seemed to brew in Angorath's eyes. But what that tale might be, Ulrung had not the slightest idea.

[Durelin]

Maegisil could see Narisiel’s growing frustration with the elf-lord, and he felt his own anger and grief grow inside of him. It was this day that he had dreaded for so long. The way in which Celebrimbor spoke filled him with the kind of dread he had felt when his lord had first revealed to him the secret of the Rings: that dreadful secret, that mockery of the Mirdain, their great city, and their crafts. But unlike the feelings of fear and anguish that had boiled in his stomach since that fateful day, he found something new that clouded his mind even more: disgust. The people of Ost-in-Edhil still do not know what their lord did in his spare time… He looked upon his lord, the elf he had sworn allegiance to and been ever ready to risk his life for, whom he had considered his greatest friend and the most admirable being in all of Middle-earth, and for a moment, he sneered. Celebrimbor caught his eye.

“What is it, my wise and noble counselor?” Now the mockery was clear in the lord’s voice, and Maegisil was silenced by shock. He dropped his head slightly, not wanting to meet Celebrimbor’s eyes. “Do you have nothing to say, Counselor Maegisil?” the elf-lord asked bitterly after he received only silence from the other elf. After another moment of silence, he turned away from Maegisil, shaking his head.

“I do have something to say, my lord,” Maegisil said suddenly, causing Celebrimbor to sharply turn back to him. The lord smirked at the use of his title. “You are being a fool and a coward.”

Celebrimbor stared at him. If the elf-lord had not always been good at holding on to his composure, he would have been gaping at his…former…friend. He wanted to scream in his anger. When he finally spoke, he stuttered slightly, choking on his words, which only made him angrier. “Am…Am I the fool?”

“And a coward.”

“You are a fool.”

Maegisil suddenly realized the childishness of this, and after taking a breath, spoke with more assurance than before. “You have had over a century to prepare your city for the future and what it held. After your mistake, you knew what it would come to. I knew. You are right; I am a fool. I did not do anything for the future of Eregion, but neither did you. But who am I? I am only Maegisil. You are the Lord of Eregion.”

“And what could I have done?” Celebrimbor was yelling now, all outward calm thrown out the window, seemingly along with everything else. “I sat here in this very room for over a century wondering what to do. I sat here for hours each day in utter torment, with the awareness of what I had done and the knowledge that I had to do something about it.”

The Lord of Eregion’s outburst sparked something in Maegisil that had long been kept quiet. He could not remember getting truly angry for a very long time. He had always held his temper, and looked at things calmly and rationally. His philosophy had always been that he should never approach something passionately. But now it all fell apart.

“You sat here for a hundred years wallowing in self pity!”

Everyone was shocked at the volume and intensity of his voice, particularly Narisiel and Celebrimbor, who knew him well. The lord did gape at his counselor this time, searching for words that would not come, all of his excuses and denials broken down by that one sentence. Truth hit him hard in the gut, and he found himself struggling.

“We must tell the people…we must get them out…” he almost muttered, his mind searching for a way out, panic and total despair replacing all of his anger.

“We must evacuate those who cannot fight to the west as quickly as possible,” Maegisil said, almost to his own surprise, as he felt like he was taking command for a brief moment.

“The people will not want to leave,” Narisiel said softly, looking at Maegisil but watching Celebrimbor out of the corner of her eye, obviously still just as disturbed by the previous events as the counselor was.

“No, but they will know that they must. We will not hide anything from them. We believe there are at least twenty thousand, and that is what we will tell them. And we must ask those who can to fight, facing them with the odds of victory.”

“Which are none…” the Lord Celebrimbor murmured despairingly.

[Folwren]

The Stonecut Hall was all ablaze with the light of many torches, and a huge, roaring fire in the massive fireplace at the far wall. There were many dwarves in the Hall already, talking and laughing and laughing together. The Stonecut family were spread for and wide about the hall, greeting guests, staying and talking with the better known, and, as in Bror’s case, amusing the little ones who got in the way of the mother’s in the kitchen.

Fori and Tori Ironfoot stood beside him as he explained to a group of seven or eight young dwarves the rules of the race. There was to be no tripping or purposefully getting in the way of another runner unless it was absolutely necessary in order to avoid running into some adult dwarf, they must run to that table over there, touch it, and return. First one back and to touch him was the winner.

They lined up where Bror directed and prepared themselves for a swift take off. Bror stepped back a few paces, paused, and then said slowly and carefully - ‘on your mark....Go!’ and the boys were off.

‘How long do you have to keep them amused?’ Fori asked ask the three of them watched them run.

‘Until dinner is served - which won’t be too long,’ he added with a glance towards the kitchen. They said nothing more. The racers were almost back. Next moment, Bror was practically knocked over by the force of the first boy’s impact and then by two or three more running into him for the mere fun of it. ‘Good work, lads!’ he said, laughing. ‘Who won?’ The proud runner stood out before him and Bror rummaged about in his pockets until he brought out a smooth, rounded and beautiful red stone (otherwise, it was useless) and gave it to him. To the rest he handed out green ones and then sent them off, for dinner had just been called.

Before he could follow them, Tori plucked his sleeve and he turned back around.

‘Let’s race,’ Tori said, indicating his brother as well.

‘Us three?’ Bror asked, looking at the two Ironfoot sons. He was almost small in comparison to them, certainly no match in height. But he used to be fast, when they were all the same size and younger, so after a pause, he agreed upon it. ‘Let’s go to the far end of the hall, though,’ he said. ‘Instead of to where I sent the boys.’

They agreed and the three of them lined up and prepared themselves. On the count of three, they took off. Bror put every ounce of speed and strength into his running. It lasted less than a minute - Tori pulled in the lead, and Fori and Bror pelted along behind him by two paces, neck and neck, and suddenly, Tori stopped. He tripped over his own feet to miss ramming into a dwarf stepping into his path, but it didn’t work, and he ran into him anyway and they both ended up on the floor. Bror and Fori stumbled to a stop a few paces on and then came back in breathless laughter to the heap of dwarves that turned out to be Tori and Skald.

‘Get off me, you great ox,’ Skald said, trying to get up. Tori scrambled off him as quickly as he could and then offered his hand. There was a pause for a moment, but Bror and Fori were laughing so hard already that the fallen and bruised Skald and Tori could not help but join in.

‘Clumsy fool,’ Bror said, clapping Skald on the back, ‘it’s time to eat, don’t you know? What do you mean by getting in the way of honest, hungry people going to the dinner table?’

‘Honest! Not very likely,’ Skald said with a merry twinkle in his eye. ‘I won’t take that from you, little brother.’ They laughed again and without another word, turned and started towards the long, board tables set up.

The meal was long and merry, filled with meat, newly brewed bear, bread and cheeses, and summed up with huge berry pies and cream. Bror was still eating when behind him came the sound of a harp. He turned his head and looked about. The player sat several yards away and his head was bent as though in thought beside the beautiful instrument. His hands moved slowly at first over the strings and the sound he produced sounded half melancholy, but suddenly, he lifted his head, and his eyes were merry. The tune quickened and he played as Bror hoped someday to play, a swift enticing tune. A moment later, a fiddle joined him and from some corner or shadow of the room came another dwarf. He looked at the harpist with a smile and shining eyes and they played together. The dwarves on the benches move in their seats by the lively music, and before long, some of them couldn’t help themselves, but bound suddenly to their feet and went out towards the middle of the open floor.

So the dancing started. The dwarves got up one after another. The more that came, the more room was made, and the intricate figures and circles were formed, weaving in and out. Bror sat with shining eyes, watching. He had never danced much, for as a child he had rather sit and listen to the music and watch the dancing than do it himself. Someday he intended to be one of the ones playing for the dancers. He thought of that now and his eyes flicked to the musicians. Two more dwarves had joined the original players and another was approaching with his instrument. Bror smiled and leaned back against the table and took another buttered roll in his hand.

[Amanaduial the archer]

A defeatist attitude? Do you really think that will help? Silently, Narisiel agreed with Maegisil: Celebrimbor had indeed been 'wallowing in self-pity' since the betrayal more than a century ago. One hundred years seemed to pass quickly in the lives of the elves, who counted their lives not by mere years but by millenia, but the lives of others in Middle Earth waxed and waned in less than even that short time: a man may live and die and take his joys and defeats with him to the grave in a century. Short as the lives of butterflies were the lives of men compared to the elves; yet had they not overcome odds of their own? Had not Minas Tirith, the fortified city of Gondor, held the plots and plans of the Lord of Men within it's walls, the silent stone and the songs of men all that recorded the victories and defeats of those within? But this fortress, this city, these stone walls as white as the bloodstained battlements of the White City. All that will be left of us to will be the songs...the laments...

"If all had as little faith as you, then no, probably not," Narisiel replied quietly. Her words, although softly spoken, made the other three turn to look at her in surprise. The shock, then the hurt registered on Celebrimbor's face and she saw him almost flinch away from the elven woman's words. But Narisiel's own anger and frustration was now welling up like a lump in the throat, and she even as she felt the distance growing between herself and Celebrimbor, her closest friend and her Lord, the hurt of his shying away barely registered. With the lump in her throat she could feel tears welling up.

"An army is made up of sons, brothers, fathers, friends, my Lord Celebrimbor; do you not think these people will fight with all the strength they have against any enemy, for their families if for nothing else? After all, what else is there to fight for, really?" Her final words were bitter, and although she did not voice what was on her mind, all in the room could have finished it for her. Who was going to fight for a Lord who had cloaked his actions in lies for two centuries? Celebrimbor had the grace not to try to reply, and she continued. "My husband and son are both in that army, Celebrimbor," she continued, her voice controlled with some difficulty. "Do you have no faith in those who protect you? The odds...true, they are overwhelming, true we probably will not come out of this alive, but to have such a statement from the one who is supposed to command us, to be the ultimate strength and force? Or did you give that responsibility up when you decided to hide the truth of the rings?"

"You hid it as well, Narisiel."

"It was not my secret to tell, Celebrimbor," she snapped in reply, a snake-fast return. "I could not tell the truth of something when I myself only did not even posess full knowledge. I am not blameless in this, of course not, but what use is a half truth? Such knowledge becomes the foundation of rumours, causing only fear and panic, and what use is that? The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth...only two beings knew that, so maybe that is something you would like to discuss with 'Lord Annatar'."

Celebrimbor sat but a few metres from her, but that distance could have been a chasm a mile across, and still widening as the earthquake still trembled, growing in confidence, shaking them apart. And as she looked across that void at him, Narisiel could not stop the tears from finally welling up in her eyes as she regarded him unblinkingly. In a few short seconds, the friendship of half a century passed between them, painfully scrutinised in such detail, the icy frosting of jadedness creeping into the corners, until finally Narisiel looked away. She was angry - furious - and painfully disappointed in the other elf, but there were some things that she could not let be scarred by this - not yet, at any rate, not in the heat of the moment. The room remained in silence for a moment that could have been an hour until Commander Elgedon finally spoke, rising from his seat.

"Am I to brief the army, my Lord?"

Celebrimbor remained silent and motionless, his eyes still on Narisiel.

"My Lord?"

Finally, the elven lord blinked and stirred, and as he did so his movements seemed creaky, those of an old man. "I...yes. Yes, thank you Commander. Tell them of the odds, tell them what preparations must be made, but..."

"...but you will tell the city yourself." Narisiel finished the sentence, not insolently, but with the determination and certain knowledge that that was what Celebrimbor needed to do - and whatever he had been about to say, he knew it as well. In two minutes he had had the hard fierceness of the truth burn him from the tongues of the two counselors he held closest, but even if their respect wavered, the respect of an entire city rested on stating the truth to them from his own lips.

Celebrimbor nodded slowly. "Yes," he replied softly.

Narisiel nodded curtly, and Elgedon dismissed himself from the room. "We shall spread the word of the announcement. Will one hour be sufficient, my Lord?" It was Maegisil who spoke this time, his word hard and clipped. Barely waiting for an answer, the elven counselor, who Narisiel had never known to be anything but the height of formality, calm and control, gave the shortest of bows, turned and strode out of the room, still bristling. Narisiel watched him go, then slowly turned her head back to face Celebrimbor. She did not speak, merely gave him a slow, stiff bow, as if she herself had gained a thousand years of weight, then wordlessly turned for the door. Finally, as she reached the door of the otherwise empty room, he seemed to spur himself into action, darting forward suddenly and seizing her wrist. "Narisiel, please...you shared that secret in the forge, you witnessed the power of what passed..."

The elvensmith stared into the face of her Lord for a moment, her arm tensed against his fingers, and eventually he loosened it, but still did not quite let go, as if trying to keep his grip onto her trust and friendship with a physical hold. For a second, she seemed unable to speak, or maybe just battling the fronts of what to actually say: her eyes were still shining, and despite all her anger, the pain inside her was caused also by the trust that she had placed in the other, a deep trust and respect and, what is more, a love, that refused to quite leave. But finally she made do with just one enigmatic statement. "The rest of the city is doing their duty now, Celebrimbor."

With that, with all the confused implications that could come from it, with the rumbling of the earthquake that had caused irreperable damage still growing in power, Narisiel left him.

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo was at his forge again, striking a long piece of iron into a sword blade. His hammer strokes rang out into the street, and the heat of his forge was felt by bystanders as they passed the shop. Cainenyo was creating a sword for an officer in the army, the last thin layer of defense between Sauron and the city.

Much had happened in the last two years. Celebdur was killed by orcs on his way to the mountains; Cainenyo had attended his funeral; and Arenwino was now without work. These days he roamed the streets with his friends, who were mostly soldiers. Cainenyo just hoped that Arenwino would not follow suit and risk life and limb.

But there were also joys. A new daughter was born in Cainenyo's house, named Nessime. She spent most of her time in her protective mother's arms. Cainenyo sometimes wished that Nessime was born in less troublesome times, however.

Cainenyo's pockets were fuller, also. The price of good iron had increased significantly, and with the extra demand for arms and armor, Cainenyo was soon very wealthy. But money did not ease his worries, the thoughts in the back of his mind still told him that Ost-in-Edhil was doomed. He only reassured himself by knowing that his swords would be slaughtering orcs once in the hands of able soldiers.

Alassante, too, no longer disregarded war as gossip after Celebdur was killed. She was frightened, but she did not express her worries openly. She put on a straight face as she walked about the city, and gazed towards the ground when soldiers passed her way. Cainenyo guessed that she felt a bit shameful of her lack of foresight, and although he was never a great judge of people's emotions, he was near enough to the truth. Alassante spent most of her time with the new baby, which eased her mind a little.

Arenwino seemed especially hard hit by Celebdur's death. For days afterwards he would still head to the forge as usual, only to find that it was now owned by a goldsmith from across town, who had more or less weaseled his way into Celebdur's will. Arenwino now roamed the city with his friends, looking for work and adventure. Since some of his friends joined the ranks of the soldiers and guards of Ost-in-Edhil, the prospect of becoming a warrior was looking more and more favorable, and the opportunity to become an independent silversmith had not yet arrived. He would march down the street with his chums, dressed in the finest armor money can buy, and swinging long shining blades in the air, if only his love for silver and the memory of Celebdur were cast from his mind.

And so Cainenyo continued his work. The rhythmic hammer-falls created a peaceful music in his mind, and work was now often an escape from his troubles. The warm glow of the coals was comforting, too. And so Cainenyo continued shaping the iron into a sword, and shoved his worries to the furthest corners of his mind. He would save them for tomorrow.

[piosenniel]

The quick, lively music had wound down a bit as those who played and danced found their throats parched and their bellies growling for another plate of food. ‘Go on,’ said Riv, leaning forward to whisper in his wife’s ear. ‘Bror’s tuning up over there. Your going to sing that song of Durin with him, aren’t you?’

He reached forward and with his great hands he plucked little Ginna from her mother’s grasp. ‘I can hold the wee one while you sing.’ He cradled the little girl in the crook of his left arm, smiling as she fussed a little then settled back into her dreams. Leifr, for his part, had pulled a chair next to his father’s and was leaning against Riv’s right flank. His little tummy was quite full with cider and sweets, and more frequently now his eyes drooped and a tiny snore issued from his slack mouth. Unna smiled at the image and winked at Riv. ‘Don’t you dare drift off while I sing!’ she ordered in a whispering voice.

She crossed to the other side of the hall and bent down for a few words with Bror. He plucked a string on his harp and she hummed the note, on key. After a brief introduction of Bror’s playing, Unna nodded to where the present King Dain sat with his family and began the song. The conversations hushed as her clear voice rang out through the Hall . . .

The world was young, the mountains green,
No stain yet on the Moon was seen,
No words were laid on stream or stone
When Durin woke and walked alone.

He named the nameless hills and dells;
He drank from yet untasted wells;
He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,
And saw a crown of stars appear,
As gems upon a silver thread,
Above the shadow of his head.

The world was fair, the mountains tall,
In Elder Days before the fall
Of mighty kings in Nargothrond
And Gondolin, who now beyond
The Western Seas have passed away:
The world was fair in Durin's Day.

A king he was on carven throne
In many-pillared halls of stone
With golden roof and silver floor,
And runes of power upon the door.
The light of sun and star and moon
In shining lamps of crystal hewn
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night
There shone for ever fair and bright.

There hammer on the anvil smote,
There chisel clove, and graver wrote;
There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;
The delver mined, the mason built.
There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,
And metal wrought like fishes' mail,
Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,
And shining spears were laid in hoard.

Unwearied then were Durin's folk;
Beneath the mountains music woke:
The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,
And at the gates the trumpets rang.

As her voice faded with the last of the lyric, Bror’s nimble fingers picked up the melody and wove and intricate refrain. There was silence when he finished, and Unna looked at him, whispering nervously. ‘Mahal save us! We’ve ruined the party!’

Then the beat of pewter tankards on the oaken table tops began. And the king, himself, stood up from his chair, and shouted ‘Well done! Well done!’ in his great voice. Unna’s cheeks turned scarlet at the praise and Bror grinned from ear to ear, his dark eyes glittering with delight . . .

[Arry]

While Unna sang, Skald stood with a number of his friends near the newly tapped keg of ale. He was well into his cups as were his companions. Their legs were a bit wobbly and their speech a little slurred. But, they were still standing . . . and for a Dwarf, that was call enough for another round.

‘Nice voice . . . your brother’s wife,’ whispered Olin Glitterfist, noting the lopsided grin on Skald’s face. ‘Not you! I’ve heard you sing . . . like an old rusty hinge!’

Skald raised his brows and was about to retort when he saw Riv motioning him over. ‘Just your luck my brother needs me,’ he said, punching Olin lightly in the arm. ‘Otherwise it would be me and you . . . hand to hand . . . and me wipin’ the very floor with you!’ Olin laughed and was quickly silenced by the shushes of those listening to the song.

With a decided list, Skald made it to the long table where Riv sat. Working his way down toward his brother’s seat he stumbled against many a chair, leaving a string of ‘Sorry!’ and ‘Your pardon!’ in his wake.

When he arrived, Riv pulled the empty chair next to his left and bade him sit down. Riv’s face had a serious look on it as did that of his father. They had pulled apart from their hushed conversations as Skald approached. Drawing a deep breath, Skald made an effort to pull his senses together. He was quite sober by the time Viss had relayed the content of their hurried whisperings to him.

[Folwren]

Bror was grinning broadly as he and Unna spoke a last word together. She went her way and Bror turned to put his harp somewhere safe until he could put it away after the gathering had broken up. He turned and walked back to his place at the table and was about to sit down again when he noticed his brothers and father sitting in a small knot several paces away.

His curiosity was instantly peaked and instead of taking a seat there, he walked towards the small group his family made. Reaching them, he leaned on both Skald and Riv and bent his head to hear the words they were speaking so soberly and quietly. The smile that was still flickering about his face faded as he caught his father’s words.

‘-Thousands of them storming about the city. I’ve heard them described as ants coming out of an ant hill...marching on in endless lines.’

‘What?’ Bror asked abruptly. ‘Thousands of what about what place?’

Riv waved him off, shrugging his shoulder to make him stand up. Bror stood accordingly and glanced about for a chair or stool of some sort. He pulled a nearby one up as Skald asked a question.

‘They want our help?’ Bror looked at him and at first was inclined to smile, but after a second’s thought decided not to. His brother had the look of having drunk overly much ale, but the very fact that he looked entirely in his right mind and without the least amount of merriness in any shadow of his face, caused Bror to think twice on the conversation he had just entered into. His eyes turned to his father as he answered.

‘They need help and have asked for it. Even if they hadn’t asked, I don’t think that we could very well sit here and let them all be destroyed. Our turn would come next, invariably. There’s little safety under any mountain when such an army is just outside of it, and swiftly growing.’

[Envinyatar]

Drawing closer to the city


As had been his wont, Lord Elrond kept them well west Tharbad; far from the prying eyes of as many folk as was posibble. They were a large force, relatively speaking, and horsed. But the Elven riders and handlers kept their charges quiet as they passed from the forested regions of Minhiriath.

Along the southern reaches of the River Gwathló they found a wide, shallow ford. The banks eased down from the trees’ edge in a gentle slope to a finely pebbled strand. A number of Elven warriors from the horsed columns crossed first, scouting the other side of the river for any sign of the enemy. When they assured themselves they could find no trace, the wagons began their slow crossing flanked by the rest of the columns. Lord Elrond rode ahead of this part of the van, joining his scouts on the other side.

It took most of the day for the entire force to cross. The wagons were big and heavily loaded. And often times the team would balk at the sight or feel of the river’s current.

The forest grew thinner as they drew away from the Gwathló, the countryside edging into what would soon become a vast expanse of hilly wastelands. Elrond turned them northward, passing just to the edge of the last dense stand of trees before stopping for the night.

‘He’s sent out scouts,’ Ondomirë told his squad captains when they had gathered in his tent after the evening meal. ‘They’ll map the lay of the land for us and spy out what forces Sauron has posted against any aid reaching Ost-in-edhil.’ He leaned forward in his chair and poured himself a glass of the dry, red wine his aide had left for the meeting. With a flick of his chin he passed it on to the man next to him, indicating it should make the rounds of the table. ‘I’ve also asked,’ he went on, ‘that the four bowmen we sent from our company scout out good, defensible positions for us to take should we need to fall back as the army advances. Most of the enemy we think will be concentrating further northward in the hilly lands to the north and south of the Sirannon and Glanduin rivers. From what we understand, Sauron is bent on destroying that enclave of the Noldorin jewel-smiths. Some very personal grudge, it would seem. And not just the city, but the population, too.’

They talked late into the night, then parted, each to their own squad’s billet. Lord Elrond held back their advance the next day, waiting for nightfall before crossing the Old South Road. From there, he took them into a sector of low-lying hills. They camped again in a hollow set among the hills, with sentries posted in the dense brush and rocky outcroppings that lined the hill tops. He sent out scouts again, instructing them to come as close as they might to the enemy’s troops.

They were now just a little more than a four day march from the city . . .

[piosenniel]

King Durin calls for counsel . . .


King Durin enjoyed times such as these. He was the third king blessed with the glorious name of Old Durin Himself and he looked with fondness over the gathered families in the Stonecut hall. Good food, strong drink, and the company of hearty friends and companions! he thought to himself. Mahal has surely graced our forges! May he continue to do so . . . he added, gazed slipping fondly from family to family.

He patted his wife’s knee fondly as she listened to the lovely song that Unna had just begun. ‘Youngest boy shows a growing talent with his harp, don’t you think?’ he whispered, leaning toward her. A movement to his left and an insistent calling of his name made him look away before she could answer him. It was young Tori Deepdiger, and by the look on his face it would not be welcome news.

~*~

Before Riv could answer Bror’s questions, a great wave of silence spread through the hall.

The King was standing on the small raised platform where his family sat and had raised his right hand high in the sky. To either side of him his sons stood calling for quiet and the attention of those gathered. The Stonecuts turned their faces to him, dark eyes troubling at what he would tell them all.

Bror looked questioning at his father. Viss leaned toward him, his eyes troubled. ‘It’s the same news that we were discussing just before you and Unna returned to the table,’ he said quietly. ‘And by the looks of the King’s face there will more unwelcome detail than we’d want to trouble us here beneath the mountain.’ He jutted his chin to where the Deepdigger lad had stepped down from the platform and was making his way toward the door. ‘Deepdigger boys drew the patrol about the Western Gate with some of the Brassbeards. There’s been fighting not a league from the mountain. A messenger from the city, bound for King Durin was ambushed by Orcs. Some of the lads tried to drive them off, but they were set on hard by the Orcs, who swarmed against them like vicious ants from an anthole. They near overwhelmed the patrol, who drew back quickly. Viss paused, a hard look in his eyes as he went on. ‘Two of the Deepdiggers were slain. They held back the Orc assault while their fellows found the safety of the mountain and closed the doors hard against the dark foe.’ Viss rubbed his big calloused hands along his thighs. ‘I’d taken a barrel of ale out to the fellows at the gates. And some meat and bread. Old Deepdigger had been brought to the gate by his sons and was just hearing the news. His sons were all for hacking their way through the Orcish mob to retrieve the fallen, but Old Deepdigger knew that naught would come of that save he lose more of his family. Council was taken quickly and I’m thinking that Tori was sent to the King to tell him what had happened. I hied myself back here to let riv and the others know what little I did.’

~*~

King Durin’s face was grey as the stones from which the hall was carved. In only a few short breaths of a man, the evening had gone from one of joy to one of disbelief, anger, and then sadness. But it was resolve now that set his features into deep hewn lines. He asked that the hall be cleared, women and children be taken to their quarters for now, the ale cups put away. The fathers and sons old enough for fighting he would have stay. There was grievous counsel to be heard tonight and hard counsel to be thought on for the morrow.

The story was told in clipped tones how the patrol had encountered the Orcs and how two of the Deepdiggers had fallen. The Elven messenger, the King had learned, had come from Celebrimbor, who feared that soon his city would be besieged. And beyond besieged, destroyed utterly and the Elves there along with it should the Sauron’s armies prevail. It was a surety they would prevail entirely should help not come. There were tens of thousands of foul men from the south, Orcs, and other loathsome creatures who were pouring into Eregion.

‘It is the Elves that their Dark Lord has some particular interest in,’ the King continued. ‘But he holds no love for the Dwarves, either. And once this goal of his is accomplished, who can say he will not turn his eye to us.’ He paused looking over the sea of somber faces gathered about him. ‘I would take counsel with you,’ he said, his gaze going about the group. ‘Celebrimbor is my good friend. And were it only me, I would lend him my axe without thinking. But it is not only my decision. Should we choose to assist the Elves wives will lose their husbands and sons, that is a surety. Perhaps we should just stay safe here beneath the mountain; ride out this dark storm. Strengthen our own defenses for an attack. Make safe our families and our forges.’ He saw some of the men nodding ‘yes’ to this statement; others narrowed their eyes, considering the costs, their minds uncertain.

‘What say you, Dwarves?’

[Durelin]

Maegisil walked quickly out of the palace, keeping his eyes straight ahead, moving his eyes only to look down at the steps he was taking down two at a time. His teeth were gritted and he repeatedly clenched and unclenched is fists, trying to release his anger while keeping his composure. It took all of his strength to just keep walking; he wanted to punch something and scream aloud like a child. He could not remember ever feeling this way, and he was unsure what to do, except to hold it all in and continue the disgusting feeling in his stomach.

Sooner than he expected, he found himself in the palace courtyard. He stopped for a moment, realizing that he was unsure of what exactly to do. Should he be the herald of Celebrimbor? Or should that job be passed to someone else? Should he even remain a counselor of the lord, or should he break all ties with the elf? Perhaps he should not even bother to get it announced to the city that the Lord of Eregion was going to speak…perhaps it was time to wash his hands of it all…

He looked around him, taking in the view of the courtyard, and seeing bits and pieces of the rest of the city. Renewed grief grew in his heart and he suddenly felt as if he could cry. He cursed himself for ever thinking that he would abandon his city to destruction, that he would save his own life and the life of his wife with no thought to his people. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he began walking again quickly across the courtyard. Soon he had reached the palace’s gate. It was not huge, but still quite large, and was beautifully crafted with mithril silver through the generosity and help of the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm. The guards rushed to open the gate for him, observing his haste.

It was just past midday, the busiest time of day in the city. It was practically bustling with a speed greater than you would expect a city of immortals to ever move. The city had never been more alive. Maegisil felt a swell of pride in his chest as he thought about his people, and beheld the lively city, knowing that innumerable masterpieces had been created within its walls besides being a masterpiece itself. A few people turned to glanced as the palace gate opened. For a moment, Maegisil thought he saw hopeful faces be shot down, looking for the great Lord Celebrimbor, and receiving yet again only his counselor.

Maegisil could only remember shouting perhaps twice in his life. He had never liked shouting, he had never liked showing anger, and he certainly had never liked bringing attention to himself. Now he would do all three. He stood just outside the palace gate and took several more breaths as he closed his eyes, preparing for his heart to speak. Though it was not the composer of the words, it had composed the music.

“People of Eregion,” he called out to the elves in the streets. He paused for a moment, and not just for affect; he had shocked himself at the intensity and volume of his voice. He had gained the people’s attention. “The Lord Celebrimbor will speak to his people. Tell your friends and loved ones to gather in the palace courtyard to hear him.” He turned around to talk to the guards at the gate, still speaking loudly. “Leave the gates open for the people.”

It took several moments for the guards to respond, as they stood looking at Maegisil with some confusion. The palace gates had been opened for very few people over the years, and everyone had gotten used to the idea that the palace was off limits to most, and that their once visibly kind and benevolent and wise ruler was now a mysterious, invisible presence that represented the doom of the city rather than prosperity. But after the palace guards saw that Maegisil was in no mood to wait, they rushed to reopen the gate. All those who still watched the counselor were seemingly waiting for him to return to the palace, but he did not.

Maegisil now thought of his wife, and all the wrong that he knew that he had done to her over the years came rushing into his mind… He had let go of his anger that day, and it was time for him to let go of others. It had been too long; he had kept his heart away from his true love for too long, though it only should have belonged to her. He would be there when Celebrimbor, but so would she. He had kept his own wife in the dark for so long. He finally saw it was time to change this, when it was too late. He was no better than the feeble Lord of Eregion…

[Mithalwen]

Losrian heard Maegisil's call - the sound but not the words; it was too distant for even Elvish ears that were not focused on listening. She looked down and from her vantage point she could see the courtyard gates unexpectedly open and people starting to mill through them. Eager to see what was happening she sprang from her niche and ran lightly along the city wall to the nearest steps. She passed Artamir who seemed deep in conversation with his friend but something about her manner must have alerted him.

"Losrian - why are you running - have you left that forge alight and unattended? " he teased.

The girl paused and fixed him with her bright, grey eyes and did not rise to the bait. "The palace gates are open.. something is happening, I want to find out." She waited no longer and continued but was aware of the two young soldiers following her. She looked for her brother in the crowd but the space before the palace seemed full of strangers, all grim faced and anxious. She was glad when she turned to find Artamir next to her, a familiar face in strange times.

She felt that the moment had finally come, the storm was about to break and there was nothing they could do but face it. Neither her brother, the new father, nor Artamir, barely of age would be spared from the ranks and for herself ... for all her hours of practice and arrowmaking she wondered how she would cope if she joined the ranks of the archers. Could she really take a life? Even an orcish one. But she knew the enemy would show no mercy and expect none. She glanced again at Artamir who was staring at the palace. She wondered if he already knew what was to pass - for Narisiel, his mother, would surely be within. She had spent so much time there latterly.

[Alcarillo]

"Father, come with me!"

Arenwino had appeared at Cainenyo's forge. There was no panic in his face, but excitement. Cainenyo wondered what this could be.

"To what?" Cainenyo asked, "Surely the city is not falling to the orcs?" He spoke half-sarcastically, and later was a little unsure if it was the right thing to say at the time.

"No, father," Arenwino said with a this-is-serious frown, "The palace gates are opening. There is about to be an announcement. I heard it myself. I was just there a minute ago with Veurotur and Erundil." Cainenyo recognized the last two names as two of Arenwino's soldier friends.

"And this announcement is from Celebrimbor?" Cainenyo said. Such things were rare indeed.

Arenwino confirmed this, and Cainenyo dropped his hammer on a table. Together father and son made their way to the huge palace of Celebrimbor, dominating the city skyline. Others walked with anticipation in the direction of the gates. Through the streets many others were peering out of windows and looking down the lane towards the palace. What was this news?

[Folwren]

There was a long silence that prevailed over the Dwarves of the underground city of Khazad-Dum. The fire light flickered on their grim faces, and no one said anything. Finally, a thick set, black bearded Dwarf pushed himself forward.

‘My lord King,’ he said standing towards the front, ‘and my people,’ looking about him with dark, fierce eyes. ‘We have all heard rumors of this. Many of us have ignored it, hoping, and sometimes maybe believing that it would pass like so many shadows have in the past. But this time, the shadow has materialized and become larger as the time went. We have done little - next to nothing - to prepare for the war that has been being whispered in our ears. We can no longer sit in idleness here in our halls of stone, nor can we ignore the cries for help coming from the Elven city from without. It is not the lord Celebrimbor alone that asks our help. It is his people. There are wives and children there, no less precious than our own. If we go and fight, we run the risk of losing our own lives - leaving our families perhaps never to return, but at least our families will be safe after our deaths.

‘But if we do not go and fight, if we do not lend aid to our allies, we run the risk of an army so great that we can not conceive it even in our minds, turning again upon us and tearing us from our halls as a bird will a snail from its shell. We face the thoughts of cowardice and fear if we do not go out - forever reproached by the knowledge that we were afraid. Haunted until we go to our graves by the thoughts of the thousands of innocent women and children slaughtered in their burning homes by the hideous armies from Mordor because we didn’t go to help.

‘We have every reason and every ability to go out and help destroy and scatter the orcs and men under Sauron. I think that everyone one of us knows that there is no real reason to stay back, behind strong, safe walls of stone - safe for only the time being. We have only this one chance. If we do not go out now, there will be no chance of our surviving the attack that will surely come once the elves in Eregion have been destroyed.

‘I say we should go to the Lord Celebrimbor’s aid,’ the black bearded dwarf said, looking straight at the king. ‘And we should not delay.’

[Arry]

‘And I say we shouldn’t!’ Dari Glitterfist stood up, putting his hands on the table before him as he leaned forward to address the assembled Dwarves. ‘We’ve done enough, I say, carting the reinforcements from the Golden Wood through our halls, keeping ‘em safe from the Orcs until they could reach the smiths’ city. Granted, for most of those we brought through it was an easy enough job. But there were a few times when it was Dwarf lives that bought the safe passage.’ His brother Brand, sitting next to him, clapped his hand on Dari’s back, Both were remembering their brother Afi who fell to the foul Orcs in one of the expedition to fetch the Elven warriors sent from the Lady.

‘I’m standing with my brother, on this one,’ Brand said, getting up to speak. ‘I say our doors should be shut tight for now, and our forges turn to the making of weapons to defend ourselves.’

‘And besides,’ continued Dari, looking to the King for verification. ‘It wasn’t us that took that viper in his fair clothes in, now was it? They’re not dullards that can’t think for themselves. They’re just as sharp and shrewd as we are. They stood too close to the forger’s fire, and now they’ve got burnt, so we heard tell. Let them and their King figure out a way out of trouble. We should look to ourselves.’

There were murmurs of assent from little pockets of seated and standing Dwarves about the Hall. Many there were who would rather sharpen their axes and stand together at their own front door.

‘Now’s the time we should be closing ranks against outsiders; shore up our own defenses; look to the safety of our own families.’ Brand brought his great fist down on the thick oaken top of the table, his eyes glittering as they swept the room to see which opinion held sway.

[Folwren]

Bror bounded to his feet, his eyes flashing, wishing he could get close to one of the Glitterfist brothers. Skald reached up and pulled him back down.

‘But you can’t just let them talk like that!’ Bror exclaimed, turning towards his brother.

‘It’s not for you to contradict them. Let the others.’ Bror just gave him a furious look, jerked his arm out of Skald’s grip, and stood up again. But his father was already on his feet and addressing the Dwarves. His voice was calm - calmer than Bror thought possible in such circumstances - and it was strong and steady, loud enough to be heard, but not angry.

‘Of course Dwarves have died,’ he said, looking towards the Glitterfists. ‘This is the beginning of a war. More will die as time goes on. Closing our doors won’t solve our problem. Hoarding weapons, and sharping blades can’t guarantee that we will come out victors in the end of this.

‘It was not the elves that killed your brother. It wasn’t elves that killed the Deepdigger’s sons. Orcs did it. They are the ones that are guilty of these acts of war. Why punish the elves? In not answering their cry for help, will you leave your brother’s death unavenged? Will you stay here in search of safety, while your brother’s blood lies on the ground, crying out for vengeance? “Dwarves have been killed!” you say. Are you afraid to go out and run the risk of losing more?

‘Now is not the time to stay at home and hope for the best!’ he cried, looking over the assembly. ‘Whatever choice we make, it will end with blood shed, that much is certain. But if we can keep that away from our families and our homes, than that would be better. You may think that this is the elves’ war. They brought it upon themselves, let them finish it. I tell you, no. The Lord Celebrimbor and his elves are our allies, and this threat of invasion therefore doesn’t threaten only them, but also us. Is it to be said of the Dwarves in time to come, that we hid in our holes while our sworn friends were destroyed? They called for help - will we not answer them? Are you saying that we are willing to be friends when everything is good, the sun is shining and the gold is flowing, but as soon as the clouds come, and danger springs up out of the shadows, we shall flee? Seal our doors and hide our faces from the enemy? Deafen our ears to the pleas of aid? Cowards! We shall be called cowards and oath breakers - and rightly so! Their blood shall be on our heads if we do not do what is in our power to help them in their time of need.’

Bror, still standing and staring at his father, drew a shuddering breath in the silence that followed. His eyes never left Viss as he took a step back and reseated himself. There was nothing he could possibly say now that would do any more help than what was just voiced. Inside, he felt proud that his father could forge such words on a moment’s notice, but closer to the surface of his mind grew a black fear that those words might not convince the Dwarves that they must go out and that the title of coward might be branded to their names forever.

[piosenniel]

Old Fálki Ironforge stood up from his bench, waiting as the waves of ‘yay’ and ‘nay’ died down in the hall. There was many a family head who stood by Viss’ convictions and as many who were planted firmly on the side of the Glitterfists. The King nodded at the elder Dwarf, and a relative silence fell as Fálki made his way to the center of the hall.

‘I’m not opposed to lending my axe to the Elves if that is what we decide should be our course and the King commands. But . . .’ he paused and looked squarely at Viss and then at Afi. ‘I hope we can make that decision based on what’s best for all us who are Aulë’s Children. And not on what’s best for the Elves or best for one family in the clan.

‘The Elves have proved admirable, reliable trading partners. There has been great profit on both our sides. Our coffers are full, our knowledge of working with gems and metals enriched through them. And they in turn have profited from us. It is a good relationship, a sustaining relationship for our clan and their kindred. And it has proven an enduring one since first our forefathers treated with them in Beleriand. We should take this into consideration as we make our decisions on what kind of aid we can best offer them.’

He looked toward the tables where the Glitterfist men sat, their eyes fixed hard on him. ‘Dwarf lives have been lost in this long struggle with the Dark Lord – that first of them and now his servant and all their foul creatures. That is a fact that should never be taken lightly. To do so would be to cheapen the worth of those lost lives; to belittle the grief that their families endure.’ He drew a breath, pausing for a moment to collect his thoughts. A number of the Glitterfist family and those who felt as they did were nodding their heads in accord with what he said.

‘You know,’ he went on, looking round the hall, ‘we would all be hard put to find a family who has not lost a member or more to this long enmity the Orcs and their Masters bear for the Elves. It would seem almost natural that we Dwarves would want to close ranks and seek to protect ourselves from further loss. But what does that say of those who chose to go on the patrols to protect the Elven envoys and traders and who fell in battle? Are their deaths now demeaned because they followed a long established practice of ours and reached out a hand to help the Elves? Again, this is something I think we should take time to consider before a final decision is made.’

‘Now, about this thought of us as cowards and, worse yet, oathbreakers. Who would dare call us such? Have we not placed our axes and our strong arms between the Elves and the Orcs time and time again. None can call us cowards. None!’

‘And as for ‘oathbreaker’ – that is a harsh word to use for us and an untrue one. We have never sworn an oath to any of the Elves at any time in our long history with them. Our fealty, or so it seem to me, is to our King and his to us. And those oaths have not been broken.’

‘So, what shall we do? I can’t speak for you or for the King. But I’d like to see us offer our aid to the Elves as we have been doing. We can’t afford to send a large host of warriors. Or at least I don’t see how we can do so. We have two fronts of our own to defend – the East and the West Gate. To send a large unit of Dwarven warriors to the Elven city would stretch us far too thinly.’

‘What we can do is to continue harrying the Orcs and those mannish followers of Sauron from behind. With our small patrols. And from what I’ve heard of the size of force that the Dark Lord is sending against the city, I think we should be realistic. The Elves cannot hope to defend Ost-in-edhil with any success. It is a pretty thing, their city, but too vulnerable. It can offer no real resistance against the massive onslaught that Sauron plans. We cannot save the city, not even if we emptied our halls and all joined in.’

‘But we can aid the survivors, the refugees. Many can be brought to safety in the mines then helped to reach the protection of the Lady and her Woods. Most of Sauron’s army will be concentrated on the western side of the mountains. Small groups of us will be able to see the Elves to the protection of Lorien and at the same time there will be enough of us remaining in the mines to protect our families should need arise.’

'Anyway, that's what I think we can do - to honor our longstanding relationship with the Elves; our dead who have already fallen; and protect our own families.'

Done speaking, Fálki walked back to his seat. There were hushed murmurings as groups of Dwarves about the hall put their heads together to discuss what he had said.

~*~

King Durin called for one of his aides to pass among the heads of the families with the small bowl of pebbles for the vote. Each family head was to pick two of the small rounded pebbles – one white and one black. They would pass in a line before the King’s chair and drop one of the pebbles into a tall container. White for lending the Elves aid; black for staying out of the battle altogether. It was for the most part, a secret tally, but there were those among the families who were more than eager to share openly how they felt.

And so it was that as the head of the Stonecut Hall reached the container, he dropped the white pebble into it from a fair distance above the mouth. It glittered as it fell, catching the light from the bright lanterns, and fell with a small thunk against the pile already hidden within.

~*~

In the end, there were only a small scattering of black pebbles among the white. The King declared then that the Dwarves of Khazad–dum would assist the Elves of Ost-in-edhil in their battle against Sauron and his armies; that he would, as Fálki had suggested, continue the Dwarves’ smaller raids against the Orcs and the men who had now joined the ranks. And that in view of the certain dread outcome of this little war – the Dwarves would see to the rescue of as many Elven refugees as they could.

[Durelin]

As soon as he entered his house, Maegisil found his wife waiting for him. He stood for a moment to stare at her, and was overcome by her beauty, feeling his love for her renewed just from looking into her eyes. Overcome with emotions, he broke down, and soon found himself shuddering in Sairien’s embrace.

Sairien spoke, her voice full of concern and thick with emotion as she began to cry herself. “I am glad you have come home to me, Maegisil,” she said, running her hands through his hair and dreaming of happier days. Maegisil took several more shuddering breaths before he could respond, shocked by her words and wondering what they suggested.

“What do you mean, my darling? I want only to return to you always…”

His wife pulled away from him slightly, and looked sadly into his eyes. All in that one look, Maegisil understood all the pain he had caused her these past years, and his tears were not enough to express the grief it brought into his heart. He dropped his eyes, and as Sairien opened her mouth to speak he silenced her, softly putting his hand before her lips. He tenderly kissed her and then turned away, now feeling ashamed of his tears. “I am sorry,” he said. Sairien hesitated, wanting to bring him back into her arms, but knowing that he turn back to her on his own.

“I have done you so much wrong…”

“It is all passed,” she said simply, and Maegisil turned to face her again, bringing his eyes to stare into hers. He held her gaze, even in his shame and sorrow, and Sairien felt a new strength in her husband that she always known was there. Perhaps good things did come of the bad. But though Maegisil had finally decided to truly open up to his wife, there was more than Sairien could help him with. And she soon found out that they both needed help.

They talked for three quarters of an hour, and Sairien discovered the root of almost all of her husband’s troubles. It was indeed the Lord Celebrimbor’s fault, and she found herself even bitterer toward the elf-lord than she had been for a number of years passed, always having felt that the lord, in some ways, stole her husband away from her. She almost felt she hated the elf, though there was little room left in her mind for hate, fear overcoming her. After Maegisil fell silent and more tears gleamed in his eyes, she took her husband’s hand and squeezed it tightly, asking Ilúvatar for the courage to go on.

“We should go hear the Lord Celebrimbor speak,” she said, keeping her voice as level as she could. Maegisil found comfort in her strength, and they left together to go to the palace.

~*~*~*~

Celebrimbor had dismissed those still in his presence after Narisiel had left him, and he had begun pacing in his chamber, steeling himself for what he knew he had to do. He tried to make the excuse that he had never asked to be Lord of Eregion, but he knew it to be false. He would have been outraged if he had not been supported by the people to become Lord of his realm. And he had relished in the idea of serving his people, continuing the glory of the Elves and renewing the honor of the House of Fëanor through Eregion and its great city of Ost-in-Edhil. He now considered all of his dreams to be failures, as he had not made any plans concerning a threat to his people, nor had he ever considered an end to the Mirdain.

In his heart he knew that this would most likely be the death of the Elvensmiths, or at least to such a great presence in Eregion. Searching for hope, he found none, until he recalled the messenger from Lindon who had brought news of a force sent by the High King Gil-galad and led by the Lord Elrond himself. There had been no word of this force since that message over a year ago, and though it kindled some minute hope in his heart, Celebrimbor considered it just another mockery of his situation. But he had to tell the people something.

Suddenly the door to his chambers opened, and he immediately turned to see who was there, prepared to berate them for disturbing him. But seeing Taurnil’s face, he remembered telling his manservant to inform him when an hour had passed, when it was time… Fear exploded in his stomach as he realized that he still did not know what to say. All logic and reasoned failed him, and he found himself drowning in something that he could not think his way out of. But he squeezed his hands into two tight fists and breathed deeply before exiting his chambers, head held high but dreading every step he made.

Soon he had reached the great doors of the palace structure, which opened out onto an immense flight of stairs, as the building was raised above all others in the city. Celebrimbor had almost forgotten the pride that had influenced him to have it built that way. His usual air of such pride was nonexistent as he watched the palace doors open before him much as Maegisil had watched the palace gate an hour before. Stepping out onto the large landing before the stairs, Celebrimbor felt his mouth go dry and his heart skip a beat. The number of people gathered in the palace courtyard made him stare in awe from a moment. He had not spoken in the presence of more than a couple dozen in a long time, and this feeling was almost new to him.

It shocked even himself, though, when he was suddenly calm and confident, finding his footing and remembering that he was an Elf Lord. He began to speak with the pride and dignity that came with his title. “Gwaith-i-Mírdain,” he called out, and his following pause was welcomed with silence. “You are my people, and I have done you wrong.” There were a few murmurs in the crowd, and Celebrimbor almost choked on his words as his eyes flitted through the people, finding innumerable familiar faces. They really were his people.

“We are a great people, and this city is our finest creation. But it is threatened to be destroyed, as are we all.” He was forced to stop speaking for a moment, and he dropped his eyes, finding himself unable to look upon the faces of his people while knowing that it was they who he had doomed. He could feel the tension grow to a new height among the elves before him, and suddenly all was not quiet. Celebrimbor wished he could just let the noise continue and drown him out, so that he could go back to his chambers like a defeated child fleeing to his room to cry. But he brought his hand up to silence his people, and continued, his sorrow clear in his voice though it was still strong and resonant. “The Servant of Morgoth seeks to destroy Eregion, and an army of twenty thousand is even now nearing upon this great city.” He found new momentum in his speech and did not give the people enough time to react for need to listen to him. “Every one of our lives is threatened, and it is the right of the people to know this. And so I beg of you, all those who can fight: help me ensure that Ost-in-Edhil is not abandoned to her doom. But those of you who cannot or shall not, it is now that you must escape to the west. And it is for all of us to take some hope, knowing our strength, and remembering that we are not without allies.”

For a moment, the Lord of Eregion hesitated as a swarm of sound rose up from the multitude of elves, and he felt his fear return to him as he considered continuing his speech. He had said it was the right of the people to know, but was it their right to know more? Surely they did not need to know everything. It was not something that should be of common knowledge, the doom of the last elf of the House of Fëanor. If he was to die, and even if his city were to die with him, the secret of the Rings of Power should die with him. If only he had not passed them on, if only he had not shared the secret with anyone, if only he had worked with Annatar alone… Suddenly Celebrimbor felt there should be a ring upon his finger, and he turned his back to his people to disappear once again through the palace doors.

[CaptainofDespair]

The sun had just broke over the horizon, and the denizens of Eregion were awakening to what they hoped would be another peaceful day. But, all was not well, and the sentries stationed upon the walls knew it. There were no birds in the sky, no wilderness creatures meandering their way down to the river. It seemed as if all had been silenced, gripped by in terror of shadow and malice. Some murmured, and brushed it off as what would be a stormy day. Others, especially the veteran sergeants, felt something else. And then, they saw them.

Rising out of the horizon, the fluttering banners of Mordor and its allies billowed in an early morning breeze. The time had come, they thought, for battle. The on-duty commander was immediately notified, and he dispatched a runner to his awaken his superiors. But, to all of their surprise, it was only a minor force; a probe if anything, they hoped. It was no great army of Mordor descending upon them, and for that at least they were relieved.

~*~

To Angoroth, it was like every other Elven city he had seen. There were greater cities to him. But, it was impressive nevertheless. He admired the structure they lived under, something the orcs his camp was overrun with knew nothing of. Having not been to a city of such magnitude since the First Age, he was quite pleased to see some form of culture. Captain Ulrung, his newest in a line of inept commanders, who so far was proving useful, had accompanied him to meet the Elves.

“This is what we have come to destroy, Captain.” Puzzled at the sudden outburst of his lord, he could only reply with a hesitant “Indeed, milord.” Questions flowed through the wainrider’s mind, and he wondered if now was the best opportunity to find out what was going on, exactly. After some internal deliberation, he piped up. “Milord, what exactly are we here for?” A deep, resonating laugh emanated from the barbute that covered the face of Angoroth. “We…are here for many things, Captain Ulrung. Our foremost concern is destroying the city, and slaying the Elves.” Without much hesitation this time, Ulrung spoke up again. “But, why are we here to destroy them? What purpose is there in this?” Angoroth was chuckling to himself now, amused at the inquisitiveness of his young protégé. “They have done many wrongs to the Dark Lord of Mordor. For this, they must pay. There are, of course, other reasons. But, they will be revealed on their own, in time.” Ulrung nodded, and they both fell into silence, sensing a sort of confrontation was near.

The Elves were shocked that only a handful of troops were being sent so close to the city. But, as it drew nigh, they realized it had a slightly different purpose. Under orders, they allowed it to draw close to the main gatehouse. A lone commander waited beneath it, with a small escort for his protection, though they all doubted an outright attack from their enemy. Angoroth, leaving Ulrung and their small cavalry bodyguard, approached the anxious elf lord. “Stay your blades, elves. I come without hostility, for now.” Taken back by the bluntness of their enemy, the elf-commander gave a seemingly routine reply. “What is your purpose here, servant of Mordor?” A nod and an inaudible chuckle led the way for Angoroth’s demands. “First, I will not speak to one such as you, as you are beneath me. Second, I come to speak only with the Lord of the City; or, if he cannot be bothered to tend to the whims of his enemy, a counselor of some form.” The commander, again, was taken back by this. Unsure of what to do in such a politically charged moment, he turned to an aid, and dispatched him to acquire the presence of their lord, or a counselor.

Patiently, though it did not quite seem so to those observing the dire situation, Angoroth waited for someone of importance to meet with him. Finally, that person came. Another male elf, though this one was arrayed in attire befitting a counselor. And that is who it was. Maegisil was his name, or at least that is what was gleaned from what he overheard as the elf-counselor approached. Bowing, though it seemed like a mockery of the formality, he spoke in a brief manner. “Why have you come here, dark one? Have you come to mock the Elves?” As if to mock the charade of formalities, the dark one replied rather sarcastically. “Of course, master elf. That is the entirety of my quest. I can now take my army and return home.” Though the response stung him a bit, the elf furthered the dialogue. “Then what is it that you have come here for? You have already worn out your welcome.” Nodding, the Maiar looked around, surveying the city, before responding. But, when he did, he made sure of its caustic aura. “I have come for an audience with the Lord of the City. If I do not receive it, I will leave. But, I will then return tomorrow, and I will pave over your city with the blood of your people.”

The harsh coldness with which his voice issued the threat curdled the blood, for they knew the truth in it. The servants of Mordor are never kind, and nor do they make empty threats towards the livelihood of an entire people. Whispering to an aid standing behind him, Maegisil ordered the runner to deliver the request to city’s Lord, Celebrimbor. Returning his attention to the enemy presented before him, he issued a rather formal directive. “When word is received, we will determine if you have been granted what you seek.” However, Angoroth was now impatient. Leaning in to speak to the counselor, he whispered and murmured his secret quest. “I have come for certain pieces of jewelry. If you do not take me to Celebrimbor now, I will reveal this, and dispatch your city into a chaos of great sorrow. Then, the slaughter begins.” The elf paled slightly, obviously disturbed by this dark one’s knowledge. He seemed to ponder a bit, hoping there was some alternative. But, at last, he relented. “Open the inner gate!”

The old metal of the gate shuddered, and swung open, creaking as it went. Before departing into the sanctum of the Elves, Angoroth motioned for Captain Ulrung to follow. The elven escort did not seem to care, and so the addition of his captain was allowed. They passed into the city’s core; the retinue of guards, Maegisil, and the two dark ones, who were now venturing deep into the festering haven of the enemy. The people were bustling about, to and fro. Some stopped to stare at the swift moving group, as it swept past them like a fiendish winter wind. Much seemed to be on the minds of the people, and they moved without their usual timidity, as the Maiar saw it at least. Angoroth, as he was pressed forward, did not have time to admire the city as he would have liked. Though he hated the Elves, he did enjoy much of their ways, as they were created for elegance and beauty, much unlike those orcs of his master, and his successor. His own wares were crafted with an air of methodic grace and elegance. And it was all the better to know your enemy.

Soon, however, they reached the palace structure of Celebrimbor. The escort parted, and allowed Maegisil to lead the two dark ones into the palace. The guards at the steps saluted, and opened the doors for the counselor. Passing into the depths of the entry-way, they came upon the doors of the Lord’s chamber. Hesitating, if but for a moment, Maegisil forced his way into the chamber, casting aside the doors that had barred their entry. There say Celebrimbor, Lord of the City. A runner was speaking to him as they burst in, and encircling him were many other elves, seemingly of great importance. Maegisil bowed, if only out of formality, and presented the emissaries to the city’s keeper. “Milord, here are the emissaries sent by the Dark Lord to parley with you.” Even before he looked up at the emissaries, the Lord of the City felt the presence of something horrifically dark. Whoever these emissaries were, they were no mere eastern men following a wicked lord. Sighing inwardly, he rose up from his seat, looking distraught, as if the entire well of his emotions was now pouring over him. “Ah, then we shall hear what Mordor has to say.”

[Firefoot]

Ulwakh had thought life would be easier once their company joined the rest of the host. He had figured that the pair of them could descend into blessed anonymity and escape the ever watchful eyes of Kharn. And he had hoped that the whole affair could be forgotten and blown over.

Ulwakh had been wrong.

Almost as soon as their company joined the rest of the force, they had been given an assignment that removed them from the camp. Apparently, there had been some unease over the Dwarven stronghold to the east and some fear that the Elves might send for aid. Their company had been sent to monitor and hinder any communications between the Elves and Dwarves. The company had been split up into smaller groups so as to cover more ground; no messengers were to get through, and if there were to be a messenger, the preferable option would be that the Dwarves did not know of him at all. Preferably.

At first, little seemed to happen, but finally, when Grimkul and Ulwakh and their fellows were patrolling closer to the mountains than was usual, perhaps a league or so from the Dwarven gate, a scout brought word of an Elf coming their way. Eager for more fighting, the Orcs set up for ambush. The Elf proved a hardier warrior than any of them had expected, though he was on the verge of being overcome when a fierce band of Dwarves rushed in out of nowhere.

Grimkul whirled about to face this new foe on their flanks, wielding his scimitar mightily. Little love did he bear the Dwarves, in particular those select few that had so handily eluded his killing stroke in the last backfired ambush. In the back of his mind, he was disappointed to see that none of those now fighting were they, but he fought fiercely nonetheless, cleaning slicing through the neck of one Dwarf before they had retreated back behind their gates.

The members of the small band scowled and spat as the losses were tallied up: two Dwarves and the Elf messenger, compared to seven Orcs. But mostly, they counted it as a victory: the Elf had not gotten through, and the Dwarves’ attack had been turned to retreat almost immediately. Grinning maliciously, the Orcs set up their victory sign.

The three bodies of their foes were quickly despoiled and hacked apart, then left to rot or be consumed by scavengers. The heads were removed and speared on three stakes. The features of each face were horribly mangled but not beyond clear recognition. Then they were left to be found by their comrades and families as the Orcs headed off to report the skirmish to the Captain.

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo and Arenwino were now leaving Celebrimbor's palace, with his announcement still lingering in their ears. As the crowds were going their separate ways, a new sense of dread now filled Cainenyo's heart. An army of twenty thousand? Cainenyo imagined the slaughter for a brief moment and the city burning. Now he was genuinely afraid. He wondered if the dwarves would come to the city's aid, or perhaps Gil-Galad was on his way with a dazzling army of spearmen, or if there was no hope at all and all friends had abandoned the city. And where would he go? Where should his family hide? How soon would Ost-in-Edhil become a memory? But Caineneyo's thoughts were interrupted.

"I want to fight," Arenwino said. He looked dead serious.

"What?" Cainenyo said, "No, no, no, my son. You will go with your mother and sister. I will fight." He was surprised that his son would say such a thing, but as he listened he realized more and more that his son was a man now.

"Father, there's nothing else for me! I cannot become a celebdan without Celebdur, and he was killed by orcs! Let me avenge him, father, and let me protect my city!" His hands moved through the air in wild gestures. "There is no possible way for me to start my own business. Becoming a warrior is the only option available!"

"But my son, you cannot throw away your life like that," Cainenyo kept his voice calm, "I will fight. You have the rest of your life ahead of you. You will get married and have children of your own. None of that will happen if you are killed in battle."

"But I must, I want to," Arenwino's voice wavered for a moment, "I don't want to be the only one of my friends to not fight, to never have killed an orc! And what if you are killed in battle, father?"

"Then I will still have a son as my heir, and to take care of my widowed wife in her grief." Cainenyo's voice took on an angrier tone, "And your death would be worse than mine. I have lived a successful life, with my own wife and children. You still have time to wed, and to raise your own family." Arenwino opened his mouth to interject. "End of discussion!" was Cainenyo's rapid response.

They walked the rest of the way in cold silence.

[Arry]

There was no time now for his own handiwork. Skald had laid aside his cold chisels and tapping hammers and readied himself instead for the making of weapons. The Stonecut forges were heated white hot as ingots of iron were melted to a red hot liquid and poured into a myriad of molds – some for long barbed arrowheads, some for the slender, deadly points of the oaken staves.

Other halls were beating the metal into long-knives and swords; fashioning metal covers for the small wooden shields. And still others hammered long, sharp nails through thick oak clubs, making them bristle with death giving rippers. And each in their own hall were busy making ready their coats of mail, their thick leather vests, their vambraces, their greaves, their helmets.

An insistent hum filled the caverns beneath the mountains as the loud protests of iron against stone and metal melded together. Grindstones, whetstones, files, and honers all added their thrums to drone of deadly business.

Axes sang as they kissed the abrasive edges of the sharpening wheel. Baruk Khazâd!

The Longbeards were preparing for war . . .

[Folwren]

Bror’s hammer strokes rang in the silence. He turned the heated metal with his tongs and struck again before pausing to consider the iron and thrust it back into the coals. His thoughts didn’t let him sleep and he worked in the late and dark hours of night. The hot coals from the day’s work were easily rebuilt into flames and his dark eyes stared with melancholy into the red embers.

Thoughts of war turned over and over inside his brain. Images of the heads on the pikes some little distance from the front gate came in and out of his vision. He had gone out with a small scouting party yesterday, and though it had only gone a few miles out and they were not gone long, it was far enough to see where the orcs had been fought, and where the Deepdigger sons had been killed. They had stopped there and the bodies were taken away and carried back by some of their group.

‘Take it out of the fire, or you’ll have lost all your work and a good piece of metal.’ The voice of his uncle interrupted Bror’s thoughts and before turning around to face the newcomer, Bror hurried to obey. The metal was red with the heat and sparks flew up and sizzled like firecrackers. He lay it on the anvil and then turned.

‘Uncle Orin,’ he said in the quiet hushed voice that came at night when all else slept. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Coming to see what kept you awake.’ Bror gave one nod and then turned back to the anvil and lifted his hammer. Orin was silent while the blows lasted and only walked forward again when the iron became too cold to work with and Bror buried it again in the coals. ‘It won’t do you any good to stay up all night working like this.’

‘I can’t sleep,’ Bror replied without turning his head. ‘I keep thinking about the Deepdiggers.’

‘War brings those images. They’re not easily forgotten.’

‘I’m not afraid, Uncle Orin,’ Bror said, his shoulder heaving with a great breath that he took. ‘I’m not afraid of the war, understand that. But while I think of Deepdiggers, I can’t keep out the thought of Riv bleeding on the battle field like he did a year a go when we brought those elves through. I don’t think I could see him, or Skald, die.’

‘Take the iron out of the fire, Bror,’ Orin instructed quietly. His nephew fumbled with his tongs to take his piece of metal out. He plunged it into the bucket of water waiting close by. Steam went up from it, and until it passed, they both were silent. ‘We are not going to be fighting in open battle, Bror. Your brothers aren’t going to be in too much danger of dying. We didn’t vote to go off and fight them. We’re just going to help the refugees through this mountain. That work has to be done with as little fighting as possible, or else it wouldn’t do any good, because all those women and children will be killed anyway.’

Bror made no answer. He knew just as well as his Uncle that when they went to help the elves, there wasn’t supposed to have been any fighting. But there had been, and Riv and himself had come very close to being killed, and some Dwarves weren’t as lucky as they. He could not be comforted with such words. In the pause that followed, Orin realized that he had not convinced his nephew.

‘Whatever the case, Bror,’ he said in a gently, ‘no one can foresee the future, and it won’t do anyone any good to stay up like this and fret your nights away. Go to on to bed.’ Bror heaved another heavy breath and nodded. Orin sent him a small smile and turned to go. Bror took his piece of work from the water and laid it on the anvil before putting his tools away and leaving the forge.

[Amanaduial the archer]

As the crowd pushed and milled in the courtyard, waiting for Celebrimbor to speak, and around the edges the soldiers stood guard, carefully and calmly placed by Commander Elgedon, the tension was rife among the citizens of Ost-in-Edhil. After years of silence, they had all but forgotten their mute lord, brooding unseen in his palace, but as rumours spilled out and seeped out...well, even an impenetrable city has broachable walls, for no citizen can stand firm in the face of every threat. And now...now they were to hear him speak, to hear for themselves the fear assuaged, the rumours dismissed; although worried, there was an air of optimism and cheerfulness which hung around the awaiting citizens, despite the hastily called meeting, despite the stern, grim-faced soldiers who stood around them, a ring of statues sprung from the stone paving of the courtyard.

In the midst of the crowd, yet at the same time slightly apart, elevating as she was by standing at the top of the few steps that led down into the courtyard, a female figure stood, as stiffly tense as the soldiers around her, waiting for Celebrimbor to make his announcement. Narisiel’s eyes were fixed on the top of the stairs upon which she knew the elven lord would soon appear – appear to make the speech to his people that was going to change everything, not only the city, but personally to each of the elves who waited now in anticipation in the crowded courtyard. Some more than others…Narisiel swallowed fiercely, her eyes quickly flitting over the soldiers around the perimeter of the crowd. Rimborien, Dagonithil, Taurquarien…the faces, impassive and unyielding as stone, were each familiar to her, friends and acquaintances of many years. Terithian, Mordenigor…and Sirithlonnior, her own, as stern faced as the others. What was he thinking, what was happening beneath that stone façade? Had he seen her? No; he made no move towards her, neither physically nor with his eyes, no smile or wink as he usually would exchange. Maybe he had simply not yet noticed her, maybe he assumed that she was still within the palace but…in his gaze, fixedly watching the top of the stairs above, in his gaze…was that a fierceness in his eyes that set him apart from his comrades? And why not… Narisiel swallowed once more, pressing down the butterflies in her stomach and, as the murmurs of the crowd rose further, she followed the gaze of her spouse up to the other man whose cares and mistakes had stolen away the past two centuries of her life…

As the murmurs and scattered applause died down to an expectant silence, Celebrimbor straightened himself and composed his words almost visibly – to Narisiel, at least – before he raised his hands, placed one hand carefully on the rail leading down, like an old man seeking something to keep his balance, and began to speak. Narisiel barely heard his words. For the first time in many years, many centuries, she was seeing the Lord of Ost-in-Edhil as she had first seen him: strong, in control, elevated above his people as he addressed them majestically. Was this the man she had stood and admired many years ago? Yes, most certainly, for still surrounding him was the air of charisma and power that took Narisiel back to her earliest days in Ost-in-Edhil, before the life she now had had been woven and spun into the intricate tapestry that it currently was, when the threads were barely coming together, when she had first seen Celebrimbor speak and his voice had begun to work the threads. But now there were other details included, previously unseen…Was that a greying streak in his light hair? Maybe it was a trick of the light; Celebrimbor was but yet young by elven reckoning. But when such a burden falls upon an elf, as upon a man, maybe mannish weaknesses may be seen in the former as well as the latter. And his eyes…they flitted somewhat more nervously over the crowd, or was that also merely a trick of Narisiel’s eyes, or her mind? His gaze, certainly, did not seem the firm, fixed, steely gaze of a man so in control that she remembered…. And as Narisiel watched Celebrimbor, a friend, a lord, a betrayal, the threads began to unwind themselves, the tapestry began to fall – or maybe the weaving had never been strong enough in the first place. Or maybe such strength as is in a broken trust can tear even the strongest of bindings…

The smith closed her eyes for an instant, wrapping her arms around herself for a moment as if the chill winds of the carrion-birds’ wings already swept across the plains of Eriador, and listened to the voice of the speaker above, so strong and yet betraying such doom now.

“…every one of our lives is threatened, and it is the right of the people to know this. And so I beg of you, all those who can fight: help me ensure that Ost-in-Edhil is not abandoned to her doom. But those of you who cannot or shall not, it is now that you must escape to the west. And it is for all of us to take some hope, knowing our strength, and remembering that we are not without allies.”

Doom. The doom of the Mirdain. Narisiel felt a lump well in her throat and took a deep breath, squeezing her eyes tight before she opened them, glittering with tears that she would not shed, although the lump in her throat and the pain in her heart tried to wring them out. Surrounded by people, the knowledge of the secrets that Celebrimbor still, even now hid from his people stung her, a wedge between herself and the rest of Ost-in-Edhil. Surrounded by people, Narisiel could not have felt more alone on the edge of Mount Doom itself.

Re-finding Sirithlonnior, Narisiel caught her husband’s eyes just for a moment, the flash of light from his helmet as he turned towards the courtyard entrance blinding her for a moment. But his gaze only remained for a second before Sirithlonnior, so deliberately it seemed to Narisiel, turned away from her, heading purposefully for the palace doors, marching up quickly past the two soldiers who stood guard there against the now restless mob, and out of sight. And as she looked up to the stairs to where Celebrimbor had stood, she was greeted also with an emptiness where he should have been.

Where are the explanations, Celebrimbor? Even we who know the truth of those forges do not understand – where are you now to lead us, O Lord of the Doom of the Mirdain? The lament flitted through Narisiel’s mind darkly, desperately. It must be just perfect to be able to disappear, to avoid all when the problems became to pressing.

It must be just perfect.
It must be just the solution.

It must be very lonely.

[Durelin]

He remembered the look on the messenger’s face. It had been pure terror, his face devoid of almost all its natural colour. Celebrimbor was still speaking at that point, and Maegisil had turned to the elf with anger when he felt a hand on his arm. The messenger was a guard, on duty at the city gates, and it looked like he had ran all the way to the city’s center, the palace. He breathlessly informed Maegisil of the reason for his urgency and fright, and the counselor then understood. Someone had arrived at the city gate: a man, a dark one…and the leader of the dread army that would bring Sauron’s wrath to Eregion.

Maegisil had left his wife frightened and worried for her husband's safety, and though he had wanted to stay with her and share in her tears, he knew he had a duty to his people, one that Lord Celebrimbor had up till this point neglected. He knew it was perhaps hypocritical to think this, as he had done very little for his people, and had not been strong enough to stand up to his lord and tell him what he was doing wrong. Perhaps he would have saved lives if he had done so. The thought of this frightened him to no end, and he quickly returned his mind to focus on the situation at hand.

This man who had arrived was truly an emissary from the Dark Lord. Only the Servant of Morgoth would have been able to enforce even the pretense of control over such a being. “I will pave over your city with the blood of your people…” Those heart-wrenching words still rung in his ears as he stood before Lord Celebrimbor once again. He felt as if he were a new person, seeing the lord sitting there, but knowing that Celebrimbor was not truly there anymore… He felt very alone, and prayed that Narisiel would arrive as he wished she would. He had sent a guard to find her on his way back to the palace with his new and unfortunate acquaintance, and though he did not expect her to come, he hoped that she would want to hold on to some scraps of loyalty to Celebrimbor in order to help Eregion. She had her family to take care of, though. It was not her job to baby-sit a lord as well.

“Milord, here are the emissaries sent by the Dark Lord to parley with you,” he muttered, now finding himself disgusted by formalities concerning the elf-lord.

Celebrimbor looked even more disheveled than how Maegisil had left him before. It seemed that speaking to his people, despite his past charisma and rhetoric, was now a tasking experience for him. The counselor did not feel any sympathy for his lord, though. He had run out of that feeling some time ago.

“Ah, then we shall hear what Mordor has to say.”

The elf-lord still sounded like one who has given up all hope, though now there was a new component to his attitude: the pretense of indifference. He was one who pretended he had accepted his defeat, denying the fact that he could not accept his defeat and ignoring emotions that were too strong and too deep for him to control. The dreadfully imposing presence in the room did not help Celebrimbor’s situation.

The man…no, the creature…looked down at the Lord of Eregion and skipped any formalities. It seemed that he would have spat on the elf if he did not have a certain amount of dignity that separated him from the majority of Sauron’s minions, the mindless orcs. It was obvious by his escort that he was at least smart enough to know that orcs were not the most trustworthy creatures, nor really worthy of anything. Maegisil held the man in almost as low regards, but he was not above speaking to him…not that he had much of a choice. This dark one was used to having his demands met, and Maegisil knew that he was not in the position to outright refuse them. He was now only afraid that Celebrimbor might go even farther than that. How ready was he to declare himself defeated?

[CaptainofDespair]

Angoroth could feel the arrogance of the Elves bearing down on him. It weighed heavy and hot upon his shoulders, like a far-flung molten boulder spat from the mouth of Mount Doom itself. He could not help but think a most pleasurable thought; forcing the Elves into submission, and dissolving their haughty ways, much as the sea washes away the sand. He stood before the Lord of the City, the once proud Celebrimbor, with Ulrung held slightly back and to the right. The other counselors and various representatives still surrounded their Lord, both protecting him physically, and symbolically. They stood with him, at least on the surface. That much Angoroth surmised from their forlorn eyes.

“And so it is complete, Celebrimbor,” mused the dark one. “Your father and grandfather fell to a similar fate. Now, it is time for you to fulfill the Oath, and take your place alongside them.” The elf-lord’s face shot up, as his eyes pierced into Angoroth’s, looking for some deeply embedded seed of knowledge, a tome that might reveal where this man had gotten such information. But, the dark one felt this, and countered. “Delve into your mind, O’ Pathetic Lord. Then, you will know who I am. I am no servant of a false Dark Lord in Mordor, but of the True Master, Melkor.” A shockwave of devastating awe spread through the assembled party. Could it be that another Maiar, much like Sauron, had survived the War of Wrath? It had to be so. There was no other explanation that seemed to fit.

Continuing, the Maiar stacked more upon his prior threats. “It is time for business, Celebrimbor. You have been silent, but now is your place. Hand over the Rings and you own person, and I will consider showing some form of mercy to your sniveling people. Do not, and you will all die, in a most cruel and bitter manner.” The elf-lord looked sullen, and did not speak immediately, but hesitated a moment or two. Finally, he spread his lips, and spoke. “I…I…cannot.” The answer did not amuse Angoroth. Beneath the barbute helm that covered his face, a restless anger boiled over into an ecstasy of hatred. Remaining calm and diplomatic, however, he reiterated his prior statement. Celebrimbor knew something, but would not answer in fullness. But, at this time, he seemed to reacquire some lost sense of his dignity. “I…will not relinquish what is the right of the Elves to keep!” In some twisted way, this showing of pride amused the Maiar. “You speak of rights, when you have none. You are but tenants upon this earth. You have no rights, and nor can you deny what is sought by those above your station.”

He was beginning to feel a bit of irritation. Dealings with the Elves were destined to be drawn out affairs, with their arrogant auras about them, and always ended in irritation. Thinking that their status with the Valar and Illuvatar gave them some sort of special say over all matters, they had sunken into an entrenched, defensive manner of arrogant rebuttal. Gathering himself once more, Angoroth spoke, “If that is your choice, then so be it. You have sealed the fates of every last denizen of this City. But, perhaps your faithful companions might turn your faulty thinking into a reasonable conclusion. Until that point, you may see this as the preface to a quick and bloody war.”

Motioning for a silent Ulrung to follow, they descended from the palace under heavy guard to the main gate. As they came upon it, Maegisil, who continued to follow the escort, silently motioned for them to depart from the city. But, as they prepared to exit, Angoroth had a stroke of cruel amusement. Leaning towards the counselor, he reached under his cloak into a pouch strapped to his belt, and extended his clenched fist. “I can see in your eyes, that you have a wife. You worry for her safety, and wish for her deep love. Give this ring to her, my own signet. I will undoubtedly reclaim it anyhow, so you might as well make peace with her, elf.” A dumbstruck Maegisil could only feel the ring being pressed into his open palm, and his fingers clasping around it, as he watched the dark ones pass through the gate.

Once out of sight of the city’s walls, their horses already tiring from the long day, Ulrung turned to Angoroth and spoke, with new sense of fear instilled in him. “Milord, what is to happen next? I would think it best not to allow them to recover from our visit.” The Servant of Morgoth, already weary from the chatter of Eregion, could only reply unenthusiastically. “We will…wait, Ulrung. Let the fear of my coming bring despair upon them. But, soon we will lay siege to them.” Ulrung nodded. His lord was a bit above his station, and he knew well of Angoroth’s penchant for slaying captains whom he did not like. “Also, Captain, recall all the orc war parties. It will soon be time to give them my orders.”

[piosenniel]

Under cover of darkness, Riv and his five companions crept as quickly as they could from hillock to hillock. Each had rubbed a thin layer of mud over the metal fittings of helm, shield, weapons, and mail so that no stray shaft of new moonlight betrayed them with its glintings. Not wanting to alert any enemy who might be listening in the darkness, they spoke no words to one another; only kept close enough that each might pass back the signals from the leader to the man following.

The West Gate was in sight when a sudden fall of pebbles and debris skittered down the mountain side. They crouched down quickly in the deep shadows of a rocky outcropping. Their dark eyes darted round them, looking for any signs of movement.

A breathless eternity passed, or so it seemed to Riv, before the signal was given to move on. And then the entryway was reached and passed, the Dwarf guards motioning them in quickly through the gate as others stood ready to defend against attack. The six Dwarves took no time to make themselves more presentable before they went to wake the King.

Alerted by his guards, he sat yawning in his chair as they entered his chambers. He’d had a skin of ale brought and cups and bade his serving man pour drinks all around. ‘Sit, sit,’ he urged the companions, pulling his robe closer about him in the chilly night air.

‘There’s been an embassy of some sort to the Elves,’ began the group’s leader. ‘We couldn’t get too close but we could see it wasn’t Sauron. Some big fellow, tall, was the leader. All dressed in black from head to toe, even his hair was dark as a starless night. Wore a great sword. And another man, shorter, rougher looking rode with him. It was just them and a few troops that came before the Elven gates.’

Riv spoke up, then saying, that even at a distance, there fell a dark pall of arrogant malice from the riders. ‘No, not both the riders,’ he reconsidered, ‘but the one dressed in black seemed like those old ones they tell about, in the old stories . . . the ones from the West who fought alongside the Dark One, Bauglir.’ Riv shook off a chill that had crept between his shoulders at the thought of such a one. ‘Large as he was, his body seemed barely able to contain the malevolence that issued from him. The Elves let the dark one and the other who followed him into the city. Then the two left unscathed, a short while later. We dared not follow them.’

It was late into the night, almost morning, in fact, before the King finished speaking with the six Dwarves. He had had his captains roused from their beds to hear the story repeated. Many questions were asked and re-asked. And accounts from other Dwarven parties who’d been out patrolling in other areas were considered in light of this most recent report.

Weary and still bearing the mud and dust with which he’d disguised himself, Riv made his way at last to the Stonecut hall. A kettle had been left on the hob, and he made himself a stout cup of tea. There would be little time for sleep this day, he thought to himself. War would soon be upon the Elves and the King would be wanting to lend what aid he might against the coming darkness.

[Arry]

‘You know, you’d better get yourself cleaned up before Unna sees the mud you’ve tracked all over!’ Skald poured himself a mug of steaming tea, lacing it with a generous helping of honey, and pulled out the chair opposite his brother. He sipped at the hot brew, looking out over the rim of his mug as he did so, grinning at the raggedy sight that presented itself.

Riv sat slumped against the back of his chair, his feet resting on the seat of another chair he’d pulled up close. Clots of dried mud fell onto the wooden seat as he shifted himself for comfort. His dirty, mud stained hands cradled the mug of tea he’d made for himself. Occasionally they would raise it to his mouth, in a bone weary manner. Skald’s grin faded from his face as he looked carefully at his brother. Beneath the layer of dirt and grime, Riv’s skin was pale, the area about his eyes drawn. He looked into some unseen distance, unbounded by the thick stone that formed the kitchen’s wall not ten paces away.

Skald scooted in closer to the table. Placing his elbows on its surface, he leaned forward, resting his chin on clasped hands. ‘Riv?’ he said. And then once again, more loudly. ‘Riv? What’s got into you? You look as if you’ve seen some old hobgoblin, like the ones Gran tried to scare us with in her stories.’

[Amanaduial the archer]

Almost immediately that Sirithlonnior turned towards the palace, Narisiel started after him; he deserved the truth, he deserved to know that which she was guilty - and innocent - of withholding from him. But almost as soon as she moved, an earnest voice halted her in her tracks. "Narisiel Mirdain?"

She turned, impatiently, and was confronted by a determined looking guard who she did not recognise, although he wore the insignia of Lord Celebrimbor's palace. Her face hardened. "I have nothing to say to the Lord Celebrimbor, you may tell him that-"

"No, I bear a message from the Counsellor Maegisil," the guard interrupted her. "He asked me to come to you with some urgency, requesting that you meet with himself and Celebrimbor, that there are...certain events that he wishes you to be privy to..." It was evident that the guard was speaking with some delicacy - after all, there were still many citizens nearby - but despite this indication that these 'events' were probably therefore of some importance, the ambiguousity of his words just frustrated Narisiel. Standing torn for a moment, she glance across at the place where Sirithlonnior had been, and found no sign of her husband. She made up her mind: she had spent too much time now holding Celebrimbor's hand, maybe, finally, it was time to realign her priorities...

"I have no time for this," she replied firmly. "I...I have no time. I cannot. I am sorry..." Stumbling away, Narisiel felt a pang of guilt, not for Celebrimbor, but for Maegisil - it was, after all, he who had sent for her, not Celebrimbor. What if he was in some sort of trouble now? How could she leave him in the lurch...but she had her own troubles to look after for now... Looking around frantically, she still found no sight of Sirithlonnior and at the entrance to the palace which he had gone through an angry crowd was now swelling, waxing and waning against the experienced, fiercely calm guards who stood against the doors, preventing the dissatisfied elves from entering. Had Sirith gone through into the palace to confront Celebrimbor, or had he merely taken the shorter route to their home? For a moment, Narisiel felt at a loss, but it was a barely a moment, then she turned up the courtyard steps to take an alternative route to their home. No matter how hard times had been for them, two centuries of marriage meant that she still knew her husband better than any other...

Or I hope so anyway...

~*~

"Mother!"

Artamir cried out after his mother's back as she retreated, but his words fell upon deaf ears: already she was too far away. The young soldier, caught up among the crowd, struggled forward, but he was pushing against the surge of the rest of the crowd who were already swelling towards the palace, a wave of dissatisfaction and fear surging forward. Tall as he was, Artamir looked around frantically and saw that his father was also gone; cursing their disappearance, Artamir also felt the fear and sickness in his stomach as he knew that another row was coming, and that this time...this time... He gritted his teeth and pushed once more against the crowd, battling his way through the people, a strange mix of anxiety and anger propelling him: anger that his mother could have withheld information from them, anxiety that he was wrong and also...also for the reasons why. Surely, with the amount of time Narisiel had spent at the palace, she would have known, or at least had some indication that there was a war to come...

...but maybe that stood also for his father? The thought stung Artamir and he finally reached the edge of the crowd, almost staggering as he broke through the barrier of the claustrophobic mass of people. Sirithlonnior was a high ranking soldier now, close to the commanders, although he would not have boasted about it in so many words, being relatively young for such a position...but that being as it was, wouldn't such a high-ranking soldier have heard something about an oncoming war? There had been rumours, of course, Artamir had heard them, of course, of course...but what if his parents had known their sources? How could they have kept something like that from him, their only son, their soldier son, who a war could...?

Artamir blocked the end of the thought out, hardly daring to mention it, even to himself. He was a foot soldier, and a young one as well: the first who would go into battle, this 'doom' that Celebrimbor had promised. Swallowing his tears back, the young elf broke into a run, heedless of the distant calls behind him, running towards his house, his parents, only one thought forming in his mind.

They couldn't have...

[piosenniel]

‘Old hobgoblin . . . and don’t I wish that was all it was that I had seen.’ Riv shifted himself in his chair and gave a grim chuckle. ‘Old Gran’s goblins were scary as ever back then, but we could always hide out beneath our quilts and wait til the night passed and the sun flooded down the shafts, driving them all away.’ He put moved his feet from off the chair he’d propped them on and put them down heavily on the floor.

‘I saw something on my last patrol; something I’d not seen before, nor having seen it, wish to see again . . .’ Skald raised his brows at this statement but kept quiet, knowing his older brother would continue when he’d gathered his thoughts. In bits and pieces the report to the King came out. And at first the man clad all in black was merely mentioned as the one who led the embassy to the Elven city. But then Riv’s tone took on a different tone, and an undercurrent of dread crept in.

‘It’s not so much that he was a large man,’ he said trying to describe the man in black. ‘Nor was it that his visage was terrible or his weapon horrific.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘No, it was that his very presence seemed to suck in the light, obliterating it. Drawing all hope from the air about him; leaving a bone chilling dread in its wake.’

Riv shivered though the kitchen was quite warm from the stove and the fire in the hearth. ‘I have a very bad feeling about this battle that’s coming up,’ he went on. ‘Hordes of Orc are one thing, but this fellow is just bad news.’ He stirred a little more honey into his tea then looked directly at his brother. ‘I think there is something we should speak of.’ Skald kept quiet still, waiting for Riv to go on.

‘I’m the oldest son in the family,’ he began. ‘Should something happen . . .’ He waved Skald to silence as he began to protest. ‘Should something happen,’ he began again, ‘I want you to promise me that you will step in and see that Unna and my children are looked after. You will be the eldest then, I need your assurance that you will do this for me. It will settle my mind somewhat about going into battle if I have your word.’

A sharp intake of breath came from the kitchen’s doorway. Unna stood there, having come quietly up while the brothers were speaking. ‘What’s all this grim talk?’ She stamped her foot and looked hard at the two of them. ‘And what’s this I hear about me? Am I to be traded about like a sack of oats?’

[Arry]

Skald stood quickly, knocking over his chair as he did so. His gaze pivoted from Riv to Unna and back again to his brother. ‘I . . . I can hardly think what to answer you . . . either of you.’ He pulled out a chair for Unna then righted his own and sat down heavily. His faced was flushed; the tips of his ears crimsoned with confusion and awkwardness.

‘Nay, nay! You’re surely no sack of oats!’ He blushed again, but stammered on. ‘It’s Riv that will have to tell you what he saw near the Elven city, Unna,’ he began, pulling on his beard as he collected his thoughts. ‘It was something terrible though . . . really terrible, it must have been . . . for him to say such things and ask such questions.’ He paused for a moment, then looked squarely at his brother.

‘First let me say this . . . nothing is going to happen to you . . . nothing . . . you hear me!’ Skald’s had risen to a distressed tone. ‘But for your peace of mind . . . and for mine, because I know you’ll hound me til you get the answer you seek . . . I swear I’ll do as you ask . . . as best I can . . . and as Unna allows,’ he added, looking toward her.

He ended with a sigh, seeing Riv nod to him. ‘Mayhap you two should discuss this in private,’ nodding at the both of them. In a hollow effort to lighten the heavy atmosphere in the room, he pointed to the mucky footsteps Riv had made on the kitchen floor. ‘And perhaps you can persuade my brother to clean himself up a bit . . .’

With a tired grunt Riv rose from his seat and offered a begrimed hand to Unna. She took it, with a hard look at him, and bringing it up to her, rested her cheek against it for a moment, a look of pain and puzzlement in her eyes.

Skald watched them as they left the room. He got up, too, and walking to the sink, poured out his mug of tea. A few steps to his right and he brought down the skin of ale that hung on the wall. With a shaking hand, he poured one mug of it and downed it in one gulp. Pouring another, he brought it and the skin back to the table.

‘Mahal take the dark demon and all his Orcs!’ he rasped out. He emptied his mug again and slammed it down on the table. Another mugful was poured, the foam from it running over the sides to puddle on the table . . .

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo now sat at the dining table in his home. Sunlight peered through the windows high on the wall. He rested his face in his hands; his gloves lay on the table near him. Alassante stood with her hands on the back of one of the elegant chairs, listening closely to Cainenyo's story. He had told her about Celebrimbor's announcement and was now finishing the end of his and Arenwino's row.

"And where is Arenwino now?" Alassante asked. Her eyes looked worried but she kept her composure.

"I don't now," Cainenyo said. He shifted his chin from one hand to another. "He stomped off. He's probably buying a sword and armor now." Cainenyo sighed. Alassante moved to her husband and put her arms around his shoulders.

"Don't worry. He's fine. He'll come back." She kissed her husband on the cheek. "Should I pack my belongings? Didn't Celebrimbor want us to escape to the West?" She looked worried, for the city and for her son.

Cainenyo stood. "Yes, I think he did want those who wouldn't fight to leave the city," he said, "We should all be ready when the orcs come. I'll get my sword." Alassante frowned, disappointed that her husband would fight. But she understood that it was best.

[Folwren]

‘Holy smokes, Skald!’ Bror exclaimed bursting into the kitchen like a great bolt of lightning. ‘What are you doing?’ Skald looked up at him, not in the least amused, apparently. There was a black look in his eyes, angry at being disturbed. ‘Don’t just stare at me,’ Bror said sharply. ‘That’s the third mug full you’ll be drinking in less than two minutes.’

Skald’s glare became darker, even less amused by the thought that this was the second time in a row that he’d been watched from the doorway. He deliberately lifted that third mug of ale to his lips and began to down it, too. He likely would have finished it in as little time as the others, but Bror took the remaining two steps to him, and with one blow sent the whole mug, ale and all, spinning from Skalds hand. Bror lifted his chin in defiance as Skald bounded to his feet.

‘You don’t just try to get drunk on a normal bases, Skald Stonecut,’ Bror said, thoroughly alarmed at Skald’s behavior. ‘Is Riv dead or something? No, there are all the marks here that he’s come home. What’s wrong with you? Who were you talking about? What orcs?’ He knew what orcs, he took that back. ‘What dark demon? Did Riv tell you what he saw?’

There were too many questions pounding around in his head. Skald - usually patient, and rarely angry unless he’d done some trick or prank that he didn’t necessarily deserve - looked on the verge of strangling him, and no where near the humor of answering all the questions. But the more Bror realized this, the faster some undefined fear and terror rose inside him. Had something happened to Riv? Was the City of Elves already destroyed? Were the dark forces on their doorstep?

The thoughts sped through his mind faster than can be recorded, and in expectant fear, he waited for Skald to make some sort of reply.

[Arry]

‘Not drunk enough yet, little brother. Not by half!’ Skald brought his grim gaze to bear on Bror. ‘How could he ask me that? How could he even think that?’ Skald’s words slipped out with a strangled gasp, his eyes shifting to where Riv and Unna had disappeared down the hallway. With a resigned thud, he sat down, cradling his head in his hands.

‘Fetch me some tea, Bror. Strong tea. And a chunk of bread to sop up what ale’s left in my belly.’

He fell silent, watching his brother move about the kitchen . . . slicing the bread . . . putting the jam on that he knew Skald favored . . . making the tea . . . For a moment the ordinary scene skewed and it was him fetching a mug and bit of bread for Riv in earlier days – with him asking advice on this and that and Riv there to give it.

I shall have to do that now . . . he thought with a start. That’s what he’s asked me, and I’ve said yes. He shook his head slightly. No amount of ale or Dwarven spirits’ll make it disappear . . .

Once the tea and bread were set before him, Skald mumbled a thanks and nodded toward the chair opposite him. ‘Sit down, Bror. My head’s clearing a bit. We need to talk. I’ll be needing your help on this if it comes to pass.’

With an economy of words, Skald laid out what Riv had told him of the embassy from Sauron to the Elves. He spoke of Riv’s fears and the request that Riv had made of him. ‘So that’s what happened just before you came in to find me trying to drown myself in with a skinful of ale.’ He gave a half-hearted laugh. ‘And now isn’t that just what Riv hadn’t asked for!’

His face became more serious. ‘It is something we do have to think about. And while I have the highest hopes none of this will come to pass, still we need to think about it . . . the both of us . . . you and me. You’re the next Stonecut brother in line. You’ve got to help me take care of Riv’s family if he’s not here, and if we’re both not around, then it falls to you completely.’ He took a long pull at his cooling tea. ‘Of course this could all be a moot point if we can figure out some way to keep us all hale and hearty.’

Skald sighed resignedly, knowing it wouldn’t be so.

‘There’s more Elves from Lorien coming through to Ost-in-edhil, though. They’ll still need us to go with them to see them safe to the city . . . and what if the King decides after all that his friendship with Celebrimbor is worth sending a great number of our warriors to his aid. And even if he doesn’t, there will still be the battles we have to fight with the Orcs if we’re to try to pick up refugees from the city. Where will we take them? To Lorien?’

‘So many unanswered questions,’ he said quietly. ‘So many . . .’

[Folwren]

But those many questions were lost on Bror. Different sort of questions were spinning on Bror’s mind. More and more as the minutes went by in silence. Finally he opened his mouth, but the words stuck in his throat. He lacked the ability to handle the emotion that Skald’s story gave him. His eyes were empty for a moment, trying to grasp in full what Skald had just imparted. Riv had asked him to do what? But he wasn’t going to die! He couldn’t! Riv had asked him to-

‘Look after Unna and Leifre and Ginna?’ Bror burst out, mid thought. ‘But Riv’s not going to die! Skald, he can’t die! He has - he has a wife, and...and two children!’ His voice was rising without his taking notice of it. He leaped up and backed away, as though he could run from the trouble he faced with. ‘And you can’t die either. I’m not the next Stonecut in line, I’m the last. The last, Skald. I can’t do that.’ He lifted his hands and dug them into his eyes, trying hard to calm himself. But his head had begun to hurt in the midst of Skald’s speaking, and now it pounded, and the blood churned in his ears.

The night of the conversation with Uncle Orin came back to mind, and from there it drifted to his short scouting excursion, and the horrible sight he had seen. Involuntary tears stung his eyes and he ground his teeth to keep them back. He heard Skald get up and come towards him a few paces. He began to speak but Bror stopped him.

‘No, Skald. Don’t explain.’ He was calm enough to talk sensibly now. ‘It just took me by surprise. I can’t...I don’t understand, though. Orin said that we won’t be fighting in open battle. He has hopes that we won’t, anyway. Is it...are we going to, then? Is it a certainty?’ He still held a small hope that what Orin had said may still be true, but the more he heard this evening, the more he came to think that avoiding fighting would be impossible.

He lifted his eyes to meet Skald’s and the look that he encountered was so full of uncertainty and fear and grief of what may be to come, that he was sorry he had asked any further into the issue. He walked backed towards the table, dropping his gaze, and waving his hand.

‘Never mind. It won’t do us any good speculating.’ He sat down heavily and laid his head on the table, a posture he hadn’t taken for years. ‘Where’s Riv?’

[Firefoot]

It hadn’t been more than a day or two before their company, along with all other raiding parties in the area, had been recalled back to the main force. Though Ulwakh and Grimkul had, to an extent, been able to blend into the monstrous camp, life was little improved. Ulwakh’s leg was bothering him immensely; it seemed to have become infected again. To distract himself, he was currently skewering a living mouse with his twisted daggers, taking a perverse pleasure in its pained squeaks. He knew it wouldn’t be long before it died; mice were not terribly hardy animals.

Grimkul had settled into a dark temper that refused to be lightened; Ulwakh knew it would only be a matter of time before he exploded in fury. He was stewing a little way away, becoming increasingly annoyed with Ulwakh’s fiddling with the small animal. Grimkul knew best of anyone that he was not suited for army life; he was sick and tired of it. He wanted to return to his dark mountain haunts, with no orders to obey but his own will, and perhaps occasionally Ulwakh’s word of advice. Yes, that was what he wanted, and why shouldn’t he have it?

Abruptly, he stood up. Ulwakh paid little attention until he spoke: “I’m leaving.” Ulwakh’s head jerked up in surprise; his knife slipped, cutting deep into the rodent. With a last cry of agony, the mouse slipped gratefully into death.

Ulwakh scowled, first at the mouse, then at Grimkul. “What do you mean, you’re leaving? You can’t just walk away from the camp!”

“Yes, I can, and I'm going to. Filthy pushdug commanders can try and stop me. Come if you want.” With that, he strode off into the camp. Ulwakh jumped up in alarm, wincing at the sudden movement of his leg. Surely this was a death trap! If he followed Grimkul and they were caught (as they almost certainly would be), they would be undoubtedly be punished, maybe to the point of death. But if he stayed and let Grimkul go alone, he knew he would be an easy target for the other Orcs in the camp. He glanced around uneasily before hurriedly limping after Grimkul. He wouldn’t go with, he decided, not unless everything seemed likely to succeed – but that meant he had to have an eye on Grimkul. He’d go to the edge of camp for now, no farther.

Grimkul didn’t give a care anymore what Ulwakh thought he ought to do. He couldn’t remember the last time Ulwakh had given him a really good reason to do something other than he just shouldn’t. The mountains were there, and he was going. Just someone try and stop him.

[Durelin]

Maegisil stood on his small balcony overlooking the streets of the city of Ost-in-edhil, playing with the ring in his hand. There was always something about rings. He stared out into the sky, which was growing a pale grey and pink with a mild sunset. The city had grown mostly quiet after all the chaos of the day. But it was a disconcerting feeling for it to be so quiet, particularly when you knew what horrors lay within a few miles of your own home. Soldiers were all that one could see moving, their mail softly shimmering red in the dying light. Maegisil turned around to peek through the door leading into his house to catch a glimpse of his wife within, busy with something. She was always keeping herself busy, and Maegisil did not blame her. Now that Celebrimbor had no more need for Maegisil's help, the counselor had too much time to think.

Turning back to look down at his hands, which still fiddled with the ring the dark creature had given him. He wondered what it must have been like, when Celebrimbor held one of his Rings in his hands, a beautiful piece of craftsmanship finally completed after years of work. Could he feel the magic in it? Did he also feel the treachery, even before he put it on? Was it a desire to have power that made him don his Three Rings, at least for a moment, until he realized fully the mistake he had made?

Suddenly Maegisil found himself slipping the ring onto his finger. He jumped when he felt its cold weight, but he felt nothing strange about the ring. It was simply a signet, as the creature had said. What else had he said? Maegisil wondered if the dark one had indeed suggested what the elf thought he had. Was there truly a way he could save Sairien? He could save himself, too. He did not want to die. He was a good soldier, and was the protector of his lord for hundreds of years. Now, he was the protector only of his wife, and of himself. Sairien wanted a child, and he had never been able to give her that. He felt that he had never been able to give her what she wanted, though he always desired to. It seemed they were running out of time. He needed more time; he was not ready to depart from Middle-earth yet, in any way.

~

Celebrimbor sat in his chair, staring sightlessly at an elaborate wall hanging. He had been there, slouched over and looking lost for hours. The arrival of an actual physical presence of Sauron through the emissary had been more than enough to destroy what was left of the lord's courage and faith. He thought about getting up and moving just far enough to make it into the next room and into his bed, but he was unable to make himself budge. It seemed he was lucky he could still exert enough effort to breath.

His thoughts were wild. One moment he was filled with guilt and grief, wanting to wail that it was all his fault, that it was he who brought doom to the Mírdain. The next moment, his mind darkened, and he was filled with anger, considering the possibilities, if only he had kept his Rings. He could have stood up to the might of Sauron, as the Rings of the Lord Celebrimbor were the most powerful - even Sauron knew that. They would be his, and he would be an everlasting presence of power and glory on Middle-earth, even when the population of his people dwindled and the race of Men grew. He could have been a King. Why should Gil-galad be the only King? He was certainly no King in Eregion. Lindon was far away to the West, and it was the East that both Elves and Men had to stand against.

I could have been responsible for the end of Sauron, not the end of my people. But I have no power now.

Several miles to the East of the great walls of Ost-in-edhil, the Dark Lord's army was fully assembled, and preparing their attack. It was too late even for surrender, now. Angoroth's cruel smile announced what all had been waiting for: Sauron's army would begin their siege before dawn.

I have no power now, if ever I had any...

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ulrung cursed the sorry fate that had led him into this miserable Orc camp. For the past day he had carefully followed the directive of his Master: to recall the Orc war parties in preparation for the fight that was soon to begin. Ulrung valued his skin too much to delegate the task to underlings. Underlings had a way of failing one at just the wrong moment. He had heard and seen what happened to officers who failed to live up to Angoroth's expectations. He had no intention of becoming one of those captains who lost the favor of the Master and ended up dead.

Despite Ulrung's initial resolve, he was sick of riding into Orc camps and negotiating with Orc officers. The overwhelming stench and disarray was almost more than any man could bear. He had faithfully carried Angoroth's message from camp to camp surrounded by a small but loyal bodyguard. At more than one point, he had spoken with Orcs who were so surly and defiant that he might have feared for his life, had it not been for the presence of his armed retinue. He was currently not in a very good mood, although he had been generally successfully in bludgeoning and bribing the Orc captains to comply with Angoroth's request.

"Cursed Orcs!" he muttered to himself. "So stupid that they do not even know who they are dealing with." Whoever or whatever Angoroth was, Ulrung was quite certain that his Master could take down a whole troop of Orcs by merely lifting a finger or two and giving them a frozen stare. Ulrung had just finished dealing with several of the Orc captains and was about to ride out of camp when he glimpsed two particularly stupid Orcs who were nervously walking up and down the far boundary of the camp and gazing outward with sheer desire in their eyes. It seemed quite clear to Ulrung that the two were about to desert, as soon as darkness and opportunity came their way.

Brandishing his sword over his head, he growled under his breath to the soldier riding at his side, "I've had it with these idiots. We need an example! Let's take these two back to their captain and threaten to execute them. Perhaps we'll do it and perhaps not, but at least we'll give them a scare."

In a loud voice he bellowed, "You two! Why are you skulking about on the edge of camp? Thinking of leaving us, huh? I can see your intentions in your eyes. Why aren't you back with the others making preparations for battle? Is this what your captain let's you do?"

Before the startled Orcs could even respond, Ulrung gave orders to his men who proceeded to herd the pair back to camp, tying a rope firmly about their waists. Coming to the very center where a giant fire burned, the Easterling captain snarled in a loud voice, "Where is the captain of these men? Answer now, or I swear I will roast every Orc officer in this camp over the firespit, and have them served to the soldiers for dinner!" Ulrung glanced around waiting for someone to answer.

[Arry]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Encaitare]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do as you will, lieutenant."

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

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

[Child of the 7th Age]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Firefoot]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Envinyatar]

News of the Dwarves and the Lorinand discussed

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

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

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

-^-^-^-^-^-

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

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

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

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

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

[Folwren]

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

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

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

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

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

‘I’ll go,’ Bror said quietly.

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Mithalwen]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Durelin]

Firefoot's Post

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

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

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

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

Ulwakh wished Grimkul would yell and rage.

[Durelin]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I will come back for you.”

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

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

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

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

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

[CaptainofDespair]

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

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

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

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

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

~*~

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

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

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

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

[Alcarillo]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Nurumaiel]

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

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

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

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

She laughed lightly and tossed her head.

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

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

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

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

"What's happening?" she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

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

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

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

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

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

[Envinyatar]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Folwren]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Arry]

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

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

‘I want to stay.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Folwren]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Envinyatar]

Two brothers on the eve of battle

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

[Arry]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Folwren]

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

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

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

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

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

[Firefoot]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Child of the 7th Age]

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

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

[Arry]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Amanaduial the archer]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

[Folwren]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Arry]

‘. . . you can’t take Riv’s place.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

[CaptainofDespair]

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

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

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

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

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

[Durelin]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Alcarillo]

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

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

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

"To the gates of the city!"

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

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

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

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

[Firefoot]

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

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

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

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

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

[Child of the 7th Age]

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

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

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

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

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

[Mithalwen]

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

[Durelin]

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

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

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

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

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

[CaptainofDespair]

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

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

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

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

~*~

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

[Encaitare]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Folwren]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Kath]

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

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

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

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

[Alcarillo]

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

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

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

[Firefoot]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[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.

----------

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.”

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo had found Alassante in the camp. Their reunion was happy and tearful. Cainenyo was so relieved to find his family in one piece. They were all alive: Alassanter, Arenwino, even little Nessime. He heard their story of escape over and over again, amazed at their survival from the burning city. And they heard Cainenyo's story about the fighting at the gate and running through the alleys and searching for a way out. He kept close to his family in the next few weeks, always thankful they were still alive.

Once, while the refugees were camped near the Hollin Ridge, Cainenyo and Alassante left Nessime with her older brother and took a walk through the forest. They climbed as far up the hills as they dared, and even saw far away the last wisps of smoke from the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil. Standing on a rocky outcrop, they watched the smoke for some time.

"Where will we live now?" Alassante said after several minutes of silence, "We have no home."

"We will go with the rest of the survivors. We might even found a new city, just as beautiful as Ost-in-Edhil," Cainenyo said. He wrapped a comforting arm about his wife. She sighed, and hugged him back.

"We should return to the camp. The children are waiting," she suggested. They climbed their way back down the hill and to the camp, where the children waited with the rest of the families.

[Mithalwen]

Losrian was a little surprised by Ondomirë's request. Though she had ridden alongside him for a fortnight now she felt she knew him little better. She had been ostensibly and actually treated as one of his men. There had been a few smirks and raised eyebrows when she had first joined his company of archers but now she was accepted simply as one of them and she often now set her bedroll among their ranks rather than joining the refugees, unless it was her turn to mind the children. .

Perhaps though his indifference had been easier to bear than this sudden increased attention. For two weeks she had felt pangs of joy on seeing him each morning and regret if higher matters kept him away from the company long. The accidental brush of his hand against hers sent a frisson up, it seemed, to her heart causing a dull ache. She was no longer able to deceive herself even though she managed to hide her feelings to the outside world well enough. "You fool, Losrian," she had chided herself, "falling in love with the first man who shows you any kindness. Why would someone like him be interested in you - he who must have had the choice of ladies noble, fair and wise? He took pity on you that is all ...."

Her brother had used to tease her about Artamir, speculate whether the handsome son was the true reason she had been so keen to be his mother's apprentice, and that if so, she was aiming high. So much higher was Ondomirë that she might as well try to take a star in her grasp. Consequently she strived to master the secret rush of delight at his words reasoning that the "pleasant company" referred to her little nephew and his friends whose antics she now found absolutely enchanting.

"Of course my Lord, you are most welcome, Galmir can be most diverting though I fear you will not find his conversation elevating", Losrian rose to her feet and fell into step beside Ondomirë as they walked towards the area where the refugees were making their camp. Galmir greeted his aunt with delight and she swung him into her arms. "now Gally, say hello to Lor... to Ondomirë.."

"'lo Ondomirë" obliged Galmir stretching out his arms to him and so was transferred. This friend of his aunt's didn't have the fascinating beard of the dwarf, and in the daylight he could see quite well that he was not his ada but he had a braid of dark hair like ada's which just asked to be pulled..... Losrian's attention was drawn by the orphaned girl who stood near, looking hopefully to be included. "Hello Isilmë, do you want to come and eat with us?". the little girl nodded and Losrian took her hand.

Ondomirë looked at her enquiringly and Losrian explained swiftly in the Westron so that the children would not understand. "She is an orphan - and Galmir's constant companion. I fear us getting too attached to each other. Although since I must look after one child, I feel I might as well look after two, I know it would be selfish - better for her to be fostered where she might have two parents, if her own kin are not found. However it is hard to deprive her of affection when she has noone. "

Losrian's voice tailed off and she was glad for once that the two children were demanding games while they waited for the evening meal to be ready.

[Envinyatar]

Not all memories are fair ones . . .

As the servants of Morgoth swept up the sheer sides of rock upon which the city rested, his kinsmen had been set along the walls, their great bows raining arrows upon the advancing horde. But it was not enough, strong though their bow arms be and deadly accurate their aim. There were too many of the foul creatures . . . the Orcs . . . the Balrogs which drove them with whips of flame . . . and the dragons upon whose piled up forms the forces of the Constrainer climbed like ants . . .

They had fallen back, defending smaller enclaves in the city . . . falling back further, still, until they stood before the King’s tower, but to no avail. Morgoth would have his day, his dark shadowed army pushing their way over all the fair city, until the bright tower of Turgon was crushed beneath their malice.

His father had ordered Ondomirë to retreat to the house of the King’s daughter. ‘She gathers some of our folk to leave the city. Your bow and blade must be there to protect them.’ He hurried, fighting those foe who would bar his way with a savageness that nearly matched their own.

There were only a few of the Gondrolindrim that had managed to make it to Idril’s house; and even less were the Folk of the Swallow who were counted in their number. It was a frantic Ondomirë who searched the faces looking for any of his own family. There were none . . . no sisters . . . no children of their children. And those he spoke to, his voice barely under control shook their heads, their already sorrowful eyes turning away from his new grief.

Another of the warriors grabbed him as he had turned, thinking to make his way to his family’s houses. ‘All of Gondolin is burning now. None remain save the dead who bear witness to Maeglin’s treachery and even now their spirits gather in the Halls of Mandos. This is the last of the seed from our city. Come! We will see it to a fertile and more fair ground.’

Ondomirë recalled his last sight of Gondolin. The Tower of the King was in flames, matching the smaller fires set about the city. Hideous cries of triumph echoed in the smoke-reeked streets, replacing the sweet sounds of the fountains now stoppered up with the dead and dying. His eyes, that had begun to tear up at the understanding of all that was lost, now dried up, too. He put away the memories of faces he had loved; walled away the grief that would have slain him with its sharp blade.

And all these many years he had spent a warrior in the service of Gil-galad . . .

Gally’s chubby little hands tugged hard at Ondomirë’s braid. The little one’s eyes glittered mischievously and laughter, bright and melodious, as ever poured from the fountains of his youth played round the older Elf. A name came unbidden to Ondomire’s lips. ‘Rusco!’ he said aloud, causing the small boy to look up at him for explanation. Ondomirë smiled, holding the wriggling boy at arms’ length. ‘I knew a little foxling, just like you,’ he laughed, tucking Gally against his hip, his arm protectively about him. ‘He pulled my braid, too. Though your grip I think the stronger of the two!’ He looked down at the little one, his face set in a half serious look. ‘And do you know what I would do to him?’ Gally’s eyes went wide and he shook his head ‘no’. ‘I would tickle him!’ Peals of laughter issued forth as Ondomirë put action to words.

‘Enough!’ Ondomirë said, after a short while. He sat down, sitting Gally on the grass near him. ‘And who’s this?’ he asked, noting Isilmë had let go of Losrian’s hand and come near them. On her face was a certain longing to be included, though her shyness held her back. He patted another area on the grass, inviting her to sit near. Gally had already clambered up to sit on his knee and was clapping his hands.

‘Shall we play a little game? To pass the time until supper is ready?’

Ondomirë picked up a small pebble and put it in the middle of his left palm. Closing his fist over it, he hid the hand and his other behind his back and spoke a little nonsense rhyme. When it was done he pulled out both his hands to the front and showed the closed fists to the two children. ‘Pick the hand that has the rock and get a sweet if you find it.’ Little known save to his horse and the cook who kept him supplied with boiled sweets, Ondomirë always had on him a little tin of the sugary confections; a small, hidden weakness, of sorts. When neither of the children made a choice, he nodded to Losrian.

‘Perhaps your auntie will show you how to play.’ He grinned at her, his brow raised, and offered his closed fists to her. ‘Come . . . make your choice. There are sweets to be had.’

[Mithalwen]

Losrian returned the smile. She could not believe how relaxed Ondomirë was with the two children - far more relaxed than he often seemed with adults. She wondered at the source of his reserve but his grey eyes kept their secrets, hiding the wells of memory beyond.

" I think, " she said kneeling in front of him and scooping the Isilmë on to her lap, "it may be the sweet part they don't understand... Galmir, I doubt has ever tasted them - we were under siege all the days of his life and the fare was somewhat plain by the time he was old enough to eat it. As for this little scrap ... she is a bit older but even she may not remember" .

Losrian could hardly remember herself the last time she had tasted such a delicacy but her mind turned to early childhood when she would be rewarded with some sweetmeat. "My mother would say that it will spoil their appetite for supper but I do not think it will do them much harm... Now my poppets - a sweet is a nice thing to eat and you shall have one if we guess correctly. This one! " she finished touching Ondomirë's right hand and meeting his gaze as steadily as she could.

"No stone, no sweet hmm we shall have to try again." But the children had grasped the idea and were soon discovering the bliss of sugar. Losrian sat now next to Ondomirë and knowing that the children were unlikely to be distracted by anything so dull as the converstion of grown-ups she risked her question, she did not look him in the eye now but focused her gaze on the little girl's head, smmothing her soft hair.

"Who was Rusco?"

[Folwren]

After Skald had asked who would go give the Lord Elrond their message of wanting to depart, there had been a short pause. Then Rori and another Dwarf, Floin, offered.

‘Another should go,’ Rori said. ‘Three at least.’

‘Well, I’ll go, too, I guess,’ Bror said, half lifting his hand. ‘No one else seems too keen on telling him.’ He glanced briefly at Skald, but his brother either didn’t see him, or intentionally ignored it. ‘Weapons?’ he queried, glancing back towards Rori and Floin.

Rori gave him a look that showed his disagreement with the offer. ‘We’re not going to go execute him,’ he said. ‘I’m sure they have a bad enough impression of us already, knowing how stuck up they can be and how taken they are with looking as fair as they do. No, no - it wouldn’t do to carry battle axes in to Lord Elrond.’

‘What if he doesn’t let us go?’ Bror grumbled.

‘Don’t show off your ignorance,’ Skald replied quietly.

‘I’ll keep quiet, how’s that?’ Bror offered, picking up his cloak and putting it about his shoulders. ‘Then no one will know any more or less about said ignorance.’

The three Dwarves turned and threaded their way through the groups of elves, and the wagons with the refugees in them, and finally came to where the Lords Elrond and Celeborn and others had set up their tents.

‘Excuse me,’ Rori said, addressing an elf who appeared to be standing on guard. ‘Which is Lord Elrond’s tent?’ The elf looked doubtful and Rori gave his reason. ‘We have a message that we would like to tell him.’

‘Lord Elrond is in conversation with the Counsel Maegisil, from the ruined city. I don’t think that he’ll be able to receive you.’

‘Would you go and see?’ Rori asked, putting on a show of patience. Bror cleared his throat to hide the chuckle and dropped his eyes from the elf’s face. For a moment, the elf didn’t move and then he nodded slightly and turned and walked away. Bror lifted his head and the three of them watched him as he stopped by a tent and spoke with another elf standing there. A few words were exchanged and then he came back.

‘It is impossible to interrupt him.’

‘Tell the Lord Elrond, then, (when he is available), that Rori of the Dwarves would have a word with him. . .at his convenience,’ he added.

‘The message will be delivered.’

The Dwarves thanked him and turned to go back. When they reached the other Dwarves, they were received with inquiring looks, for they hadn’t been gone half as long as they expected. ‘Didn’t even see him,’ Bror said, walking across and sitting down beside his brother. ‘He was indisposed.’

[Envinyatar]

‘Rusco . . . yes, well . . .’

The heat of her shoulder near his arm was disquieting, in a way. He moved a little apart as if he meant to turn and look at her as he spoke. But he did not turn, his gaze held on the two children who had now taken to turning about like little whirlwinds only to fall down giggling on the grass as they got dizzy. He grinned at their antics, and they taking his smile as approval, got up drunkenly and tried again.

His smile faded to a thoughtful look and unthinking, he rubbed his fingers along his right jawline. ‘I wasn’t always Captain of the Archers,’ he said quietly, a hint of humor in his voice at this beginning. ‘Despite the fact that many think I must have sprung bow in hand and quiver at back from my poor mother. Though I understand why they must think so; I have been at it so very long.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I had . . . have,’ he corrected himself, ‘three sisters – two older, and one younger. And many opportunities from all of them to be an uncle and then uncle, also, to the children of my nieces and nephews.’

He waved to Isilmë as she waved to him. ‘They are forgiving and accepting little creatures, are they not? Nothing need be proved to them, save you remain their playmate. And all the awful things that must be done by you in your life apart from them are of no import. It’s ”Uncle, did you bring me sweets?” and “Will you play a game with me?” and “Please, Uncle ‘Mirë! A story!”. That’s all that they require.’

Ondomirë turned his face toward Losrian, his gaze softly considering her for a moment. ‘My younger sister’s daughter bore a son with red highlights in his hair – from his father’s kin. He was called Rusco, a nickname, really . . . little Fox, he was . . .’ Ondomirë fell silent for a space of time, his grey eyes clouded. ‘But he . . . they are gone now. All gone. And Ondolindë fallen silent. We could not save her . . . save them.’

‘Nor your city, either,’ he said as a quiet afterthought. ‘Sometimes, it seems these many years and their attendant battles have proved nothing more than a long defeat despite what gifts and talents we Eldar might bring to them.’

Gally had wandered up to where the two adults sat. His chubby hand patted Ondomirë’s arm. ‘Eat?’ he said, looking hopefully from Losrian to Ondomirë. ‘Gally hungry!’ Ondomirë’s mouth curved up in a smile. ‘Hungry? Me, too, Gally.’

With an economy of motion, he stood, gathering the boy up in the crook of his left arm. He stooped over a little, offering his right hand to the still seated Losrian. ‘Perhaps a full belly might push these grey thoughts away for a while,’ he said, gripping her hand firmly as she rose. ‘Or at least put them into some sort of shortsighted perspective that might make my presence more bearable during a meal.’ He kept his eyes on her face as she stood. ‘That is, of course, If I’m invited to share it with you . . . you, all.’

[Mithalwen]

Losrian's heart filled with emotion that sought release in tears. She quelled the impulse (though her eyes grew too bright for a while), telling herself that this was his grief not hers. But how to express the compassion that she felt so deeply, and the shame that she had ever thought of Galmir as a burden, a duty. Ondomirë had been left quite alone and had it seemed remained so. Before when she had heard he had escaped the fall of Gondolin she had only been in awe of the great events he had witnessed, not equating his personal tragedy with her own. She had not yet either the words to utter, or the nerve to embrace him. All she could do was squeeze the hand that still grasped hers as she rose to her feet.

"Of course... we would love your company; we can offer distraction if not consolation" Losrian stumbled over the words a little... her stomach seemed in such a knot she doubted she would manage to eat at all "in fact I fear you may never be able to rid yourself of Galmir's company. He seems quite at home there ". Her nephew flashed her a mischievous grin before giggling and shaking his dark curls he buried his face in Ondomirë's tunic.

They would have made a fairly unremarkable family group save that the whole camp knew that they were not; Losrian was aware of more than a few interested gazes as they collected bread, cheese and steaming bowls of broth.

Let the gossips stare thought Losrian, realising she no longer cared what the likes of Geldion might think. She held her head high as she walked alongside Ondomirë until they found a quiet spot to sit and eat. Ondomirë managed both to eat and to amuse the children. Losrian smiled as well but took the children's fascination with the soldier to compose her thoughts. Finally as Galmir and Isilmë grew sleepy having eaten their fill, and the stars of Elbereth emerged in the darkling sky, she spoke. Her voice soft and as calm as she could manage she gently laid her hand on his arm.

"You could not save either city but you have saved us - we refugees would have little hope without this guard. Women and children alone in the wilderness? You cannot fire a bow with a child in your arms. ..... it is surely not less honourable to live protecting people than to die protecting a city. " she paused, took a deep breath and continued.

"A long defeat maybe, but there is some virtue in the struggle perhaps? The Noldor have not given up, but regrouped, rebuilt, tried again. Though we have fallen into folly and this latest not the least I fear, there is something that prevents us all seeking the havens... you have not thought of it though you might hope now for reunion with your kin?...." Losrian's voice trailed into silence and she watched Ondomirë's face anxiously.

[Durelin]

Maegisil had been the looking for a way to escape since he entered the Lord's tent, but now he found himself a little more pleased with being there. Elrond had not seem to shown any change in emotion when Maegisil told him the truth of the death of Celebrimbor, but the former counselor noticed that his hands were clenched much more tightly on his chair. Maegisil smirked. It felt good, for some reason, to see some sign of fear, shock, pain...any uncomfortable feeling, in the appearance of the elf-lord. But there was such a small hint of it. Cool, blank expressions, empty tones, haughty disposition...Maegisil wondered what would happen to all of that if Elrond was in the place of Celebrimbor a month ago. For a moment he could see the lord looking as haggard as the deceased, and doing the same: nothing.

“Lord Celebrimbor was faced with many decisions. Because of those, I was faced with my own, and I chose accordingly. Tell me, Lord Elrond, what would you have done?”

His tone was mocking, and his words biting. He once again turned the elf's title into a joke, but again the lord did not laugh. Rather, Elrond's hands tightened a bit more, his knuckles pale. His teeth seemed to be gritted now, most likely in an attempt to keep himself from bursting out in anger at the elf across from him. It seemed that if he let himself go just slightly, he would rise from his seat with sword drawn, prepared to strike Maegisil down, who was only smiling more. Maegisil found it amusing the way these lords felt there was some kind of brotherhood among them, when all there may have been was some of the same blood. The old houses were gone now. The Elven kingdoms had already begun their slow downfall; Eregion was at an end, and Maegisil wondered who would be next. Even when all prospered, the King had no dominion over anything beyond Lindon. Gil-galad was simply a name in Eregion. Celebrimbor may have known him, but Maegisil doubted there was ever a strong bond between the two, particularly after centuries miles apart. No, Celebrimbor had been a craftsman, an artist, a lover of beautiful things. But he was also a lord. And to Maegisil, that meant he was a fool. Whether it was simply due to the person, or the position, he was not sure.

“First you must tell me, Counselor Maegisil,” began Elrond, his tone almost as cool as ever, with only a bit of edge to it, “how exactly you were given this ‘choice.’”

Maegisil practically bared his teeth at the lord at hearing the title before his name. He slouched more in his chair. “I was given a choice, by a creature of the Servant of Morgoth, the commander of the armies that slaughtered my people. I could save my life and that of my wife, or the life of my lord.”

“Why was it that you did not try to save your lord?”

“You make it sound so simple, Lord Elrond.”

“It is a simple question of whether or not you care for your lord and your land.” The Herald of Gil-galad was now clearly growing more and more furious with every moment that he had to see Maegisil's defiant stare, and hear his scornful words. It was so simple to him. It was a simple matter of life or death, for he was a lord. He could have been in Celebrimbor's place; he knew it.

“Lord and land, or love and family. Those who abandoned you, or those you had abandoned. Those are the things that I had to choose between.” He rose up in his chair, and though the lord did not shrink back physically, he saw many things in those grey eyes that he did not like. “Is it really such a simple choice, Elrond? What would you have done?”

The lord seemed about to speak, still in his rage. But then it seemed Maegisil's words reached him, and he sat back more in his seat, in silence, leaving the question unanswered, as it should have been. Maegisil rose to leave, and found himself unhindered. He hesitated for a moment, and it seemed Elrond had found one more thing to say, just in time.

“You really are so much like Celebrimbor used to be, if you have not yet realized it. Were our places exchanged, I would follow you as my lord without misgiving,” he paused, but the mírdan did not turn to him. “Perhaps what I see now is where the elf I knew escaped to.”

Maegisil hurried out of the Herald’s tent, daring not to look the lord in the eyes again, lest he see his own shining with tears.

[Envinyatar]

‘Hope. You know, Men use that word in an interesting way. It is something like a “wish” for them. That somehow the something they wish for will be fulfilled . . . at a later time.’

‘The Eldar, hold hope in a different way, or so it seems to me. We have estel. Not a wish, but how our minds are tempered; that they should be steady, fixed in purpose, not easily dissuaded. Not likely to despair or to abandon intention. We have the assurance of hope already given. We have only to trust in it. Yes, and there’s the hard part, isn’t it . . . the trust.’

‘I think perhaps it would not be so hard to have hope were we all in Tirion.’

He caught the expression on her face as hope fled it. The pressure on his arm lightened as her hand withdrew. He caught it in his own.

‘I’m only thinking aloud, Losrian. It is a fault of mine. Bear with me, if you will. You’ve said some heartfelt things to me; I’m only trying to work them about in my own mind. Along with other thoughts that have occupied much of my waking hours these past weeks.’

‘You gave me your thanks, and I’m grateful for that. And spoke of honor. And of virtue. But it is hope that I wish to speak of now.’ He was quiet for a moment, her hand still held in his.

‘No . . . I do not hope to see my kin soon. I must admit I had thought on it when Gil-galad sent me out with Lord Elrond – that at the end of this campaign I would return to the Havens and sail West. But not now.’

‘Lord Elrond will have need of me. He has already asked that I stay on, even after we reach a place of safety. He brings a rare hope to these lands, I think. I wish to help him accomplish what tasks he has set for himself.’

He fell quiet again. The sounds of the camp as it settled in to rest took up the space his silence left. ‘Ah! I am no good at this!’ he muttered to himself, thinking how much easier it was to command a company of men than it was to speak to Losrian at this moment.

‘I have another hope, m’lady.’

Come, man! he chided himself. Speak! Or act!

He drew her near him, and placing his hands aside her head he raised her face to his. His lips brushed the center of her brow in a brief kiss. ‘Would you think to have me as your life’s companion, Losrian? Would you bind yourself to me?’

Gally stirred in his sleep. Some bad dream making him restless. ‘Ammë!’ he cried out, frightened . . .

[Arry]

‘Indisposed, eh?’ said Skald. ‘Well, isn’t that a fine how’d-ye-do. We can’t go off tomorrow without letting him know, now, can we. It would be one more fault for some of the Elves to catalog against us: Dwarves – a rude people; and unreliable to boot!’ Though most of the Elves in the company had been tolerant and some even welcoming of the Dwarves, the sharp ears of the little band led by Rori Ironfoot could not help but hear a few of the asides others of the Elves had made.

And speaking of Elves . . . of the better sort, that is. Where’s old Cap’n Ondomirë got off to, I wonder. He’s usually made his rounds by now, telling us where we’re to station ourselves.’ Skald stood up, his eyes drifting about the camp. ‘Well, I suppose we’ll just have to get ourselves out to the picket line.’ He clapped his helmet on his head and picked up his axe and buckler.

He waited as Bror got ready; then followed his brother out to their usual places beyond the perimeter of the camp. ‘You know, I was just thinking. That broth we had at lunch was just shy of being “off”. I wonder if Lord Elrond has a delicate stomach – like Great-granny Stonecut had. May her bones rest in peace beneath the mountain! Remember? If she ate something a bit too old, it would turn on her so to speak. Back-door-trotties something fierce. Wonder if that’s what the Elves mean by “indisposed”.’ He nodded his head as he thought on it. ‘Now that’s something you can forgive him for – being “indisposed”.’

The more he thought on it, the funnier it seemed to him. And soon he was drawing odd looks as he walked along chuckling.