Disclaimer: I do not own, in any way other than wishing that I did, the characters of my Lord and Savior JRR TOKIEN. He is a Eru, and I, a lowly Maiar, cannot ever claim that I am responsible for his great works.

Jaynesdingleberries Presents: Prologue of the Legend of Gauran Dolthoglin

Please, enjoy.

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The woman locked cold fingers over her mouth to prevent herself from screaming. She was very near deaf with her need to scream out in terror, her heart thundering like a great drum in her ears. Élíriel cowered, her delicate body concealed in the deep roots of a guardian oak; the smell of old rotting wood permeated her. But her fingers, used to the careful strumming of her lap-harp and the beautiful embroidery that her mother had taught her, bit deeply into her cheeks and she prayed that the orcs would not hear her.

The smell of damp earth filled her nostrils and she could feel it seep like cold fingers through her torn blue dress and began wracking her body with chills. The cold, however, was not as chilling as the vivid images in her mind. She could see her brother, brave tall Thindfast, the last son of good Lord Orchdring, fall beneath the blackened scimitars of the orc ambushers. She remembered the shock in his face at seeing these enemies here, on the borders of Dol Amroth.

Here she was supposed to have been safe, in the lands of her husband-to-be, Imrahil. Her escort had been relieved when they had reached these shores safe from a long an harrowing journey from Tolfolas, but too soon. A league from the place where Prince Imrahil was to meet them, they had come: uruks, filthy and vile in their scarred and blackened armor, from the underbrush and the green forest had come alive with the screams of her men and the battle-shrieks of the enemy.

As their horses shied and reared in fright gray-haired Thindfast had struck her little dappled palfrey across her haunches with the flat of his glinting sword and sent the filly fleeing into the forest. The orcs had tried to grab her and bring her down, ripped her lily-embroidered cloak with their rotting talons, but they did not unseat her. At the edge of the copse, before disappearing entirely she had managed to turn half-way in her saddle and saw Thindfast, his sword stained with the foul blood of the glam and bright were his green eyes as they met her own eyes, of the same green as the grassy knolls of their island home, and in his throat the black arrows thrust, his chest cleaved by the force of a descending scimitar, spilling blood redder than rubies. She saw him fall, the last Lord of Tolfolas.

She had fled, then, her heart shattered and her will nigh to being broken. And behind her the yells of her pursuers hounded her, driving both her and her horse, brave little Malubrithil, further into the darkening forest.

The snap of a bow brought the filly down, her heart pierced and broken, her barrel chest heaving as she screamed in agony and panic; Élíriel had been blessed that she had been thrown clear, but her body felt broken and she could not move far, for her right foot could not support her weight.

So she had crawled, quick and quiet, to the oak tree where she had found a hold at the base, barely large enough to allow her small frame but she managed to slip in, scraping her shoulders as she went.

And she waited, huddled down, with her fingers digging deep gouges in her cheeks, striving to keep her fear from consuming her. She was a Lady of Tolfolas, and she strove to keep the courage of her islander people strong in her fluttering heart.

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Dugûk found the horse first, his arrow in her heart, her eyes glazed over in death. He smelled the she-man, her scent was unmistakable. He tasted her fear and he reveled in it, his heart filled with hunger and hate. He was the first to find her, and he planned to be the one to claim the prize.

Her path was obvious though the brush, the earth disturbed and the foliage broken. She had crawled on her belly and it thrilled him. He crouched low to the ground and sniffed, his teeth bared and dripping with dark saliva.

Dugûk followed her path and howled in glee. With his scimitar he smashed the edges of the hole between the oak's roots and the rotting wood gave way easily. The she-man's screams echoed through the cold twilight.

He got his arm in the hole and grabbed her, grimacing as she fought and bit at him. That only made him laugh and he yanked harder from her hiding place. He could feel her arm break under his clawed hand, her scream muffled in the tree-hole.

"Come out little rabbit, Dugûk's hungry!" he snarled and with a grinding pop she slid free from the roots, her arms at an awkward angle, her exposed skin abraded from rough handling. She was dirty now, dirty like all men-folk were, her long black hair tangled and knotted from her flight, her body shaking and convulsing as she tried to fight him; but she was a delicate woman, unused to hardships, and fear had taken most of her strength.

He threw her to the ground and landed on her, drinking up her screams like it was a liquor, and bit her savagely on her left cheek, taking flesh and blood into his body. Savagely he ripped her dress and with blood-stained claws he reached between her legs and raked her.

Élíriel was crying like a wounded animal, her hands struggling to stop the orc, her nails breaking on his rough flesh, but she did not stop. The pain of his teeth at her face was nothing in comparison to the agony of his claws at her core. But she fought back with every inch of her being; with her teeth she bit him, tearing his ear almost all the way off; with her delicate fingers she reaches to pluck out his red eyes, with her small feet and knees she battled his lower body.

But Dugûk was very large for an uruk, and he had been born and reared in the violence of Minas Morgul, where nothing could survive unless they were more quick and brutal than their opponent. He held her.

And then, filled to the brim with her fear and her pain, gorged on her flowing blood, he reached between his own legs.

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A single squire of Thrindfast survived the attack, though only by chance. His small pony, Sarn, a gift from his cobbler father, had bolted north and west. Gladtál had not meant to flee; he was as brave as any man of Tolfolas, and would have died to save his liege.

But he was from a fisher-village, and was unused to horses. It was why he had been given a pony to ride; not only could his father not afford a horse, but it was dubious if Gladtál could even control one. With barely three days practice at controlling the pony, Gladtál had lost control of the reigns, and had not the knowledge of how to command the beast.

Sarn the pony had followed his instincts; and for some unknown reason the dark haired boy and his dirt brown pony passed unscathed through the ambush, and then north.

It was by chance that the boy was found by Imrahil's warrior.

It was almost a miracle that Gladtál was able to lead the knights of Dol Amroth back to the ambush sight; and there the knights slew freely the filth of the orcs. And there the proud young Prince of Dol Amroth found and slew the foul orc that was about to slay his betrothed.

Even so, with every miracle and blessing taken into account, the rescuers of the Lady Élíriel Aforloch, the last child of Lord Orchdring of Torfolas, had come too late.

Bloodied and ravaged, the lady with the brilliant green eyes bore a horror too great, a seed of hate planted deep within her abused body to grow into new life.

A child would be born.

Periorch.

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Glam orc-troop

Torfolas large island in the Bay of Belfalas at the mouth of the Anduin.

Periorch Half-Orc