Disclaimer: I don't own them, sadly. *sniffle*
A/N: This is not a real update, I've just made a couple of changes, due to mistakes/problems pointed out by Limyaael. Thanks.
It was dark, dark, even the starlight obscured by the dark clouds and swirling dust. Still, Amroth sat on watch, one of many lining the borders of Amdir's small but respectable army, straining both ears and eyes to their limit.
They'd already lost too many. Seven years they'd laid siege to this accursed place, and they had nothing to show for it. Amroth absentmindedly traced a scar running across his arm, and shifted position again. Somewhere behind him, traces of conversation, nervous laughter, suddenly hushed.
There was some stirring in Oropher's forces, encamped but a short distance away. Perhaps the talks had ended. Not that anything would have been accomplished. Amroth had at times attended the meetings with his father, out of curiosity more than anything else, and found they mostly involved a lot of posturing and arguing over who was running the war.
Sure enough, when he cast an eye across the way, he could barely make out what would be Oropher and his son, Thranduil, visible only as two shadowy figures making their way towards the centre tent, accompanied by a few others carrying lanterns.
His father might be a little longer – he was probably tarrying with Galadriel and Celeborn. Amdir had spent much of the war trying to mend things between the two; Celeborn was not happy that his wife was here, although she was older than him, and, or so Amroth had heard through gossip, actually the better fighter.
He wondered why she had never taken part in the practices in Lórien; but whatever her reasons, her mere presence was a source of comfort to many among the Last Alliance. Daughter of Finarfin, sister of Finrod, one of the last Elves remaining in Middle-earth who had seen the light of the Trees.
It wasn't much comfort at the moment to Amroth. It was cold, and the icy winds brought with them the stinking, fetid marsh air, a smell like rot, like the grave. When he was relieved from watch he almost did not know what to do. What else was there, but watch, but wait? Instead he headed for his father's tent, hoping he had returned by this time.
Amdir looked tired, bone-weary. Not for the first time since the war started, Amroth saw the sea-longing on his face, clear as day. The King of Lórien was fading, and Amroth was beginning to realise that, whatever the outcome of this war, his days as mere prince were numbered.
For surely his mother would follow his father wherever he went. She was far away now, holding Lórien together in the absence of its lords, the barest defences left behind. Amroth thought of Nimrodel, who would refuse to follow him so much as across a stream, and sighed. The linden-leaves he'd taken with him, a reminder of Lórien, were long since gone. Only memories remained.
His father saw him, standing there, waiting, but it took a few seconds for him to focus on his son.
"Oh. There you are."
"Where else would I be, father?"
"At home with your mother, safe under the mallorn. I know what we are doing is right, that the blood we give to this cause is well spent, and yet I have no heart for war. No longer."
"Father…"
Amdir looked up, sharply. "I wish to be alone, son."
Amroth nodded, and made his way over to where Haldir and Orophin sat with some of the other archers, few words being spoken, and then only softly, while busy hands fletched or repaired arrows as best they could in the dark. A few nods were his greeting; he too busied himself with this work. Waiting for the time to pass; waiting for the battle to begin.
Later, he would curse himself for so much as thinking that.
The attack came in the dead of night; the scouts nearest Oropher's army saw it first, a black snake of the enemy, weaving its way towards them. By now they were used to attack, and well trained; the formations came together without thought, and the bows of Lórien sang, ever deadly.
Amroth, having taken up his sword, was near the forefront. Time moved in bursts, in swings and parries. Hot pain across his shoulder, but no time to think of it. Just move on, move on, as an arrow from someone, somewhere, skewered the beast responsible.
It took a little while before they realised what was happening, and by then it was too late. Even as the initial attack began to falter, their kin assisting from the other side, the secondary attacks began, wave after wave of attackers, first driving a wedge between the hosts of Lórien and Greenwood, driving Amdir's forces back towards the marshes.
Then another group came up from the south, coming at the archers from the side, from behind. The world narrowed. Keep going, keep going, the taste of his own blood on his tongue. The ground was hazardous, the marshes gripping at the feet, trying to claim him, littered with bodies. Some of those bodies had been friends, but there was no time to think of that either.
When the sun rose, and the enemy was finally driven back, full half of what had been the army of Lórien lay dead, and of those that yet lived, most were badly injured. Amroth wiped his sword, tried to stand up, and almost failed. A little away, another Elf groaned, the bright flash of bone visible on his wounded leg. Amroth did not know his name, or did not remember, but he helped him up, the two of them slowly making their way to the area where the living seemed to be congregating.
One of his father's advisors was there, holding something. Someone took the injured Elf away from him, the dead weight being lifted out of his hands. The advisors name was Laerndil, he remembered. It was good to be able to remember something. He stumbled forward, searching for familiar faces. What was Laerndil holding? Where was his father?
Wait, one second, and focus. The thing, shimmering in Laerndil's hands, gold and mithril, shaped as mallorn leaves. His father's crown. But his father was not there, and Laerndil held it reverently out to Amroth, sadness in his eyes, and Amroth knew.
It was not as heavy as it looked. He had tried it on, once before, when he was a child, and it slipped down over his forehead, but even then it had been airy-light, of course, for it was dwarf-make, and as heavy as the steps of that people may be, their stumpy hands can coax metal into doing their bidding the way only the Mirdain of Eregion ever came near to.
When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly steady.
"Anyone who can stand, help the healers. Bind the wounds as best you can; we have no time to tarry. We head back towards the main force, to join with Oropher, as soon as we are able."
His throat was dry, and the next words came out reluctantly.
"We leave the dead."
Laerndil looked shocked. "Sire…"
"There is no time. When night falls they may attack again."
Later he would not remember how they had managed. A pitiful party, a straggling trail of Elves carrying the wounded, starving, the healers among them doing the best they could, as more and more succumbed to orc-poisons. Amroth stopped counting the numbers of the dead, stopped counting the days, stopped counting his faltering steps. At night they stopped briefly, a vague attempt to rest while those still strong enough to hold their bows stood at watch, the precious few remaining arrows close at hand.
The nights were probably the worst.
Amroth's shoulder was not poisoned, but the wound festered, preventing him from joining the archers. He spent most of the time looking after Orophin; a fever had overcome Rumil, and Haldir, Haldir who hardly spoke anymore, spent his time among those guarding, stalking up and down the length of the camp each night like a restless ghost. Their father had fallen, somewhere in that mire, but that was not the only reason for Haldir's silence.
It was from Rumil, briefly lucid, that Amroth and Orophin found out Tathar was dead.
They dragged themselves back over the wastelands, back to join their kin, and when they got there they found the battle already won, or at least in part. Sauron was gone, but not forever, and the price had been too high to even think about. Gil-Galad, Oropher, Amdir, Elendil; the blood of Kings had bought this victory.
And now it was time for another King to return home.