After the Fall of Moria

It was a desperate flight from evil, one that in later years would be sung of sadly, for many tragedies occurred when darkness was released from Moria. The dwarves were driven from their beloved mine, and the Silvan elves that lived nearby were scattered. Most fled south, some eventually reaching the west, and took ships to Valinor, a few, like the maiden Nimrodel, simply vanished in the chaos, their fates forever unknown, and a very few fled north, following the path of the dwarves. The ones who went north found themselves facing further evil, for Dol Guldur had now lain under the hand of a Nazgul for nearly 800 years, and the south of Mirkwood was dark and terrible. If they could win through, to the kingdom of Thranduil, they would be safe, but the forces arrayed against them proved terrible, and they died by the score.

*****

Lalaith’s horse died on the sixth day of the flight, dropping of its wounds and exhaustion, pitching her to the ground, and snapping her bow under its weight. She managed to roll away from the animal’s death throes, one hoof narrowly missing her arm. Maegil, her brother, quickly pulled her to her feet, his face tight with worry. He silently cut the straps binding the bags to the horse’s saddle, and handed one to her. “Can you manage this?” he asked softly, “I dare not add more weight to the two beasts we have left, and Serinde cannot run with her wound.”

Lalaith hefted the bag and gave a small nod. It contained mostly food, and a few small, light valuables. There was enough lembas to ensure they could reach Thranduil’s home, more than enough, for they were less than half of who had started out. Seven left in their small band, seven of the twenty who had fled northwards together, and she and Serinde now the only women. Serinde, who with the orc-arrow wound in her shoulder, was growing weaker every passing hour. Soon, she might have to be tied to the lathered mare to stay on - if the mare lived. Serinde and her cousin Brethil were the only two of the remaining elves Lalaith knew from before the evacuation. Brethil had fought in the campaign against Sauron, and was the best warrior in their group. The other three elves were known to Brethil, they were all hunters, one of whom, Thalion, had trained under Brethil. The final horse was a colt, too young to bear a rider’s weight, so it carried as much as the elves dared to load it with; water, arrows, a few blankets and spare weapons. The young creature’s endurance was phenomenal though, the elves were sure he was proving to be a Meara. Lalaith took the last bow from the frightened animal’s back, and gave it a soft caress of encouragement. She strung the bow easily, for she was accustomed to hunting. Then she began to run, for they could no longer afford to stop and rest, the once hunters were now prey.

The density of the trees was both a blessing and a curse to the elves. Their heaviest losses had come before reaching Mirkwood, for they had been easy to spot out in the open, and there had been nowhere to hide. Wargs and goblins had struck at them during the night as they fled across the Anduin at Loeg Ningloron. They had seen a group of dwarven refugees pulled to pieces by orcs not two days ago. But now that they were under the trees, the dark creatures no longer had to fear the sun’s burning gaze, and the refugees were aware that only by continuing to run day and night could they hope to outrace the fell creatures to safety. The pace was killing, but Emyn-nu-Fuin was only three days away, and the wood-elves were on the other side of the forest mountains. Only three more days.

*****

It had been an eagle that brought Thranduil’s court the news, for they had seen the carnage. A Balrog of Morgoth, unleashed in the Dwarven kingdom of Moria, and darkness pouring out, threatening the elves of Lorien. The Silvan elves were fleeing, and Caras Galadon alone was still standing. Thranduil immediately increased the patrols around his kingdom and strengthened his wards, knowing that the forces of Dol Guldur would not remain idle. His sons, Beleglin and Legolas would take their scouts south and west, Beleglin headed for the forest‘s edge, Legolas striking towards Mirkwood‘s low mountains, Emyn-nu-Fuin.

“Well, at least this way, I can be sure of you not tagging along, and getting in the way of my shots,” Beleglin joked at his younger brother. It was an old jest, from when Beleglin was on his first hunt, Legolas had tailed the hunting party, following his beloved older brother, and nearly causing a disaster he stumbled across the large boar that Beleglin had been trailing. The boar had chased the boy directly into the party’s camp, and only very swift action from the hunt master with a superb shot had prevented a bad ending.

Legolas widened his eyes in mock astonishment. “Get in the way of your shots? As I recall, you were busy adding water to the stream, when my superb diversionary tactics led the beast right into ambush.” The two continued to accuse each other of incompetence, as they readied for their missions. Even though Beleglin was one hundred years older than Legolas, the two looked nearly enough alike to be twins. Often, it was only Beleglin’s shorter hair, and green eyes that allowed for the brothers to be told apart at all. The pair completed their preparations, and sought out their parents, in the Great Hall.

The Hall was an amazing feat of craftsmanship of both elf and dwarf, a natural cave delicately enhanced, with giant pillars of living stone flowing like frozen waterfalls from ceiling to floor. It was said to be reminiscent of the lost fortresses of Menegroth and Nargothrond, where Thranduil had once walked. While most of Thranduil’s folk lived in the woods outside, the intricate caves, secured by a gate that could only be opened by elfin magic, could hold them all in times of need. The king himself stood at a long table, a map of his realm spread out before him. Normally a man of great merriment, a smile and a jest always upon his lips, his features were set in a stern countenance. It was not often that his people recalled that their king was not Silvan, but Sindar, but with the looming threat Thranduil was radiating the power of his Teleri heritage. His queen, Aerilas, was next to him, organizing the supplies necessary in case the elves came under siege. She looked up from her writing as her sons approached.

The princes were dressed identically in deep browns and greens, long swords belted at their hips, and bows in hand. Beleglin bore a silver ring on his right hand, signifying that he was the heir, and Legolas carried twin knives next to his quiver, a gift from his weapons-teacher. Aerilas despaired of either of them ever marrying, both over a thousand years of age, and neither one showing any interest of anything more serious than a light dalliance. She had been half-tempted to send the pair to Lothlorien, or Imladris, to see if any of the Sindarin elf-maids there would spark an interest, but Thranduil would never have agreed to it, it was far too dangerous, as current events were proving.

“Father, we are ready to depart,” Beleglin said, as he and his brother stopped at their parents’ side.

Thranduil looked up from where he had been making notations on the map, “This is scouting only, my sons. If you encounter anything larger than what your patrol can easily handle, fall back to my wards. I do not know if Dol Guldur will be reinforced from Gundabad, Beleglin, I need you to learn if the orcs are on the move from there or not. Legolas, even though it is not our home in peril, I cannot believe that the Wraiths will let this opportunity to strike at us pass. We stand between Gundabad and Dol Guldur; an attack will come from one of those places. We must be ready.” Abruptly, the king switched from the silvan tongue to the sindarin. “You must be wary, not only for the enemy, but the rashness of our own people. They will forget the seriousness of our situation if you let them. Keep them focused, my sons.”

Aerilas saw the effect of their father’s words wash over her sons. Stripped away was a veneer of jocularity that the pair had been wearing as understanding set in. Stern, purposeful warriors now looked steadily back at their parents. Their strength of will would hold their troops steady, supported by the formidable minds of their parents. She lifted her hands to gently cup her sons cheeks, “Be well, my children. Our thoughts are with you.”

As he watch his sons depart, Thranduil snarled softly under his breath, “A Balrog… they unleashed a Balrog. What will the dwarfs bring down upon us next, a dragon?”

*****

That night, the first spiders attacked. Never had Lalaith seen such huge vermin, she had only ever known their tiny, and harmless relatives. Now she and her companions were the flies in their trap, and it was only the keen noses of the mare and colt that gave the elves any warning, for the hunters lay in silent ambush. The mare had thrown up her head, and the colt gave a sudden shy, causing the elves to reach for their weapons, and then the spiders were among them. Leaping from the trees, throwing their webs before them, the arachnids hemmed them in.

Two dropped upon the mare, and she went into a violent state of bucking, throwing Serinde to the earth. Lalaith managed to get off two arrows before a creature was upon her. She fell to the ground, rolling past the snapping mandibles. Her little-used dagger found purchase in the creature’s soft belly, and it sent up a terrible shriek as she tore it open. Bilious fluids drenched her arm, and soaked her tunic as she continued to drive her dagger deeper. The long legs raked desperately at her, tearing rents in her clothes, Lalaith gasped as one claw found and slashed at her ribs, and all the while it kept up its fearful shrieks that battered at her ears. The spider’s body gave a final quiver, began to collapse, and Lalaith lost her hold on the dagger, leaving it buried deep in the vermin’s body as she twisted away from its corpse. She staggered to her feet, and recovered her bow, wiping her gore-covered hand off on her tunic so as not to foul the bowstring or arrows. Four more of the spiders were down, and the remainders were swarming back into the trees, the elves clearly putting up too much of a fight for them to risk continuing, she thought.

When the spiders leapt, Brethil’s sword was swiftly in his hand. It was an old weapon, one he had used during the War against Sauron. It gleamed with a pale, pure light, causing the spider in front of him to fall back with fear. He whirled and slashed deeply at the creature clinging to the neck of the frantic mare, ichor spraying from its bloated abdomen. The other spider’s first bite had claimed only the saddle, as it had been aiming for Serinde. With a terrific kick, the mare threw the spider off, and she leapt away, screaming in terror. Brethil’s sword flashed, and the spider’s head flew from its body, rolling out of the fray. The other spiders began to disengage, fleeing back for the trees as the elves matched the furious assault, and Brethil turned to check on his cousin.

Maegil was catching the trembling mare‘s reins, and another elf was bringing the colt around, when Brethil let out a low cry of despair. Serinde lay motionless upon the forest floor. Lalaith rushed over to her side, and saw the odd angle of Serinde’s head. In her weakened state, she had not been able to control her fall, and her neck had snapped on impact. Brethil looked up and said softly, “They retreated because they know we dare not stop and pursue… not stop even to…” He could not finish the sentence. Brethil touched his cousin’s raven-black hair one last time, stood, and grasped Lalaith’s arm. “She is in the Halls of Mandos, and no longer suffers. We have to go, I can hear more coming.” The look in his eyes was terrible, as if hope had died deep inside.

Her ribs burned where the spider had hit her, and her arm stung where its foul fluids coated it, but… “I can still run,” she said. “Give the mare a rest from carrying one of us.” Her eyes ached with the need to shed tears, but she could not spare the time for such. They were now six, and a long way still remained ahead. Two more days. As the elves ran on, they heard the mad chittering of the spiders, as they descended to claim their dinner. They did not look back.

*****

It took only two days for Legolas and his scouting party to reach the mountains of Mirkwood, mounted on swift elf-steeds. Emyn-nu-Fuin was the southern edge of Thranduil’s realm, and little evil dared to challenge the elf-king openly. Save for one small skirmish with a spider colony, always a problem in the woods, the elves were uncontested in their transit. The horses easily climbed the low mountains, and Legolas quickly scanned the tops of the forest, seeking out any disturbances. His eyes flashed towards the southern horizon, noting the faint smudge of darkness that marked Dol Guldur, the very air there tainted by the foulness within.

“There!” One of the scouts pointed, “The birds are disturbed by something passing beneath!” The unsettled birds appeared to be thirty miles to the south, by the road that ran from the Anduin River to the Celduin River, cutting through one of the widest portions of Mirkwood.

“A sizable force, to disturb so many by their movement. Perhaps a thousand at most. They most likely skirted the forest’s edge until they reached the road, to get here so quickly. So, will they continue through, and come at us from the Celduin, or attempt to test us in the woods?” the scout wondered.

“If they’ve any sense, they’ll continue to the river,” Legolas replied, his gaze hard as he studied the patterns of the birds. “They have to know we have the advantage in the trees. This has been my father’s home for too long, they would never reach the caverns if they came at us through the woods.” His eyes slid down the column of disturbance, and settled on an odd occurrence. Two sets of birds were wheeling off the main road; both were angling towards the mountains, and each other. His intent study attracted the attention of the others.

“A scouting party, do you think?” offered one of the elves. “This is the best ground to survey from, after all.”

“What could they learn from up here?” scoffed another. “Orcs have no forest lore. They could not read the signs that we see.”

“Not all allied with Dol Guldur are orcs,” Legolas returned thoughtfully. “There are men who are skilled enough to know the signs. But why the two groups? The more I see, the more I believe that there is one group, very small, headed here, they hardly disturb the beasts at all. The second group is moving to the first, larger, and with less skill. A full patrol, perhaps thirty, I think.” He watched long enough to firmly establish the pattern of movement of the two groups, and discovered that the two would meet not eight miles from his position, by the southern hills of Emyn-nu-Fuin.

Swiftly, he penned a note to his father, detailing his observations, and dispatched the note on a messenger bird. He turned back to the intense stares of twenty-eight elven eyes, bright with barely restrained desire. A soft laugh escaped Legolas’ lips. “So who wants to see what game is being flushed our way? We should hardly let such enticing prey pass us by, not when they separate themselves so far from their companions.” The answering grins were fierce. With careful stealth, they should reach the meeting ground at the same time as the unknown groups, and there would still be daylight left. With the thin cover on the low hills, if the patrol were orcs, they would be vulnerable to the exposure. If the group proved too formidable for the fifteen elves, the openness of the terrain would allow for swift retreat on their steeds. Either way, they would be on the road home tonight, a swift scouting completed. The thousand on the road were a week away from the elven settlement, and Legolas had no doubt that his father would easily strike down this incursion. In equal numbers, the elven warriors outmatched the orcs. Things were shaping up rather well.

Things were not going well at all, Beleglin thought. His swift journey to the forest gate had brought down some unpleasant discoveries. Orcs were indeed on the move from Gundabad, he could see the fires of the camps, scattered down the Misty Mountains. The bulk of the armies lay on the other side of the Anduin though, and they seemed to be concerned with moving southwards, towards Moria and Lorien. But not all were headed away from Mirkwood. What worried him were the fires that stretched northwards, heading for the northern river that ran through the forest, and directly to his home.

His patrol moved north, skirting the edges of the forest to remain unseen, until an accurate tally could be made. The count was chilling. Nearly two thousand orcs were headed for the silvan elves, and once they reached the river, their speed would be swift.

“A week. We only have a week before they will be upon us.” Now more than ever, Beleglin appreciated his father’s militant isolation. While this force could be defeated with some cost, if it had come upon them without warning, the tale would be grim indeed. Turning to release the bird carrying the news, he signaled to his patrol, and they vanished into the woods.

*****

Lalaith was beyond all caring now. There was only the running, one foot in front of the next. They were only four and the colt now, Maegil, Brethil, Thalion and herself. Spiders and other foul creatures had taken the rest., and the loyal mare had snapped a leg on a twisting root and had to be put down. Lalaith carried the last two quivers of arrows, the men would fight with blades while she stood back with her bow. The sudden burst of light as they reached the road was a shock, she stumbled badly, and would have fallen had her brother not steadied her. “We’ll be in the mountains tonight sister,” he whispered hoarsely. “We’ll be safe.”

At Maegil’s words, Brethil looked back at them. Lalaith could see the truth in his empty eyes, they had to reach the mountains first. Then his head whipped around, and he stared down the road. A breeze swept past them, the first they had felt in days. And it carried a sound, the sound of marching feet, of snarling voices. A bird screamed at them, its call dark and full of warning as it winged away, out of arrow shot.

“We came in behind them,” Brethil said, staring at the road’s surface. “They are a few hours away, and that carrion crow will tell them of our presence. We must not stop.” He turned and plunged into the cover of darkness, the others just behind. Some small portion of Lalaith’s mind wailed with despair, but she was too tired to heed it.

The trees were thinning, the ground sloping upwards, when the survivors were attacked. Leading the pack were three wargs with riders, and at the sight of the colt, the wargs charged, deep hunting calls sounding from their throats. From a deep reserve, the colt leapt into a full sprint, streaking away towards the gathering light, the wargs giving chase. The four elves slid to a stop, the men drawing their blades, forming a protective shield in front of Lalaith, who slid an arrow into her string. This is finally it, she thought. Here we make our stand. Eru, remember us…

Legolas could feel the orcs, their twisted souls darkening the forest when the howl of the wargs went up. A hunting call of prey sighted, the elves knew it at once. The elf-steeds swung around nervously, only the control of their riders prevented them from fleeing the area. Legolas cast his senses forward as he kneed his stallion into a gallop. Whatever the wargs were after would undoubtedly be something he was interested in.

**Eru, remember us…**

The words, slamming into his head, nearly jerked Legolas off his mount. It pierced him to his soul, the desperate final plea of a woman about to die. A small horse swept into view, dark with sweat and only yards in front of the trio of warg-riders in pursuit. Instinct took over, and the first arrow was away before his horse had taken another stride, fourteen more arrows a breath behind him. The orcs never even knew the elves were there before they died. A shout went up from one of the scouts, as they recognized the colt for an elf-steed, the gear on its back of elf-make. Legolas never even paused, urging his steed to its utmost effort. The screams of battle were in his ears now, and he prayed that he was not too late.

She was on her third arrow when the orcs reached them. Brethil’s sword spun, cleaving through the first, and biting deeply into the next. He fought with mindless fury, taking blows as fiercely as he gave them. Thalion and Maegil were weaving a defense, trying to keep the orcs from flanking them, and reaching her. Her hands flew, but for every one she dropped, another was taking its place… the orcs were tightening up, she heard Thalion scream, they were breaking through… a heavy club swung at her, she flung her bow up in defense…

“Take them!” Legolas shouted, riding down on the knot of orcs. He had arrived in time to see the hole around the embattled elves close, and fifteen bowstrings hummed with death. Shocked, the remaining orcs spun at the unexpected threat, seeing a flying wedge of elves, hatred in their eyes and destruction in their hands. Two more precision volleys later, and no orcs lived. But only one elf was standing, his sword black with gore, and as Legolas reached him, he crumpled to the ground. “Quickly! Seven on guard, seven to me!” he shouted, pulling the small aid kit from his pack and vaulting from his horse’s back.

The elves began to swiftly bind the injured strangers. The swordsman was hurt, deep slashes and stabs littered his body, his clothes a blood-red collection of rag strips. But he would live, for none were fatal hits. His two companions were dead, however, and the archer…

“A woman!” the scout exclaimed, as he turned her over. “She still breathes!” Legolas looked up startled. Why was the scout surprised at a woman? Hadn’t he heard her desperate call? Her bow was shattered in her hand, and her hair was matted with blood. The source of her wound lay nearby, the dead orc’s club bearing several of her dark hairs caught in the metal-studded wood. Legolas carefully touched the side of her head, attempting to assess her injury. Her skull felt intact, the bow must have softened the force of the impact.

“Finish the bindings quickly,” Legolas ordered. “And go catch that horse. We must be gone from here, and these two will rest easier in my father’s home.”

“And the dead?” asked one of his men.

“We will take them to be buried.” Finishing with the binding, Legolas gathered the woman in his arms. His stallion stood quietly as he mounted, cradling her in front of him. “It is the least we can do. When night falls, I want us deep in the mountains, out of sight.”

They rode from the scene of carnage, gathered up the colt from where it had finally stopped it’s headlong flight, and slipped silently back into Thranduil’s realm.