I own nothing.
They were being pushed back. They were being slaughtered. There were some who would have said that this was just punishment for what they had done at Alqualondë, others who would say that the Ice crossing had been punishment enough or not enough. Arakáno did not think of it in terms of punishment and retribution. They were being pushed back. They were being slaughtered. That was what he saw, and thought.
It had been a thrilling, wonderful moment, to see the world bathed in light again. Finally, they had left the Ice and the mountains and the barren lands behind them. The world before them was wonderfully green and warm, compared to what they left behind. It promised so much, promised them life and prosperity and an end to hunger and fear and uncertainty.
Arakáno had longed to see these lands. He had longed to be bathed in light again, warm light, not just the faint silver light of Rána. He had longed to walk upon grass and not Ice or loose stone. The air smelled of sweet grass and conifer trees; the air smelled of life. They had survived. They were here. He held the memory of Elenwë in his mind, she they had been forced to leave behind, wishing she could smell the green trees and the fertile ground along with the rest of them. But her memory was with them, and her child was still alive, despite all odds.
And they were here.
But the host of Nolofinwë had hardly any time to celebrate their success and their survival. They barely even had time to breathe the clean, fresh air before they were set upon from all sides.
Arakáno had heard stories of Orcs since he was a boy, and surely these gnarled, twisted creatures must have been Orcs. The host was attacked by a great swarm of Orcs bearing swords and knives and great solid clubs. The Quendi, having survived starvation on the Grinding Ice, now faced death at the hands of the Orcs.
They were weak, and starving, and had not even had time to get drunk on the knowledge that they had survived their trek from Aman. All the same, any of the Quendi able to fight leapt into action. Nolofinwë kept his sword on his person at all times, and was one of the first to fight back against the Orcs. Aunt Lalwen, Findekáno and Turukáno, Findaráto and his brothers, Irissë and Artanis soon had their swords as well, and so did Arakáno. So did thousands more.
They were fighting for their lives, and this gave their weakened bodies strength. Nolofinwë's host had not survived the Grinding Ice for nothing; they had strength enough to survive that, and those who had survived had strength enough to leap into battle for their lives. But their strength was not enough against the Enemy's hordes.
Arakáno felt his stomach churn and his blood boil with anger. They were being pushed back. They had just gotten here, and they were being pushed back, they were being slaughtered. It should not be this way! He ground his teeth as he parried the blade of an enemy.
The host was wavering, giving ground. They were weak and starving, and even their strength gave way to hopelessness. The pres of bodies was overwhelming. The screams of the wounded, the dying, the bereaved filled the air. Their people were falling to the ground wounded and dead, and they were losing hope. They had survived the Grinding Ice, only to die here on the shores of Endóre. The host needed an opening, they needed a rallying point, something to buoy their spirits and give them back their strength…
His eyes widened. He saw it.
There was one Orc in particular, standing atop a boulder, directing his fellows in battle. That one was their captain, then. If the captain was slain, the Orcs might not break ranks and flee, but it would be enough to give the host the hope of victory and survival they so badly needed. It would be enough to ensure their victory, and that they would be able to stay here.
Arakáno leapt forwards, racing towards the ranks of the Orcs. His father cried out desperately for him to stop, and for one moment, he looked back to them.
He saw the sick desperation on his father's face. He saw the blood on Findekáno's sword. He saw Turukáno holding his sobbing child with one hand and brandishing his sword with the other. He saw Irissë beckoning him back. His aunt and cousins all seemed to blend into one wide-eyed mass.
It would end with this. It was enough that no one else had to die. It was enough that they had lost Elenwë, and would lose him as well.
Arakáno raced on, slashing and stabbing and hacking at every Orc to leap into his path, until finally, he had reached their captain. As a rusted blade slid between his ribs, he stared up at the sky full of light, and thought that this was a small price to pay.
Arakáno—Argon
Nolofinwë—Fingolfin
Findaráto—Finrod
Findekáno—Fingon
Turukáno—Turgon
Irissë—Aredhel
Artanis—Galadriel
Rána—The Exilic name for the Moon, signifying 'The Wanderer' (Quenya)
Quendi—Elves (singular: Quendë) (Quenya)
Endóre—Middle-Earth (Quenya)