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Khalad watched as Jaheira quickly left and realised he was alone with Melost, the rest of the outlaws busy with the raid. It was dark and Melost was not fatigued, but had the strength to run. Lothlórien was not too far away for the Elf to reach. But if the Elf fled, what about Khalad himself? Lothlórien was not a realm for a Man, not even one of the race of Númenor. Would he have to flee somewhere else and begin a new life, like he had done when he left Pelargir?
Or perhaps he should simply end it here. Let Melost flee and then take his punishment from the outlaws. It would probably include torment but in the end it would have releasing death. Release from his dishonour and self-disgust.
Sub-consciously his left hand slid down his side until it reached his swordhilt. When he became conscious of what his hand touched, he sighed at what it reminded him of. He had almost decided to go for the last option, when Melost made a sharp move with his head. He had spotted something.
Khalad turned and looked himself, and his eyes slowly realised what it was. A group of Orcs. These accursed fiends. His right hand gripped the hilt of his sword and he remembered the inscription. For Justice and Peace. These farmers had no way of defending themselves against such foes. Yet Khalad had. He turned and saw that Melost had drawn his knife and eagerly looked upon the Orcs. Drawing his sword, Khalad grasped it with both hands and brought it up in front of his face in a salute to his enemies. "Let us deal with these fiends," he said to Melost.
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