Chapter 8: The Rescue

A/N: I have no idea if Celeborn and Thranduil are technically cousins. We know they are kin, and since canon does not explicitly deny the possibility, I’m running with it. Let the term “cousin” apply loosely to a distant relative who may or may not be the offspring of your parent’s sibling. If you are interested in this possibility and would like to read a killer argument supporting the cousinship, talk to Gwedhiel0117.

Also, thank you to Kayson135 for the beta edit!

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“Kinsman! Hold!”

Thranduil closed his eyes in exasperation as his cousin’s voice hailed him. “Celeborn,” he began wearily.

Deep grey eyes regarded him keenly as the Lord of Lórien descended the long staircase and stood next to Thranduil. “Night is yet upon us, cousin. Will you not wait until daybreak?”

Absentmindedly brushing his arm against the stone of the wall, the King of the Woodland Realm shuddered imperceptibly. He glanced quickly at the dark tower of Orthanc before letting his eyes rest upon the surrounding forest. “I must ride,” he finally answered gently.

Celeborn did not look away. “Why do refuse our escort? If you will not stop in Lothlórien, then can you not at least travel north with us?”

Finally meeting his kinsman’s eyes, Thranduil shook his head softly. “Forgive me, Celeborn, I am deeply troubled. Dreams I have had of late of warning and danger within my realm. Indeed, I had contemplated departing the Council early—and perhaps should have done,” he said caustically.

Celeborn raised a silver eyebrow. “Is not the Council’s decision to your liking?”

Waving his hand impatiently, Thranduil took a few steps forward. “Yes, yes,” he replied irritably. “Though sufficiently slow in its arrival, this decision has gladdened my heart. Yet I cannot ignore the urgency of my dreams.”

“There is time, Thranduil.” The Lord of Lórien regarded the strong outline of his cousin, who stood before him.

“Time?” Thranduil spun quickly. “There is no time for Mirkwood.” He spat the name distastefully. “Tell me not you have grown complacent within your sanctuary, Celeborn.”

His kinsman’s eyes darkened slightly. “The blighting of Eryn Galen was not of my choosing,” he returned evenly.

“Yet you seem to have forgotten the speed with which the Shadow takes hold.” Thranduil’s eyes flashed.

Celeborn walked quickly past his cousin, who was forced to turn. The Lord of Lórien lost his gaze in the middle distance for a moment, before he contemplated Thranduil. “I have sought to forget,” he began faintly, “but one cannot.”

Checked by the naked pain in his kinsman’s eyes, Thranduil felt his temper cool. Embarrassed by his selfishness, the King bowed his head. Suddenly, he felt a firm grip on his shoulder. Thranduil looked up and met Celeborn’s penetrating gaze.

“I understand that haste is forced upon you, cousin. No longer have we the luxury of living ignorant of mortal time. Believe me,” the Lord of Lórien smiled humorlessly, “I have not forgotten how.”

Thranduil met the grey eyes before him and felt an understanding transpire, which had evaded them during all their talk of prior days. He placed his hand on his cousin’s shoulder in return for the parting gesture.

“Go,” Celeborn urged. “With all speed and safety, I bid you ride and hope that what awaits you belies the warning of your dreams.”

“I thank you. Until our next meeting.” Thranduil turned and began a fast walk toward the stables and outer buildings, where his escort waited.

“Until then,” Celeborn murmured and frowned into the darkness, which enveloped the receding figure of his kinsman in shadow.

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Legolas ducked automatically as an orcish scimitar sliced through the air where his head had been only moments before. Bracing his body with his right foot, he spun and embedded a knife deep in the belly of the scimitar-wielding orc. As he withdrew his blade, another goblin was upon him, and the prince had barely enough time to parry the blow before he was pushed aside by more orcs. Straightening for a moment, Legolas attempted to make out other elves fighting in the writhing mass of bodies that struggled upon the foothills. He spotted a tall figure, scattered here and there among the shorter goblins, but could make no sense of his kinsfolk’s formation. They were not organized in an attacking unit; rather, it seemed to Legolas that each elf was drowning in a sea of goblins.

Suddenly, a burly goblin stood directly above him on the hillside and raised its axe high above its head. Legolas was about to move when an elven arrow whistled over his head and buried itself in the goblin. As the creature fell dead at his feet, the prince scanned his surroundings, seeking out the elven archer. But he was not to be given the time. Another orc crept up behind him and cut the prince’s back with a jagged sword. Legolas yelled aloud as he managed to spin and decapitate the creature. The prince dropped to one knee as the force of his injury stole his breath. A dark stain on his sleeve above his arm brace indicated that he had been wounded in the left arm as well.

Legolas narrowed his eyes as he fought air into his lungs. The situation was rapidly escalating beyond elven control. Open battle was not their preferred method of warfare, and Legolas lamented that such overwhelming odds had even had to be attempted. In the first charge, he had managed to unite his group of warriors with the elves of the Southern Company. Hadron of the Southern Company had welcomed the warriors with joy, and their rekindled hope had briefly driven back the orcish advance. But their line had been broken, and now Legolas despaired of further reunion.

Heart pounding, Legolas raised his head as suddenly, in front of him appeared another orc. The creature held a scimitar aloft, and the prince winced as he attempted to rise. His right arm trembled as he gripped his knife, and he knew that his defense would only buy him another minute in which to rise. But as the orc drew closer, the creature passed him by. Stunned, Legolas swiveled his head and watched in confusion as the orc that had threatened him instead attacked another goblin.

“Legolas! Get up now!” The prince’s jaw actually dropped in shock as none other than Captain Rochiron knelt before him, an arrow still buried in his chest, though its shaft had been split in two.

“Captain! You are alive!” Legolas blinked as Rochiron’s leathery hands propelled him upward.

Rochiron did not deign to answer as he released his grip on the prince and scanned their surroundings. A half-dozen goblins were violently beating each other on the slope beneath them and appeared to take absolutely no notice of the two elves barely a few steps away. “Come, we must profit from the goblin’s distraction.” Rochiron gestured over the hill, and the two warriors began making in that direction.

“Why are they fighting each other?” Legolas found himself asking as he fell in step beside the Captain.

“Why is the grass green?” Rochiron retorted as he sidestepped to avoid a charging orc.

Legolas bit the inside of his lip in annoyance. His back had begun to throb, and he was in no mood for jests. Scanning the sky, the prince stopped abruptly as realization hit him. “Captain!” Legolas said sharply.

Rochiron turned immediately at the urgency in the prince’s tone.

“The sky!” Legolas pointed eastwards. “Dawn is nigh. The goblins must retreat.”

Looking east in his turn, Rochiron eventually nodded. “The night seemed everlasting. They will not retreat,” he said seriously. “But perhaps their fury will lessen, especially if they are too absorbed in each other.”

A black arrow whistled above their heads, and both elves threw themselves against a rise in the ground. With their backs against the hillside, Rochiron outlined his plan.

“We must rally the others and release the prisoners,” he said bluntly.

“Not all the goblins have forgotten our presence,” Legolas countered, as he pointed to the small group of elves from the Southern Company, battling continuously at the feet of the hills.

“Nay, but we must have reinforcements to defeat our enemy. I would guess more than half the Company lies imprisoned yonder.”

“But are they hale? If there are wounded among them, then perhaps they are safer imprisoned since we are not enough to guard them as well as hold the goblins at bay.”

Rochiron clenched his jaw, having clearly admitted and dismissed this possibility to himself.

“Perhaps this is why Hadron and his elves are seeking to draw attention away from the prisoners,” Legolas continued his idea. “They attempt to protect the wounded.”

“They cannot all be wounded.” Rochiron glared at a passing orc.

With a sudden thud, Calethor fell into the space beside Legolas. Blood oozed from a gash on the side of his head, but despite his wound, Calethor winked cheekily at his friend’s surprise.

“I have done as you commanded, Captain. There are only three too wounded to fight. Among them, Captain Maeglir,” Calethor announced triumphantly.

Recognizing his defeat, Legolas inclined his head toward Rochiron. “Your plan, Captain?” he asked respectfully.

Upon hearing Calethor’s words, Rochiron’s eyes had begun to gleam. “Calethor, had you aid?”

“Aye—Tuilinnor and Esgaldir are attempting to dissuade Galadthor from the fight. He does not like the idea of goblins battling each other rather than us.” The warrior shrugged.

“Listen closely,” Rochiron said urgently. “Legolas and Calethor, I want you to free as many of the prisoners as you can without attracting attention. Use the shadows to your advantage, but we have not much time.”

 “And you?” Legolas asked with as little skepticism in his tone as he could manage.

“I will rally Tuilinnor, Esgaldir, and Galadthor—at least—to aid Hadron and turn any attention away from you.” Rochiron regarded both warriors seriously until they nodded in assent. “Go now!” he commanded and before more words could be spoken, the Captain was over the hillside and lost to view.

Exchanging a glance, Legolas and Calethor began creeping cautiously among the rises and dips in the ground. They flitted behind unsuspecting orcs and crouched by piles of bodies as they worked their way ever closer to the unmoving group of prisoners by the edge of the battleground. They were within shooting range of the prison guards, when Calethor suddenly pulled Legolas down to the ground behind the carcasses of two goblins.

“They hold the prisoners at the foot of the last hill with their backs to the forest,” Calethor whispered. “I do not know if you can do what I did before.”

Legolas frowned at his friend.

“Protest if you will, your highness, but you are hurt, and I do not know if you can climb a tree like that,” Calethor managed to mock concernedly.

“To say nothing of your own injuries,” Legolas rejoined softly.

“Mine do not prevent me from walking upright as yours does,” Calethor retorted.

Legolas looked away. “Tell me what you did,” he ordered.

Reluctantly, his friend divulged that he had snuck through the mess of goblins until he could ascend the outer trees of the forest. From the treetops, he had communicated with some among the prisoners, and formulated their plan. Calethor now proposed that both he and Legolas should flit from the trees into the prisoners’ camp and cut their bonds. Once enough elves were freed, they would surprise the guards and retreat to the forest, from whence they could circle back to help the elven attackers.

“Was this your idea?” Legolas asked after a pause once his friend had finished speaking.

Breaking into a smile, Calethor replied, “Do you suppose Captain Rochiron would allow me to create the plan? Nay—his idea, and this is why it shall work, and I am willing to risk both our lives in the attempt.”

“You have my thanks,” Legolas said sarcastically, as he scanned the press of orcs fighting each other before them. “Calethor,” he warned, “the darkness is fading. We will be seen.”

His face devoid of all mirth, Calethor regarded the sky and turned grimly to the prince. “We will have to run. Now.”

Ignoring his friend’s look of concern, Legolas straightened as far as he was able. In unison they nodded, and breaking cover, sped directly into the fray.

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Dawn stole quietly into the forest. Examining the grey sky, Captain Aegnir mused that there was hardly any difference between night and day in these evil times. He trained his eyes on the river before him. For five days, he had been keeping his patrol stationed by the river, obeying the signals sent by Prince Girithron’s patrol further downriver. They had used the time to clear spider-webs from the forest, but Aegnir and his warriors were growing impatient.

Turning his head sharply, Aegnir registered the sound of hooves coming toward them in the forest. He gave a shrill whistle and immediately, his disparate band of warriors came together. Messengers on horseback were only dispatched at the utmost need.

“Ready the boats,” he commanded. Should travel be required, he would be prepared. As the elves obeyed his orders, Aegnir waited for the rider to approach.

Breaking through the tree line, Raenlas reined in his mount as he spotted the patrol. “Captain Aegnir!” Raenlas shouted without dismounting. “Make haste back to the palace! We are under attack!”

Aegnir had been expecting urgent news, but he was taken aback by the details of this summons. “The palace has been attacked?” he gasped, as cries of dismay came from his warriors.

“Nay,” Raenlas amended. “West of the palace—but less than a day’s march from the settlement. Prince Hananuir calls for reinforcements!”

“We shall depart now,” Aegnir promised, and his warriors were already taking their places in the boats. “Ride you further south?” he asked Raenlas as the latter elf allowed his horse to drink from the river.

“Aye, as soon as Daeroch is ready to run, I must call Prince Girithron’s patrol as well.”

“May the Valar speed your errand,” Aegnir saluted as he stepped into a longboat.

“And yours!” Raenlas cried as the patrol took their oars and set off.

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Legolas balled his fists and dug his nails into his palms in an attempt to distract his mind from the searing pain across his back. With every step, he felt his skin tearing further apart and blood pooling around the wound. He would be unable to ride for several weeks, he told himself firmly. Ahead of him, Calethor’s figure wove around goblins too preoccupied to notice the passage of the fleet-footed elves. True, they ran fast, but Legolas was amazed that the orcs either would not or could not acknowledge their presence. The prince ran doggedly, trusting to his friend’s choice of direction. Though Calethor had characteristically brushed his own injury aside, Legolas was concerned, for head-wounds often proved deceptively grave.

Panting, Legolas observed that the sun was about to rise. The nightly shadows were dispersing quickly, and he knew that the goblins could not ignore this occurrence. Suddenly, the prince felt his footing slip and catch in a cleft in the ground. He tried to keep his stride, but his back screamed at the extra exertion, and Legolas stumbled. He fell forward and despite the agony, broke his fall with a shaky tumble.

He lifted his head in an attempt to rise and was promptly struck across the face by a black fist. With spots dancing before his eyes, Legolas made out the figure of an unusually large orc, feet planted squarely apart in front of the kneeling elf. The prince felt his hatred of the foul creatures coursing within his veins and giving him the strength with which to rise. Legolas knew his arms were trembling as he gripped his knives, but he managed to hold himself erect and glare at his enemy.

The goblin emitted a guttural laugh and waved his rusty blade in eager anticipation of his kill.

Beyond the goblin, Legolas discerned the outer edge of the forest. They were so close! He saw Calethor’s dark-head approach the first tree before his friend realized that he was not being followed.

The goblin uttered more harsh sounds, and the prince realized that the creature was speaking. A second goblin joined the first. A third.

Legolas met Calethor’s wide-eyed look of complete panic before the prince was finally attacked. Legolas dodged the blow easily, and sliced the first goblin across the abdomen, though he lacked the strength to deliver a fatal blow. The creature staggered and fell. Legolas turned and drew up his right knife just in time to meet the thrust of the second orc’s blow. With his left hand, the prince impaled the orc. As the third goblin charged bearing a double-headed axe, Legolas felt his feet knocked out from under him. The first goblin pushed him against the ground with its foot. The prince’s vision blurred as his open wound was pressed against the wood of his bow and the bumps in the ground. His mouth and nostrils were assailed with the reeking foulness of goblin, and Legolas choked as he attempted to breathe. The goblin drew back his blade and held it directly above the elf’s chest.

In that moment, Legolas believed he would die. The sounds of battle around him grew muted, and even the deadly blade poised above him paused. This was not the worst situation he had endured, but never before had he understood his fate so clearly in his heart. He knew that this goblin would kill him—perhaps he would not even feel the pain of the rough metal as it tore its way through his chest until it would finally pierce his heart. And then his fëa would flee.  

Would the pain of his breaking be unendurable? Would it not overwhelm his consciousness? Did his fëa know the way to Mandos’ Halls? He was not ready to rest, for he was not yet weary. Legolas remembered whispered tales he had overheard in his childhood—of fëar that wandered ever houseless in the world—would he be lost, doomed to search unceasingly for respite? What of the elven defense—the settlement—his family? Would his absence prove fatal for others in the current fight?

And, suddenly, noise rushed back into his ears, the stench of battle robbed his breath, and his body throbbed in pain. He looked upward into the eyes of the goblin that would kill him—and found them stilled. The prince searched the body of his assailant and discovered an arrow growing from its chest. An elven arrow.

“Have you lost your wits? ”Calethor pushed aside the goblin’s body to join that of the third orc, which had also been shot. Gripping Legolas by both shoulders, his friend pulled him into a sitting position. “This is no time for a rest, your highness!” Calethor’s strong voice shook in his forced merriment.

His breath coming too short for words, Legolas gripped his friend’s forearm in a warrior’s salute.

“Can you walk?” Calethor asked tentatively after a moment had passed.

“Aye.” The prince pushed himself ungracefully to his knees, and then stood. “Your performance was quite impressive, Calethor,” he said archly. “Your aim,” he clarified at his friend’s look of total confusion.

The dark-haired elf’s eyes narrowed as comprehension dawned. “I am yours to command, your highness,” he mocked.

Knowing their banter could be of lengthy duration, Legolas indicated the trees ahead. Calethor jogged lightly to the tree line, while Legolas managed an awkward hobble.

“How are you going to—” Calethor began when a black arrow suddenly sprouted from the tree trunk in front of them.

“We have been marked!” Legolas exclaimed. “Hurry!”

Nimbly climbing into the branches, Calethor braced himself against the bole of the tree and extended a hand to Legolas. Not a moment too soon, the prince was pulled into the lower branches as another arrow came sailing to land where he had been standing. Without a backward glance, the elves climbed higher into the tree. A small leap carried Calethor to the next tree. Legolas followed suit, his back numbing to a dull ache as his body repeated long familiar actions.

“They do not pursue?” the dark-haired elf asked quietly.

“They would be mad to challenge a wood-elf in the trees,” Legolas replied gravely as he observed that the dawn had finally broken. The morning was overcast, and some could suggest there was little enough difference between the night and the day. However, to elven eyes and goblin senses the faint light was enormous.

Both warriors understood that their time was running dangerously short. As soon as they perceived the daylight, the goblins would either flee or unite against their common enemy. Whatever petty quarrel had distracted them during the small hours would be quickly forgotten as they suffered the pain of light. Hadron, Rochiron, and the other elves were alarmingly outnumbered. These thoughts went unspoken between the two friends as they moved rapidly from tree to tree, working their way west toward the prisoners.

Finally, they arrived at the trees bordering the goblin’s camp and could make out no less than twenty elves in bonds. The captives had been thrown into the interior of a circle and were surrounded by goblin guards.

“They have increased the guard,” Calethor whispered disappointedly.

Legolas nodded bleakly as he contemplated the diminishing chance of success their mission now faced. He dimly recalled Hananuir’s foreboding and admitted that his cautious brother had predicted wisely. The well-intentioned mission was rapidly becoming a foolhardy massacre.  

Suddenly, a loud cry emanated from the foothills above the forest’s edge. The call was uttered in the harsh black language of the orcs, and it was taken up and repeated by dozens of throats. As soon as the noise died down, the goblins cried again, and again. In horror, Legolas and Calethor regarded each other and the obvious truth behind the call: the goblins were rallying together. The sounds abruptly increased in volume as the guards surrounding the prisoners took up the call. Two of the guards abandoned their posts and ran up the hills. Then, four more joined their comrades.

Their dismay turning to eagerness, Legolas and Calethor waited anxiously as one by one, all but three guards left the prisoners to join the battle above. As soon as the deserting guards were out of sight, both elven warriors had arrows notched to their bows. Barely a moment passed and two of the goblin guards fell, arrows lodged deeply in their throats. Before the third guard could so much as turn to look at his comrades, he too had been dispatched. The prisoners were left unguarded.

As silently as two shadows, Legolas and Calethor dropped from the trees into the goblin encampment. Immediately, the elven prisoners stirred. Eyes danced with joy as the rough ropes binding their arms and legs were cut and the dirty gags across their mouths removed. Despite a myriad variety of cuts and scratches, most of the prisoners were hale and eager to do battle.

“Prince Legolas, my heart is overjoyed to see you! Fate smiles kindly upon us this morn!” After his release, Súlinnor gripped Legolas enthusiastically on the shoulder and beamed at the group in general. “We had despaired of our release—especially once they tripled the guard—but then, you appeared!”

Unable to resist the good-natured elf, Legolas smiled in his turn. “Lieutenant Súlinnor, my heart is gladdened at our meeting. I would hear your tale, but haste demands we aid our kin trapped in battle yonder up the hillside.” The prince indicated the direction of the fight.

Súlinnor sobered immediately. “We are ready for battle, my lord. That is,” he dropped his voice, “most of us are able to fight. We have some too wounded and one who hangs near death.” The second-in-command of the Southern Company grew sorrowful as he gestured toward the prone forms of three elves that had not moved since the prisoners’ release.

“Lieutenant Calethor,” Legolas called formally to his friend and received a bow of recognition. “See to it that every elf is ready and armed for battle. Use whatever weaponry you find if we are without.”

As the other elves began to prepare for combat, Legolas followed Súlinnor to examine the wounded elves.

“Prince Legolas,” Amathor bowed his head low, despite his obviously broken leg. The warrior lay propped against a rock, and his paleness indicated the pain he felt.

“Amathor, you have fought bravely,” Legolas acknowledged the warrior as he walked past him.

Beside Amathor, Thanduir lay unconscious. Súlinnor assured him that Thanduir’s wounds were not fatal, but he had lost a large amount of blood. Finally, prince and lieutenant approached the unmoving form of Captain Maeglir. The elf lay white and still as marble.

Moved with sorrow for the well-respected captain, Legolas knelt beside the body. “Súlinnor,” he asked gently, “what has he suffered?”

The lieutenant knelt beside his prince, and the warrior’s voice shook as he recounted the tale. Súlinnor’s love and admiration for Maeglir were legendary in the Woodland Realm, and no other elf had served as the Captain’s second for the past century. “We were lured, my lord, so foolishly! I am ashamed to admit with what facility we fell into their snare.”

“No reproach will be leveled upon those who fulfilled their duty in good faith,” Legolas encouraged gently. “Tell me all.”

Súlinnor’s eyes grew unfocused as he spoke. “We found a hut northwest of the Mountains—abandoned, we thought—but inside, discovered a she-elf, gravely wounded, and dying. She told us that goblins had attacked her abode and taken her only son. With her last breath, she begged us to retrieve him, and then she died.”

“Her husband?” the prince interrupted.

Súlinnor shook his head. “No sign, and no evidence of a struggle. We were suspicious, and Captain Maeglir was loath to pursue the goblins. That night we camped beneath the Mountains, and in the dark, we were ambushed. The Company was split—six elves were captured and carried across the peaks. What could we then do but follow?”

Legolas frowned as he sought to reconcile Súlinnor’s words with his own experiences. “Who was taken?”

“Lastor, Filechon, Ornor, Lalvon, Brethildor, and Dorothor,” the lieutenant recited without hesitation. “Have they been found?” he asked hopefully.

The prince looked away from Súlinnor’s gaze. “What happened as you crossed the Mountains?” he pressed.

Súlinnor’s voice trembled slightly as he understood the unspoken message in the prince’s words. “We were attacked again, but we thought ourselves too large a group to suffer defeat. How rashly we acted, I shudder to recall. But our boldness was justly punished as our Company was further split asunder. It was then that the Captain took a poisoned arrow—in the stomach. Those of us whom you freed were taken captive—under pain of death to our Captain if we did not comply. I know not what fate has met the others,” he concluded sadly.

Legolas contemplated Maeglir’s immobile figure with dwindling hope. “Erethion is skilled with poisons, but he fights somewhere on the battlefield,” he confessed ruefully.

“Lalvon also is…was…a gifted healer.” Súlinnor stood abruptly. “I see that you yourself are hurt, my lord. Let me call Haedirn to tend your wounds.”

Wary of the threat of poison, Legolas nodded shortly. Haedirn materialized quickly, and after a probing inspection, declared the wound to be clean, though deep and uneven. He sewed the cut rapidly, despite his repeated cautions that unless the prince sought to curb his movements, the wound would scar.

“Haedirn, will you please tend to Lieutenant Calethor’s head-wound?” Legolas requested as the healer finished tending the prince.

The lithe elf nodded emphatically. “It has been done, my lord.”

“See then what you can do for the Captain, Haedirn,” Súlinnor ordered, and he and Legolas walked back toward Calethor and the rest of the warriors.

“Captain Legolas.” Calethor nodded as Legolas belatedly realized that with Maeglir out of action, the prince ranked next in command. “We await your orders.”

Warring between caution and urgency in his mind, Legolas debated the best course of action in an instant. “The last position we know of our comrades places them north-east of our present location. We will work our way eastwards along the tree line—on the ground,” he clarified. “We must run. Once we are within sight of our kin, I will give further orders.”

“Lieutenant Súlinnor,” Legolas addressed the elf. “Select three elves to remain behind and guard the wounded. Haedirn will also stay with them.”  

His commands were promptly obeyed and within a few moments, Legolas found himself at the head of the group, Calethor to his left and Súlinnor to his right. The morning light had intensified and Legolas knew that several hours had elapsed since the dawn. He did not want to imagine what could have transpired to Rochiron and the others during that length of time. Legolas gave the signal, and the company of elves began to run.

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Rochiron wiped blood from his forehead in a lull in the battle. He knew not how much time had passed since the goblins had gathered together and attacked the diminishing group of elves, pressed desperately against the rising mountains. The Captain had managed to recruit all of his former company in the fray—with the exception of Feron—and they had united with the eighteen elves under Hadron’s command to keep the orcs at bay. The combined forces of the thirty elves had taken the goblins by surprise initially. But slowly, they had been beaten back against the mountainside.

Rochiron did not count those who fell or observe whether they rose again. He could not despair. The odds were overwhelming, but the Captain clung furiously to the weak flame of hope he had kindled in his breast with the mission entrusted to Legolas and Calethor. He judged the orcs to outnumber the elves three to one. A surprise attack by the twenty elven warriors he knew to be imprisoned on the outskirts of the forest would turn the battle in their favor.

A goblin materialized directly in front of Rochiron, and the Captain knew his respite was over. The Silvan elf nimbly dodged the scimitar and embedded his sword into the side of his attacker.

Rochiron had worked his way to the top of the last hill before the Mountains, and from his vantage point the Captain thanked the Valar that the goblins had few archers among them. He was grateful the arrowhead he bore in his chest appeared not to have been poisoned or he doubted his chance of surviving the day.

Suddenly, with a harsh cry of command, the orc-horde pressed forward in unison. Stunned by the creatures’ unusual coordination, Rochiron and the other elves were forced backwards against the rock face. The Captain parried with an orc as beside him, Hadron hefted his spear into an advancing goblin.

“Captain Rochiron! We have no escape,” the burly warrior panted.

An elven cry of pain in the distance elicited a sharp gasp from the Captain. He grimaced as the goblin he fought dodged his blows, and the creature grinned ferociously as it danced in and out of his range.  

“We must not yield!” Rochiron cried loudly, hoping to instill hope in the hearts of any who could hear his call.

Finally breaking through the goblin’s defense, Rochiron killed the creature that threatened him. The Captain glanced down at the enemy before him and, in horror, he noted a line of orcs who did not advance with their comrades. A dozen orcs stood in a line and drew back their black arrows upon their black bows. Goblin archers were notorious for their poor sight and disastrous aim, but Rochiron followed the line of one arrow in particular.  The arrow was directed toward none other than himself, but the Silvan elf refused to be felled.

Before the goblin could release or Rochiron could move, the Captain caught a sudden flurry of movement to the west. In another instant, the beings responsible for the action had climbed the next foothill and Rochiron discerned elves.

The Captain cried aloud in his joy, and his shout was taken up by the other elves. Their voices were clear and piercing, and the sound of their call drove back the goblins by its sheer beauty. With renewed spirit, the elves against the mountain pushed forward as the elves upon the hills approached the fray and met their common foe.

But Rochiron’s joy died on his lips as he caught sight again of the goblin archer. The creature had shifted his aim, and now his arrow was pointed squarely at the leader of the elven reinforcements.

Legolas was not looking in that direction. He turned his head and urged his elves forward. His gaze swept the foes before him, gauging their strength as he too, notched arrow to bowstring and picked his targets.

Rochiron did not pause to think. With sudden force, he wrested a spear from a goblin about to attack him. Utterly confused, the creature came to a full stop as the elven Captain stole its weapon and ran past. Rochiron charged down the hillside, completely oblivious to the orcs closing in upon him, slicing their blades through his tunic, and clawing at his legs. In the barest moment before the goblin archer released his arrow, Rochiron hefted the spear and cast it into the air with all his strength. He watched breathlessly as his aim sailed true and the spear lodged itself violently into the skull of the attacker.

It was the last act the Captain performed before angry goblins forced him to the ground. Rochiron felt a sharp blade cut through the muscle in his thigh as another goblin stabbed the skin of his side. A fist connected with his skull and in the dimming of his vision, Rochiron saw an arrow sail past. Darkness descended upon the defenseless elf, and Rochiron knew no more.

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ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Celeguir—Thranduil’s firstborn, was killed at Dagorlad.

Gwiwileth—second child and only daughter

Girithron—third child, the crown prince of Mirkwood, and chief military commander

Hananuir—fourth child

Ivanneth—Chief Advisor to Thranduil

*The Southern Company:

Captain Maeglir, Lieutenant Súlinnor, Calardir (runner), [Lastor], [Filechon], [Ornor], [Lalvon], [Brethildor], [Dorothor][all deceased], Haedirn (healer), Hadron, Amathor, Thanduir

*The Rescue Team:

Group One: aka Captain Aegnir’s group

Group Two: aka Girithron’s group, includes: Helediron

Group Three: aka Captain Rochiron’s group, includes: Calethor, Galadthor, Erethion, Tuilinnor, Feron, Esgaldir

Other Warriors:

Raenlas (runner/messenger)

TRANSLATION:

Fëar/Fëa: spirits/spirit