Left Behind! Chapter Four.
6 May 2011 01:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
curiouswombatChapter four of six of the Returnverse story set during the First Haradic War of the reign of Elessar the First.
I'm not sure why I'm posting it here as it seems no-one here is reading it, but I always do; so if you are reading, and you spot an error or something seems wrong to you, please do let me know.
Left Behind!
Chapter 4/6
Rated PG/13
Word Count 2,915.
Chapter Four
Now it began.
Rumil concentrated, as did the other elves around him, on the Haradrim ‘officers’; those in the best armour, with a standard bearer beside or in front of them. No point in targeting the standard bearer – he was too easily replaced. Rumil, along with Orophin and Legolas, had the furthest range and he carefully identified his first target; ready for the order which would come once the foremost officers were within range of the other elven archers. He relaxed, felt himself one with his bow, saw the flight of his arrow in his mind, slowed his breathing and then, at Legolas’ word, loosed. The man fell from his horse; the battle had commenced.
The éorlingas rode into the side of the enemy formation, loosing arrows as they closed, until they could draw sword or thrust with spear; the Gondorian bowmen, with shorter range, concentrated on the front lines creating a hail of arrows. Then the Gondorian cavalry rode into battle, followed by the foot soldiers. Rumil was aware, on the periphery of his concentration, of all these things and of the youths keeping him supplied with arrows. But his primary focus was on identifying individuals to target and on using each arrow well.
The battle was moving, swirling, wheeling around. Legolas gave the order for his archers to move and take up a new position. Elves helped the youths carry the arrows towards the chosen hillock, their movement covered by other ellyn with arrows nocked, at the ready. Within minutes everything was in place and, once again, targets were chosen and the battlefield receded to the edge of consciousness; stillness, breathing, focus became all.
Now one or two of the youths began to scavenge for arrows on the battlefield – Rumil found some with unfamiliar fletching amongst the arrows he was being given. The elves’ specific targets were becoming fewer and further away. It was clear that the Haradrim were losing. Time to advance again.
This time, as they regrouped, Rumil took a mouthful of the lembas from the pocket on his quiver and a few sips of water from the flask Orophin passed him. Then he broke off a small piece and passed it to one of their helpers – the smile on the young man’s face, when he realised that it tasted good and required little chewing, made Rumil smile inwardly. He was reminded of Tindómë, for a fleeting second, but he refused to let his thoughts linger there and began again the routine; relax, breathe, focus, become one with the bow...
A little later and there was a sudden movement close to hand – a small group of Haradrim bowmen on horseback had broken out of the main battle. This had happened before – the deadly archers in their elevated position were an obvious target – but this time they got within range before the Elves fully realised that the horsemen were not being cut off by Rohirrim or Gondorrim.
They did not get close enough to use their swords or spears, and most of their arrows failed to do any damage, but Rumil heard both the surprised cry of one of the youths and the sound of a body, bow, and helm hitting the ground somewhere close at hand. He did not turn to look, he knew it was not Orophin, but concentrated on removing the threat.
It turned out to have been almost the last attack. The battle was drawing to a close with some of the enemy fleeing the field and others surrendering.
Finally Rumil looked around. Their healer was tending to one of the mortal youths whose arm had been hit by a Haradrim arrow. There was no cause for the healer to tend the elf who had been hit – he was beyond help.
“Follow the call, my friend,” Legolas was saying, as he knelt beside the empty hroar, “and I will see you in the West.”
It was sad to think of a wood elf dying here so far from his trees. Especially one who had, as he knew this ellon had, survived the Battle of the Five Armies and the assault on Dol Guldur – both within sight of his forest of birth.
The youth’s wound was cleaned and stitched; he lay drowsed by poppy juice. The healer set off to the main battle field, two ellyn beside him with swords drawn in case there was a problem. One of the other young men, the one to whom Rumil had given lembas earlier, kept glancing towards the body of the elvish warrior, now covered by his cloak, and shaking his head as if there was something he couldn’t quite believe. Orophin had gone to talk to him and Rumil waited for his brother – they would go together down to the battle ground to retrieve arrows.
As they carried out this task that they had done so many times before, even if on slightly different battle fields to this one, Orophin explained what he had been talking to the young mortal about.
“He had not thought an elf could die,” he said.
Rumil said nothing, although it seemed odd to believe elves immune to arrows.
“He had been told that we lived for ever. It had not occurred to him that, even though we do not bodily age or suffer illness, we can still be killed in battle. I think an elf dying so close to him has shocked him more than all the deaths here in the heart of the battle. Somehow he seemed to have expected our healer to wave his hands, say some mystical words, and Glengadil would get to his feet and ask for water and lembas.”
So many things that mortals knew not about the Eldar, Rumil thought, so many misunderstandings. He remembered what Tindómë had told them about a Haradrim War Lord who thought joining with an elleth who still had her gweneth would make him immortal, too. Perhaps it was as well that the time of the elves in these lands was drawing to a close…
………………………
Tindómë sat curled up against a tree trunk, an apple in her hand, reading one of the books in the Common Tongue from the carved wooden kist that was the current ‘Reference Library’ for the settlement. It was printed, as were many of the books in the King’s Library in Minas Tirith; hand-set type, of course, but printed rather than hand-written. It had only really struck her when she had been more than a year in Caras Galadhon that all the texts written in tengwar were hand-written, whereas many of those in the Common Tongue were printed.
“Clearly,” Lord Celeborn had said, “We understand the concept. Our carvers would undoubtedly be able to make the small individual pieces. But we have seen no need. There is a pleasure in copying a story or the account of a battle – it helps one get to know it.”
Tindómë had understood – and she did enjoy copying out tengwar; it reminded her of seeing a television program about Chinese scribes who wrote with brushes even though she copied the tengwar with a pen. There was the same sense of beauty and tranquillity about it. But she still thought printing had its uses!
Perhaps, she thought, she might begin to translate this story into Sindarin and write it out in tengwar. Her translation skills were not exactly perfect but this was a work of fiction, not history, so mistakes wouldn’t matter that much and she could ask someone – Arwen maybe – to check it for her sometime. Yes – she would start tomorrow – it would keep her mind occupied and stop her worrying about the warriors.
………………………
It was approaching sunset on Midsummer Eve. In Minas Tirith this year the fire would be lit by the Queen and the first person to jump it in the morning would be Faramir, running the kingdom in his monarch’s place, but Tindómë would not be there to see them. All those who were taking their turn on the fences of Eryn Ithil would spend part of the night doing just that – and part of it in celebration.
The ‘emergency’ fire jumping a month before had proved unnecessary as all had been quiet. Or, possibly, all had been quiet because all those on the fences had jumped the fire – who could say?
Tindómë had – before the warriors left – really been looking forward to this night. At least the single ellyn, including four more bowmen who had recently arrived from Eryn Lasgalen along with two more ellyth, wore their traditional ribbons. But having seen Galanthir in Minas Tirith on one occasion, and spoken to other elves, it was clear that they wore fewer than usual, even though they were clearly outnumbered by ellyth from whom to claim kisses.
She wondered whether this was simply usual when many of the warriors were missing – or whether Eldroth had suggested it, as they would all have to not only jump the fire, but also relieve others on the fences so that everyone jumped.
She asked Túriel, who explained that in Mirkwood, during the years of constant battle with the Darkness, celebration of Midsummer, and Midwinter, was still enthusiastic near the stronghold; a relief from the fight. But in the outlying villages the level of celebration would vary depending on how many of the ellyn were available, and how many were away on patrol. This year Eryn Ithil would be like an outlying settlement; there would be celebration but, with so many missing, everyone knew that moderation was in order.
“The ellyn should be back by Midwinter, though,” Túriel said, “and so you will see what fun can be had.”
Tindómë really, really, hoped the warriors would be back by then – and not only to finally experience a proper Silvan celebration!
………………………
It was the eve of Midsummer and the armies of Gondor and Rohan would soon be turning their faces for the north and heading homeward. The kings had been in discussions with the new leader of these Haradrim – an Elven archer’s arrow had found its mark in the chest of the previous one, who had thought himself out of range. Some sort of peace had been agreed, Legolas told the elves.
There would be celebration tonight. The Elves would join the others; feasting on what could be found, and drinking the local wine brought to them from grateful local villages. There would be a fire, probably more than one; the elves who had lived in the Great Greenwood, though, spoke to Rumil and Orophin of their usual celebrations of Midsummer night. It would be good to celebrate with them next year.
The evening before, so that it could not be mistaken for a celebratory fire, the Elves had lit a pyre as the first star appeared, and burnt all that remained of Glengadil. They would not bury his hroar here, underneath ground that he knew not, but take his ashes back to Eryn Ithil where they could help nourish one of the trees he had been helping back to life.
Yes – it might be Midsummer, and the battle won, but celebrations would be somewhat subdued. Rumil wondered how Tindómë was celebrating…
………………………
The fire was lit, and there was music – much wilder music than there had been in Minas Tirith when Tindómë had been there for the Midsummer celebrations, wilder than the music often hear around the settlement. Food and wine were passed around but Tindómë took almost no wine, filling her glass with water; she didn’t want to be woolly headed or sleepy when she went out to the fences.
She danced, even though she didn’t really know the steps, and was thoroughly kissed by three or four single ellyn who, as Galanthir had in Minas Tirith, gave her ribbons from their hair. It was fun – but it would be more fun when the others were home again.
As the moon rose high in the treetops she returned to her room in Legolas’ cottage, changed from her dress into leggings and tunic, fastened on her scabbard and picked up bow and quiver; time to relieve those out on the fences and let them, too, celebrate. She would jump the fire on her return.
Túriel met her, along with others, including two of the new archers from Eryn Lasgalen. They left the light of the bonfire and set off, smiling and laughing, the music still ringing in their ears, and then… suddenly… the others all stopped laughing and began to run.
Not fully understanding, Tindómë ran with them – and then she heard the warning call from further ahead; her hearing was not as good as the others and they must have heard something first.
“Yrch!” she heard someone call.
Now she could hear heavy footsteps – she didn’t know whether to go for her bow, or draw her sword. Bows were always used first – but those in the trees were best placed for that, and she was on the ground. She realised one or two of the elves who had left the settlement with her were taking to the trees – but she wasn’t as good at climbing… she kept running.
Then the question of what to do became moot. She was a swordsman and a large orc was heading her way. She drew her sword and went to head it off before it could get closer to those who were still celebrating around the fire.
Voices called issuing commands – as she danced under the guard of the orc and thrust with her sword she recognised Eldroth’s voice but she also heard a voice calling in the Common tongue, which was odd.
Arrows flew around them, and other elves were on the ground beside her. She was not afraid of ‘friendly fire’ – she trusted all the archers. She tried, instead, to keep the orcs from passing through the lines; she thought of Tária, and baby Merilwen, and what the orcs had done to Álith’s small nephew. She didn’t have to think of where her feet were, or her own body – the lessons with Glorfindel and the twins over the winter had made her sword an extension of herself and the moves, now, second nature. She kept her breathing steady, concentrated, one orc at a time…
Then two things happened almost together. One of the voices in the Common tongue was yelling something about there being females amongst the fighters, take them alive, and the figure now in front of her was not an orc.
Not an orc – but not an elf either. It was a man. Dark haired, dark skinned, swathed in black; Haradrim, she thought. But now the fact that her opponent was not an orc no longer fazed her – he was attacking the elves and that made him the enemy no matter what he was.
She cut, thrust, parried, dodged – he was very, very, good. But then he fell towards her, toppling to the ground and lying still – the archers had done their job. Now more elves were coming from the settlement – someone must have relayed on the danger calls for surely, otherwise, they would not have heard them.
Tindómë had no idea how much of the border of the settlement was under attack – she concentrated only on where she was, on what went on around her. But she could hear, still, Eldroth’s voice giving orders and he did not sound all that close.
A noise behind her and she realised some of the enemy must have broken through the line – an orc was heading from the direction of the village, out towards the edge of the trees. He was carrying someone, who was hitting him with one arm – their other arm hung limply.
Tindómë ran to the aid of the elleth; the orc would either have to put them down, or fight one-handed. His prize must matter to him – he held on as he tried to fend Tindómë off with a pole-axe – so not a good move, she thought, ducking under it to get close enough to strike.
She fought, as the Els had taught her, with her sword in one hand and her knife in the other – and in this encounter she parried the pole-axe upwards with her sword, then twisted to thrust the knife low so avoiding his captive. As she had done once before, she went for the femoral artery – in seconds the orc dropped, and so did his victim as he released her.
It was Laegwen. She struggled to her feet and Tindómë hauled her quickly to lean on a tree – then stood in front of her, ready to defend the other elleth.
And then it was over.
No more sounds of clashing metal, no voices but those of elves. The elves began to fan out and carefully comb the area to ensure no more orcs or men remained. Order began to be restored.
The bodies of both men and orcs were being brought to one place, injured elves were being helped or carried back to the village, and Eldroth sent messengers to Lady Éowyn at Emyn Arnen, with orders to return quickly for help if it seemed that the human settlements were also under attack. If they were not then Éowyn could send word to her husband in Minas Tirith.
At first it seemed to Tindómë that the elves had survived with only a few injuries – and then she saw Saeldauron walking towards her slowly carrying a limp figure. It was Túriel and she was, clearly, dead.
………………………
gweneth - virginity, hymen.
I'm not sure why I'm posting it here as it seems no-one here is reading it, but I always do; so if you are reading, and you spot an error or something seems wrong to you, please do let me know.
Left Behind!
Chapter 4/6
Rated PG/13
Word Count 2,915.
Now it began.
Rumil concentrated, as did the other elves around him, on the Haradrim ‘officers’; those in the best armour, with a standard bearer beside or in front of them. No point in targeting the standard bearer – he was too easily replaced. Rumil, along with Orophin and Legolas, had the furthest range and he carefully identified his first target; ready for the order which would come once the foremost officers were within range of the other elven archers. He relaxed, felt himself one with his bow, saw the flight of his arrow in his mind, slowed his breathing and then, at Legolas’ word, loosed. The man fell from his horse; the battle had commenced.
The éorlingas rode into the side of the enemy formation, loosing arrows as they closed, until they could draw sword or thrust with spear; the Gondorian bowmen, with shorter range, concentrated on the front lines creating a hail of arrows. Then the Gondorian cavalry rode into battle, followed by the foot soldiers. Rumil was aware, on the periphery of his concentration, of all these things and of the youths keeping him supplied with arrows. But his primary focus was on identifying individuals to target and on using each arrow well.
The battle was moving, swirling, wheeling around. Legolas gave the order for his archers to move and take up a new position. Elves helped the youths carry the arrows towards the chosen hillock, their movement covered by other ellyn with arrows nocked, at the ready. Within minutes everything was in place and, once again, targets were chosen and the battlefield receded to the edge of consciousness; stillness, breathing, focus became all.
Now one or two of the youths began to scavenge for arrows on the battlefield – Rumil found some with unfamiliar fletching amongst the arrows he was being given. The elves’ specific targets were becoming fewer and further away. It was clear that the Haradrim were losing. Time to advance again.
This time, as they regrouped, Rumil took a mouthful of the lembas from the pocket on his quiver and a few sips of water from the flask Orophin passed him. Then he broke off a small piece and passed it to one of their helpers – the smile on the young man’s face, when he realised that it tasted good and required little chewing, made Rumil smile inwardly. He was reminded of Tindómë, for a fleeting second, but he refused to let his thoughts linger there and began again the routine; relax, breathe, focus, become one with the bow...
A little later and there was a sudden movement close to hand – a small group of Haradrim bowmen on horseback had broken out of the main battle. This had happened before – the deadly archers in their elevated position were an obvious target – but this time they got within range before the Elves fully realised that the horsemen were not being cut off by Rohirrim or Gondorrim.
They did not get close enough to use their swords or spears, and most of their arrows failed to do any damage, but Rumil heard both the surprised cry of one of the youths and the sound of a body, bow, and helm hitting the ground somewhere close at hand. He did not turn to look, he knew it was not Orophin, but concentrated on removing the threat.
It turned out to have been almost the last attack. The battle was drawing to a close with some of the enemy fleeing the field and others surrendering.
Finally Rumil looked around. Their healer was tending to one of the mortal youths whose arm had been hit by a Haradrim arrow. There was no cause for the healer to tend the elf who had been hit – he was beyond help.
“Follow the call, my friend,” Legolas was saying, as he knelt beside the empty hroar, “and I will see you in the West.”
It was sad to think of a wood elf dying here so far from his trees. Especially one who had, as he knew this ellon had, survived the Battle of the Five Armies and the assault on Dol Guldur – both within sight of his forest of birth.
The youth’s wound was cleaned and stitched; he lay drowsed by poppy juice. The healer set off to the main battle field, two ellyn beside him with swords drawn in case there was a problem. One of the other young men, the one to whom Rumil had given lembas earlier, kept glancing towards the body of the elvish warrior, now covered by his cloak, and shaking his head as if there was something he couldn’t quite believe. Orophin had gone to talk to him and Rumil waited for his brother – they would go together down to the battle ground to retrieve arrows.
As they carried out this task that they had done so many times before, even if on slightly different battle fields to this one, Orophin explained what he had been talking to the young mortal about.
“He had not thought an elf could die,” he said.
Rumil said nothing, although it seemed odd to believe elves immune to arrows.
“He had been told that we lived for ever. It had not occurred to him that, even though we do not bodily age or suffer illness, we can still be killed in battle. I think an elf dying so close to him has shocked him more than all the deaths here in the heart of the battle. Somehow he seemed to have expected our healer to wave his hands, say some mystical words, and Glengadil would get to his feet and ask for water and lembas.”
So many things that mortals knew not about the Eldar, Rumil thought, so many misunderstandings. He remembered what Tindómë had told them about a Haradrim War Lord who thought joining with an elleth who still had her gweneth would make him immortal, too. Perhaps it was as well that the time of the elves in these lands was drawing to a close…
………………………
Tindómë sat curled up against a tree trunk, an apple in her hand, reading one of the books in the Common Tongue from the carved wooden kist that was the current ‘Reference Library’ for the settlement. It was printed, as were many of the books in the King’s Library in Minas Tirith; hand-set type, of course, but printed rather than hand-written. It had only really struck her when she had been more than a year in Caras Galadhon that all the texts written in tengwar were hand-written, whereas many of those in the Common Tongue were printed.
“Clearly,” Lord Celeborn had said, “We understand the concept. Our carvers would undoubtedly be able to make the small individual pieces. But we have seen no need. There is a pleasure in copying a story or the account of a battle – it helps one get to know it.”
Tindómë had understood – and she did enjoy copying out tengwar; it reminded her of seeing a television program about Chinese scribes who wrote with brushes even though she copied the tengwar with a pen. There was the same sense of beauty and tranquillity about it. But she still thought printing had its uses!
Perhaps, she thought, she might begin to translate this story into Sindarin and write it out in tengwar. Her translation skills were not exactly perfect but this was a work of fiction, not history, so mistakes wouldn’t matter that much and she could ask someone – Arwen maybe – to check it for her sometime. Yes – she would start tomorrow – it would keep her mind occupied and stop her worrying about the warriors.
………………………
It was approaching sunset on Midsummer Eve. In Minas Tirith this year the fire would be lit by the Queen and the first person to jump it in the morning would be Faramir, running the kingdom in his monarch’s place, but Tindómë would not be there to see them. All those who were taking their turn on the fences of Eryn Ithil would spend part of the night doing just that – and part of it in celebration.
The ‘emergency’ fire jumping a month before had proved unnecessary as all had been quiet. Or, possibly, all had been quiet because all those on the fences had jumped the fire – who could say?
Tindómë had – before the warriors left – really been looking forward to this night. At least the single ellyn, including four more bowmen who had recently arrived from Eryn Lasgalen along with two more ellyth, wore their traditional ribbons. But having seen Galanthir in Minas Tirith on one occasion, and spoken to other elves, it was clear that they wore fewer than usual, even though they were clearly outnumbered by ellyth from whom to claim kisses.
She wondered whether this was simply usual when many of the warriors were missing – or whether Eldroth had suggested it, as they would all have to not only jump the fire, but also relieve others on the fences so that everyone jumped.
She asked Túriel, who explained that in Mirkwood, during the years of constant battle with the Darkness, celebration of Midsummer, and Midwinter, was still enthusiastic near the stronghold; a relief from the fight. But in the outlying villages the level of celebration would vary depending on how many of the ellyn were available, and how many were away on patrol. This year Eryn Ithil would be like an outlying settlement; there would be celebration but, with so many missing, everyone knew that moderation was in order.
“The ellyn should be back by Midwinter, though,” Túriel said, “and so you will see what fun can be had.”
Tindómë really, really, hoped the warriors would be back by then – and not only to finally experience a proper Silvan celebration!
………………………
It was the eve of Midsummer and the armies of Gondor and Rohan would soon be turning their faces for the north and heading homeward. The kings had been in discussions with the new leader of these Haradrim – an Elven archer’s arrow had found its mark in the chest of the previous one, who had thought himself out of range. Some sort of peace had been agreed, Legolas told the elves.
There would be celebration tonight. The Elves would join the others; feasting on what could be found, and drinking the local wine brought to them from grateful local villages. There would be a fire, probably more than one; the elves who had lived in the Great Greenwood, though, spoke to Rumil and Orophin of their usual celebrations of Midsummer night. It would be good to celebrate with them next year.
The evening before, so that it could not be mistaken for a celebratory fire, the Elves had lit a pyre as the first star appeared, and burnt all that remained of Glengadil. They would not bury his hroar here, underneath ground that he knew not, but take his ashes back to Eryn Ithil where they could help nourish one of the trees he had been helping back to life.
Yes – it might be Midsummer, and the battle won, but celebrations would be somewhat subdued. Rumil wondered how Tindómë was celebrating…
………………………
The fire was lit, and there was music – much wilder music than there had been in Minas Tirith when Tindómë had been there for the Midsummer celebrations, wilder than the music often hear around the settlement. Food and wine were passed around but Tindómë took almost no wine, filling her glass with water; she didn’t want to be woolly headed or sleepy when she went out to the fences.
She danced, even though she didn’t really know the steps, and was thoroughly kissed by three or four single ellyn who, as Galanthir had in Minas Tirith, gave her ribbons from their hair. It was fun – but it would be more fun when the others were home again.
As the moon rose high in the treetops she returned to her room in Legolas’ cottage, changed from her dress into leggings and tunic, fastened on her scabbard and picked up bow and quiver; time to relieve those out on the fences and let them, too, celebrate. She would jump the fire on her return.
Túriel met her, along with others, including two of the new archers from Eryn Lasgalen. They left the light of the bonfire and set off, smiling and laughing, the music still ringing in their ears, and then… suddenly… the others all stopped laughing and began to run.
Not fully understanding, Tindómë ran with them – and then she heard the warning call from further ahead; her hearing was not as good as the others and they must have heard something first.
“Yrch!” she heard someone call.
Now she could hear heavy footsteps – she didn’t know whether to go for her bow, or draw her sword. Bows were always used first – but those in the trees were best placed for that, and she was on the ground. She realised one or two of the elves who had left the settlement with her were taking to the trees – but she wasn’t as good at climbing… she kept running.
Then the question of what to do became moot. She was a swordsman and a large orc was heading her way. She drew her sword and went to head it off before it could get closer to those who were still celebrating around the fire.
Voices called issuing commands – as she danced under the guard of the orc and thrust with her sword she recognised Eldroth’s voice but she also heard a voice calling in the Common tongue, which was odd.
Arrows flew around them, and other elves were on the ground beside her. She was not afraid of ‘friendly fire’ – she trusted all the archers. She tried, instead, to keep the orcs from passing through the lines; she thought of Tária, and baby Merilwen, and what the orcs had done to Álith’s small nephew. She didn’t have to think of where her feet were, or her own body – the lessons with Glorfindel and the twins over the winter had made her sword an extension of herself and the moves, now, second nature. She kept her breathing steady, concentrated, one orc at a time…
Then two things happened almost together. One of the voices in the Common tongue was yelling something about there being females amongst the fighters, take them alive, and the figure now in front of her was not an orc.
Not an orc – but not an elf either. It was a man. Dark haired, dark skinned, swathed in black; Haradrim, she thought. But now the fact that her opponent was not an orc no longer fazed her – he was attacking the elves and that made him the enemy no matter what he was.
She cut, thrust, parried, dodged – he was very, very, good. But then he fell towards her, toppling to the ground and lying still – the archers had done their job. Now more elves were coming from the settlement – someone must have relayed on the danger calls for surely, otherwise, they would not have heard them.
Tindómë had no idea how much of the border of the settlement was under attack – she concentrated only on where she was, on what went on around her. But she could hear, still, Eldroth’s voice giving orders and he did not sound all that close.
A noise behind her and she realised some of the enemy must have broken through the line – an orc was heading from the direction of the village, out towards the edge of the trees. He was carrying someone, who was hitting him with one arm – their other arm hung limply.
Tindómë ran to the aid of the elleth; the orc would either have to put them down, or fight one-handed. His prize must matter to him – he held on as he tried to fend Tindómë off with a pole-axe – so not a good move, she thought, ducking under it to get close enough to strike.
She fought, as the Els had taught her, with her sword in one hand and her knife in the other – and in this encounter she parried the pole-axe upwards with her sword, then twisted to thrust the knife low so avoiding his captive. As she had done once before, she went for the femoral artery – in seconds the orc dropped, and so did his victim as he released her.
It was Laegwen. She struggled to her feet and Tindómë hauled her quickly to lean on a tree – then stood in front of her, ready to defend the other elleth.
And then it was over.
No more sounds of clashing metal, no voices but those of elves. The elves began to fan out and carefully comb the area to ensure no more orcs or men remained. Order began to be restored.
The bodies of both men and orcs were being brought to one place, injured elves were being helped or carried back to the village, and Eldroth sent messengers to Lady Éowyn at Emyn Arnen, with orders to return quickly for help if it seemed that the human settlements were also under attack. If they were not then Éowyn could send word to her husband in Minas Tirith.
At first it seemed to Tindómë that the elves had survived with only a few injuries – and then she saw Saeldauron walking towards her slowly carrying a limp figure. It was Túriel and she was, clearly, dead.
………………………
gweneth - virginity, hymen.
