Ontanë: this is the name given Celebrimbor by the Three Elven Rings. It means Creator. Head cannon not Tolkien. In Where the Shadows Lie, this is explored in more detail. More to come on that though -not in this fic, but next one maybe.
Danedh-Amlung: Dragon's Ransom. In Black Arrow, Thranduil made a bargain with Smaug and the Danedh-Amlung were men who faced Smaug on behalf of the Wood. 'Nuff said. Very brave.
Mearas: In case you have forgotten, the legendary horses of Rohan, like Shadowfax.
Agannâlo – Nazgul's name for Mirkwood. Literally death-shadow.
Azgarâzir –The Nazgul's name for Thranduil, whom they hate more than any other ruler for his defence and war against them in Dol Guldur. Although it was the White Council that overthrew Sauron as the Necromancer at the end of The Hobbit, Thranduil it was who continuously fought them. Literally "wage war" cf. azaggara
Unbeta'd as this is an aside from Seven and I need to start No Lord or Loyalty as well. Sigh. I need to not have to work! Just to note that I am not strictly adhering to the canon timeline here
Chapter 6: Artanis
22nd March
No longer in the Golden Wood but towards the dark shadowed boughs of Mirkwood, Galadriel galloped upon her stallion, Calarus. In one hand was Nenya and in the other, Archaron, Narvi's last sword forged deep in Khazad-dûm. Furious that Orcs had dared attack the Golden Wood, HER Wood, she led her army to the slow deep water of the Anduin, sleek, polished, running swiftly over the deep stones, sliding always to the Sea. Calarus stood hock-deep in the river and Galadriel had lifted Nenya and called upon the River, beloved river, she whispered, entreated, and Nenya pulled at the river like the Moon, thrust the waters apart so it rolled back against itself. Rearing high, higher, twenty, thirty feet and more, the Anduin's waters rolled back to allow the Lorién army to pass dry-shod beneath a wall of water like green glass topped with foaming white horses with long manes of froth whipping in the wind. The Hithaeglir's meltwaters churned behind Nenya's restraining Power. The Elves of Lorién did not hesitate though they stared at the huge wall of water that parted above them. On one side of Galadriel was Celeborn and on the other rode Tolognor, survivor of Nargothrond, and Gwestion of Dor Lómin. Both had come with her over the Ice.
She had not been so aware of her own body since she had given birth, but the Power that coursed through her was different now; Nenya was part of her and she part of Nenya. Never before had Galadriel felt the consciousness of the Ring in this way, as of Ash Nazg's proximity had allowed, unlocked something in Nenya too.
Now, War was upon them and three times the Golden Wood had been attacked. No more. She was taking battle to the Tower. She lifted her hand and Nenya blazed, enveloping her and the horse in a shield of light, and she felt no fear.
Just fury.
A bitterly deep fury that burned within her as brightly as Nenya blazed on her hand.
As bereft, and grief stricken, as enraged and full of bitter hatred as Nenya. For the despoilment of her daughter, and the murder of Ontanë, Celebrimbor, the Creator of Nenya. Together, their contempt for the creations of Sauron knew no bounds and they would be as the breath of dragons, light alarca, lasering through the abominations, incinerating their miserable soulless lives.
Charging up the eroded, smoothed banks of the Anduin, Galadriel emerged to see that a thick pall of smoke hung over the forest, it was burning somewhere in the East Bight, she thought. And in the North. Behind her, her army marched swiftly, and in perfect order through the darkened forest and their bronze horns sounded a martial call that thrilled her blood. The forest was not ablaze here, and yet there was a yellowish smoke that curled and threaded through the trees, wrapping itself about her Elves. She cast a look over her shoulder and narrowed her eyes, that was no simple smoke.
She urged Calarus on sharply, so he surged forwards, and the horse's copper -golden coat gleamed like her own hair. She held Nenya aloft, so the light cut through the coiled smoke like a blade,
'Do not try me, Sauron Deceiver!' she bellowed. Oh, yes, she bellowed, like a bull about to charge, like a Balrog. Manmaiden, she had been named. Nerwen. 'You will not stand against ME! Where is your captain, Angmar the Slave?' she challenged. 'Or does he remember the prophesy and cringe in fear,' she yelled at the viscous yellow smoke that coiled and squirmed under Nenya's painful light. 'No man will slay your king, Angmar. But I am no man!' And the fury that uncurled and spat from her was unknown to any man. Unmatched. 'Deceiver, I am coming for you!'
Nenya flashed with furious anger now and a blade of light sliced through the smoke, so it squirmed and thrashed about like a serpent.
Calarus charged but Orcs suddenly sprang in front, to the side, trying to catch Calarus' bridle, to pull her down. A shower of arrows rained upon the Orcs and she swung Archaron, Narvi's last sword, cut swiftly one side and the other, and then thrust the dwarvish blade into the beast that tried to leap up at her. A spatter of hot blood spurted over her shining mail and she opened her mouth in delight. 'I will kill you all!' she screamed.
She had lost Celeborn in fighting, the shouting, the clash of steel of battle, her men cut through the Orcs, but so many fell. Rumil staggered and fell away to her left, his belly sliced open. Haldir desperately trying to reach him. Where is Celeborn? She turned frantically, unable to see him through the crush of bodies, struggling, fighting. She cut, left right, slash, thrust. The slaughter was terrible, and blood churned into the mud. A Warg had gripped Tolognor and was shaking his by the throat, he flopped like a broken thing and she spurred Calarus at the Warg, hurling Nenya's Power into the beast. It was thrown into the oncoming Orcish ranks and onto a spear. Yelping horribly, it turned upon the Orcs and ravaged them. Tolognor lay in the bloody mud, unmoving and she stared in disbelief; he had come over the Ice with her. So long ago. With a mere thought she sent men to form a circle around her old friend.
Even so, she only half heard the clang of steel that was deafening and the shouting of her men, orcs, Wargs. Where was Celeborn? She could still not see him, and the fear of his loss panicked her. She sent out a frantic thought, reaching for him, blindly.
Suddenly she caught a sense of him, silver and forest green, scent of the Woods in the rain.
There! And now a huge troll had reared up high over Celeborn, its gaping maw opened over him and the beady eyes glittered in the half light. Immediately, she hurled a whip of balled power into the troll. It was thrown to one side and crashed into the ranks of Orcs below. A Warg yelped as it was crushed and squealed horribly for its back was broken by the troll's fall.
She looked up and ahead to see that ahead of her, were the tall, ruined spires and pinnacles of Dol Guldur. Its shadows were dense, tangible. They seemed to move like weeds in a river, and reached for her, sought to catch her to pull her down, down into the darkness.
'Come forth, deceiver!' she cried but it turned into a scream of rage. 'Coward!'
Yes, it was Sauron she truly wanted. To tear his blood from bones, to rip out that great lidless Eye. For Finrod, bright, glorious, beautiful Finrod. For her sweet girl, her light-footed, merry child. A pain thrust a fist into her womb, and she forced anger into her veins and breast instead of pain and lifted her hand and channeled all her power in Nenya. She held back the lacerating blade of light, feeling it charge, feeling the ball of energy gather and build and build, so it became a pulsating, barely containable surge of power. She held the huge glowing ball of light in her hands and felt the tremble in her limbs as she tried to contain it. And then hurled it with all of Nenya's great force, into the Tower.
A blast of fiery air came from the Tower and her hair was torn back from her head, streamed in the blast of wind, fanning the flames that leapt and roared towards them.
I see you.
From the flames it seemed a man strode, made of fire. Upon his head was a crown and his hand… was empty. An Eye. A great lidless Eye.
I see you. Artanis. Nerwen, spoken like a taunt. Forgotten. Accursed. Unrepentant.
A blast of wind ripped tears from her eyes and Calarus staggered under her.
Depart this place, Sauron jeered at her.
YOU are not here to defend it, she cried tartly. You are imprisoned, bodiless, formless in your tower in Mordor.
Nevertheless, it is mine.
No longer, she threw back and lifting her arms, she hurled the white hot ball of power into the Tower. There was a moment of silence and it seemed almost that the world stood still.
And then it detonated.
A boom, below the sounds of the world, unheard but deafening. And then the wind hurtled around the tower, ripping the stones from the foundations. She felt the power build again and again, she held it, held it, channeled it with all her own innate power and strength. And then hurled another into the dark.
She was oblivious to the battle around her, had no idea if her men fell or were taken or slain. She knew nothing but the obliterating power of Nenya, the terrible symphony that undid the darkness and sorcery that curled about the tower. It began to disintegrate.
Ooooo
In the East Bight, the wind he had summoned tore at Thranduil's hair, so it streamed behind him like the flames that leapt to the south and ravaged the Wood. Fire roared through the trees, devouring the rotten, dry forest for in the south the trees had been corrupted and no longer heard the song of the elves. This was a purge.
Thranduil held the great ribbons of Air curled about his fist, like the reins of a Mearas that obeyed him purely because it wished to. He pulled it gently now for he knew it had done its work in the West, over the Carrock, plunging and tearing through the Forest to where his beloved son had fallen. With his other hand, he had drawn the great thunderheads over the north of the forest, for it was Water needed in the North, to swell and engorge the Forest River, his river. He knew how had boiled and churned at the gates he had closed to check its flow until it was needed. He had felt the answer of the Emyn Duir, for those mountains had not forgotten the Elves and the snow melt water slid in great ice floes into the river and swelled the torrent.
With a sudden shock he had felt that answering Power once again from the South, but even stronger. Like the moon, he had felt the magnetic pull of Water and the storm came here too. He felt the surge in Power that was coming from the West, the South and suddenly he thought he knew: Lothlorien. Lothlorien too was under attack and had joined him. He felt a mixture of intense irritation and utter relief and was amused at himself nevertheless.
Above Thranduil, the sky cracked, and the rain came in heavy, drenching torrents.
Thranduil breathed in and let the Song of the Wood fill him and flow through and around him. He let the great symphony swell through his own battle cry, felt his men look towards him and fill with the fire in his own blood so he, they, all of them felt they could walk through the flames that were devouring the Wood, could sweep away the detritus of Sauron, these mere shades!
He strode beyond the ranks and out on his own now, deliberately turned his back to the oncoming hordes of Orcs. His men gazed at him in rapture, their wordless Song lifted him, gave him strength 'Ever have we been the bastion against the Shadow!' he cried aloud, and the Song amplified his words somehow and his voice filled the clearing, as loud as thunder. 'Ever have we resisted! Ever have we fought and our friends, our brothers, sons, have paid in blood. We will not give in now! These abominations have no soul. These creatures of Sauron and his minions are but shadows of the Great Foes that we faced in drowned Beleriand! We have faced Balrogs! Dragons! You stand amidst those who are the Danedh-Amlung!'
He strode along the ranks of his men now and his dwarvish sword was sheathed. Instead he pulled his two knives from the crossed harness of his quiver. There was a breath of anticipation from his watching men for these were entirely Silvan weapons. 'We are the Wood!' he cried and as he did he drew one blade along the other in the distinctly Silvan manner. The blades slid along each other like a caress. 'Na i Tawar!' he cried again and this time, he clashed his knives against each other, eyes glittering with rage and battle fever. 'Na i Tawar,' they chanted and it grew in power and volume and drowned all other sound.
He strode up and down their ranks, clashing his knives and a rill of white fire gleamed along the blades. 'We have Summoned the Wood!' He clashed his blades again and this time, his men, his waiting army followed him and the metallic shriiiiinnnnnnnggggg of their own knives like scythes through grass, cut through the Song itself.
The Orc army had already shuddered to a hesitant nervous halt, looking upwards at the sky that had cracked open with lightning and drenching rain, and around themselves at the raging forest. There was a roar ahead of them and then like Sea, the Wood elves broke upon them.
0o0o
Next chapter: The Meeting. Celeborn and Thranduil meet under the trees.