Chapter Text
Languages:
'Valari words/ or Erika's mother tongue'
"Quenya/Sindarin"
"Westron/Common tongue"
"Others"
Disclaimer: LOTR and Silmarillion are properties of J.R.R. Tolkien and Tolkien Estates. None of the songs used in the story are mine too and only borrowed for entertainment purposes.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Chapter 22
A Yearning Heart
A small number of parchments carefully folded together with all the garments inside the satchel fell down as he tried to remove everything that was inside. He knew it was the same parchment they use to write their quick letters using the messenger doves. Nestaron remembered how it reached the lady's belongings and with a bitter taste in his mouth he reached out to take it, albeit painfully thanks to all of his injuries that was aggravated after he moved. These are notes where Erika, Aeglos and even him wrote the lady's songs in Tengwar. There were also foreign syllabaries jotted down in it and some words they were translating in Sindarin as they were teaching her some phrases and words.
Nestaron gazed at each and every page of it until he was at the last, it was a particular parchment that made his chest painfully throb, not only with despair but also guilt. Kicking and blaming himself in his mind about what happened. About how she should be the one protecting Erika and not the other way around.
His Lord Elrond has filled him in on what happened during and in the aftermath of the attack. Erika who was desperate to save him from being killed by the wargs and the orcs was instead taken away to Manwë knows where.
Orcs do not like playing fair at all. It was never in their blood and their very being. They love inflicting pain the most and they have a knack on treating females worse than you can imagine while they will either kill a male or use their body as a mere food source. They are vicious creatures, what they can do to their victims is unimaginable. To think such a sweet and kind person like Erika to fall on their grasp is painfully heart breaking to just think about.
And to think, again, that he was already feeling miserable thinking about it when he is just her friend.
The Lord Elrond told him that his Lord Glorfindel almost lost his mind. His power went haywire as if he was going to erupt. Every single swing of his blade will cause destruction not only to his foe but also friends alike. His environment bears the signs of all his offence, covering the soil with not only black blood and torn body parts of both orcs, wargs and dire wolves but also debris of rock, soil and whatever it is that got destroyed as his mind blanked.
Seeing the love of his life, the only person he has ever deeply fallen in love with bled, hurt and taken was the hammer that rams the final nail deep in the coffin. It took him seven ellyn to stop him from grabbing the nearest horse that he could find. Those seven poor ellyn also stopped him limb to limb just so he would not run after them by foot.
At that time, the renowned warrior’s often hidden emotions became so transparent in everyone's eyes. Before there were times they wished he could at least understand what he was thinking. The wisdom of the wise ellon whom they look upon, whose eyes still shine the light of Telperion and Laurelin. Words then were told of how they witnessed such emotions of anguish and despair from him that they did not see even as he fell to his death when they escaped from the falling Gondolin. His anguish and despair can almost be felt upon their skin. There were no tears in his eyes but yet it still overflows with cold, icy fear. And for a while he was just acting upon the screams of his heart.
The only thing that made him keep his rationality was their mission to rescue the queen and her son.
Nestaron opened the note. It was not a letter nor a poem written in Sindarin. It was just a simple message Erika wrote for Glorfindel, whom they used as an example when they were teaching her how to write some basic words in Sindarin. They even taught her how to attach the small letter to a dove’s feet or in her case sometimes, to her owls. On a regular hour, it was a trivial thing they were doing to pass the time as they camp for lunch or for a short respite. Not a matter of importance.
But right at that time when he was holding the parchments in his hands, those trivial moments became precious memories as he read silly things she had said and written down by him or Aeglos.
Glorfindel is sexy.
Nestaron rolled his eyes hard. He remembered telling her what a perv she was in jest and she corrected him by calling herself a ‘proper, cultured simp’. What a ‘simp’ meant, he did not ask. She just allowed her to babble about how their lord’s ‘abs’ and stomach muscles are one of the best pictures of the word ‘perfection’.
Glorfindel is strong and brave.
He truly was, Nestaron thought. He was his role model afterall. Someone who was the image of him and maybe even every warrior aspired to be. But Nestaron thought, how frustrated he must be to possess all that power but still failed to protect that one person he will be most willingly, ready to die for.
Glorfindel is beautiful. Beyond every stars and every suns possibly floating in the whole fucking galaxy.
Alright the cussing was unnecessary.
But Aeglos found it amusing and still wrote it down letter by letter even as it is still a word from Westron. The ellon was also secretly learning of what she called ‘the art of cussing as an expression’.
Glorfindel is amazing. And Erika loves him. More than ramen, more than chocolate.
She definitely tried to write the last part itself because the penmanship suddenly started to look like a wobbly, miserable worm. Okay that might be too harsh of a criticism. Though to be honest, that penmanship is truly ugly, enough to horrify Lord Erestor.
And I’m writing this because…
I just wanna let you know how I’m feeling. I got to make you understand.
But well, Nestaron remembered that he decided to intervene and that’s why he recognised his own penmanship on the following words.
Never gonna give you up. Never gonna let you down. Never gonna run around and desert you.
Eh, she at least reciprocates his lord’s feelings for her.
Never gonna make you cry, never gonna say goodbye. Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you.
But at that time those last words became a lie, although Nestaron knew it was not her fault. The tears he did not know that was forming in his eyes fell down to his cheek. He has learned to love that chaotic young woman as a friend, even as a younger sister that he never had. She who was as free as a bird and as brave as a warrior, fought for his life without any sword or shield on her dainty hands and saved him from the mouth of death that was about to swallow him.
He owes her his life.
It has been four days since the army led by his Lord Glorfindel left the city. He was accompanied by the Lord Erestor as per the advice of Lord Elrond because they knew that the balrog slayer was moving with an unclear mind. It is not like they do not trust him right now at that state but the Lord Elrond told him that he will ‘feel much assured to know that at least someone intelligent, calm and sane is walking alongside Thranduil and Glorfindel.’
Nestaron wished he was there too. But even with brave insistence of (possibly) following the army and moving out of his sick bed, one glare from his Lord Elrond and he will fold. Never mess with a healer’s temper, they said. So he has no choice but to stay at that bed and bid his body to heal quickly, at least be in better condition before the warriors from the Grey Havens arrive.
Sent by the Lord Círdan himself, they will be another reinforcement that will head towards Rhovanion. Erika’s owl companion who she calls Hedwig has taken upon itself to carry the letter they would send towards the havens. The bird of prey was so intelligent that it surprised Lord Elrond when the huge owl appeared on his windows right as he just finished writing the letter.
Moreover a hazy, short vision came to him where he saw an elf with pure white hair, whose blue garments were adored with blue sapphires. The hem of sleeves are embroidered with silver and gold thread and he glows with light. In his right there was a knight and in his lap, a great eagle rested. Elrond did not saw the ellon’s face nor the great knight beside him, nonetheless he recognized the normally big owl looking so delicate and small as he sat upon the ellon’s forefinger.
The elven lord has never seen Manwë before but based upon the vision, he became sure that the owl called Hedwig is being guided by the king of the skies himself. Without hesitation he tied the letter on the owl’s leg and with one last hoot, Hedwig flew away with great speed.
He then only became aware of who Erika is aside from being the love of Glorfindel’s life after Nestaron briefly told him about what occurred the past few days.
Lord Elrond has also called upon the help of his distant kin, both King Eldacar, king of Arnor, grandson of Isildur and King Cemendur ruler of Gondor, grandson of Anaríon, to post patrolling battalions and scouts not only at the borders of their lands but at the cities in and outside to control the attacks of the enemy.
Until then Nestaron, with or without injury, will go and meet the army of the Grey Havens, ride with them to Mt. Gundabad. There is a possibility that Erika is being kept there like most of the people the enemy has taken and enthralled. It was, after all, one of their strongholds in the north, though its grace and glory has been forever lost.
It was also the starting point that held Lord Glorfindel in place and not run around the whole of Arnor like a headless chicken looking for his lover.
-.-.-.-.-
When Ulmo bestowed the child with an enchantment to be concealed from the eyes of his brethren, he meant to give her the freedom to temporarily absorb everything surrounding her away from the curious eyes of the Ainur.
He does not want to suffocate her by suddenly announcing her predicaments. When she acknowledged his presence in the very waters, he was filled with love and affection blossomed in his soul’s heart. But at the same time, he also does not know how to approach her or even talk to her.
Unlike what people thought of them, the Valar were not all knowing. Wise they may be, but a fool they could become as well. They are merely there to represent the visions of Eru Illúvatar and follow His will.
Nobody has taught Ulmo how to be a parent. Sometimes he even wondered why she was given to his care and not Manwë and Varda, or to anyone who knows how to socialize with people and guide her in this life. Why with a recluse like the king of the seas.
But nonetheless, Ulmo is overjoyed and will not trade her for anything.
That joy is short lived, however.
The owls have spoken and through the whispers of the children of Yavanna towards the waters that run deep over the river mountains, the flowing springs have spoken about the missing child of the seas.
The child of the seas was taken.
Too great was the grief of Glorfindel the fair. But greater is the regret of Ulmo for bestowing the child her freedom.
The seas shook greatly and no mariner has dared to even set foot at the boundaries of the ocean. Wind howls as if it was crying and waves slam greatly at shores, ports and even amidst the deep. It was greater than what Ossë could create.
And ironically, it was Ossë himself who was calm and collected even though his ëalar is in equal shambles. He wants to destroy islands, create destruction and let the people know why the deep and dark ocean is something even Melkor fears. But his lord is in a turmoil he never experienced before and Ossë would be the only one who might be able to stop him in case he does something idiotic. For the domain of water is unreachable even for the mightiest of the Valar. His wife is in great distress and Thalassëa was not making it better, she really was too loyal to his lord she was willing to surge into the mountains of the orcs. If not for the law of Valinor, Ossë would even go with her.
Due to the enchantment of Ulmo, even Manwë can only watch how she fares through the eyes of the people surrounding her and thankfully the Young Prince Legolas was there, and the chief of the Valar was glad to see her alive. Like him, Varda kept her hearing open and waiting to listen in case a prayer would be made from the area she is in. Yavánna was listening to the whispers of her children. Though some of them are asleep as there really is no chance to flourish in the lands of darkness, the persistent grasses, the weeds and the few surviving trees were whispering.
There were no animals around for Oromë to use, and he would not risk anyone to go there just to be eventually hunted by the orcs.
The people did not know why there was such a great turmoil in the Undying Lands and the wind coming from the sea was rampaging stronger than before. Under normal circumstances, the waves do not bother them. They are used to Ossë declaring war against something he sees annoying. But this one is different. It feels… scary.
It felt uncontrollable. Very deep and unfathomable.
Manwë stood by the top of Taniquetil as he listened to the prayer of the people surrounding the life of the child. There was a person praying like he had never prayed before, there was such desperation and helplessness in his fëa the lord of the Valar had never seen before from him.
His emissary’s heart was in such broken turmoil and at the verge of fading. At that moment, Manwë realised, this ellon love for his niece must be so great it was preventing him from fading. He was praying for a way to find her. And to be honest, that clue has already been given by Loríen a day ago.
And Manwë blessed the people coming into the mountain of darkness with strength. Moreover, Oromë blessed not only the feet of every war steed that accompanied them but also the pack of white wolves who were marching alongside them. The pack has made the daughter of the Valar their friend, for she has treated them like one.
Varda has spoken to both Ariën and Tillion to shine their lamps a little more brightly towards the mountain for the evil fears the radiance of their light. Nienna weeps for the pain they must have been enduring but surprisingly, she was not worried for the child as Nienna felt that her courage runs deeper than they could imagine. Though she might not possess any power akin to an Ainu, nor has the strength of a powerful warrior, her greatest weapon lies in her courage. That she might feel fear, but she has faith.
Eru Illúvattar has brought her to them, and Nienna believes that the all-father also has His eyes upon her. And Ulúmiel knew that.
If there is only one thing Nienna would pray about, it is that her light reflects towards the people surrounding her. For hopes dwindle in those lands. And pain is the only thing they have tasted after being the thrall of the enemy for a long, agonizing time.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Alcariel opened her eyes.
She has not done that with full consciousness after being battered to the pulp by the orcs.
When they first arrived at the cave, Legolas was uncontrollably bawling out of fear. But that is understandable considering how the orcs transported them to Mt. Gundabad. There were no carts to put them in, even a prison wagon would have been better than being in the back of the wargs for two nights running relentlessly, only stopping to some place to let the day light pass. There were no foods given, no water and not even a peace of mind.
Both Alcariel and her son were blindfolded and gagged with a rug on their mouth. For Alcariel, she can endure it but for a child, it was a nightmare.
By the time they reached the prison caves, Legolas was at his limits. The iron stink of blood hung thick in the cavern, mingling with the reek of sweat and rot. It was not helping the tired and terrified child. Above all, he was parched and starving. Alcariel did all she could to stop him from crying even as it broke her heart, but it still attracted the attention of the orcs and they were not happy about the noise, even as ironically, they were not quiet folks themselves.
The two angry orcs nearby stormed in and were about to drag her son away.
Her instincts came in, stretching her arms around his small body. Alcariel trembled in pain and fear, but she steeled her heart and used her body to shield his small body from their attack.
One orc lifted his steel plated boot and swung it down, slamming into her ribs with a sickening crack. The queen of Greenwood could only grunt, swallowing the scream that clawed its way up her throat as Legolas sobbed beneath her. His beautiful, small hands held the fabric of her dress as he realized the reality of what was happening, and that the orcs came in because they heard him cry loudly.
“Close your eyes, my son. Close your eyes.” Alcariel could only whisper between grunts of pain. The blindfold that they had pulled down earlier to bring back their sight was still hanging on the child’s neck like a necklace and Alcariel reached her hand out as she lifted it up again upon his eyes.
He does not need to see this.
Alcariel is an elleth cherished and loved by her people, raised as if she was a princess in their Sindarin kingdom. She knew of war, she knew the grief it brings to people but has never tasted bitter violence before.
Even then, If she had to be a wall of flesh and bone, she would. If she had to be torn apart piece by piece, she would. But they would not touch her son. Not while she still drew breath. She prayed relentlessly to Erú himself to bring a miracle and to find a way to save her son.
Painful days have passed but there was no help that came. Her fëa is on the verge of fading and only the thought of her son was keeping her grounded.
There was no day that the orcs would not come in to torture them. They wanted so badly to inflict pain to her son, in their eyes he was like a shiny toy. But she was relentless and would always fight them when they attempted to reach him. Alcariel would turn their attention to her and be the center of their ire.
Famished, dehydrated, tired and in pain. There was only little a person could do to stay alive in that hope forsaken place and to be completely honest, she was losing herself. It is not helping also that all around them, there was pain and suffering by other prisoners being tortured by these monsters. The wails of despair were disheartening to hear.
That was until she was woken up on her stupor by this young woman, whom she saw when she opened her eyes. She had no recollection of what has happened or how many days have passed since their eyes have first met.
The thing registered to her initially is that she is not as hungry as before anymore. Her thirst was quenched and her thoughts were clearer, what the woman had told her had given her the hope she needed.
Alcariel turned her head at her side, and even at the dimness of the cave her sharp sight caught the image of the person near to her. A small smile beamed on the elleth’s fair countenance.
There was the young woman sprawled awkwardly on the hard and sharp cave’s ground. She was lying on her back, with one hand placed at the back of her head like a cushion. Her long black hair haloed her petite form in an amusing way, her mouth was slightly open and Alcariel could even hear a slight snore. Her eyebrows were creased uneasily as if she was having a disturbing nightmare. Or perhaps the nightmare itself was induced by her son that was draping atop her body, sleeping in his stomach.
She must have fallen asleep carrying him. Legolas is almost snoring as he sleeps upon her body, comfortable in the warmth she provides.
She apparently became the little prince’s living mattress.
Alcariel sighed. For the first time she could sigh with relief even as they were still in the middle of that horrible place.
The queen of Greenwood tried to rise up from where she was lying down, but found it hard as a sharp pain struck her side. That was the area where the orc kicked her. She observed herself and realized she could breathe just fine, however, she knew she had fractured some bones. Her body radiates soreness and stinging pain but it was not as bad as before. She lifted an arm and saw a white cloth wrapped around her wounds.
The young woman must have treated her as much as she could but where did she acquire the bandages that she used? Alcariel once again set her eyes upon the sleeping pair and noticed the shredded edges of her clothes. What seems to look like a simple elven dress was cut short reaching the top of her knees.
The elleth’s heart was gladdened and touched at the thought of the young woman destroying her garments to treat her. It must have been a struggle trying to rip apart a spider-silk cloth, but seeing the dagger she had been hiding lying near them, Alcariel could only just smile. In that dark, cold and lonely place, that simple act of kindness made her feel warm.
There was a brief quietness in that dark cave at that time and Alcariel felt the peace that she hadn't had for days since they were captured. Somehow, the hope in her heart was once again blooming. They might have survived this. Or even just her son might have survived this.
Alcariel’s eyes began to flutter, as her mind accepted the slight relief that she was feeling, sleep started to take over her exhausted body. The weight of vigilance began to lift from her shoulders—not fully, but enough. Enough to let the exhaustion seep into her bones. There was still fear in her heart, you can never really take that away from their situation, but it was a silent thing that sat at the edge of her thoughts, it had no claws at that moment. There was only peace as sleep took over her in her being.
But peace would eventually leave the room as her sharp hearing would hear the whisperings of two voices as if arguing with each other, and the queen of Greenwood the Great could only watch in wonder and bemusement.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Arenwë surfaced from the dark like something dragged up from the bottom of a lake.. though it was just the voice of a woman.
“Heyyy! You! Yes, you! You’re gonna have to catch these, we only have a small amount in possession! So if you waste this, I will strangle you with a pancit noodle.”
Arenwë wondered what a pancit noodle is. Is it another warfare animal? Or perhaps a weapon for mass destruction.
“Erika, I can hear some orcs passing by. Do not do it anymore.”
“He is looking at me right now, I know he can understand me. Hey! Hey! You better catch this. Eat it.”
Swoosh~
“Come now, they are here!”
He looked at the thing that landed on the ground near where his foot was. It was a piece of bread. After that he quickly returned his blurry sights to where the young woman was only to see her fleeing shadows scurrying away from the dirty, rusty iron gates of their own prison.
She was giving her food and it puzzled Aren to no end. Wondering why she would give away such a valuable thing. When was the last time he had proper food as a meal? When was the last time he had a meal? He does not remember what bread tastes like anymore, nor what clean water even looks like. In that place where suffering only exists, that little piece of bread is like a fleeting dream.
He moved and first came the pain: a slow, spreading fire in his ribs, a white-hot spike in his shoulder where the arrow had gone in, the dull throb of wrists flayed raw by iron.
The stench followed: unwashed bodies and rancid meat and the sour reek of fear that was not his alone.
His ears are ringing from being hit earlier, long and pointed.
Elven. Useless aside from hunting food. Skin.. dark, brown in natural light, though fairer than the shade of his Haradrim father’s thanks to the mix of blood with his mother, who is a Silvan elf.
He shifted, chains clinking dully as he braced himself on one burned hand. Every part of him protested. His muscles felt like half-cooled iron, his ribs a cage of knives. The movement stretching healing skin; he tasted copper and grit and forced himself onward until his fingertips brushed the stone.
He closed his hand around it.
The texture under his fingers was firm yet yielding, denser than normal bread, as if some light had been pounded into it instead of air. Even cold and dusted with cave dirt, it smelled… comforting.
His teeth closed on the bread.
It crumbled with a soft resistance, melting on his tongue with a sweetness that was not sweetness, exactly, but the memory of his mother cooking a bread even as she is a slave of the Haradrim lord herself, an elleth forced to be a wife of someone she did not choose: honey caught in sunlight, the grain that bent golden on the hillside at harvest. Clean. Pure. No ash, no blood, nothing of orc taint. He can remember her fair face. Beautiful, lovely and graceful. She did not fade because she conceived and gave birth to him, the only light in her dark, suffering days and named him Arenwë.
The world narrowed. For a moment his vision blurred entirely with tears.
Heat spread through his chest, not burning like his wounds but warming, knitting something unseen. His hunger— sharp, gnawing, a beast that had lurked in his belly for days— fell silent with the first swallow. The trembling in his arms eased. The pounding behind his eyes gentled.
He shut his eyes, because the tears tried to spill over. He was hungry for so long and ate unidentifiable things just to keep himself alive. Just to breathe and suffer more. Sometimes he does not even know why he still tries to survive that place. Might be because all he knew is to survive, survive his father, the death of his mother, the life of someone unimportant in a land that is hungry for war.
For the first time, he ate proper food even if it is just a bite that made him swallow twice.
Arenwë fell asleep. Body accepting slumber after receiving sustenance and feeling slightly better than before.
-.-.-.-.-.-
When the orcs passed, Erika placed her forefinger into the tip of her nose and looked at Legolas before saying hush. Little Legolas, cute, adorable and lovely child, nodded obediently and did the same.
She stood up and peaked again at their neighbor, he didn't say anything so Erika was worried. Did he eat the lembas? Maybe he didn't because it was dirty. But hopefully yes because easing their hunger could help fast recovery, looking at Legolas’ mother, she knew she was right.
But then Erika saw him not moving. “Oh, shit. Is he dead?!” She whispered to herself.
“Baw¹, Erika. I do not think so. I can hear him breathing. I think he is asleep.”
Darn sharp elf ears.
“Oh.. okay. I hope he is okay.”
Legolas nodded, looking at her seriously. Then he spoke again, “Erika?”
“Hmn?”
“What is shit?”
She turned around and looked at him, eyes big, reaction basically saying ‘oh, fuck’.
“Something a child like you should not be saying.” She told him, scream hissing slash whisper. Cursing her own mouth for being careless around a child.
Legolas still looked up to her with a puzzled look. “Oh, alright. Ada told me as well that there are some words I can not use.”
“Don't tell your Ada I said that near your vicinity.”
“Why?”
“He will have my head.”
“No he will not. He is a nice and wise king.”
“Not when his son will learn bad words from a puny mortal like me.”
“Why?” Legolas asked again.
She pressed the tip of his nose. “Just don't say it and never ever mention it, okay? Not at least when you are still a baby.”
“Really? I can say that when I am an adult?”
“Maybe. Talk to me again when you are at the right age.”
“What is the right age then?”
“Eighteen.. or maybe twenty-one, but still out of your parents' hearing vicinity. Or don't say it at all. Don't even remember that I said that. It’s bad.”
“But you use it.”
“Because I'm bad. And I'm an adult. Stop negotiating.”
“So I can use it when I am an adult.”
“A certain age. Maybe when you are twenty-one.”
“But I am twenty-five summers old². Does that count?”
“You are what?!”
“I am still a young elfling, Erika.”
Darn elf aging process. She sometimes forgets that elves age slowly.
Erika sighed. “Okay fine, you can use it.. when you are five hundred.”
Legolas just nodded obediently. She really should watch out for her language because the boy's father will skewer her with his sword if he picks up bad words from her.
The elfling went to her to hug her before yawning. She picked him up and let him rest in her arms. She then walked towards his mother to check up on her. She is breathing easily at least, better than she first saw her.
Erika sat down near the elleth and sighs. She should savour this time as well when orcs are not rampaging their ugly asses around and torture people. At least she gotta find a way to get away from there.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-
The grasslands north of the Greenwood rolled away in long, sun-browned waves, bending under a wind that smelled of dust and stone. Glorfindel stood at the edge of the elven host and watched the shadow on the horizon grow.
Mount Gundabad rose there— jagged and dark against the afternoon sky, its broken crown clawing at the blue. Even at this distance the mountain felt wrong, like a splinter in the world. Smoke stained the air above its slopes, too thick and foul to be from any hearth. Birds had long since abandoned the sky around it.
He had walked to war in countless lands, under banners that no longer flew, but this—this felt like marching back into a nightmare he had already died in.
Armor shifted and murmured around him: mail whispering over leather, fittings creaking, the quiet clatter of spear against shield as ranks adjusted. The army stretched in ordered lines behind him: the green-and-gold of the Woodland Realm, the silver and soft grey of Lothlórien, the smaller, precise knot of Imladris’ warriors gathered around Erestor like ink in water.
Elrond insisted that he should ride with them, someone needs to think straight as they attack the mountain of orcs. Thranduil and Glorfindel are both not capable of that even as they are of sane minds. When their emotions get the best of them, at least someone is there to guide their armies in the right path and not in the path of doom.
Looking at the enormous mountain, Glorfindel’s mind is filled with thoughts of her and of the last image of her that he had seen as the orcs and the wargs took her away. He felt pathetic and powerless.
Glorfindel ignored his self loathing for a while. He can not afford to be eaten by his self hatred if he wanted to come out alive in this place with her or even the elven queen and prince.
The lower slopes of Gundabad were a broken skin of stone and scrub, ridges like ribs jutting out of the earth. Afternoon sun beat down, hot on mail and helm, turning every piece of metal into a small oven. Dust clung to boots, to hooves, to the sweat on elven skin.
They found the orcs the way one finds rot in a wound—by the smell, long before the eye can see it.
Glorfindel raised his hand, and the vanguard rolled to a halt as if a single body obeying one thought.
Ahead, across a shallow hollow choked with grey grass, the orcs were spilling out from behind a crude line of spikes hammered into the ground. Not a true fortress.. this was no more than a forward screen, a jagged fence festooned with bones and tattered banners, meant to slow and bleed anything approaching the mountain proper.
Bronwëg beside him awaits his order. “Strays.” he muttered under his breath. Some orcs were already moving toward the elves, drawn like flies to a wound.
Glorfindel’s lips pressed into a flat line. “Strays bite, as pathetic as they are,” he said. “And they are between us and the gate. We shall break them quickly.” His gaze swept their line.
The Greenwood archers stood light and poised on his left, green-clad and deadly, bows already half-raised.
On his right, Amroth’s spears and archers, the Galadhrim, formed a gleaming hedge, white plumes stirring in the hot wind.
Behind, the banners of Thranduil’s house snapped, guarding the packs and supply lines, the rear where the king himself rode with his guard and Erestor at his side like a dark, steady shadow.
Glorfindel could feel them back there even without turning. Thranduil’s rage banked to a cold glow, Erestor’s mind like a blade honed on duty. Annoyed, yes, but present. Annoyed with the enemy because he’d rather be in his tomes and his library rather than raise his sword.
Good. Let them keep the spine straight. He would be the point.
He made orders for the line of their defense. Galadhrim's spears and shield in the front. Warriors in the middle and archers at the back of the vanguard.
He ordered one thing.. no mercy.
Across the hollow, the orcs had seen them halt and were taking it as an invitation. A guttural horn blared, the sound flows raw and ugly. Their ragged line surged forward, a black, uneven wave of iron and snarling mouths. Shields scavenged from a dozen foes, spears little more than sharpened scrap, a few hunched archers at the back, drawing black-fletched arrows with sloppy efficiency.
Glorfindel’s annoyance sharpened into something like contempt.
“Archers,” he said, voice abruptly calm. “Nock.” The archers' line flowed into motion. Arrowheads kissed strings in the same smooth beat. “Draw.”
Bows rose.
The air itself seemed to hold its breath. Heartbeats could be heard in their own ears.
He waited, letting the orcs come closer. Letting them crowd together as courage and stupidity pushed them forward, eager to be first to the killing or even land a strike. A few broke into a clumsy run, the advance dissolving into a lumbering rush.
Glorfindel’s eyes narrowed, judging distance, angle, wind. He barely needed to, this dance was older than this Age.
A few more strides.
And then.. now.
“³Hado i philinn!” he cried.
The sky darkened with a brief, deadly cloud.
Arrows fell on the leading ranks of orcs like rain on a bonfire, hissing, punching through crude armor, through exposed faces.
The front line buckled as bodies went down screaming, tripping those behind. A captain, larger and more scarred than the rest, took an arrow through the throat just as he raised his blade to rally them; he toppled, hands clawing at the shaft as he drowned in his own black blood.
“Again!” Glorfindel snapped.
The bows were already bending again, their efficiency is a thing of cold beauty. The second volley targeted anyone who looked like they might be thinking about giving an order, anyone who screamed loudest.
The result was chaos.. half a dozen potential leaders crumpled, and the mass behind them faltered, momentum betraying them into stumbling over the fallen bodies.
The orc archers tried to respond, losing a scatter of dark shafts coated with a nasty poison that fell short or pinged harmlessly off elven shields. Distance and panic made them clumsy.
“Hold the line!” Glorfindel called, feeling the ground tremble now with the oncoming charge.
To the right, Galadhrim’s formation shifted subtly, spearpoints angling, shields overlapping to make a wall. Their feet dug into the soil, muscles coiled and ready to strike.
Glorfindel kicked his war horse, Thalathír, forward a few paces. His dark mane contrasted his rider’s golden hair. Rhosfein, as loyal as he is, is left in the cares of the healers after being injured from their battle near Rivendel’s borders. He tried hard to pass through hordes of orcs as he aimed to run towards Erika when she was being taken by the enemies. He fell as an arrow struck his hind leg, poisoned and unable to move. Though, thank Oromë, the stubborn horse is alive.
As he arrived at the front, he swung out of the saddle in a fluid motion, his boots hitting the dirt as lightly as if he’d stepped from a low ledge rather than a warhorse. A squire seized the reins and pulled back, leading the horse toward the relative safety of the reserve line.
Glorfindel rolled his shoulders, feeling the weight of his mail settle, the familiar balance of his sword at his hip and his shield on his left arm.
It was always like this.. just before the swords meet and blood is spattered on the ground. The world narrows, sound stretched and thinned, the roar of the oncoming enemy becoming a distant rush.
His own heartbeat counted the space between breaths, outside he is a calm spring, inside he is a raging tide. Too angry. Anguished and worried.
Sunlight caught on the edge of his blade as he drew it, and for a while there was nothing else but the clean, singing line of steel.
Not yet.
He kept the blade low, pointing slightly back, as he paced forward with the warriors following him spreading on either side, forming a tapered wedge at the very center of the line.
Behind him, he felt eyes on his back. Thranduil’s, from the rear, watching the openings. Erestor’s, measuring, calculating. Let them. His job was simple: break the first impact, shatter the orcs’ courage before it ever reached the shield-wall. Let them feel his anger. He had been calm for thousands of years. Let him have this moment to be angry. Not only from the enemies, but to himself.
Especially himself.
The orc line, ragged but still deadly in sheer mass, scrambled up the last rise and thundered down toward them, screaming in Black Speech, blades lifted.
Glorfindel’s mouth thinned. “Advance.” he said.
They walked.
It always unnerved the enemy, that last calm walk. No charge, no roar. Just elves moving forward in perfect order, shields up, steps matched as if to some unheard music.
Ten strides. Nine.
The orcs surged faster, froth at the corners of some mouths, the reek of them hitting like a wave.
Eight strides. Seven.
Glorfindel could see their faces. Yellowed teeth. Eyes too small, too full of mad glee.
Six.
“Brace.” he murmured, and his front rank shifted, feet set, shields angled just so.
Five. Four.
He exhaled. He pictured her in his mind. Erika in the dark, teeth bared in defiance, flashed across his mind. Of course she is always defiant. He could see her trying her utmost best to defy whatever it is that is not right.
Three.
Two..
“Now.” he said, very softly and they moved.
The wedge lurched forward with sudden, explosive speed, elven legs driving as one. Their shields hit first. Not as a soft catch, but as a hammer-blow. Instead of standing still and absorbing the charge, they met it with their own, turning the orcs’ momentum against them.
For a heartbeat, it was like two waves colliding.
For Glorfindel himself, an orc met his sword, and its filthy head flew away from its body. His eyes glowing fiercely, reflecting the light of the two trees.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Erika woke up and it was dawn. Her stomach is growling and she is thirsty.
The first thing that registered in her mind after the hunger was the smell.. the air was thick with the familiar stew of smells, damp rock, old blood, unwashed bodies, the sour-sweet reek of orcs that permeated everything. The sounds of their surroundings are a distant echo. Muttered orcish, a chain dragging, someone coughing in another cell, someone screaming from being hit by something.
She lay on her side, cheek against cold stone, arms wrapped protectively around… nothing. “Legolas?” she whispered, the little tyke made her his personal pillow slash bed again and when she woke up, he was not there.
Her voice came out as a dry croak. She coughed, throat ripping, and pushed herself up on her elbows with a hiss. Every muscle objected. Her back felt like one giant bruise, yeah well, after falling down from a very tall horse and then being kicked by ugly fuckers with their equally ugly shoes, there’s now ay she would feel like a millionaire on relaxing cruise. Also she’d fallen asleep sitting and slid down on the miserable spiky stone ground of the cave sometime in the night.
“Easy.”
“Ah, fu–!” Erika jumped at the sudden voice. A sudden musical sounding soft voice that does not fit that place. Also it was scary in her situation and sleep addled brain.
Erika blinked the blur out of her eyes. Two shapes resolved in front of her, curled together against the opposite wall of their little rock den.
Legolas was there, small, smudged, hair like tangled sunlight, his face slack with the deep, boneless sleep of a child whose body finally has enough energy to stop fighting.
He was wrapped around a second figure, clinging like a limpet.
The elleth cradling him looked like she had been carved out of light and then dragged through every nightmare on the way here. Her hair was the same silver white as Legolas’, but darker with grease and blood, half-Unbraided, dull where it should have shone. It spread over her shoulders and down her back in a tangled waterfall, studded with bits of dirt and what might have once been flowers. Her face was tired and hollow, cheekbones stark, lips chapped and split. There were deep shadows under her eyes, as if sleep had been a stranger for a long time.
But the eyes themselves, when Erika focused properly, when those eyes met hers.. they were clear.
Not fever-bright, not glassy with delirium, not wandering somewhere far away. Clear, and watching her.
“You are awake.” the elleth said. Her voice was hoarse but cultured, each word shaped with careful precision. Common tongue but with that lilting undercurrent of Sindarin. She spoke quietly, as if the sound might break something precious. Still braceful even in the jaws of death.
The memory hit. Alcariel, half-conscious, mumbling about giving up and asking Erika to take care of her son, burning with a fierce, unnatural heat from fever and hunger and being battered by the orcs. Erika kneels over her with shaking hands, ripping strips from her own dress with a dagger the Little Legolas handed over her to pad and wrap her wounds, whispering stupid jokes in a language the elf probably didn’t even understand, just to keep herself from screaming.
The elf’s mouth curved, just barely. “You treated me.. are you a healer?”
Erika snorted. “Not really. I just tried to do what I could.” She sat down next to them. “How are you feeling, Alcariel?”
“I am better, my friend. I thank thee for helping me and giving away your precious food to us.”
Erika shrugged. “Yeah, well, we will have more once we are out of this dump.”
Alcariel smiles at the young woman. “You are very.. positive about getting out of here.”
“I mean do you not want to get out of here?”
“Of course, I do. But I am no warrior. Though I know my beloved will soon come to save us. And this is why I thank you for giving us sustenance.”
“I mean me too. But, Alcariel, I won’t wait until the orcs batter me to death as well.” Erika said to her.
Alcariel smiles bitterly. “I know, mellon nin. I know. But this place is surrounded by orcs. And you have seen how cruel they can be, how they have no mercy for anyone even to their own race.” She took Erika's hand and held them tight. “They will not hesitate to kill you if you run away from here and get yourself caught.”
“But they will also kill you if you stay here, look at what they are doing to you.”
“I know.. I know.” Tears flow down from her eyes, and she suddenly looks smaller and more frail than she already is. “You may see me as pathetic for not fighting or even resisting. But I do not want to take a risk and have my son be hurt. I would rather shield him with my own body than risk him getting killed.”
Erika sighed. She understood what she was saying. And frankly, it is easier to say you will run from that place than doing it. But what else do they have? They barely gave them food or even water. They will waste away even before help comes.
She nodded. “Alright, we will wait then. We’ll try to be less noticeable. And if your husband or even Glorfindel is late, I will armbar both of them to Mt. Olympus.”
Alcariel huffed a giggle, exhausted but brighter and more positive than the first time Erika saw her.
“They will come.” She said with so much trust. “But may I ask one question, mellon nin.”
“Hmn?”
“You make it sound like you are familiar with our Lord Glorfindel. Do you know him?” She asked, eyes pooling with gentle curiosity.
Erika’s eyes widened in an ‘oh, okay’ and bit her lips inward. “Uhm.. yeah.. we are.. friends.”
Alcariel nodded. No teasing. Just a knowing, small smile. Which is worse. “Right..” she said with a nod.
“What? I was being honest.”
“I did not say anything.” Her smile brightened even more despite her condition.
A bit of silence. Alcariel is still smiling gently. Serene and graceful.
Erika sighed, face flushed from shyness. “Okay, fine. We are.. together.”
Alcariel’s eyes glimmered in joy. “Ai, Elbereth Gilthoniel. Finally someone has caught our dear lord’s heart.” She said joyfully. “For ages, many have tried to make him fall in love.”
“Yep and he chose a mortal human with lots of questionable backgrounds. Poor guy.” Erika said, sarcastic jesting.
“Lady Lúthien also did not expect to fall in love with a mortal and yet her heart chose Beren and their love lasted even until death.” Alcariel said.
Erika's scandalised facial reaction made Alcariel smile again. “But I don’t want him dead. He has lived for what, thousands of years? He can't just die because of one anomaly named Erika, me.” She shrugged, unladylike but carefree. “Once I expire, he needs to live for a long time. Like years. More years. Thousands of more years annoying these fuckers with his handsome face. Though hopefully, someone finds a way for these fellas to be exterminated permanently from the face of the earth.”
“You do not like them, huh.”
“I mean who does? Their boss? They smell like bad breath and cat poop had a baby.”
Alcariel made an amused smile at the young woman's humour. She shuffled up and reached for the hidden small bottle of miruvor and took a small sip.
“Here, take some as well. Sorry if you're a bit sensitive in terms of sharing, but you need this to heal and I swear to you, I have no lethal mouth poison so you are safe.”
Alcariel took a sip as well and immediately she felt better. “Hanon le.”
Erika nodded. “We’re gonna be fine, Alcariel. We’re gonna get out of here.” The young woman said with eyes full of faith and hope. And for a while, Alcariel admires her resilience and her courage. As if it also made her heart hope that something good is really gonna happen.
She prayed to the Vallar. That hopefully her king and their kin will soon rescue them from here. At least before she succumbs to whatever injury her body has.. she needs to see them safe, alive and free in the arms of their people.
She prayed to Varda. That her light may guide their kin towards them.
And the queen of the stars did heard it.
-.-.-.-.-.-
Translations and notes:
¹ Baw - no (Sindarin) — said more familiarly or informally. Something a child would possibly use.
² 25 summers/years old - there is no canonical year in the books when Legolas was born, though it is noted that he was born in the Third Age. In the movies, he was born in the year 87 of the Third Age. So I was just gonna follow from that and instead of 87, I will go 235. Because if you guys still remember 😆 this story began in the year 260 T.A.
³ Hado i philinn! - (Sindarin) Release the arrows!
Author’s note:
Again, thank you so much for those who stick around to read this story. It means a lot to me, I read all of your comments and my heart swims with joy to see you readers enjoy this work 🥰 i was just reeaaallyyyy busy with work and my business 🫠😵 girl’s got to hustle. I’m sorry for the delay but here is a chapter i’ve been cooking for months 🫠🫠🫠 i just dont really have enough time to write properly. Thank you guys for reading 🫶🏻💜