Title: Battle Beneath the Trees
Author: Cúdae
Disclaimer: I claim none of Tolkien's creations as my own.
Summary: "Battle beneath the trees in Mirkwood…"—Appendix B, The Return of the King. This is the story of a young warrior who sees his world slowly fall apart as his people defend their homes against the forces of Dol Guldur.
Warnings: Fighting and death.
Author's Note: This is based on the sentence "Battle beneath the trees in Mirkwood…" in Appendix B, The Tale of Years, the Great Years, on March 15 in the back of the Return of the King. It is my design that you never find out the main character's name.
Chapter One: Before the Fight
***
He balanced on the branch of a tree and stared intensely at the ever-approaching line of orcs. He knew they were orcs despite the shadow that surrounded them constantly. He heard them, he smelt them, and he could taste them on the wind. The trees spoke of them and the ground murmured against them. The sky above the canopy of leaves was growing dark before the sun set in the west. He felt within him the approaching evil and he knew, but did not understand, that many would fall to it. He secured his weapons and began his descent back into the preparations for the fight that was now unavoidable. He paused only a moment to press himself against the tree and listen to its wood song.
On the ground the last provisions were being made before the battle began. Men were sharpening swords or knives and arrow tips and stringing and restringing their bows in a nervous habit. The women who knew the art of war were doing the same. The other women and the healers readied their medicines and potions that would be used to treat the wounded. Water that had been drawn up from the Forest River days ago and loaded into barrels once used for wine was taken within the underground palace. Grain from the far fields was packed tightly and stored in the deep places. Vegetables and fruits from the gardens had been dried and preserved and stored with the grain and water. Meat was salted and dried in strips before, like the other foods, being stored away inside the palace. There would be enough food to withstand a siege.
The warriors from the southern villages were well used to these bombardments of evil, for often their homes were attacked. From the northern villages came the most healers and those who were skilled in craft. The western warriors were strong and proud and had seen much already. From the east came the people who hid themselves in the trees and stayed silent and unmoving when the orcs came. The people from the main city of the Woodland Realm were skilled in fighting and had been taught since childhood to be ready for a siege. They would defend Mirkwood until their last breath.
He looked around him at the people. Smiths were hastily shoeing horses and crafting extra blades. Weavers were adding the finishing touches to their cloaks and blankets. Healers were hurrying to make sure everything was in place. Potters were stacking their creations to take down into the palace. Warriors were preparing themselves for the fight. Sentries and lookouts in the trees called and whistled warnings to each other. Children were filling water skins. Someone was singing. He walked through the mess and tangle of people young and old. Other warriors smiled grimly at him. Healers watched him, noticing his movements and wondering if they would see him later in pain before them. His eyes fell on a young girl. She held a knife in her hand. Its blade glinted in the fading light. He knew immediately that she was one of the southern villagers. All their women fought, for if they did not the southern villages would have been destroyed long ago. A seasoned warrior sat against the bole of a tree. His eyes were closed and he twirled an arrow in his hands. A shiver ran down his spine and he looked away.
***
The King of Mirkwood looked at his wife, Aduial. She bit her lip and asked the same question she asked him every time the city was attacked: Why? He had no answer, not the real answer. He could go through the reasons that he had recited to her, his children, and practically everyone else in the kingdom for as long as he had been king. Those answers he had thought were real. He had come to learn that those answers he recited were not the answers people wanted. Aduial faced him and cried, "Something will happen! This is different! Has anything been heard of Lorien?" Thranduil did not answer. Though long it had been since any of his people had journeyed to Lothlorien, the two lands made sure that they were at least aware of the other's presence and well being. It angered and saddened Thranduil that he had been thus sundered from Lothlorien.
"Thranduil…" Aduial's voice was barely above a whisper. He turned to her once more and answered quietly, "Yes, my queen?" She raised her eyes to meet his. When she spoke her voice was hoarse, as though about to cry. She said, "This will be the death of me." Thranduil shook his head and replied in a voice as calm as possible, "No, you will be safe here, within these walls. They are strong, nothing will harm you." Tears welled and leaked out of the queen's eyes. "You do not understand…" she said, "Already, Legolas has gone and not returned. And Leithian, my only daughter, has married a warrior who will not live to see his own child. Tirn is dead. Long dead… Dútawar and Taurost will die and it will slay me. You do not understand." Thranduil brought his wife close in a tight embrace. "Do not say such things," he said, "Tirn is in peace. Legolas will return. Leithian and her husband will be fine. Dútawar and Taurost will live and they will be honored for their bravery." The queen said nothing in reply.
***
He walked silently through the trees close to the city, not daring to venture out too far. It was almost time for the first of the spring floods from the lowest sides of the mountains to come wet the dry streambeds. He brushed his hand against an oak tree. It was old and gnarled. It had seen much in its lifetime. He lingered by it, running his hand over its bark. He wondered how many droughts, how many rainy seasons, how many fierce winters followed by hot summers this tree had seen. He wondered if this tree had held a young child learning to climb or a warrior in hiding or a sentry on the watch. The more he thought of the tree, the calmer he became. The turmoil within him became tranquil and the questions in his mind were silenced. He started to let himself drift into the dream state but before he could fully detach himself from the present, a sharp cry rang out.
It was the call of a commander. It was the call of the commander, the King. It was time to form ranks.
He went flew back down the paths to the southern side of the city. He was still considered young, being no older than the Prince Legolas, but he was more than old enough to fight. As he made his way to his own commanding officer, he thought of his family. His sister had been killed in an orc raid when he was still to young to understand and his father was killed not long afterwards. His mother had never fully recovered. His friends, they had all taken the same path. Each of them was a warrior of the Woodland Realm. Gil-Gambor even earned the privilege to fight under the command of Crown Prince Taurost. But some of them were dead. Some of them had gone to aid the southern villages and had died. Others had gone to the western villages over the winter and starved. He shuddered at the thought of starving to death. He knew that whole villages had died that winter, but it had not affected him until his friends went to offer whatever aid they could and did not return.
Cúmaen, his commander, organized them, the least experienced in the middle, the most experienced at the front, and the ones with a decent amount of experience at the rear. Around him, faces were grim or lined with tears. Beside him was a tall man whose eyes were red. On his other side was a woman of the northern villages whose face was hard with determination. He loosed his sword and tightened his grip on his bow. An early spring flower was blooming nearby. He took it as a good omen. He started to reach to pluck it from the ground, but stopped. Why should I, he thought, take this flower's life when my own may be taken this day? He straightened and reached back for an arrow. All around him others were doing the same. Those who fought only with the blade drew them and held them ready in the guard position. Those few with spears were also stood ready.
The cavalry was ready at the front. Among them were many of the southern villagers whose horses were trained to make the escape and to stand calm in the face of terror. The horses whinnied and snorted in fear and impatience. He felt a shadow of fear grow on his own heart. He regretted becoming a warrior. He regretted everyday that he had spent learning to hunt and to kill without a thought. He was an assassin. His mother had begged him not to. She had cried and tried to hold him back by force. She feared for him. He feared for her. She is safe in the palace with the queen, he told himself firmly. She will be fine.
At the head of all the lines of warriors was the King. His horse was white and he rode without saddle. His golden hair was shining in the shadowy light and the wind caught it and blew it back. He was their King; they would rally to him. Near him was the Crown Prince Taurost. He leaned down towards the horse, prepared to lead his cavalry in at a run. A hood that hid his face as well covered his dark hair. Near him was his younger brother, Prince Dútawar. Dútawar sat straight and proud. The wind caught his gold hair and twisted it like whips. He showed no emotion. The King called the command for his host to ride forward.
He dared one look back as Cúmaen led them forward after the cavalry had gone. Gathered by the palace walls were all the women, healers, injured men, and the children. They were waving and crying and yelling wishes of luck. Silent by the palace's magical door stood Aduial, Queen of Mirkwood. No tears were seen on her face, nor cry was on her lips. Only in her eyes could her thought be read. In her eyes he saw pure fear. He focused on the march. He could already smell blood in the air.
***
Aduial had resolved that she would not cry as she watched her husband and sons leave her. Already she had screamed and cried and begged Thranduil not to lead Mirkwood this day. Everything she saw seemed like a bad omen. Life was a bad omen. Already she had suffered her son's death. He had been killed so horribly. She bit her lip until she tasted blood. Tirn they had called him. Watcher. He was ever alert, yet he had been killed from behind by an orc. What had so occupied his attention that day that he had not sensed the evil approaching? After that her youngest son had ceased speaking. Thranduil had sought to distract him many times, but nothing had worked. His pain was almost more unbearable than the pain she felt from her son's death. Then Thranduil had sent him and that young southern leader to Rivendell with the message that Smeagol had escaped. She had never hated any time more than the time between Legolas's departure and the time when she received the message he had arrived safely. But no more had come.
Her sons, her daughter, all of them were caught up in this war. Leithian had married a warrior. Taurost led the forces by his father's side and Dútawar did the same. She hated everyday that another village was attacked and driven back into the city. She hated each day that she went to the healers' building and smelt the blood and heard the cries of agony. She hated seeing the young ones killed before they lived. And most of all she hated Dol Guldur. Everyday, every moment, even while she slept, she cursed Sauron and his allies and servants. She swore that if it were in her power she would destroy them all herself.
Amid the lines and ranks of warriors, the queen picked out those whom she knew. As she gazed on them, she could not help but feel the tiniest of thrills rise within her. So proud and fearless they were. So determined… Her husband, the king, looked so majestic on his mount. Taurost, her son, was ready. Dútawar was like his father, tall and stern. She resisted the urge to call out like the others. Suddenly, something very much like panic hit her as she watched them set off. She felt so suddenly fearful for them—all of them. She watched the southern villagers set off and could only think of how young they all were and how many were to die. She watched her family and thought of her dead son and her lost son. She watched the seasoned warriors who were hardened and fierce. She watched the warriors who had never been in battle before—they were still children!
***
A strange smell was drifting towards them. So strange it was, yet so familiar. They could not quite put a name to it. The smell was like the trees, but also like the flames of the torches that burned at feasts. And even as this thought entered their minds, someone cried out, "The forest is burning!" And the shadow of fear that was already on their hearts grew with the threat to the trees.
***
To be continued…
