Chapter 7: The self must not be sacrificed

Glilavan’s fingers dug into Tulus’s side as he hefted him up, the better to drag him along to the border and relative safety of the light on the open plain.

“Stop! Please stop!” Tulus begged.

He had been pleading with his son to go back since he came to. Again. Tulus had reached, and surpassed, the limits of his endurance long ago. No matter how he tried, he had not managed to remain conscious for any length of time since their escape from the orc camp. Nor had he convinced Glilavan to stop. Despite that, as long as he was awake, he would try.

His hands flailed out, searching for anything to anchor himself in place, but the pouring rain made the branches of the sickened trees slimy. They slipped through his fingers. Cursed rain. One more misery amongst many.

“We cannot stop, adar,” Glilavan whispered. “Please be quiet.” His hair brushed Tulus’s face as he cast a glance over his shoulder to look for any sign of the enemy. Only the noise of splattering water and thunder hid their escape from the orcs that hunted them. “I am sorry I am hurting you,” he continued. “But you must be silent and we must move faster.”

“No further,” Tulus insisted, ceasing any effort to support his own weight. He sagged to his knees.

“Adar, please. Just try to hold out a little longer…”

“No,” Tulus breathed, letting out a long sigh as his body settled on the ground and some of the pain abated, if only temporarily. “You must go back for Dolgailon.”

“Dolgailon!” A low, frustrated groan escaped Glilavan as he gathered the fabric of Tulus’s tunic to hoist him up again. “I barely managed to get you this far. I certainly am not going to turn around and drag you back that distance, so I can walk into an orc camp and try to escape it a second time, only to gain a another elf that can do almost nothing to participate in his own rescue. It is all I can do to help you, adar. I pity Dolgailon his fate, but I cannot help him. Now come along.” He pulled his father up.

“Leave me here. Go back for Dolgailon.”

“Do not be absurd! There is no possibility I am leaving you alone. You could not defend yourself from a squirrel and much worse things than black squirrels roam here. Let’s go.”

Tulus stayed limp, resisting in the only way he could. His head lolled back and he caught a glimpse of the forest around him. “There is an outcropping of rocks,” he said, pointing. “Over there.” He had no idea what direction that was. Even if the sun was not obscured by thick, black clouds, it would not have penetrated the unnatural gloom in this part of the forest. “Hide me amongst them and go back for Dolgailon. He is your friend. You cannot leave him there.”

Glilavan let Tulus ease back to the ground, propping him against a tree trunk. Then his knees sloshed in the mud as he knelt in front of his father to look him in the eye. “Adar, I cannot go back. If I do, they will kill me for freeing you. Then they will hunt you down and kill you too. Or worse. Fuilin told me they intended to take you to Dol Guldur…”

“I know that,” Tulus whispered.

“I am not letting it happen…”

“And I appreciate your efforts. But how can you leave Dolgailon to that fate? He would not have left you. Not even now.”

Glilavan’s hand tightened, pulling the fabric of Tulus’s tunic taut. “No. Dolgailon would kill me if he could. Or take me to Thranduil, so he could kill me.”

“Both the king and Dolgailon chose to simply exile you for your part in Celonhael’s death, even after you tried twice to kill Legolas before their eyes. You repaid that mercy by killing the guards sent to escort you to the Havens….”

“I did not kill Celonhael. Or the guards. Fuilin did,” Glilavan snapped.

“And what did you do to stop Fuilin? Or to help Celonhael or those guards? The same that you are doing for Dolgailon, your friend? If you want to redeem yourself, and I pray that you do, you must go back for him. If you are indifferent to the death of your fellow elves, at least be merciful and slip back into the camp to kill Dolgailon. Better death than Dol Guldur.”

Glilavan roiled back on his heels. “I cannot kill him, adar!”

Tulus grasped the hand still clutching his tunic. “Then help him, ion nin. Please help him. In doing so, you will help yourself. I promise you.”

Glilavan glared silently at his father for a long moment before standing and pulling Tulus up along with him.

Tulus’s heart twisted in his chest, wrenching a sob from him. Then he realized Glilavan was dragging him towards the rocks.

*~*~*

“Do you see him?” Tureden breathed into Legolas’s ear, his voice nothing more than a whisper amidst the gale of the storm.

Though Legolas doubted anything would hear him over the lashing rain, he responded with the merest shake of his head, not daring any more conspicuous movement. The first time he lost sight of Radagast and failed to find him again, he was quite ashamed of his apparent lack of vigilance. After traveling all night and most of the next day with the wizard, Legolas had come to expect that outcome every time Radagast scouted ahead. He had long heard warriors’ tales of The Brown’s ability to disappear in the forest. They called him a master of shapes and hues. Legolas believed those stories now.

He crouched low, hidden amongst the twisted roots of a blackened tree, and waited for Radagast to reappear. The tree did nothing to help conceal the elves’ presence. In fact, if anything, its song mocked them and their efforts to go unnoticed. And they needed to go unnoticed.

All around, rather than the night calls of frogs delighting in the rain, the forest was filled with snorts and grunts. Orcs.

Not a dozen paces to Legolas’s left, one of them limped along, its injured leg scraping the ground, its head bowed with the effort to keep moving. It was close enough that Legolas could see that the water dripping off its nose was black with filth after running in rivulets through the orc’s sparse hair and down its scarred face. It was traveling slowly south, one of many stragglers from the battle the previous day. Most, like the black shadow Legolas kept in his peripheral vision, were wounded in some way and had fallen behind their fellows. Still, if they had managed to come this far, they were not injured enough. Unlike the mortally wounded that Legolas and his guards had passed hours ago, these orcs could and would fight if they discovered four elves amongst them.

Between being surrounded by orcs and malevolent trees, Legolas was quickly coming to understand why Tureden, Lanthir and Galuauth were so reluctant to allow him to pursue this course of action. He would never admit it—for many reasons—but this place terrified him.

Behind him, Tureden flinched sharply.

Legolas clenched his jaw to keep from yelping and spun around. He found himself nose-to-nose with Radagast.

“Not much further. Follow me,” the wizard whispered. Then he slipped silently away.

Legolas obeyed, never taking his eyes off the tangle of long, brown hair and hat flattened under the weight of the rain as Radagast dashed from tree to tree. So far on this journey, when the wizard intended for the elves to keep up with him, they had succeeded. So far. Legolas liked to hope that was intentional, but he did not care to wager his life on it.

As they crept forward, a cloud of bats arose from an outcropping of rocks, off to the east, on the far side of the orc they were pacing. Their squeaks and flurry of beating leather wings drew the nearby orc’s attention.

That was not the first time on their journey south such a distraction had given the elves and wizard room to steal past an enemy.

They traveled a fair distance before Legolas noticed the trees beginning to thin. He glanced away from Radagast long enough to see a void he could not imagine safely crossing—even with the wizard’s aid. Further inspection caused his eyes to widen and he bit back a gasp. That treeless area was absolutely filled with neat ranks of orcs.

‘Please do not let that be where Radagast is leading us,’ Legolas thought, but to no avail. The wizard motioned them forward, straight towards the unnaturally evenly defined, long, narrow clearing.

Holding his breath, Legolas slipped through the shadows to join Radagast, tucked behind a gnarled tree.

Radagast immediately pointed west, to the far side of the lines of orcs.

Legolas leaned around the tree and his hand tightened reflexively around his bow. Radagast was pointing at Manadhien. She was propped up against a large rock. Her skirt was torn, exposing her left leg, which was wrapped in ragged cloth, as was her torso. Her head rested against the rock and she was breathing heavily. She seemed to be asleep or possibly even unconscious.

That suited Legolas perfectly well.

The guards must have spotted her too. Tureden took up a position next to the tree, in front of Legolas, blocking all view of him. Lanthir and Galuauth pressed against his back.

Taking advantage of the safety they provided, Legolas turned his attention from his own surrounds and searched first west and then east of Manadhien, but he did not see any other elves—no sign of Dolgailon, his guard or Tulus. No sign of Glilavan or Fuilin, the last of Manadhien’s servants. Frowning, he drew a quiet breath to ask Radagast where they were.

Before he could speak, his head snapped east at the sound of a scream. An elven scream. Though rough with pain and nearly drowned out by orc laughter, Legolas recognized it. Dolgailon.

Peering through the murky gloam, Legolas saw a pack of orcs huddled at the edge of his vision. They were jostling for a better view of something…a fight, it seemed from the glimpses Legolas could catch. The throng of orcs spurred on two of their fellows struggling on the forest floor with…an elf!

The elf’s face was not discernible, but it had to be Dolgailon. His was the only voice Legolas had heard.

Legolas took an involuntary step forward as the two orcs alternated between pummeling the elf, beating him to stillness on the ground, and grappling with each other. A cheer arose when one of the orcs punched the second hard enough to knock him down, leaving himself the elf’s sole attacker. The orc pinned the elf by kneeling on his back and leaning with its full weight on his forearm.

When the orc reached for its victim’s hand, the elf closed his fist so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Silver glinted.

All the nearby orcs dove upon it, clawing and scrabbling.

Legolas recognized what they were after and it offered certain proof this was Dolgailon—the glinting silver was Dolgailon’s mithril ring. Aradunnon once wore that ring. It was made by Oropher himself for his second son and it bore the inscription, ‘Ernil o Eryn Galen.’ Dolgailon inherited it upon Aradunnon’s death. In four short years Legolas looked forward to receiving its mate, the ring his own father wore before Oropher fell in Mordor.

Legolas’s whole body stiffened. That ring, like Dolgailon himself, were not going to fall into the hands of orcs! Legolas shifted the arrows he held in his hand and fit one against his bowstring.

Tureden leaned against him. “We need to plan this, my lord,” he whispered. “We need to be certain we can escape with anyone we manage to rescue.”

Legolas knew that. He had never truly intended to loose an arrow. Not immediately. But it was nearly impossible to stand idly and do nothing more than watch while the orcs abused his cousin.

One of the orcs standing over Dolgailon yanked a knife from its sheath and brandished it about while snarling, driving off any competition for the prize. Then it raised the blade over Dolgailon’s still prone wrist.

Legolas partially raised his bow. Plan or no plan, he would not allow this to happen.

The orc still pinning Dolgailon to the ground lunged for the knife.

Another fight ensued. The two orcs battled for the weapon while a third grabbed Dolgailon by the collar of his tunic, hauled him up and pressed him, face first, against the nearest tree, dragging his arm at an unnatural angle behind his back and wrenching another scream from him. Still, Dolgailon’s hand remained in a fist, thwarting the orc’s efforts to take the ring. The orc holding him pulled his own knife and made to drive it into Dolgailon’s back.

Legolas and the guards with him drew their bows and took aim.

A large orc wearing full armor swiped a heavy arm at the orc threatening Dolgailon, knocking him to the ground. Dolgailon sank to his knees.

“Tha’ one goes to Dol Guldur. Alive,” the large orc growled. It reached for Dolgailon, pulling him to his feet and holding him in place against the tree with a hand around his throat.

Dolgailon gasped for breath and failed to draw it.

“But ‘e ain’t gonna die if ‘e loses a hand,” it concluded and its face contorted into an obscene imitation of a smile. With its free hand, it caught Dolgailon’s arm and forced it out to the side. Then it glanced over its shoulder at an underlings—a much smaller orc. “Get it for me,” it ordered.

Cackling gleefully the little orc pup dodged through the crowd, weapon drawn, eyes fixed on Dolgailon’s ring.

“For pity’s sake, my lord,” Galudiron begged in elvish from somewhere behind the crowd of orcs. “Lose the ring or lose your hand along with the ring. Let them have it.”

Dolgailon did not release his fist.

“We can retrieve the ring,” Galudiron pressed. “But only if you have the strength to escape. You will not have that strength if you lose an arm on top of your other injuries. Let them have the ring!”

The orc pup raised a long knife over Dolgailon’s outstretched arm.

Dolgailon struggled hard against the orc captain holding him, but, unable to even breath, there was no chance he would prevail. With an angry, frustrated cry, he relented and opened his hand.

The orc pup seized the ring, twisted it off Dolgailon’s finger, and darted a safe distance away with it.

The captain let Dolgailon drop and pursued his underling. Most of the orcs swarmed after them. Only one remained, towering over the elven prisoners.

Dolgailon gasped for air.

For the first time, Legolas could get a clear view of the elves. Dolgailon’s leggings were covered with blood from above his knee down to his ankle. His face, turned towards Legolas, was black with bruises. Galudiron and Hurion were bound to a tree a few paces west. They looked to be in no better shape than Dolgailon, especially Hurion.

Legolas squinted harder into the shadows, searching for Tulus. Engwe said he saw Tulus when Dolgailon fell, but Legolas saw no sign of him now.

The remaining orc pushed Dolgailon down, seized his arms and dragged them behind his back. There he pinned them in place with an armored boot while binding them. That done, he tossed Dolgailon, like a sack, closer to the tree and gave him a kick which sent him sprawling, face down. He did not move.

“We have to get him—all of them—out of here,” Legolas whispered.  

“My lord, there are too many orcs here,” Tureden said. “And only four of us. We have no hope of fighting our way free while carrying three injured elves with us. Even if we tried some diversion to draw some of them off, we would still be too few to do Dolgailon any good. I cannot imagine the strategy that would result in us surviving a rescue attempt.”

“We will follow them and wait for a better opportunity,” Legolas replied. “Both to finish Manadhien and help Dolgailon, Galudiron and Hurion. But I refuse to abandon them or allow her to escape.”

“And if they split up?”

“Then so will we. You and I will follow Manadhien. She is my responsibility now. Galuauth and Lanthir will go after Dolgailon and the guards.”

Tureden pressed his lips together and did not argue further, whether in fear of attracting attention or out of respect for his prince’s authority, Legolas chose not to speculate. Instead he turned his attention to the ranks of orcs.

“I count two hundred on the Road, my lord,” Galuauth whispered in his ear. “One hundred in the group facing east and another one hundred in the group facing north.”

Legolas’s eyebrows leapt upwards. “That,” he gestured towards the clearing, “is…what is left of the Forest Road?” He had no idea they were that deep into the enemy’s territory. He would have never guessed it from looking at that clearing.

Galuauth nodded. “I know it well,” he said with a carefully measured tone. “My first duty as a warrior in this realm was to guard it.”

A vision of what Galuauth must remember of this part of the forest flashed into Legolas’s mind—the Road bright and alive, when it was part of Greenwood the Great. Mirkwood was inarguably a better description now, at least for this part of the forest. Shaking his head, Legolas tamped that traitorous admission to the back of his thoughts and focused on what he must do to prevent any more of his realm from falling to this fate.

“We need to warn Galithil and Maethorness about these orcs,” he whispered.

“True enough, my lord,” Tureden agreed. “But if our numbers are already too few to carry out rescues and arrests, adding the task of courier duty will not make matters better…”

Making a face, Legolas opened his mouth to tell his guard to be quiet if he could not be helpful.

“Something approaches,” Radagast interrupted.

Legolas glanced over at him. The wizard had shrunken closer to the withered tree they sheltered behind and was staring south with wide eyes. Legolas followed his gaze. The orcs were stirring as well. Captains shouted sharp orders in their foul speech and their minions jumped to obey. Their ranks tightened. Some screeched in eager anticipation. Most whimpered and did everything they could to make themselves smaller.

Legolas stared at them, his heart speeding up. What could frighten orcs?

Something black moved in the darkness behind Manadhien. It was coming towards them.

A chill hit Legolas. At first, it seemed like the cold air that arose from deep caves, but there was no such structure nearby. He quickly found himself gasping for breath, his blood pounding, as if he had been running for hours.

He wanted to run.

He did not understand why, but he was overcome with an almost irresistible compulsion to flee. Or scream. Or simply throw himself to the ground and disappear into it. It took all his will not to give in to one of those impulses.

A firm hand closed over his shoulder, making him jump.

“His greatest weapon is the terror he embodies,” Radagast’s voice breathed into his ear, “He is imbued with his master’s evil. And the wickedness of his own foul deeds. But he is little more than shadow. Do not fear him and his ability to hurt you will be greatly lessened.”

The Maia’s voice and strong presence pushed back, if slightly, the worst of the utter panic Legolas was experiencing. He struggled to bring himself fully under control while staring at the dark form emerging from the pall of the forest. It seemed to consist of nothing more than swirling, black robes. Under its hood, where its face should be visible, Legolas saw nothing. Nothing at all.

It moved straight towards Manadhien and she pulled herself up to face it, leaning heavily against the rock behind her to compensate for her injured leg. Legolas felt a stab of pity for her. She looked as frightened as he felt.

“What is that…thing?” he finally managed to whisper.

“A wraith,” Galuauth replied. His voice shook.

Legolas tore his gaze from the dark creature now looming over Manadhien to look at his guards. Perversely, he felt at least a little stronger seeing that they also were affected by…whatever that was.

“A wraith? What do you mean?”  

“Nazgul,” Tureden said so quietly Legolas barely heard him.

“A deathless servant of the Evil One,” Radagast added in an equally soft voice. “A thrall, formerly a king of men, who accepted one of the Rings of Power and now has no will of his own, save to serve his master.”

Legolas’s breath caught again and he looked back at the black form, now blocking his view of Manadhien. A Nazgul! A Ring Wraith!

Those terms, like the Evil One’s name, were words he heard whispered only a handful of times, most of them when discussing the recent fall of the mannish Northern Kingdom. Even then, he doubted he would have learned any more than the most general account of the Witch King’s part in that war had he not heard the stories directly from Barad, a captain of the mannish armies.

‘It is not wise to study too deeply the crafts of the Enemy,’ his tutor always told him.

So this was a craft of the enemy! Now he understood Rodonon’s fears. And how an entire mannish kingdom could fall. How the Woodland Realm might fall.

Legolas forced himself to take slow, deep breaths.

The wraith was speaking to Manadhien, its voice raspy, its words more like the cries of a wounded animal than intelligible speech. They made Legolas feel as if his spine was twisting…disintegrating. From its gestures—first towards the injured orcs and then the fresh troops—Legolas gathered it was demanding an explanation of what Manadhien was planning now.

“The elvenking is dead,” she exclaimed, her voice high pitched and defensive.

That claim managed to heat Legolas’s blood. ‘Liar,’ he yelled at her in his mind.

“The villages blocking our advance into the forest are all but destroyed, their people ready to flee north…” she continued.

“Liar!’ Legolas thought again.

The wraith cut her off, gesticulating angrily at the injured orcs. Somehow, amongst its hissing, Legolas made out it was displeased with the orc losses and fact the elf villages had not been utterly destroyed already. A shudder ran through him.

“I was not promised an empty realm to rule, but one that still has subjects to order as I will,” Manadhien retorted, leaning forward and scowling angrily.

More shrieks issued from the wraith. It deliberately drew a long sword.

Manadhien leaned back against the rock and for a fleeting moment Legolas believed he might be spared the need to capture or kill her.

“Both the villages on either side of the mountains are ready to fall,” she insisted, forcing herself to a quiet, placating tone. “I need only to eliminate a few more surviving warriors and the mountains will be ours. Possibly the entire forest. This will be an easy battle. I promise you that. And even if we cannot press them to the elf stronghold itself, we have prisoners. The captain of the elf warriors.” She pointed at Dolgailon. “He will have the knowledge we need to prevail. To defeat that stronghold. We will get it from him.”

The wraith slowly twisted its head around to look at Dolgailon and the guards. Its gaze lingered on them long enough to draw an audible cry from Hurion and drive Dolgailon, who still laid flat on his face where the orc captain had dropped him, to struggle to turn away.

Finally, without another sound and without sheathing its sword, the wraith strode away from Manadhien and towards the elven prisoners.

Bracing himself against the terror still coursing through him, Legolas stepped away from the tree and drew his bow again, this time targeting the wraith as it stalked onto the Road.

“You cannot kill the Nazgul, or even slow them, with arrows,” Tureden said, reaching towards Legolas’s bow arm.

Legolas made to glare at his guard’s interference, but was brought up short by the expression on his face—respect. The first Tureden had truly shown him. “I will not let that thing have Dolgailon and the guards,” Legolas settled for saying, keeping his tone even. He lowered his bow and laid a hand on the hilt of his sword. “How can we fight it?”

Before Tureden could answer, the wraith took up a position alongside the ranks of orcs. With a screech that sent a jolt of cold fire through Legolas, it spurred the eastward-facing orcs to a swift march and it pursued them into the enveloping darkness as they followed the Road towards Maethorness’s village.

Their clanking armor and stamping feet had almost faded away before anyone—the remaining orcs, the hidden elves or even the Maia—recovered and stirred themselves.

Manadhien was the first to movement and that was only to slide down the face of the rock, while calling two orc captains to her side. In their own speech, she gave them sharp orders which they ran to obey.

One joined the northward facing orcs’ ranks and cracked his whip, driving them to march.

That shook loose the cold cloak of fear that shrouded Legolas. He quickly surveyed the path the orcs would take. He and his guards needed to move! He was just turning to search for a safe path for retreat when Tureden grasped his arms and pulled him forcibly back and several steps to the side, finally pushing him down to crouch between a slimy trunk and moss-covered rock. Tureden took up a position in front of him, between him and the advancing orcs. Galuauth and Lanthir flanked him. Radagast chanted words that Legolas did not recognize, though they sounded like Quenya.

They watched, still as death, as the orcs tramped past them, unseeing.

Soon, the only noise in the surrounding forest were the grunts of the few dozen remaining orcs, remnants of the earlier battle—the uninjured amongst them would apparently remain behind to guard Manadhien, the other wounded, and the prisoners.

Unable to restrain himself any longer, Legolas peeked around Tureden and the rock. The second orc captain that Manadhien had given orders—the one that earlier stole Dolgailon’s ring—was dragging Dolgailon, Hurion and Galudiron to their feet. A glance at Manadhien showed two orcs, one on either side of her, helping her step away from the rock and limp along the road towards her prisoners.

“Now is our chance,” Legolas declared.

As he spoke, he stood, positioned a half-dozen arrows in his hand, and fit one against his bowstring. He drew, but before he released, from the corner of his eye, he saw the orc nearest Dolgailon convulse and collapse.

“Yes,” Legolas said, loosing his first arrow into the orc nearest Manadhien and watching her list violently to the side as it fell. “You take the ones near Dolgailon. I have these.” Before he finished speaking, the second orc supporting Manadhien fell. Her injured leg folded beneath her and she stumbled to the ground, giving Legolas a clear shot to the orcs behind her. Four dropped without ever raising a weapon. Legolas reached for six more arrows.

The orcs moved to action, scrambling for cover and to find their assailants. Arrows flew, but randomly, not properly aimed at the elves that they could not immediately find.

Legolas ignored the arrows as they sank into trees and cracked against rocks around him. He concentrated on finishing the remaining orcs behind Manadhien, picking them off neatly, one by one. He reached into his quiver a third time, this time to begin finishing off the injured orcs that were scrabbling for weapons. As he did, he saw something speeding towards him. Automatically, he dodged closer to the tree while searching for the source of the movement. An arrow, obviously, but from where? Where were the orcs that finally spotted them?

Tureden grabbed his collar and pulled him further aside.

Not finding any orcs that appeared to be targeting him, Legolas focused on the arrow, intending to follow its trajectory back to its source. It flashed silver as it flew. Legolas knew what that meant. He spun towards Manadhien. She was kneeling on one knee, the better to draw her bow, her injured leg at an awkward angle to the side.  

She reached for a second arrow.

Legolas released, sending an arrow through her upper arm as it bent over her shoulder to grope in her quiver. She screamed and staggered back, dropping her bow to her side and falling hard, backwards onto the stone road. She rolled onto her side and glared at Legolas while clutching her wounded arm. Allowing herself only a moment’s rest, she shoved herself upright and strained with bloody fingers to retrieve her bow.

Legolas released another shaft. This one drove through the hand reaching for the bow and embedded itself into the tree behind Manadhien.

She cried out again—loosing curses in a mixture of Quenya and Black Speech that struck Legolas as particularly obscene.

Never taking his eyes off her, he fit another arrow against his bowstring.

Someone grasped the arm of his bow and turned it sharply.

He shifted his right hand to the hilt of his sword to defend himself from whatever enemy had managed to approach him so closely, but pulled back his attack when he realized who had hold of his bow.

“What in all of Arda are you doing?” Radagast asked. His gaze was as piercing as any arrow. His voice was the sternest, most serious…most commanding Legolas could remember ever hearing—a far cry from the gentle wizard that coaxed birds and small animals to greet young elves during festivals on the Green.

Legolas glanced at Manadhien to make certain she was still incapacitated. Then he frowned at Radagast. “You heard what she said to the Nazgul. You heard her ordering the orcs in the Black Speech. She is a traitor, allied to Dol Guldur and an enemy of this realm. We have to stop her.”

“You cannot kill her…. ”

“I certainly do not intend to kill her! An arrow through her arm or hand is not a mortal wound,” Legolas retorted, impatience creeping into his tone. The middle of a battle was no time for a debate, nor did he intend to have one at anytime regarding how best to manage Manadhien. That decision was his alone.

Maintaining his stern glare, Radagast released his bow.

Legolas returned his attention where it belonged.

Grimacing, Manadhien was still trying to pull the arrow from the tree to free her hand. Just as Legolas turned back to her, she gave up on that, snapped the shaft instead and began to slowly slide her hand down it.

Legolas scowled and let another arrow fly towards her just as her hand slid free. This time, he aimed for her shoulder. The force of his arrow drove her back and, when it also sank into the tree, pinned her bodily in place. She howled in pain and yanked at the arrow with her uninjured hand. It did not pull free.

Behind him, Radagast made an uncomfortable noise, but Legolas did not have time to respond to it. Near Dolgailon’s position, an elf shrieked in pain. Legolas spun towards the sound, fearing to see who was hit. His jaw dropped when he saw Glilavan with Lanthir’s arrow through his shoulder.

Where had Glilavan come from?

Legolas quickly widened his focus to take in the entire battle field. Everywhere, orcs lay dead or disabled. A few were crawling away from the attack, but were in no shape to pose further threat. Even so, Galuauth was finishing them. All the ones near Manadhien were dead, with his and Tureden’s arrows in them. Dolgailon appeared to still be alive and the orcs surrounding him were all dead, pierced by Lanthir and Galuauth’s yellow-fletched shafts.

Legolas frowned. He saw several black fletched arrows in those orcs also. None of the guards used black fletchings and Radagast carried only his staff. That only left…

Legolas’s gaze darted back to Glilavan and he studied him with wide eyes. Lanthir still had an arrow trained on him. Glilavan had tossed aside his bow and quiver—his quiver full of black-fletched arrows. Had he helped them against the orcs? Regardless, he was on his knees now, one hand pressed against his shoulder, the other out to his side, open and empty.

This was over. Cautiously, Legolas lowered his bow.

“Fetch Manadhien,” he said to Tureden. “Alive.” He did not want a repeat of what Tureden had done to her two servants, this time in the Maia’s presence. Then, shouldering his bow and drawing his sword, he stepped fully out from their hiding place and strode over to where his cousin was trying to right himself. Galuauth followed on his heels. Bow still drawn, Lanthir rushed ahead of him, straight for Glilavan.

“I surrender,” Glilavan called. He unfastened his sword belt and let it fall to the ground. Then he held his left hand out to his side again and remained on his knees.

Legolas studied his former captain to assure himself that he was no threat—with Lanthir’s arrow aimed at his chest, he was not—and then he turned to Dolgailon, Galudiron and Hurion. He swallowed hard. All three were badly beaten—every visible bit of skin bruised and swollen. In addition to the wounds of battle that had clearly been their downfall—all left untreated—they bore other wounds that had obviously been inflicted for sport. Slashes, stab wounds, bites and burns. Some, if not all, were poisoned. The three elves were flushed with fever; their wounds, which should have begun to heal, still bled freely.

Hurion was not conscious enough to look up at Legolas’s approach. Galudiron was. He gasped when he saw Legolas. The noise was enough to bring Dolgailon to as much attention as he could muster. He had just managed to prop himself against a tree and was breathing hard from the effort. He lifted his head and his eyes climbed up Legolas’s body until they reached his face.

“Legolas?” He blinked several times and shook his head. “I must be imagining this,” he mumbled to himself, letting his head loll forward again.

Legolas hastened to close the distance between them. In the process, he stepped over an orc—the armored captain. He stopped and looked over his shoulder at the body. Then he half-turned and crouched down, hands hovering over the body.

“My lord?” Galuauth said softly.

Grinding his teeth together in an effort not to be ill, Legolas ran his hands across the orc’s filthy leather coverings and under its armor until he found a pouch. He pulled it out and groped at its contents. Satisfied, he scrabbled the last few paces towards Dolgailon and knelt next to him. His sword fell across his lap as he drew his knife to cut Dolgailon’s bonds.

“I must be imagining this,” Dolgailon muttered again, watching Legolas’s hands.

“You are imagining nothing, Dolgailon. We are going to get you to safety.” Legolas ripped open the pouch he had taken from the orc. Four rings fell out of it, two silver and two gold, along with several other trinkets. Legolas ignored everything but the rings. He picked up the two silver ones first and inspected them. One was Dolgailon’s, as Legolas expected. The other bore the same twining leaf pattern. Legolas brought it closer to his face to see it better in the dark mist. Its engraving read, ‘Aran o Eryn Galen.’ Fist tightening around the ring, Legolas looked back at the orc. The filthy thing had been close enough to his father to steal this ring! Legolas’s clenched fist drifted closer to the sword still in his lap. Perhaps that orc was the one that struck his father. Legolas regretted it was dead. He would have much preferred to finish it himself.

Dolgailon raised his head again and stared at Legolas with bleary eyes. “You cannot be here,” he whispered.

“I am afraid I am,” Legolas replied. He lifted his cousin’s left hand and pushed the mithril ring onto his finger. Then he picked up the smaller of the two gold bands and placed it on Dolgailon’s right ring finger.

Dolgailon stared at the rings and then at Legolas, still plainly confused, as Legolas dropped his father’s rings safely into his tunic pocket and buttoned it shut.

Radagast appeared next to them and produced a water skin. He held it to Dolgailon’s lips.

“Radagast?” Dolgailon asked, his brow puckering even further.

The wizard shushed him, dribbled water into his mouth and ran his hands over Dolgailon’s numerous wounds, stopping with his hands cupped around the elf’s cheek. “Clammy. Hot,” he muttered, fishing about in his robes for something—herbs, possibly. He slapped his empty pockets when he did not find what he was looking for. Scowling, he moved on to quickly inspect Hurion and Galudiron’s wounds, doing what little he could for them.

As Radagast worked, Tureden returned, dragging a sputtering, protesting Manadhien along with him. He dropped her next to where Lanthir had secured Glilavan.

“Up. Move,” he demanded, waving at Legolas to stand.

Legolas bristled at the tone of his guard’s voice, but could not deny the wisdom of the order. It was not smart to remain too close to Manadhien. Grasping his sword, he stood.

She faked a lunge after him.

Refusing to show even the slightest fear in her presence, Legolas made no reaction at all. He only looked down upon her.

Tureden did react. He used his foot to push her roughly against a tree.

“You may have won this battle, but your victory will cost you more than you can possibly imagine,” she spat out.

“Keep your tongue still or I will remove it,” Tureden answered back.

“Let her spout whatever empty threats she wishes,” Legolas said softly. “They accomplish nothing.”

As they spoke, Radagast moved from inspecting the guards’ wounds to the prisoners, unconcerned that they were enemies. He muttered something about Glilavan’s wound not being poisoned, at least. Then he turned to Manadhien. He glanced over the injuries to her leg and side and his mouth twitched as he examined her arm, hand and shoulder.

When he reached for her arm, she looked at him scornfully, but the moment their eyes met, her cold expression immediately disappeared and was replaced by shock. She tensed and quickly looked away.

Radagast, for his part, gasped and froze, his arm still extended. His eyes darted over her. Then he continued reaching for her. Instead of her arm, he grasped her chin and turned her face toward him.

She resisted, keeping her eyes downcast, as if she could not meet the Maia’s gaze.

“You once dwelt in the Blessed Realm,” he whispered. “Now the Light is all but extinguished in you. And there is something more…”

Legolas raised a single brow.

Radagast’s eyes searched her again, this time more slowly. His hands passed over her. Finally, he pulled her arm from where she held it clutched against her body. Everyone stared at a plain gold band on her finger.

“She is a maiden,” Legolas exclaimed before he could silence himself. What would she be doing with a gold ring? His hand pressed against the outline of his father’s wedding band in his tunic pocket. “What elf did you murder and steal that from?” he asked, anger at such a violation swelling within him.

“I stole it from no one,” she snapped. “I made it.”

“I believe that,” Radagast whispered, releasing her and pulling away from her.

She closed her fist and thrust her hand into the folds of her gown.

“That is an art of the Evil One,” Radagast continued, gesturing towards her hand. “Not evil in itself, but it has long been turned to cruel ends.”

For a moment, the only sound to be heard was the rain pelting the ground as everyone stared at Manadhien, taking in what Radagast had said.

“That is how she lies so convincingly,” Dolgailon finally whispered.

Legolas’s eyes widened. “What witchcraft does she weave,” he said softly.

“None you need worry about,” Manadhien responded. “Worry about your realm instead. Your villages.”

Her voice felt heavy. It weighed against his mind, pressing itself upon him. And her words were quite reasonable. He did need to focus on the villages. Even as he thought that, he knew it was a manipulation. Still, he found it difficult to ignore the suggestion.

The Maia stirred. “You need to worry about this ring, my lord,” he said, standing and interposing himself between Legolas and Manadhien.

“What is this about?” Tureden asked, stepping between them as well, eyeing Manadhien with even more suspicion.

Legolas dragged his focus to his guard. “She does have a ring of power. As Engwe thought she might,” he breathed, only barely finding his voice.

Tureden, Lanthir and Galuauth all gasped. From the corner of his eyes, Legolas saw Glilavan flinch away from his mistress, a look of horror on his face.

“Take it,” Legolas ordered. “Even if you have to take her hand to do so.”

Legolas watched as Galuauth bent over Manadhien, wrestled her hand up and tried to pry her fingers open. The parallels between what he had just ordered and what the orc captain had done to Dolgailon only moments before were not lost on him—and they sickened him—but he could not allow Manadhien to keep such a weapon.

Manadhien fought hard. She yelled at Galuauth to release her, cursed and threatened him, pulled away, kicked out, beat her free fist against any part of him she could reach.

He pressed his thumb and forefinger against her wrist so hard her skin immediately turned white. Then blue. Her protests rose to a long, pained squeal. Galuauth’s arm began to tremble from exertion.

Finally, gasping for breath, her fingers sprung open.

Galuauth seized the ring. Handling it gingerly, he held it out between Radagast and Legolas.

Manadhien dove after it, but Tureden shoved her back and held her in place again with a boot against her injured shoulder.

Radagast stepped back. “Such devices are unnatural. I want nothing to do with it. I recommend you destroy it, my lord.”

“No!” Manadhien cried.

Legolas was hardly moved by her pleas, but he had no desire to handle an art of Sauron either. Unfortunately, in this rain, he doubted they could make any fire, much less one hot enough to melt gold. After a moment’s hesitation, he held out his open hand and allowed Galuauth to drop the ring into his palm.

It was cold. Unnaturally cold. And it felt…just as Manadhien did. Dark, desperate, false. But compelling. Seductive. Surely the person wearing this ring could command…anyone. Everyone.

Legolas closed his fist and looked around at the orc corpses. After a moment, he bent over and pulled a leather pouch from one of their bodies. Dumping its contents onto the ground, he dropped the ring into it and thrust it between his body and belt. Then he turned his thoughts resolutely away from it.

Manadhien glared at him with eyes so cold they sent a chill through him. “You will take nothing more from me. Nor will you hold that ring for long. Mark my words,” she said in a very soft voice.

Legolas made no more response to that threat than to turn away from her.
   
“We need to move Lord Dolgailon…move all of them,” Radagast said into his ear. Legolas was grateful for the distraction. “They will need medicine. Quickly. The orcs’ poison has been at work for too long. We cannot delay treating them. Soon their fevers will rise to dangerous levels. Dangerous even for elves.”

Legolas nodded. He knew the effects of the enemy’s poisons. He had seen them. The sooner they returned to Dolgailon’s village and the relatively healthy forest surrounding it, the happier he would be.

The moment the thought of the village entered his mind, he remembered this affair was far from over. One hundred orcs were marching on that village. It was not the safe haven Dolgailon needed, nor would it serve as a stronghold for the prisoners. Despite that, Legolas needed to return there, before the orcs, to warn Galithil, Engwe and the captains that battle approached them once again.

“Those orcs…we need to warn the villages,” Dolgailon choked out, reaching weakly for Legolas’s leg and struggling again to rise.

“I know, commander,” Legolas replied. “We are taking you north to safety and I will speak to the captains once we get there. You worry about yourself for now. Let me worry about the orcs.”

Dolgailon frowned, concerned and clearly unconvinced.

Legolas reached to pat his cousin’s shoulder reassuringly while trying to work out how he would get three wounded elves to safety, keep Manadhien and Glilavan from escaping and warn two villages on opposite borders of the forest of approaching battle with only three guards and the wizard to help him.

“You cannot go north. You must go west. Towards the border. You have to help my adar,” Glilavan said, interrupting his thoughts.

Legolas looked at him sharply. “What about Tulus? Where is he?”

“West of here,” Glilavan answered, pointing. “In the forest. Hidden and waiting for me to return.”

Legolas’s brow furrowed and he drew a breath to ask how Tulus came to be ‘hidden in the forest’ and why, but Tureden spoke first.

“Is Tulus hidden and waiting with another hundred orcs?” he asked with a mocking voice. “Or do you have no true knowledge of where Tulus is, but you do know where more orcs are, to aid you and your mistress in your escape? Either way, we will not be walking into your trap.”

Glilavan shook his head and kept his focus on Legolas, looking at him pleadingly and ignoring the measuring stare Manadhien leveled on him. “There were no orcs near adar when I left him. Please, help him before there are.”

Manadhien’s expression hardened into one of bitter anger.

“And how did he get to where ever you claim him to be? Why would you leave him there? And why would he need our help? Tulus is a capable warrior. A far better one than you,” Tureden said, glaring down at Glilavan.

Glilavan answered, but still addressed Legolas. “Manadhien caught him spying on her and took him prisoner. She left him in worse condition than they are,” he nodded towards Dolgailon, Galudiron and Hurion.

Legolas felt his back stiffen.

“I was ordered to take him to Dol Guldur…”

Legolas’s jaw fell open. No matter how far Glilavan had fallen, surely he would not do that. Not to his own father.

Glilavan shook his head. “I would never…I swear! I escaped the orcs’ camp with him instead. We made it over half way to the border, but he insisted I go back for Dolgailon….”

Tureden laughed. “And now you are going to claim that you are here because you agreed to that demand? Could you concoct a more absurd lie? Why would you help Dolgailon? You are here because you are in league with this one,” he kicked Manadhien lightly with the toe of his boot, “trying to kill the king’s entire family….”

“Dolgailon is my friend…” Glilavan blurted.

“You are a traitor and a slayer of kin unrepentant,” Tureden answered back. “You have no friends amongst us.”

“True enough,” Manadhien murmured, her voice filled with hate.

Glilavan looked down and closed his eyes. Then he lifted his face again and fixed Legolas with a steady gaze. “I confess to the first of those accusations. I am a traitor and I did nothing to prevent her servants from killing far too many elves…”

“You gave me to men and when that failed to kill me, you threw a knife at me yourself. Twice,” Legolas interjected under his breath.

“True,” Glilavan conceded. “But I am not unrepentant. I deserve and will accept whatever punishment the king will give me…”

“Just as you repaid the mercy he already showed you by murdering the guards escorting you to the Havens?” Tureden asked.

Glilavan ignored him. “My adar is neither a traitor nor a slayer of kin. He remains loyal to the king. Loyal to you. Please help him. I ask nothing for myself. Only for him.”

Tureden stepped between Glilavan and Legolas. “He uses what he knows will pull at your heart strings, my lord. Your friendship with his father—the same father he did not hesitate to put a knife into while trying to kill you. He would not hesitate to use Tulus to finish you now. He is completely ensorcelled by her and now we understand better how she held sway over him.” He pointed at the pouch. “These are all lies. Do not fall into this trap. I beg you.”

“Think of me what you will, but do not doubt that I would do anything for my adar. Anything. This is no trap, I swear it on my life.”

“It is no trap,” Manadhien said. “That Glilavan knows of. What he does not know is that at least one hundred more orcs are marching up the western border from Dol Guldur. They have already found Tulus. I promise you that.”

Glilavan stared at her, eyes wide. “You are lying,” he whispered, capable of no more voice than that. “You want us to abandon my adar because you hate him. You are trying to convince us to go north because your orcs are certainly there, giving you a better chance of rescue.”

“You are both lying and setting traps. I do not doubt that, But even if you are not, we do not have time for this,” Tureden said. “Dolgailon is wounded and needs medicine before he succumbs to fever. Tulus would never allow Dolgailon to be sacrificed for him. We have prisoners to secure. Tulus would not risk Manadhien’s escape. Most importantly, we have battles to plan. If you and I go directly back to Dolgailon’s village, we will be racing the orcs to get there quickly enough to give Engwe time to plan a counter attack. Tulus would never ask us to sacrifice whole villages for him.”

“No, he would not,” Glilavan agreed. “That is why I am here, rather than seeing to his safety. He refused to escape without the king’s nephew. I beg you not to repay that loyalty by abandoning him to the orcs.”

“Be silent or I will silence you,” Tureden snapped.

“Enough,” Legolas said softly.

Tureden and Glilavan looked at him, awaiting his decision. Galuauth and Lanthir did the same.

Legolas’s jaw clenched. He would certainly grow accustomed to people expecting him to give orders, but he doubted he would ever grow accustomed to the grief some orders gave him. Indeed, he prayed he never did. He never wanted orders like the ones he had to make now to come too easily.

If Glilavan was telling the truth…. Tulus was the closest friend Legolas had outside his family.

But he had no choice…

He drew a deep breath and steeled himself for what he had to say.  “Our first duty is the defense of the villages. We must determine the swiftest means to get word back to them. After that, the Troop Commander is my priority. We need to get him to safety,” he said.

“You cannot leave my adar,” Glilavan cried.

Legolas ignored him.

Radagast took a step closer. “We should head with all speed to my home. We are closer to Rhosgobel than we are to Lord Dolgailon’s village. There, I have herbs to counteract these poisons and birds that will carry messages to the villages.”

“If what Manadhien said can be trusted, one hundred orcs stand between us and Rhosgobel on the western border,” Tureden countered. “I recommend we go directly north. Preferably to the stronghold—you have put yourself at risk for long enough, my lord.  On the way, we can stop in a patrol camp or Dolgailon’s village briefly for medicine, to warn them and to send messages with a reliable bird to Maethorness.”

“Manadhien is lying, but you know one hundred orcs march north,” Glilavan argued. “You saw them yourselves. You will never get past them with so few warriors and so many wounded. We should go west, but not so far south as Rhosgobel. If we go northwest, we will reach the safety of the forest border quickly, we will be closer to Dolgailon’s village to warn the people there and to get medicine, and going in that direction will allow us to recover my adar.”

“Herbs are already in short supply in Dolgailon’s village,” Radagast said. “They do not have what we need to help the wounded there. Moreover, it will take us all night a most of tomorrow to reach it. I have herbs in Rhosgobel and we can reach it before daybreak. Any bird sent from there will arrive in Maethorness and Dolgailon’s villages before midday tomorrow.” He looked at Tureden, his chin rising. “And my birds are more reliable than any you think you have trained.”

“Of course we trust your birds,” Legolas said. “Still, I need to travel to Dolgailon’s village myself, as quickly as possible.” He did not want to leave Galithil alone in the battle that approached him or appear to abandon the people of the village. And if going that way offered any chance of helping Tulus, he did not want to pass up that opportunity. Most importantly, he had unfinished business in Dolgailon’s village. “I need to speak to Galithil and Seregon about the village guards. Some of them supported Manadhien. I need to know which ones. I must arrest them too.”

“I will tell you their names if you help my adar,” Glilavan interjected.

That offer elicited a snarl from Manadhien.

Legolas closed his eyes. “I will help Tulus if I can, Glilavan, but the security and survival of this realm has to drive my decisions. Surely you, a captain, can understand that.”

“Deliver the wounded to my care in Rhosgobel,” Radagast said calmly. “Send birds to the villages and then follow them yourself, but on horseback. That is the fastest way to resolve all these problems.”

“You have horses?” Legolas asked, eyebrows climbing.

Radagast shrugged. “Horses from the plain often wander by my abode. They are my friends and they would bear you if I asked them to.”

Legolas considered that answer. Then he turned to Tureden, Galuauth and Lanthir. “We are going to Rhosgobel. Get them up.” He nodded towards Dolgailon, the injured guards and the prisoners.
 
“At the very least, free me and let me go after my adar,” Glilavan pressed.

Tureden shook his head at that suggestion. “You cannot trust him, my lord. Most likely, he is begging for his adar’s life as a ruse to secure Manadhien’s freedom….”

“I do not believe that,” Legolas said, studying Glilavan. “I think he is speaking honestly.”

“Even if he is,” Tureden said, “he is a criminal. A traitor who has actively sought to overthrow the King and has murdered members of his family. You cannot release him.”

“True enough,” Legolas agreed, if reluctantly. He sincerely wished he could help Tulus by allowing Glilavan to go after him.

Glilavan’s face contorted in fury and he dove towards Legolas. Lanthir caught him, but he strained against Lanthir’s hold on him. “You cannot do this. You cannot abandon my adar. He would never have abandoned you.”

Legolas’s heart contracted in grief. He did not doubt the truth of those words. “I am sorry, Glilavan,” he said quietly. Then he turned away from him. “Galuauth, help Dolgailon. Lanthir, take Galudiron. Radagast, may I ask you to help Hurion?”

The wizard nodded without hesitation.

“Thank you,” Legolas said, managing a smile at him. “Tureden, we will take charge of our prisoners.” He glanced back at Glilavan. “You can walk. Your mistress cannot. You can carry her. Get her up. Now.”

Glilavan loosed an explosive snort. “You will not help my adar, yet you still expect my obedience? You are a fool!”

Legolas faced him fully, eyes narrowing.

If Glilavan noticed, he did not care. “I will do nothing to help you,” he raged on. “I will not betray my adar. The ease with which you toss aside the love he showed you utterly disgusts me, but it does not surprise me. I always said you would be the death of him. Just as Thranduil will be the ruin of this forest. May the orcs claim you both before these battles are finished!”

“Glilavan!” Dolgailon exclaimed.

His cousin’s voice sounded distant against the blood that pounded in Legolas’s ears. His hand convulsed around the hilt of his sword as the pent up anger and fears of the last few days finally claimed him. He took a single, long step forward, bringing himself nose-to-nose with Glilavan, who Lanthir still restrained, and he laid his sword against his throat.

“May the orcs claim us?” he repeated in a low voice. “You may yet have your wish. The king who you wish dead—the king who granted you mercy when you killed his uncle and tried to kill me—that king is dying,” Legolas’s voice broke over the word, “struck down by the orcs that you led against him.”

“What?” Dolgailon’s voice whispered in the background. Legolas did not acknowledge him.

“Dozens of villagers and warriors were killed by your orcs. And now, because I must move to prevent your orcs from causing still more villagers’ deaths, I may be forced to sacrifice my dearest friend. You blame me for Tulus’s fate? Blame yourself. Neither Tulus nor these orcs would be anywhere near here or each other, save for your actions. I did not betray Tulus. You did. My adar did not betray this realm. You did. I intend to see that both you and your mistress face justice for those betrayals. But, I will grant you this much: at the moment, you are indeed wise to pray you will not face justice at my hands.”

Defiance and contempt flared in Glilavan’s eyes in response to that threat.

The sword in his hand shook, Legolas gripped it so tightly. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to use it to…well at least to force Glilavan be silent, stop wasting time, and carry Manadhien.

The ring in the pouch tucked under his belt thrummed to life, singing out at the prospect of driving Glilavan to obey Legolas’s will.

Legolas froze, stunned to stillness.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Radagast staring at him in shock. Lanthir, Galuauth and even Dolgailon were watching him with open concern. Only Tureden seemed unaffected by his threat.

Legolas focused on Glilavan. Blood trickled down his throat. A few droplets pooled on the steel of the blade. Legolas’s mind flashed back to the last time he had been provoked to hold a knife to Glilavan’s throat. That image was instantly followed by a vision of Demil’s blood on his hands.

He released Glilavan with a backwards shove.

“We are taking Dolgailon, Galudiron and Hurion to safety,” he said with as level tone as he could muster, allowing the tip of his sword to rest on the forest floor to hide how his hands trembled. The rain washed Glilavan’s blood into the muck on the ground. “Then we will ensure that the southern villages are properly defended. If we can help Tulus in the process, we certainly will. We can do nothing for him here. For the last time, Glilavan: pick up your mistress and carry her.”

Glilavan glared at him a moment longer. Then he pulled Manadhien roughly to her feet and slung her over his uninjured shoulder, causing her to cry out in pain.

No one else made a sound as they readied to leave. When all the wounded were on their feet, Legolas nodded to Radagast. “Lead and we will follow.” He glanced at Tureden. “Keep your eyes open. We have not yet accounted for Fuilin.”

Tureden’s already grim expression soured even further at that reminder.

Gaze fixed on the dark trees, Legolas fell into step behind the wizard as he headed west.

*~*~*

AN: This chapter’s title comes from the following quote: “Self-sacrifice? But it is precisely the self that cannot and must not be sacrificed.” ― Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead

Ion nin—my son
Adar—father
Ernil/Aran o Eryn Galan — Prince/King of Greenwood