Who is Laeron? Who really cares? I bet you don't and neither does middle earth. Still, like most, he has a story or two, but does anyone really care that much? It is highly doubtful. Maybe you should go and read something more interesting, perhaps a fanfic with Legolas getting humped by Aragorn? (Or humped by any member of the fellowship...) I'm sure you took a wrong turn somewhere, bad link? Drunken fanfic reading? Well, don't worry there's still a chance for you to turn away right now...Go on, you want a real main character, anyways, don't you? Like Frodo, Pippin, Gimli, or Elrond, right? Not some pathetic background elf character only seen for two whole seconds in the extended edition of the Hobbit.

Still here? Well, you can only blame yourself now...

This is about a young elf, a musician usually residing in Rivendell. His home is Mirkwood, once Greenwood the great...He was planning to go home to visit his brother. But, it didn't work out that well...

Sway of the Song

It had been far too many years since he had returned to Eryn Lasgalen, or as it was now called, Mirkwood. Although elven memories are long, Laeron realized he was lost. He had rode out with a host traveling to Lorien, who had had bid him farewell at the edge of the forest as he had made his way in.

Laeron had thought he was going the right way, but the trees had become to close tighter in, and the road darker and dense. His horse, could hardly make it through the thicket. He spoke reassuringly to her and tried to encourage the chestnut horse to continue. This had to be the right way now, but why did he feel as if he were being watched by unseeing eyes? They bore into him like a cold blade, and the trees seemed to constrict even tighter around the path.

Laeron could barely make out his own hand, the forest pressed down around him, holding in stagnant air and turning it sour. He had started out hearing the sound of creatures at night, an owl, crickets, and tiny whispers of unseen paws scuttling through the underbrush. Now, not a sound, not even a whisper could be heard. His horse shyed away, neighed and would continue no further despite his urging.

He dismounted and prepared to lead the horse by the reigns when he heard it, what sounded like a sigh. It was a sigh of sorrow and it touched him deeply, someone sounded positively melancholic. Then, there was a louder noise, a moan of pain and distress. It seemed very close, someone was in trouble and nearby. His horse would not budge and whinnied in distress as he undid his pack, she sensed danger, as did Laeron, but he could hardly leave when he knew there was someone in trouble. He drew his sword, it gave off no light...Not even a glint from the blade, for no moonbeams could hope to pierce through the dark twisting branches of the trees.

He bade her to be careful and instructed the horse to return to Rivendell, but she nuzzled up to him, licked his hair, and suddenly bolted in a different direction than the one they had come. He wondered if she had gone mad and tried calling for her, but he could hear her hooves fade off into the night. Laeron hoped that she would make it out of the forest, for giant spiders and orcs would not say no to a juicy cut of mare.

He shivered, though the night was humid, a chill had run into his heart, and the world seemed less real. He was alone and felt suddenly very isolated. The voice cried now, a choking sob, it seemed even closer. Laeron started off in the direction of the voice, his blade out and his eyes wide as he attempted to peer through the gloom. Then he nearly tripped, on a thick, muddy root, as the road shifted to an abrupt downhill.

It seemed the earth itself was swallowing him up as he continued steeply down what must have been a near ravine. Again, he could hear a cry, but now it seemed fainter and unclear, as if it were being spoken underwater.

He called out, "Where are you?" and his voice seemed to echo through the entire forest. He was filled with dread at something hearing him. Surely, there was no one but this injured being, yet he still felt that he was in grave danger. But, what harm could they possibly cause him?

He continued towards the voice, he had athelas in his pack and bandages, he hoped they would be enough to assist, whoever it was, to the halls of the elvenking, Thranduil. He thought fondly of those well-lit halls and the nights of feasting and celebration when the forest seemed less dark and filled instead with joy.

As a young elf, he had danced, sang, and served the king's court. It was what his parents desired, though they had not dissuaded his brother, Galion, from becoming a fierce fighter as well as King Thranduil's trusted majordomo. He had done more kitchen and needle work than he had helped to patrol. He was mediocre at the bow, better with the sword, but he constantly doubted his skill and felt entirely inferior at times. He thought of his parents now, slain by orcs in a surprise attack and what they would think of him. "I play a lyre, better than I fight." He spoke aloud, quietly.

A great help that would be in a fight, he could play his lyre and sing as wargs and orcs ripped him apart. None but Luthien, the fairest, would be able to sing and save anyone. The thoughts of his childhood and the summer days he had spent playing in the sun, made the forest seem that much darker now. The bright days and clear blue sky seemed longer ago than 300 years and as far away as possible from this dark wood where they had occurred.

Again he heard a cry, now more urgent, he could make out the words, "Help, please." They were spoken in Sindarin in no accent he had ever heard before.

He moved faster towards them, he grew closer to where he was sure he would find someone with an injury, when the voice stopped and there was silence once more. Laeron stood dumbly in the dark for a minute, the voice had come from here, he was certain of it.

That was when he heard the voice again, it whispered in his ear, "Sha! Glob búbhost!"

Suddenly, a darksome light appeared and he was surrounded by huge, black orcs and wargs, his blade shining brightly and uselessly as it dropped from his hands. How could he have wandered into their midst so easily? They snarled and called at him, but stayed in a ring around him, never moving too close in.

He shook violently and a slim, but powerful hand tightened around his neck. Laeron was shaking, terrified, suddenly he was an elfling again. His body was frozen in place. He could feel the fell spirit that was emanating from the being and smell the foul breath as it whispered to him in a gross parody of a soothing tone, the grip never relenting. He was thrown against stone and could only gaze up in fear at his captor.

His last vision was that of a fiery eye in which he could clearly hear the tortured screaming and smell the blood of a thousand slain corpses.