[GaladrieloftheOlden]

Herlion woke from his long slumber still in a muddy rut beside one of the main roads, covered in dirt and leaves. He felt a bit better than he had earlier, good enough now to crawl a bit. When he tried to stand, though, he still hurt all over and was full of pins and needles and certainly very dirty, but much fresher than when he had gotten away… when he had gotten away… He sat back down and put his head in his hands. What was I doing when I ran away?, he wondered. He had left behind his wife and children, not even tried to alert Iavas. His dark hair fell into his eyes, but he didn’t care, didn’t brush it away. He needed to get further away from the road… Herlion picked himself up a bit with a half smothered groan, and rolled down a bit on his side, falling into the woods. His sides ached now from the dirt getting into cuts, wounds, and welts, but he crawled on, further out. To him it seemed as though he had been crawling for hours, though in reality it was perhaps twenty minutes.

Finally he reached a tree the roots of which seemed to provide substantial height, which could hide himself behind on all but one side, and he settled down, trying not to cry out every time a branch brushed him as he lowered himself into the crack in the roots. When he was down, he tried to decide what to do now, where to go next. But his frenzied mind, sick with worry, would not let him stop thinking about his family. He was torn between two thoughts. He had to run away, for if he stayed here or went back, the orcs would catch him, and there would be no end to his misery but death. Even if he did manage to get back in without getting caught, he would be a slave till his death... but the other side of his mind screamed back at him: you would still be with Iavas! and that argument was probably more convincing to him than almost any other could be. And if he did get away from the orcs, What would he do? Where would he go? He had nobody in the world. All of his friends and his family were- had been- living in the village with him, were all now in the caves. His parents had died ten years 12 years previously. Did he know anybody in the world? Anybody at all? There was, of course, his brother, but he did not know where he was now, having not seen him for years, and whether he was even alive at all...

He shook the thoughts off. It would not do him any good to sit there, feeling guilty about his family. All that would happen would be that some roving orcs would find him and take him back to the caves, or more likely kill him on the spot... and, suddenly, sitting up with a jolt that made him grit his teeth at his reopening wounds, he realized that he may be not have been far at all from the truth when he thought that, for he heard harsh orc voices very close by, obvious among the soft noises of the forest. He shuddered involuntarily, his insides screaming at one another, as he pushed himself back into the crack, praying that only his messy dark mop of hair was at all visible above the ground. He could just barely see above the roots, narrowing. He suddenly understood what the expression ‘cold sweat’ meant as the orcs drew closer, now almost visible among the trees. A moment later, when the line of orcs came into sight, he was nearly drenched and shuddering. He fought a quick battle with himself and his more courageous and inquistive side won over, making him raise his face just a bit to be able to see the orcs. There seemed to be a rare one among them who was not bloody and slumped, and their speech sounded disgruntled in expression, though Herlion could not guess what they were talking about, knowing few tongues but his own. They seemed to be disagreeing about something, or perhaps that was their usual tone of voice. The train of orcs was not too long, and they all slouched, but the three at the back seemed to be sagging lower than most of the others.

Herlion waited as they came closer, then passed him, and went on. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief, but when it was barely out of his mouth he sucked it back in with one of pity. Now that the orcs backs were to him, he could see why the three at the end of the line slouched. They carried three human prisoners. He winced. His own pain was still quite acute, and he could imagine what that of these men would be when they woke... then he stopped for a moment. Men? Two of them wore Gondorian uniforms, and were, but the other was a woman, and he again remembered Iavas. Moving slowly further down the path, the orcs swore and spoke as the ropes holding the three prisoners grew tighter and slackened, letting them hit the ground every other step... Thud... thud... thud...

Then, as he let his body fall back completely, no longer tense, he heard something ahead. There seemed to be some sort of commotion between the orcs, and he could hear swords. He strained his neck again, trying to see what was going on without falling out onto the path, and thought he could distinguish the voices of humans, though he could barely be sure of it, and then it seemed to him that he saw a shadow, human as well, it seemed, rush into the trees on the other side of the path... he was relieved that somebody had escaped, as he felt sorry for any that fell into the filthy hands of the orcs, but then he heard more voices, orcish ones, and the swishes of swords, and the sickening thuds of falling bodies, dying groans, and rushing blood... he turned around and was sick, feeling terrible.

By the time Herlion felt alright enough to walk, it was utterly dark. He stood, shakily, and walked across the path, going into the trees on the other side. His legs were weak and he was utterly exhausted. He walked, though he knew not where he was going, then crawled, then walked again. He knew he would not bear it for long, but he thought that he had seen the man or woman running away go in this direction, and he had nowhere to go anyhow. He had thought of going back to the orcs, but he remembered the sounds of the dying humans and was near to retching again. He could not bear the thought of his Iavas and his children being treated like that, but he could not go back... he barely remembered what direction he was headed in any more... he stumbled on, walking for as long as he could, then dropping onto all fours, pulling himself up, walking again.

Suddenly, he heard human voices. His ebbing strength returned, for a moment, because he thought that one of them sounded strangely familiar... and all of them were, unmistakably, human. He stepped onto the clearing straight ahead of him, and saw a group of men, in the uniform of Gondorian soldiers, sitting near some tents and looking very tired. Somewhere on the side lay a woman, seemingly asleep, and a child, his face tinted slightly greenish. But then he did not see anything but the face of one man... and, though many years had passed, and the face of his brother showed the strain of it, he was as easy to recognize as he had been years before. The other men jumped up with their weapons, but the two still stared at each other with expressions of strange recognition. Finally, Herlion spoke. "Fededhor...?"

He took a step forward, but then a few things happened. The child stirred, moaning, and most of the men turned their faces towards him. The woman sat up, rubbing her eyes, dried blood on her clothes and face. But, more importantly, there was a sound of tramping very near by, and it was too late to run… Herlion froze. Everybody was holding up their weapons. The woman grabbed the child, ran into the woods. Somebody seemed to remember Herlion, and, a moment later, a long knife was in his hand, for all of the swords were taken. He looked at it for a moment in disbelief, for he had not even touched anything remotely resembling a weapon in such a long time... he barely remembered how to use one.

Just before the orcs barged into the clearing, the woman ran back in, breathless, minus the child, but with a sword. Herlion went to stand beside Fededhor, for he was sure that they did not stand a chance against the orcs, and wanted to be by his brother in his last moments. Then in came the orcs... he saw Fededhor’s sword swing at one, and ducked, the weapon going right over his head, cleaving the neck of an orc. He thrust out his knife as an orc face leered at him, cutting the grinning mouth, causing it to roar with pain and annoyance. He tried to hew it down, but his long-knife was not the right weapon for such a case... but suddenly somebody’s sword cut into it from the back, and it fell, with a shriek of terrifying pain which reminded Herlion, unnacountably, of the sounds of the dying people he had heard on the path... he looked up at his brother and saw the pile of orcs around him already, all dead or dying, and smiled at him with a sense of pride. Suddenly, an orc-arrow hit him in the throat. He choked and coughed blood, but still the uncanny smile did not disappear. He died with a joyful smile playing on his lips, dropping to the ground, soon cold. But even in death, his lips curved upward still, for the happy memory of his life before.