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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?”
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