Chapter Two

*~* Three Years Later *~*

It was the misty dawn of another autumn morning in Doriath, and a party of six Elves on horseback was making its way along a road winding through the forest.  The Elves were clad in the battle armor of Nargothrond and carried weapons, since these were dangerous times, but their mission to Doriath was in peace.  Nargothrond and Doriath had joined forces before in battles against the Enemy, and Raionuth, the young king of Nargothrond, felt the time was at hand to call upon their old allies.  The Enemy was weaker than he was at the beginning of the war, but he was still far stronger than any country could handle on their own.  That was the purpose of this company: to propose the alliance to Thingol, King of Doriath.

            The Elf named Elcaren urged his horse onward, and rode up to the head of the band.  A feeling of something sinister approaching them had been growing in his mind for some time now, and he felt it was his duty to report this fear to his leader.  "These woods are not safe," Elcaren said.  "There is presence of evil here."

            The leader, a grey-eyed, dark-haired Elf by the name of Ilidor, gave his subordinate a suspicious look.  "I feel nothing," Ilidor said.  "There is evil everywhere, Elcaren.  These woods are no exception to that.  The Enemy is strong, and his influence is widespread."

            A knot of frustration rose in Elcaren's stomach.  "I know," he said, "but it is greater here.  I believe we are in danger."

            Ilidor could detect the undertone of irritation and impatience in the younger Elf's voice, and his rigid face cracked into a small smile.  Elcaren still had much to learn of the ways of the world and how to control his feelings.  "We are soldiers of Nargothrond in a time of war," Ilidor replied, almost amused.  "When are we not in danger?"

            Elcaren realized that his superior was not going to take him seriously, and his head drooped slightly with the discontent.  He gave up arguing and fell back into place, next to an Elf named Undonel.  Undonel said very little, and Elcaren didn't find him to be the best of company.  The other three members of their party, Artanel, Gelrec, and Telenir, all knew each other from previous events and were talking amongst themselves.  He longed to be back in Nargothrond, where he was a member of the royal guard.  All his friends were there, and he remembered how envious they were of him when he was handpicked by Raionuth himself.  Some mission, he thought.  Five days on the road, and the only thing that's happened so far is this ridiculous feeling.

            It was ridiculous.  It had to be.  Why else would so wise and experienced a soldier as Ilidor dismiss it as nothing without a second thought?  Perhaps it was his imagination, longing for the excitement of battle, perhaps not.  At any rate, he had to stop dreaming about adventure if he ever hoped to become a great warrior.  They knew that you did not find adventure; it found you, and when it did, you wish it hadn't.

            Suddenly, Telenir pulled his horse to a stop and reached for his sword.  "Look out!" he shouted.

            Telenir's warning came too late.  As soon as the words left his lips, a horde of Orcs came running out of the woods, firing arrows at them.  Ilidor grabbed his sword and started to speak, but his orders were cut short when an Orc arrow pierced his heart.  He fell off his horse, but was not dead yet.  The Orcs were upon them now, and the leader of the party managed to kill about four of them before another arrow found his head, and all life left him.

            The others were faring no better.  Artanel had an arrow in his chest and three Orcs on top of him, stabbing him with their swords.  Within seconds, he was dead as well.  Gelrec and Elcaren were fighting back to back, but they were outnumbered.  The Orcs quickly overpowered them.  Elcaren's death was by a swift beheading, while Gelrec was killed by multiple stabbings to the chest area.

            Undonel and Telenir were the only ones left.  Undonel didn't say much, but he was a great fighter.  A good fifteen Orcs fell to his sword before an arrow pierced his side.  The pain was intense, but he couldn't stop.  Another arrow found his shoulder, and the blade of another Orc's sword skimmed across his chest.  It didn't penetrate deep enough to kill, but it still inflicted great damage anyway.  Undonel's guard fell just long enough for a third arrow to become lodged in his side, next to the first one.  Defeated, the warrior slumped to the ground and was no longer aware of the world around him.

            Telenir, the one who had issued the warning, had held out longer than any of them, but he could see that his end was near.  He sliced the head off of one Orc, then drove his blade deep into the chest of another.  The ground was littered with bodies, about twelve Orcs for each of the five Elves, but they still kept coming.  An arrow found his chest, and he stumbled backwards.  There had to be at least a hundred of them still out there.  There was no way an injured Elf could expect to fight them all and live.

            Suddenly, the Orcs hesitated, and a murmur ran through their numbers.  Telenir spied the opening and took it, slicing off the heads of three Orcs with one blow.  An Orc in the distance fired an arrow at him, and it hit him in the heart.  Then, they began to do the last thing he expected them to: run away.

            Telenir's dying eyes looked for what had scared the Orcs, expecting it to be some great demon or other equally terrible thing.  Instead, he saw what appeared to be an Elf., but unlike any Elf he had ever seen.  He had come out of nowhere, as if he was some supernatural protector of the forest.  He certainly looked the part.  He was clad in white and silver, and his hair was nearly as white as his clothing.  In his hands he held two short swords, slightly wavy in the manner of the Elvish design.  Orcs were falling left and right to his blows, and it was obvious they feared him.  Telenir was sure he was witnessing the appearance of a divine being.

            However, the forest's guardian was too late to save the party of Elves.  The last thing Telenir saw before succumbing to his injuries was the horde of Orcs running away in fear.

            Seeing that the Orcs were not going to put up a fight, Celeborn put his Elven blades back into their sheaths and watched the vile creatures scamper back into the woods.  They feared him greatly.  They had lost more of their numbers to him alone in the last few years than most of the battles they fought in the war.  He was known among them as the Orc-killer, and they knew they stood no chance when he came along.

            His eyes fell upon the party of Elves nearby, and his heart sank.  He was too late.  Once again, he had been too slow to save anyone.  The memory of the day Luthien and Beren were killed by the demonic wolf came back to him, and the agony of the guilt was so great he could hardly remain standing.  Celeborn forced himself to push the thought aside, and began jogging to where the six elven bodies lay in the road.  It was a long shot, but there was still the off chance that one of them survived the massacre.

            As he approached them, though, all optimism faded from his heart.  The Orcs had been more thorough than usual, and the odds that someone still lived were slim to none.  Nevertheless, he began to check the bodies.  They were soldiers of Nargothrond; he recognized the uniforms. The first three he checked were all dead.  It's hopeless, he told himself.  I was too slow.  They're all dead.

            Just then, he heard a soft moan behind him.  At first, he thought it was an Orc, but then realized that it was, in fact, an Elf.  Hope surged in his heart.  He hurdled over the bodies of several Orcs before reaching the Elf that had made the sound.  Celeborn cringed when he saw him; he had two arrows in his side and another in the shoulder.  It was a wonder he was still alive, but he wouldn't be for long.

            Celeborn could not heal him here.  He would have to be taken back to his home, more than a mile away.  There, he could start treatment, if his patient didn't die on the way over.  Carefully, he picked him up, surprised at how light he was.  This had to be the smallest and most delicately built of all the warriors there, and yet he was the only one who survived.  There had to be more to this one than met the eye.

            He held the fallen warrior as tightly as he could, then began to move at a rapid pace through the forest.  There was not a minute to lose.