Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is not mine, nor are any of the characters herein. Please do not sue, for you shall get absolutely nothing from it. Everything belongs to its respective owners.

Rating/Warnings: Teen. Rated Teen for violence, romance, graphic and disturbing images.

A/N: This is the 30 Day Headcanon Challenge that was created by bandersnatchftw on tumblr, which I have attempted to complete. There will be a new chapter posted each day. Before anyone is upset about me doing this when I am in dire need to update some of my other WIP's, I will be working on those as well, I promise you. I am doing this mostly to cement much of my headcanon which will be necessary to write the tales of Elrond's life, which I intend to begin work on here shortly. Because of that, you will likely see bits and pieces of what I write now included among others of my tales that will eventually be written.

Because each of these chapters is entirely independent, there will be a new rating/warning before each chapter, as well as time frame. The only character that will remain a constant throughout (most) of these will be Elrond (although I cannot promise that all will include him).

I would positively love it if you leave a review, telling me what you think. I can only improve if I know what needs improving. Most importantly, however, I hope that you enjoy reading.

Rating: Teen for violence

Time frame: 1697 of the Second Age, during the sack of Ost-in-edhil.

Day 1 – Something about a very minor character

Erestor

Before Eregion, he had only met Elrond twice: once when the Peredhel was barely more than five years of age, running on the docks after his brother, a smudge of dirt smeared down one cheek and a wooden sword clenched in his right hand; and again many years after in Mithlond, shortly after he had been given the title of Herald. Erestor could recall seeing the Peredhel – now fully grown although still young – and stopping, carefully observing the tall, dark-haired lord curled into an armchair by the window in Ereinion Gil-galad's grand library, a book opened on his lap, his attention utterly absorbed by what he was reading. In that moment, Erestor could remember wondering at Gil-galad's wisdom in appointing such a youth and a scholar as his second-in-command and greatest general.

The next time that Erestor saw Elrond, he at first did not recognize the Peredhel, dressed in full armor that reflected the hellish glow of flame and smoke, cloak snapping behind him in the hot wind caused by fire and storm, his sword stained black with dripping Orc blood, and soot darkening his face.

(Ost-in-edhil, Eregion – S.A. 1697)

Erestor pulled up sharply, hearing the raucous war cries of Orcs as they charged down the street perpendicular to the one his feet carried him down. He drew back, hugging the satchel filled with valuable books and papers rescued from the Great Library to his chest as he pressed himself into the shadows that lined the street. He held his breath as the Orcs passed, hoping that they would not catch his scent over the stench of billowing smoke and spilled blood.

The Orcs moved on, their heavy, booted feet pounding the cobblestones as they charged on. Erestor closed his eyes for just an instant, allowing his head to fall back against the timbers of the building behind him in relief, and sought to still his trembling. But no, this was no time to give in to weakness now. He was nearing the edge of the city – his only hope for escape.

Taking a deep breath – or as deep of a breath as he could in the smoke-laden air – Erestor slipped out of the shadows and crept on silent feet toward the conjunction of the roads. He glanced either way to ensure that there was no one coming toward him from either direction. Seeing no one, he took off in a run to the left, taking the way that the Orcs had just come from.

Distant screams drifted from adjacent streets and alleys on the paths of the air, the wretched cries both hideous and painful to listen to. Erestor shut his ears to the sounds of Elves dying and Orcs reveling, trying desperately to block out the horrifying sounds. For just a moment, he thought that he could hear the clang of metal as someone fought, but almost as soon as the sound had come it was gone, lost amid the roar of the flames that were devouring the city.

The grunts and howls of another Orc pack exploded from the mouth of a street just to Erestor's right. He skidded to a halt. Glancing sideways, he only just caught a glimpse of shadows moving, and then came the gleam of yellow eyes and the glitter of firelight on sword and ax. Then the Orcs were upon him, shouting and rushing forward with weapons upraised.

Turning, Erestor fled, grappling for the short sword that hung at his belt as a last resort – he was a scholar, not a warrior, and although he had learned how to wield the short but sturdy weapon, he knew that he would never be able to fend off more than one or two Orcs. There were far more than that amongst the pack now closing in on his heels. Even so, he wrenched it from its sheath, glancing once over his shoulder to see the Orcs still behind him, bellowing as they gave chase.

Still holding the satchel close, Erestor turned sharply down a side street, his mind frantically attempting to find a way out of this situation. Under no circumstances could he allow the Orcs to get their clawed hands on the papers and books that he held. Unlooping the strap from his shoulder he cradled the bag in the crook of his elbow and tightened his grip. If all else failed, he decided, he would throw the satchel into the fire where the papers would be lost to all for forever.

A brick wall loomed up out of the smoke and flickering shadows without warning, causing Erestor to backpedal frantically, arms flinging out to the side to balance himself. Although he managed to keep his hold on the hilt of his sword, the satchel tumbled to the cobblestones beneath Erestor's feet.

The Orcs were coming up behind him, snarling and laughing as they realized that the Elf before them was trapped. Erestor whirled, kicking the satchel into the shadows at the base of the wall where he hoped that the flames would reach ere long – already they were leaping high overhead, devouring the roofs of the buildings to either side of him.

"Lookit the lil' Elf trying te get away," one of the Orcs at the front leered, brandishing his notched blade.

One of the first Orc's companions chortled unpleasantly, drawing a wickedly curved knife from his belt and sniffing at the stained blade. "I'm gonna enjoy guttin' you, Elf," he sneered, a tongue flickering out to taste the dried blood staining the metal.

"Yer gonna squeal like a stuck pig," a third Orc laughed, advancing threatening.

Erestor struck without warning, lashing at the third Orc's face with his short sword. The Orc staggered back, screaming as the honed edge bit into his flesh, skating across his right eye and down across his nose and cheek. Black blood spurted out of the cut, gushing down the Orc's face and neck, filling his mouth.

"Stay back," Erestor warned, lifting his left hand to join his right on the hilt. He took half a step backwards, bracing his feet, preparing for an attack. "Stay back, or I will run you through."

The Orcs laughed at that. "Dog," one called, "thinks 'e can bite back."

"We'll kick 'im into de wall."

"Break 'is bones," another cried.

Erestor tightened his hold, his palms sweating. "Come then," he cried, fighting to steady his nerves. "What is it that you wait for?"

The Orcs ceased their jeering, and pressed in closer. The largest spat a word in its dark tongue, the foul command hanging in the heavy air. With that the Orcs attacked.

Erestor was driven back by the first assault, the fury of the blows battering him back as he frantically blocked the scything swords and axes aimed at his head, his chest, his face. He turned away, ducking beneath a wild blow, and then stood, ramming his short sword into the chest of the nearest Orc. The beast fell back with a pained scream, swinging at Erestor even as he collapsed to the ground and lay still. As he fell, Erestor tugged back on his sword, only just managing to wrench it free of the corpse.

The Orcs swarmed forward with shouts of fury, redoubling their attack. Erestor was driven back another step, then another. He swung wildly to his left and he felt his sword connect, biting into flesh and sinew. He hit bone and the blade stopped, his blow not having enough force to break through. Hurriedly, Erestor pulled the sword free of the Orc's neck. The Orc fell without a sound, collapsing to the cobblestones in a boneless heap.

A sudden explosion of pain in his right shoulder sent Erestor staggering backwards. He felt the warmth of blood pouring down his arm and his chest an instant later, drenching his tunic. His back hit the wall and for a moment he could not move, struggling to draw in breath as his body fought to cope with the pain blossoming in his shoulder and trickling down through his chest and arm.

"Lookit 'im, stuck like a bug," one of the smaller of the Orcs chortled, pushing his way through to the front of the pack. The other Orcs laughed, and advanced slowly on the all but helpless Elf sagging against the wall, a broken spear embedded in his right shoulder.

The largest of the Orcs, likely the leader of the pack, stepped forward, lifting a heavy scimitar. "Beg fer yer life," the Orc hissed, lowering the scimitar's blade to brush Erestor's throat.

Erestor could feel his satchel pressing into the backs of his legs, could feel the blood soaking his tunic. He could hear the crackle and roar of the flames as they licked lower and lower, devouring all that it could bite into. He could hear the keen of the wind as it howled through the streets. He could smell the stench of putrid flesh and rotten breath, the sour bite of smoke and searing flesh.

"May the light of Gil-estel burn your flesh and sear your eyes," Erestor whispered scathingly, a wild, fey light flaring in his unsettling, storm grey eyes.

The Orc roared in fury, recoiling, and swung back the scimitar, preparing for the killing blow. Erestor tensed, ready, waiting.

The scream of a charging warhorse and the pounding clatter of hooves on cobblestones split the air. The Orc leader, the one with the scimitar prepared to slay Erestor, faltered and whirled with his brethren, eyes widening. He turned back to glance at Erestor, and then once more lifted his scimitar, what looked like panic and insanity flaring in his yellowed eyes. Erestor found that he could not tear his eyes away from the Orc about to take his life, even to look for those who had come to his aid.

"Die, scum," the Orc spat, stabbing at Erestor's stomach.

A fountain of blood spurted into the air, droplets splattering against Erestor's chest and neck. He could not move, shock coursing through his veins. A clatter, then the sight of a horse rearing, the rider wielding a glowing sword that slashed downward. The wet thwack of metal hacking through flesh and sinew, the snap of breaking bone, and then the head of the Orc leader was sliding from his severed neck to join his hand and sword on the cobblestones.

The horse, coat as dark as midnight, landed on all four hooves, turning tightly and throwing its head as its rider pulled it around. Erestor looked up, eyes wide and mind struggling to comprehend fully what he had seen – what he was seeing – and met the calm, steady, silver eyes of the Gil-galad's Herald.

"Quickly," Elrond said evenly, looking down at Erestor, "we are vacating the city. Can you walk?"

Erestor stood straight, only barely wincing at his shoulder seared with agony. "Yes my lord," he replied.

"Come then. Two of my men will ensure your safe travel out of the city."

Erestor nodded and then bent, left hand blindly searching for his satchel. He caught a glimpse of gleaming metal, and only then did he realize that he had dropped his sword at some point during the fight. He left it lying there.

Picking up the precious knapsack, Erestor cradled it against his uninjured side, and then stepped away from the wall. Two riders came forward, reigning in their dancing mounts as they drew near.

"Come, there is a group of civilians being escorted to the rally points two streets over," one of them said, offering a hand. Erestor took it, and the warrior pulled him up to the back of the saddle. Erestor grimaced as his shoulder throbbed mercilessly, the broken shards of the spear shaft and blade still embedded in his shoulder.

As the two warriors turned their mounts, Erestor glanced over his shoulder one last time. He caught just a glimpse of Elrond as the Herald whirled his mount, lifted his blade into the air in a silent command, and with a mighty cry urged his steed farther into the city. His men followed instantly, their faces grim and their weapons drawn.

And in that moment, Erestor thought that he at last understood the wisdom behind Gil-galad's choice to appoint the young Peredhel as his Herald.