Title: Wild Justice 34/?
Author: Rune Dancer
Rating: R
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.
Warnings: BDSM.
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.
* * *
Elrohir edged further along the narrow passageway into which the already slim corridor had shrunk. It was terribly claustrophobic, with a rough ceiling so low that it snagged strands of his hair as he moved forward, and there was barely enough room even for his slim form to pass through. Normally it would have had him hyperventilating, his hatred of enclosed, underground places as great as any of his kind, but fighting off another bout of his mental problem was providing a useful distraction. So it was that he barely noticed the confined quarters and did not even flinch when the tunnel drew in even more, forcing him to begin to walk hunched over like one of the orcs who habitually used it.
It abruptly let out onto a small ledge beyond which was a sheer drop into blackness. Elrohir clutched at the rough walls behind him and maintained a tentative toehold on the crumbling pathway. Edging along it, he resolutely kept reciting snatches of poetry, old song lyrics, anything to keep his mind too preoccupied to permit it to focus on another illusion. He knew he was running out of time, however, as the familiar bright colors were beginning to swirl around the edge of his vision once more.
After following the little ledge along what felt to be an endless path through a darkness almost thick enough to feel, Elohir at last reached the rubble-strewn floor of the cavern. He knew there were sharp rocks littering the ground because several of them poked painfully into his ankles as he made his way cautiously forward. He could not see them, however, as there was almost no light at all this far underground; by comparison, the dim passages above seemed as bright as day.
He was beginning to despair of locating anything in the pitch-blackness, when a flood of light suddenly erupted around him. At first he thought that a party of orcs must have arrived carrying some of their tiny lanterns, as even the illumination from those largely useless objects would seem bright to him at the moment. A second later, however, he realised his mistake.
**The smoke was making it difficult to see, but Elrohir had no difficulty at all in picking out the two huge balrogs who were wreaking havoc as they carved a path up the great hill towards the castle. Around their feet, hundreds of orcs swarmed, defiling the beautiful city with their very presence. The balrogs seemed oblivious to them, crushing several under their feet with apparently no concern at all. Thankfully, most of the city's inhabitants had already fled this sector, leaving him and most of Glorfindel's household to deal with the invaders unimpeded.
Elrohir's own elves were waiting in Fountain Court. They were the best warriors in the city, something the Noldoran captains were usually loath to admit, but under the circumstances it had been quickly decided that they were to be held back as a last defense before the palace. Elrohir had personally trained every one of the Sindarin warriors in his house, and he knew they would fight to the death rather than give up. He had given them strict orders to see to the king's welfare, but he had his doubts whether Turgon would be willing to evacuate the city. He only hoped Glorfindel was seeing to the king's safety as well as that of his daughter.
Elrohir watched the two balrogs come closer, their heavy footsteps causing the ground to quake beneath him. He had prayed fervently as he and his elves carved a path through the orcs, that the creatures would come this way, and it looked as though his supplications had been answered. A high stone arch passed over the street in front of him, connecting two large buildings. It had been originally designed as an extra gate, but the city had grown so quickly that houses soon engulfed it. It had long been used instead as a conduit for foot traffic, as the street below was a main route for laden carts arriving from the countryside for market. The archway looked much as it always did, except that it was covered in bright bunting and flower garlands for the festival; incongruously, two huge fire demons rose up behind the pretty scene, ripping apart the once peaceful street with their whips. "A little closer," Elrohir whispered, praying that they wouldn't deviate from their current direction. A young elf next to him looked at him strangely, probably wondering why he would want the creatures to come closer when the rest of the city was wishing just the opposite, but Elrohir merely smiled at him. He would see the answer for himself soon enough.
The balrogs came on swiftly, and Elrohir stood his ground, slaughtering a few passing orcs as he did so, until they reached the optimum position. "NOW!" His shout was immediately answered by the elves he had sent into the towers on either side of the bridge. It was too strong for the balrogs to break as easily as they had the wooden houses, so they had done as he expected and not attempted it. Instead, anxious to get to the castle as soon as possible, they simply ducked underneath. As they did so, the elves he had put in place let loose the gate mechanism and the two demons were temporarily trapped beneath its old iron teeth. A hail of elvish arrows bit into them as they roared and thrashed about, melting the heavy iron spikes into running stream of metal as they did so, and shaking the entire bridge to its foundations.
Elrohir wasted no time. As soon as he saw that the plan was going to work, he ran forward, ignoring the cinders from the balrog's ripped flesh that sputtered against his armor. It took a great deal more heat to melt mithril than iron, and he did not intend to give them the chance. After sweeping his sword about to slice through several orcs who were attempting to free the monsters, he buried it to the hilt between the first one's eyes. The creature gave a horrible death cry that rang off the surrounding buildings and echoed down the street. Before its cry had completely died away, he and several of Glorfindel's elves attacked the remaining balrog, but there they had less good fortune. The creature was injured, but not mortally so, and was howlingly angry as it shook off the remaining bits of the gate. Elrohir barely ducked in time as a red-hot piece of metal passed right over his head, and he danced back a few yards when the gate exploded under the onslaught.
The demon rose above him, several stories high, its molten red centre showing through a crusted black outer skin. It somehow seemed to realise that Elrohir was the leader, for although many other elves shot at it from the ground and surrounding house windows, it was towards him it came. Elrohir watched it do so with a feeling of inevitability. Some part of his brain screamed at him to run, for who could stand up to something like that? But then, where was there to go? Their city was dying around them, that he knew even if others had not yet accepted it. Gondolin would fall this day; its enemies were simply too many and too strong. Elrohir saw nothing but stupidity in fighting to save that which was already doomed, but he could understand the need to buy time for as many of the inhabitants as possible to be evacuated. He thought fleetingly of Glorfindel, and hoped that he was on his way out by now with Turgon and the princess in tow. It was his lover's face that he kept in mind as he waited for the thing to come closer. Glorfindel would need all the time he could give him.
It was with a sense of complete shock that Elrohir found himself still alive a few minutes later, while the carcass of the second balrog lay steaming at his feet. He regarded it with a sense of unreality as Glorfindel's elves cheered all around him. He had won, he realised, simply because he had not run. The creature had obviously not expected a lone elf to stand and fight, and had aimed its whip beyond him, expecting to trip him up as he tried to escape its wrath. When he unexpectedly stood his ground, the creature had to try to stop its forward momentum at the last minute--not an easy task for something the size of a house--and in doing so had exposed its vulnerable underbelly to Elrohir's sword. He had pierced the skin with his mithril blade, which unlike lesser weapons had not melted in the heat from the creature's body. Torrents of a lava like substances had rushed out of the wound, searing his hand, but he had nonetheless plunged the blade even deeper, knowing that he would never get a second chance. One of Glorfindel's elves grabbed his other arm and spun him away at the last moment, just as the creature folded up and slammed into the paving stones where he had been standing, sending a shock wave the length of the street as it did so.
"My lord, you're injured!" The young elf who had saved his life was regarding Elrohir's right arm with mingled pity and revulsion. He saw that his armor had deflected some of the liquid, but burning acid had run into the joints at his wrist and elbow, severely blistering the skin below. His arm was not only excruciatingly painful, but useless, his sword almost falling from his limp hand. Fortunately he, like all the Sindar, had been trained to be ambidextrous in combat, a fact he demonstrated by grabbing his weapon and stabbing a passing orc, but he did not possess as much strength or dexterity with his left hand. Still, it would have to do, for the battle was only beginning.**
Elrohir came back to himself, sweat soaked and panting from exertion without any idea why. Then he noticed that several small lanterns were by his feet, turned onto their sides and spreading pools of light across the cavern floor. All around him, orc carcasses were piled. He saw with amazement that there were two or three dozen altogether, and they had obviously not died of natural causes. What was even more worrying was that blood still oozed from several, sending black streams running across the dusty ground. Elrohir knelt and briefly felt the skin of the orc nearest his feet; it was still warm. He immediately snatched his hand back and drew his sword, looking about fearfully and wondering who might have done this. He did not see how Glorfindel and the others could have reached this far so quickly, but perhaps he had been in the mines longer than he thought.
"Glorfindel?" His own voice echoing back to him was the only reply he received. Elrohir bent to pick up a lantern, wishing for some more light to help him locate the orc killer, when he saw it. The lantern showed rivulets of blood that spread out like lace over the shiny surface of his weapon. He stared at it in shock. Hadn't he cleaned it after the fight in the glade? He was sure he had, and was equally certain that he had used his knives rather than his sword on the orcs he had killed after entering the mines. Why then was there fresh blood on his blade? Elrohir shivered in the darkness, sending the little beams of light from the lamp dancing all about him. What in Mandos had just happened?
* * *
Erestor smiled at the three orcs who huddled against the wall of the cavern, looking at he and Camthalion as if at the faces of doom, which in their case was an apt analogy. "All I want to know," he told them nicely, "is where to find the elves. If you tell me, I shall consider sparing your lives; if you lie, you will die in the most painful way I can devise over a very extended period of time. Do I make myself clear?"
Erestor noticed one of the orcs glancing at Camthalion, who was fingering his knife with an expression that clearly said he hoped they were not going to prove cooperative. The orcs understood that--malice was an emotion with which they were well acquainted--but Erestor was equally certain they had comprehended his words. He did most of the interrogation at Imladris, and had centuries before picked up enough of their foul tongue to be able to make his wishes understood. Even now, tired from the long fight to breach the entrance, he was clear headed enough to know he spoke plainly. His patience, on the other hand, was beginning to fray a bit. "Where are they?" He picked the closest orc up by its filthy collar and shook it, letting its head bang against the stone wall behind it. "TELL me or I swear . . . "
The orc quailed under his glare, and tried to shield its eyes from the light of the lantern Camthalion held in his hand. It had grown late as their party searched for a way into the caverns and the sky behind them was now fully dark. The front entrance they had hoped to use was obviously impossible; when they reached it, Erestor immediately noted the additional barriers and booby traps that had been put in place and stopped the others before they could needlessly waste their lives. A careful exploration of nearby crags had finally yielded another entrance, but even that small crack in the cliff face had an impressive force guarding it. Indeed, if it hadn't been for the large number of orcs milling about, they probably would never have noticed it at all, for the creatures concealed their entrances well. Battling the guards had taken even more time, and night had fallen as they did so. Thankfully, there was as yet no sign of the returning main orcish force, but there was no way of knowing how much longer that would hold true. Erestor decided that he did not have time for finesse.
"Tell me what I want to know or die now; I have no more time to waste on you." His matter-of-fact tone seemed to frighten the creature before him in a way his previous threats had not, and it soon told him all it knew. Unfortunately, that was not much, and when another of its party leapt up and efficiently snapped the traitor's throat, they lost even the hope of a guide for the dark tunnels ahead. Camthalion disposed of the remaining orcs before they could do any more damage while Erestor tried to think.
"I take it that was not very useful?"
Erestor looked up at Glorfindel who, as usual, had not interfered with his interrogation, but had stood off to one side, his expression closed and brooding. "He said that he wasn't sure where they are, but that an order had gone out at our approach to gather all the elves together. He assumed they were being marked for execution, but never heard the actual order given."
"That would prevent any hope of rescue," Glorfindel mused, looking, Erestor thought, remarkably calm about the prospect. "There is nothing to be done, then, but continue until we find an orc who DOES know something, or until we see the corpses of the elves. I will not take one of these creature's words for anything, Erestor. We continue until we are certain, one way or the other."
Erestor agreed that they had little choice. They had come too far and risked too much to turn back now. Still, he gave a brief thought to the fact that it might have been wise to bring Elwyyda with them. True, she had little knowledge of the mines outside her own rather restricted area, but that was still better than they possessed at the moment.
"It is odd, don't you think?" Glorfindel was still looking thoughtful, and Erestor glanced up at him hopefully. Any suggestion would be welcome at the moment, considering that they were facing the daunting prospect of fighting their way through the entire mine with no idea how many orcs remained inside, where the captives might be, or even if they still lived. "The elves are valuable to us, of course, but to the orcs, they should be nothing more than mine slaves--easily replaceable should one tumble into a crevasse. Judging by . . . Zirak's . . . appearance when we found him, even the greatest of them was not well treated. So why the extra security and elaborate attempts to avoid having them rescued? Doesn't it seem strange to you?"
Erestor shrugged. The only thing that seemed odd to him at the moment was waiting around in a shallow cave while the chilly night breeze gave him pneumonia. Not that the mines would be much warmer, but at least chopping apart a few orcs might provide the opportunity to work up a sweat. "I don't know and, frankly Glorfindel, at the moment I don't care." Under different circumstances Erestor would have found it amusing that their roles seemed to have reversed--he was suddenly the one in favour of action while Glorfindel was content to stand about thinking--but his sense of humour had deserted him at the moment. In any case, thinking in this case was unlikely to get them anywhere, as there was not enough information with which to speculate. "They are probably being held on a lower level; I am sure we'll meet a few orcs on the way down who can be persuaded to give us directions."
He decided not to think about what could happen if they were trapped in a lower point in the mines when the main orcish force returned. Instead, he took his frustrations out on his Noldor, whom he spent several moments threatening with dire consequences if they gave into temptation and slaughtered every orc they met. Not that he didn't agree with their sentiments, but it was difficult even for him to get information from a corpse. Erestor was just grateful that they did not know the identity of the elf they had helped to rescue the last time. If they received even an inkling that the High King had been tortured by these creatures, he doubted if there was anything that could prevent them from killing indiscriminately.
* * *
Elrohir looked about the little cave he had just entered in amazement. He had blundered his way across the cavern floor with the help of one of the dead orc's lanterns, only tripping over corpses occasionally, until a faint outline of light from ahead told him that he was nearing his goal. No less than three massive locks protected a large iron banded doorway, but Elrohir found Erestor's skeleton key to be useful once again, easily opening two of them. The third, however, simply refused to budge, and unlike Erestor who had a whole collection of the magic keys, Elrohir was restricted to just the one. After a futile few minutes, he had almost decided to abandon subtlety and hack at the cursed thing with his knives, when common sense reasserted itself. He really had no desire to alert whoever had killed the orcs to his presence, or to bring more of the creatures scurrying right for him. Making his way back to the slaughtered piles of orcs, he rummaged around in their fetid clothing until he finally found a large key ring that one still clutched in his grimy hand.
One of the keys fit the final lock, and Elrohir bit back a cry of relief. Turning the handle slowly, he edged into the room beyond, careful to make no discernable sound. The room itself, however, caused him to stop and stare about in openmouthed astonishment.
Most elves did not care overmuch for treasure, at least not the same kind that appealed to men and dwarves, but apparently orcs felt differently. Elrohir regarded with awe the piles of mithril, gold, jewels of every description, fine fabrics tossed into negligent heaps, casks of expensive balms and perfumes, and fine old books and scrolls. He had never before thought about what the orcs did with the all treasure they stole from the travelers they killed, but he supposed he now knew. There had to be hundreds of years' worth of plunder stashed here, although none of it looked much used. The piles of precious metals actually had a thick layer of dust on them, some of the beautiful fabrics were beginning to molder in the damp air of the caves and a few scrolls had fallen to the floor and been carelessly trampled under dirty goblin feet. Still, this represented more wealth than Elrohir had ever seen in his life, and explained the heavy locks on the door and the large number of guards that had been in the cave. What it did not do was help him locate the king, as the chamber appeared to be empty of life.
He passed quickly through the treasure room, prudently leaving no footprints on the dusty floor by keeping to the narrow trail countless numbers of goblins had left. He passed through several more caves, each equally filled with unimaginable wealth, before coming to a much smaller door that was once again carefully locked. None of the keys from the orc's key ring worked on this one, nor did Erestor's skeleton key. Elrohir tried to fit the point of his knife into it, but to his astonishment, the tip broke completely off when he tried to force it. Wonderful, a mithril lock, that was all he needed.
All right, he thought, reason it out. That was easier said than done when his overworked nerves interpreted every sound as the tread of light footed warriors sneaking up on him, but he forced himself to concentrate. These caves seemed to contain all that the orcs most valued, so if they put a high price on Oropher's life, it made sense that they would keep him in their most secured location. It was odd, however, that they had not demanded a ransom for him all these centuries, and if money was not their interest, what value could he have? But that was something to worry about later; right now the issue was to get him out, assuming it was indeed Oropher that the small room imprisoned.
After a few more minutes of fruitless attempts at lock picking, Elrohir finally gave up and decided to risk calling out. If Oropher was on the other side of the door, he might have an idea how to help free himself; of course, if it was someone else, Elrohir was possibly about to be in big trouble, but he didn't see that he had many options. Just as he was about to test his theory, however, a cry resounded through the caves behind him, and the thud of heavy feet resounded through the room. Looking about frantically, he spotted a hiding place behind several large casks and dived out of sight just as three figures entered the small cave.
The leader was tall and dressed in a floor length cape that concealed his identity. The other two were large orcs armed to the teeth and looking even more annoyed than orcs usually did. "Find who did this." The voice was low and hoarse, and did not sound like that of an orc to Elrohir. Of course, his height would have ruled that out in any case. The two goblins moved away swiftly, starting a search of the nearby caves. Elrohir wondered how long it would be before they thought to search this one. Something told him he was running out of time.
* * *
"That's the rest of them.''
Celeborn nodded at Thranduil's low voiced comment, as a small group of fifteen dusty and tired looking elves made their way into the small encampment. They were the last of several small parties Thranduil had sent to harass the edges of the orc army and keep it moving in the direction of the pass. Celeborn was glad to have them back, and to see that they had apparently lost no one in their attacks, but he could spare them little thought. His mind was completely absorbed with the plan they were about to put into effect, for it was the only chance either he or Thranduil could see to destroy the invading force without losing the lives of many elves in the process. The mountain valleys in which small patches of forest grew were almost non-existent after the pass, so ambush techniques such as they had been using would no longer work until the army entered the woods of Lorien. Celeborn repressed a shudder at the very thought; they would never reach his home--he would not allow it.
He glanced about the rocky promontory where the elves had concealed themselves behind a few scraggly bushes. He knew there were hundreds of Thranduil's people scattered about, but even his sharp eyes had difficulty picking them out. The dim starlight suffusing the landscape did not help, but he was still surprised at how difficult it was to see any of the elves that he knew were nearby. The few trees that grew this high must have been groaning under their weight, but none could be seen in the branches. Their dark green clothing should have been easily spotted among the rocks, yet he saw nothing that could not be mistaken for a stray patch of grass. He smiled. If he had to be in a do or die situation, he could have done far worse for allies.
Celeborn heard it first, the faint, far off sound of thousands of heavy footfalls, enough to shake the earth itself with their weight. Thranduil tensed beside him a second later and raised a hand to alert his elves. Celeborn felt a rush of adrenaline flood him such as he had not known for centuries. He felt somewhat ashamed of himself--many elves would die if this went wrong, both here and in the kingdoms beyond--but nonetheless he could not deny that it was the most thrilling experience he had had in a very long time. Silently, he nocked one of the arrows from the quiver he had spent much of the night refilling and waited. The timing was crucial, and he could only hope Thranduil's elves were as well trained as he had been boasting. If any of them acted too soon, all would be lost.
The orc army seemed to take forever to show itself, but when it did, Celeborn caught his breath in wonder. He had not had the chance to see it in its full numbers before, and it was an amazing sight as it flooded into the pass like a river of dirty water. He took in a few deep breaths to calm himself, and noted with respect the fact that Thranduil's hand did not tremble even slightly as he held it up, ready to give the signal at the optimum time. As soon as the first few hundred goblins had entered the pass, he dropped his arm, signalling the first runner to leave on his race to alert the elves at the far end of the slender canyon. They had to create a rockslide to bar the army from leaving the pass, but not before it had gone too far to turn about. The elves wanted the orcs to think the rockslide was a small impediment that could be easily removed with a few minutes' work, not to decide to pull out and take another route.
The army surged on for several hours, the jostling ranks kicking and snarling at each other as they were crowded into the narrow confines of the pass. Their heavy shields were at their sides, to be raised in a second as a protective covering over their heads if the elves should try an ambush, and their weapons were ready in their hands. They nonetheless seemed confidant, perhaps due to their numbers or because their sharp eyes were comfortable in the low light. It would be daybreak in a few hours but, if the elves were lucky, this band of orcs would never see it.
* * *
Oh no, Elrohir thought in dismay as the hooded figure fitted key to lock and opened the door a fraction; he could barely see him because the now familiar colours were starting to glow again at the edge of his vision, but he couldn't have a black out now! He had no idea if he moved or spoke during the hallucinations, but even if not, the orcs might come back at any time or summon others to help with their search. If they found him passed out on the floor, he somehow doubted that they would bother waking him up before running a sword through him. He resorted to the old method of banging his head into one of the casks, hoping that the pain would hold off the inevitable, but the slight noise that resulted caused the hooded figure to pause and seemingly sniff at the air, so he desisted. After a few moments hesitation, the cloaked figure resumed his previous occupation and passed through the narrow opening in the door. It looked from Elrohir's angle like an impossible task, as the crack was appeared only a few inches wide, but that had to be a trick of the eyes.
Elrohir noticed that the door did not shut behind the figure, so after a few moments, he cautiously ventured closer, keeping to the shadows instinctively even though he knew they would not help him elude orcish eyes. The door must have slightly shut after all, because there was only a small crack open when Elrohir reached it. He peered in but could see very little. A few candles were burning, so lighting wasn't the issue, but no one was in line of sight from the doorway, nor did he at first hear any conversation. Then the same low voice he had heard addressing the orcs spoke again.
"It seems you may be useful after all, old one. My master will be pleased that I kept you safe all these years; as I told him, it is always good to have an alternative." Elrohir could hear no reply, but the sound of chains clanking together echoed clearly through the room. "Come, it seems your friends are looking for you, but they will find nothing when they arrive."
Elrohir barely had time to duck back behind the casks when two figures emerged from the room. The hooded one held onto a heavy chain that was attached securely to an iron ring about the neck of an elf who almost matched him in height. Elrohir wanted to cry out at the sight, but managed to restrain himself by biting down hard on his lower lip. It was Oropher--it had to be! The elf did not look as battered as Zirak had been, but was rather in the condition of the elves he had freed earlier--dirty, emaciated and exhausted looking, but without signs of serious injury. It was hard to tell what colour his hair might have been, for it was too matted and covered with the grey dust from the caves to be sure, but out of sunken sockets his eyes shone almost as if they held a light all their own, and their colour was the distinctive bright green of Thranduil's house. He did not bother to reply to his gaoler, nor did he put up a resistance as he was drawn along at a quick pace out of the treasure caves.
Elrohir followed the two back to the large main cavern with the dead orcs. No one had bothered to clear them away, although a dozen goblins were pawing through their clothing, apparently looking for plunder. Elrohir paused at the exit to the treasure caves, uncertain what to do. Clearly, Oropher was being moved, and he had to follow or he might never locate him again. It must be night outside by now, and the orcs could even take him beyond the mine if they chose. Yet venturing out into a cavern where at least a dozen goblins already waited, and where others might be concealed in the shadows, did not appeal. His eyesight was hazy at best in the deep shadows of the mines, while the orcs would be able to see him clearly. A dozen arrows coming at him from different directions could skewer him before he even saw his attackers. As much as he hated to admit it, there seemed no way to rescue Oropher without help, and wherever his team was, they obviously hadn't made it this far yet.
Elrohir was distracted from his gloomy thoughts by a fierce battle raging off to one side of his vision. He ignored it, but it did not go away. He resolutely looked in the other direction, but it followed him relentlessly. No, leave me be, he thought desperately. As if things weren't bad enough!
**Elrohir raced up the steepest street in the city, only pausing to slash at an orc that came too close or to avoid a burning cart that careened into his path. All around him elves were fleeing or fighting, orcs were smashing everything that they were not claiming as plunder, and overhead, several dragons wheeled in seemingly impossible loops and arcs, setting more of the ruined street aflame with every pass. Elrohir ignored all of it, so intent was he on reaching his goal--the final battle that raged at the very heart of the once beautiful city, on the pinnacle where the palace topped the spiral of earth like a king's crown and where Fountain Court lay in sparkling splendor. He had heard the battle cry of his house resound through the city minutes before, telling him that his elves had charged the enemy. That they would do this before he could rejoin them said without the need for words just how desperate matters had become.
Elrohir and the surviving members of Glorfindel's house had been trying to slow down the invading waves of orcs to allow the rest of the city's inhabitants to flee. They had been battling two enemies, however, the army flooding through the ruined gates and the stupidity of people who refused to accept that their city was doomed and to get away with their lives at least. He had had to personally pull a family of elves out of their smoking house and, at sword point, order them to leave immediately. Even then, the mother had insisted on carefully fastening the door behind her, as if that would insure that the house and its contents would still be intact for her return. They had also carried enough baggage with them that Elrohir seriously doubted their ability to outrun even the slowest of orcs, but he had had no more time to spare for arguments.
Elrohir drew up short as he reached Fountain Court, the sight before him knocking all else from his mind. A huge balrog, roughly twice the size of the ones he had killed, reared up over him, although it did not apparently see him at the moment. The scurrying elves must look like children to it, he thought in dazed wonder, before the sight of Eirien, his chief lieutenant, snapped him out of it. She was looking less than her usual calm and collected self and was covered in blood, although it was the blackish colour of the orcs' rather than her own, he noted with relief.
"Where are the others?' All he could see in the court were perhaps two dozen elves, whereas there should have been ten times that number, even if his own people were the only ones there.
"We ARE the others--the only survivors!," she screamed at him, tears streaking the smoke residue that covered her fair face. "They are dead, Ecthelion, all of them! That thing and two dragons killed most of them, and . . . " she screamed and dragged him under the remains of one of the great marble pillars surrounding the court, just before the lash of the balrog's whip could turn them both into ashes. Marble dust and smoke billowed up around them, shielding them for a moment from view. "Some were helping to evacuate the palace; I don't know, they may live still, but none of us will for long at this rate!"
"What have you tried to do to kill it?"
"What CAN we do? Few even managed to get close to that thing, and those that did didn't last long. Its hide is just too thick--even mithril blades won't penetrate it! It's Gothmog, Ecthlion, it MUST be! And I always thought the stories about him were exaggerated!"
"Where are the dragons? I don't see them." Elrohir had thought of a plan, suggested by the billowing smoke that churned all about them, but he needed to know that Gothmog was the only opponent he would face if he tried it.
"I don't know, probably off terrorizing the city somewhere. They flew away a few minutes ago." Elrohir nodded, they must have been the ones he'd seen setting fires further down the hill.
"Gather what elves we have left and clear the area of orcs, then form up just beyond the entrance. I'll take care of Gothmog, but I can't fight him and an army of orcs at the same time. You must give me a few minutes without distractions."
Eirien looked at him wildly for a second, her soot streaked hair falling in her eyes and her hands clutching convulsively at his shoulders. "Are you mad? I'm not leaving you to fight that thing alone! I'll relay your orders to the others and then we'll . . . "
"You will do as I tell you." Elrohir spoke as calmly as the situation allowed, for he didn't have much time. The smoke was clearing, and they had to move as soon as it did so. "They need leadership, Eirien, and I can't be two places at once. Do as I say and leave the balrog to me."
"But . . . but you're injured!"
Elrohir was tempted to slap her, but he didn't want that to be the last memory she had of him, so he settled for shaking her instead. "Did your oath of loyalty mean nothing?" Elrohir sighed in relief, seeing something of her usual discipline reassert itself. "Hold the entrance to the court as long as you can, then when you see the monster fall, start your retreat. Aid as many elves as you can to get away from here, but do not stay and waste your lives in a loss cause."
"But the city will fall . . . "
"The city has already fallen, Eirien! None of us can save it! Will you do as I say?" At her tearful nod, he smiled. He would have liked to tell her how proud he was of her, and how good a lieutenant she had always been, but there was no more time. "Tell Glorfindel I'm sorry," he said, then ducked back into the open, grabbing up a fallen elf's spear and throwing it at Gothmog's eyes as he did so. The balrog might seem invincible to the other elves, but Elrohir had just killed two of them and he no longer felt the same way. They COULD die, and this one must, for the fleeing elves would have no chance at escape if it was allowed to pursue them. Fortunately, Fountain Court held the perfect weapon with which to defeat even the greatest of balrogs. Elrohir just had to get him into it.
* * *
TBC
Author: Rune Dancer
Rating: R
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.
Warnings: BDSM.
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.
* * *
Elrohir edged further along the narrow passageway into which the already slim corridor had shrunk. It was terribly claustrophobic, with a rough ceiling so low that it snagged strands of his hair as he moved forward, and there was barely enough room even for his slim form to pass through. Normally it would have had him hyperventilating, his hatred of enclosed, underground places as great as any of his kind, but fighting off another bout of his mental problem was providing a useful distraction. So it was that he barely noticed the confined quarters and did not even flinch when the tunnel drew in even more, forcing him to begin to walk hunched over like one of the orcs who habitually used it.
It abruptly let out onto a small ledge beyond which was a sheer drop into blackness. Elrohir clutched at the rough walls behind him and maintained a tentative toehold on the crumbling pathway. Edging along it, he resolutely kept reciting snatches of poetry, old song lyrics, anything to keep his mind too preoccupied to permit it to focus on another illusion. He knew he was running out of time, however, as the familiar bright colors were beginning to swirl around the edge of his vision once more.
After following the little ledge along what felt to be an endless path through a darkness almost thick enough to feel, Elohir at last reached the rubble-strewn floor of the cavern. He knew there were sharp rocks littering the ground because several of them poked painfully into his ankles as he made his way cautiously forward. He could not see them, however, as there was almost no light at all this far underground; by comparison, the dim passages above seemed as bright as day.
He was beginning to despair of locating anything in the pitch-blackness, when a flood of light suddenly erupted around him. At first he thought that a party of orcs must have arrived carrying some of their tiny lanterns, as even the illumination from those largely useless objects would seem bright to him at the moment. A second later, however, he realised his mistake.
**The smoke was making it difficult to see, but Elrohir had no difficulty at all in picking out the two huge balrogs who were wreaking havoc as they carved a path up the great hill towards the castle. Around their feet, hundreds of orcs swarmed, defiling the beautiful city with their very presence. The balrogs seemed oblivious to them, crushing several under their feet with apparently no concern at all. Thankfully, most of the city's inhabitants had already fled this sector, leaving him and most of Glorfindel's household to deal with the invaders unimpeded.
Elrohir's own elves were waiting in Fountain Court. They were the best warriors in the city, something the Noldoran captains were usually loath to admit, but under the circumstances it had been quickly decided that they were to be held back as a last defense before the palace. Elrohir had personally trained every one of the Sindarin warriors in his house, and he knew they would fight to the death rather than give up. He had given them strict orders to see to the king's welfare, but he had his doubts whether Turgon would be willing to evacuate the city. He only hoped Glorfindel was seeing to the king's safety as well as that of his daughter.
Elrohir watched the two balrogs come closer, their heavy footsteps causing the ground to quake beneath him. He had prayed fervently as he and his elves carved a path through the orcs, that the creatures would come this way, and it looked as though his supplications had been answered. A high stone arch passed over the street in front of him, connecting two large buildings. It had been originally designed as an extra gate, but the city had grown so quickly that houses soon engulfed it. It had long been used instead as a conduit for foot traffic, as the street below was a main route for laden carts arriving from the countryside for market. The archway looked much as it always did, except that it was covered in bright bunting and flower garlands for the festival; incongruously, two huge fire demons rose up behind the pretty scene, ripping apart the once peaceful street with their whips. "A little closer," Elrohir whispered, praying that they wouldn't deviate from their current direction. A young elf next to him looked at him strangely, probably wondering why he would want the creatures to come closer when the rest of the city was wishing just the opposite, but Elrohir merely smiled at him. He would see the answer for himself soon enough.
The balrogs came on swiftly, and Elrohir stood his ground, slaughtering a few passing orcs as he did so, until they reached the optimum position. "NOW!" His shout was immediately answered by the elves he had sent into the towers on either side of the bridge. It was too strong for the balrogs to break as easily as they had the wooden houses, so they had done as he expected and not attempted it. Instead, anxious to get to the castle as soon as possible, they simply ducked underneath. As they did so, the elves he had put in place let loose the gate mechanism and the two demons were temporarily trapped beneath its old iron teeth. A hail of elvish arrows bit into them as they roared and thrashed about, melting the heavy iron spikes into running stream of metal as they did so, and shaking the entire bridge to its foundations.
Elrohir wasted no time. As soon as he saw that the plan was going to work, he ran forward, ignoring the cinders from the balrog's ripped flesh that sputtered against his armor. It took a great deal more heat to melt mithril than iron, and he did not intend to give them the chance. After sweeping his sword about to slice through several orcs who were attempting to free the monsters, he buried it to the hilt between the first one's eyes. The creature gave a horrible death cry that rang off the surrounding buildings and echoed down the street. Before its cry had completely died away, he and several of Glorfindel's elves attacked the remaining balrog, but there they had less good fortune. The creature was injured, but not mortally so, and was howlingly angry as it shook off the remaining bits of the gate. Elrohir barely ducked in time as a red-hot piece of metal passed right over his head, and he danced back a few yards when the gate exploded under the onslaught.
The demon rose above him, several stories high, its molten red centre showing through a crusted black outer skin. It somehow seemed to realise that Elrohir was the leader, for although many other elves shot at it from the ground and surrounding house windows, it was towards him it came. Elrohir watched it do so with a feeling of inevitability. Some part of his brain screamed at him to run, for who could stand up to something like that? But then, where was there to go? Their city was dying around them, that he knew even if others had not yet accepted it. Gondolin would fall this day; its enemies were simply too many and too strong. Elrohir saw nothing but stupidity in fighting to save that which was already doomed, but he could understand the need to buy time for as many of the inhabitants as possible to be evacuated. He thought fleetingly of Glorfindel, and hoped that he was on his way out by now with Turgon and the princess in tow. It was his lover's face that he kept in mind as he waited for the thing to come closer. Glorfindel would need all the time he could give him.
It was with a sense of complete shock that Elrohir found himself still alive a few minutes later, while the carcass of the second balrog lay steaming at his feet. He regarded it with a sense of unreality as Glorfindel's elves cheered all around him. He had won, he realised, simply because he had not run. The creature had obviously not expected a lone elf to stand and fight, and had aimed its whip beyond him, expecting to trip him up as he tried to escape its wrath. When he unexpectedly stood his ground, the creature had to try to stop its forward momentum at the last minute--not an easy task for something the size of a house--and in doing so had exposed its vulnerable underbelly to Elrohir's sword. He had pierced the skin with his mithril blade, which unlike lesser weapons had not melted in the heat from the creature's body. Torrents of a lava like substances had rushed out of the wound, searing his hand, but he had nonetheless plunged the blade even deeper, knowing that he would never get a second chance. One of Glorfindel's elves grabbed his other arm and spun him away at the last moment, just as the creature folded up and slammed into the paving stones where he had been standing, sending a shock wave the length of the street as it did so.
"My lord, you're injured!" The young elf who had saved his life was regarding Elrohir's right arm with mingled pity and revulsion. He saw that his armor had deflected some of the liquid, but burning acid had run into the joints at his wrist and elbow, severely blistering the skin below. His arm was not only excruciatingly painful, but useless, his sword almost falling from his limp hand. Fortunately he, like all the Sindar, had been trained to be ambidextrous in combat, a fact he demonstrated by grabbing his weapon and stabbing a passing orc, but he did not possess as much strength or dexterity with his left hand. Still, it would have to do, for the battle was only beginning.**
Elrohir came back to himself, sweat soaked and panting from exertion without any idea why. Then he noticed that several small lanterns were by his feet, turned onto their sides and spreading pools of light across the cavern floor. All around him, orc carcasses were piled. He saw with amazement that there were two or three dozen altogether, and they had obviously not died of natural causes. What was even more worrying was that blood still oozed from several, sending black streams running across the dusty ground. Elrohir knelt and briefly felt the skin of the orc nearest his feet; it was still warm. He immediately snatched his hand back and drew his sword, looking about fearfully and wondering who might have done this. He did not see how Glorfindel and the others could have reached this far so quickly, but perhaps he had been in the mines longer than he thought.
"Glorfindel?" His own voice echoing back to him was the only reply he received. Elrohir bent to pick up a lantern, wishing for some more light to help him locate the orc killer, when he saw it. The lantern showed rivulets of blood that spread out like lace over the shiny surface of his weapon. He stared at it in shock. Hadn't he cleaned it after the fight in the glade? He was sure he had, and was equally certain that he had used his knives rather than his sword on the orcs he had killed after entering the mines. Why then was there fresh blood on his blade? Elrohir shivered in the darkness, sending the little beams of light from the lamp dancing all about him. What in Mandos had just happened?
* * *
Erestor smiled at the three orcs who huddled against the wall of the cavern, looking at he and Camthalion as if at the faces of doom, which in their case was an apt analogy. "All I want to know," he told them nicely, "is where to find the elves. If you tell me, I shall consider sparing your lives; if you lie, you will die in the most painful way I can devise over a very extended period of time. Do I make myself clear?"
Erestor noticed one of the orcs glancing at Camthalion, who was fingering his knife with an expression that clearly said he hoped they were not going to prove cooperative. The orcs understood that--malice was an emotion with which they were well acquainted--but Erestor was equally certain they had comprehended his words. He did most of the interrogation at Imladris, and had centuries before picked up enough of their foul tongue to be able to make his wishes understood. Even now, tired from the long fight to breach the entrance, he was clear headed enough to know he spoke plainly. His patience, on the other hand, was beginning to fray a bit. "Where are they?" He picked the closest orc up by its filthy collar and shook it, letting its head bang against the stone wall behind it. "TELL me or I swear . . . "
The orc quailed under his glare, and tried to shield its eyes from the light of the lantern Camthalion held in his hand. It had grown late as their party searched for a way into the caverns and the sky behind them was now fully dark. The front entrance they had hoped to use was obviously impossible; when they reached it, Erestor immediately noted the additional barriers and booby traps that had been put in place and stopped the others before they could needlessly waste their lives. A careful exploration of nearby crags had finally yielded another entrance, but even that small crack in the cliff face had an impressive force guarding it. Indeed, if it hadn't been for the large number of orcs milling about, they probably would never have noticed it at all, for the creatures concealed their entrances well. Battling the guards had taken even more time, and night had fallen as they did so. Thankfully, there was as yet no sign of the returning main orcish force, but there was no way of knowing how much longer that would hold true. Erestor decided that he did not have time for finesse.
"Tell me what I want to know or die now; I have no more time to waste on you." His matter-of-fact tone seemed to frighten the creature before him in a way his previous threats had not, and it soon told him all it knew. Unfortunately, that was not much, and when another of its party leapt up and efficiently snapped the traitor's throat, they lost even the hope of a guide for the dark tunnels ahead. Camthalion disposed of the remaining orcs before they could do any more damage while Erestor tried to think.
"I take it that was not very useful?"
Erestor looked up at Glorfindel who, as usual, had not interfered with his interrogation, but had stood off to one side, his expression closed and brooding. "He said that he wasn't sure where they are, but that an order had gone out at our approach to gather all the elves together. He assumed they were being marked for execution, but never heard the actual order given."
"That would prevent any hope of rescue," Glorfindel mused, looking, Erestor thought, remarkably calm about the prospect. "There is nothing to be done, then, but continue until we find an orc who DOES know something, or until we see the corpses of the elves. I will not take one of these creature's words for anything, Erestor. We continue until we are certain, one way or the other."
Erestor agreed that they had little choice. They had come too far and risked too much to turn back now. Still, he gave a brief thought to the fact that it might have been wise to bring Elwyyda with them. True, she had little knowledge of the mines outside her own rather restricted area, but that was still better than they possessed at the moment.
"It is odd, don't you think?" Glorfindel was still looking thoughtful, and Erestor glanced up at him hopefully. Any suggestion would be welcome at the moment, considering that they were facing the daunting prospect of fighting their way through the entire mine with no idea how many orcs remained inside, where the captives might be, or even if they still lived. "The elves are valuable to us, of course, but to the orcs, they should be nothing more than mine slaves--easily replaceable should one tumble into a crevasse. Judging by . . . Zirak's . . . appearance when we found him, even the greatest of them was not well treated. So why the extra security and elaborate attempts to avoid having them rescued? Doesn't it seem strange to you?"
Erestor shrugged. The only thing that seemed odd to him at the moment was waiting around in a shallow cave while the chilly night breeze gave him pneumonia. Not that the mines would be much warmer, but at least chopping apart a few orcs might provide the opportunity to work up a sweat. "I don't know and, frankly Glorfindel, at the moment I don't care." Under different circumstances Erestor would have found it amusing that their roles seemed to have reversed--he was suddenly the one in favour of action while Glorfindel was content to stand about thinking--but his sense of humour had deserted him at the moment. In any case, thinking in this case was unlikely to get them anywhere, as there was not enough information with which to speculate. "They are probably being held on a lower level; I am sure we'll meet a few orcs on the way down who can be persuaded to give us directions."
He decided not to think about what could happen if they were trapped in a lower point in the mines when the main orcish force returned. Instead, he took his frustrations out on his Noldor, whom he spent several moments threatening with dire consequences if they gave into temptation and slaughtered every orc they met. Not that he didn't agree with their sentiments, but it was difficult even for him to get information from a corpse. Erestor was just grateful that they did not know the identity of the elf they had helped to rescue the last time. If they received even an inkling that the High King had been tortured by these creatures, he doubted if there was anything that could prevent them from killing indiscriminately.
* * *
Elrohir looked about the little cave he had just entered in amazement. He had blundered his way across the cavern floor with the help of one of the dead orc's lanterns, only tripping over corpses occasionally, until a faint outline of light from ahead told him that he was nearing his goal. No less than three massive locks protected a large iron banded doorway, but Elrohir found Erestor's skeleton key to be useful once again, easily opening two of them. The third, however, simply refused to budge, and unlike Erestor who had a whole collection of the magic keys, Elrohir was restricted to just the one. After a futile few minutes, he had almost decided to abandon subtlety and hack at the cursed thing with his knives, when common sense reasserted itself. He really had no desire to alert whoever had killed the orcs to his presence, or to bring more of the creatures scurrying right for him. Making his way back to the slaughtered piles of orcs, he rummaged around in their fetid clothing until he finally found a large key ring that one still clutched in his grimy hand.
One of the keys fit the final lock, and Elrohir bit back a cry of relief. Turning the handle slowly, he edged into the room beyond, careful to make no discernable sound. The room itself, however, caused him to stop and stare about in openmouthed astonishment.
Most elves did not care overmuch for treasure, at least not the same kind that appealed to men and dwarves, but apparently orcs felt differently. Elrohir regarded with awe the piles of mithril, gold, jewels of every description, fine fabrics tossed into negligent heaps, casks of expensive balms and perfumes, and fine old books and scrolls. He had never before thought about what the orcs did with the all treasure they stole from the travelers they killed, but he supposed he now knew. There had to be hundreds of years' worth of plunder stashed here, although none of it looked much used. The piles of precious metals actually had a thick layer of dust on them, some of the beautiful fabrics were beginning to molder in the damp air of the caves and a few scrolls had fallen to the floor and been carelessly trampled under dirty goblin feet. Still, this represented more wealth than Elrohir had ever seen in his life, and explained the heavy locks on the door and the large number of guards that had been in the cave. What it did not do was help him locate the king, as the chamber appeared to be empty of life.
He passed quickly through the treasure room, prudently leaving no footprints on the dusty floor by keeping to the narrow trail countless numbers of goblins had left. He passed through several more caves, each equally filled with unimaginable wealth, before coming to a much smaller door that was once again carefully locked. None of the keys from the orc's key ring worked on this one, nor did Erestor's skeleton key. Elrohir tried to fit the point of his knife into it, but to his astonishment, the tip broke completely off when he tried to force it. Wonderful, a mithril lock, that was all he needed.
All right, he thought, reason it out. That was easier said than done when his overworked nerves interpreted every sound as the tread of light footed warriors sneaking up on him, but he forced himself to concentrate. These caves seemed to contain all that the orcs most valued, so if they put a high price on Oropher's life, it made sense that they would keep him in their most secured location. It was odd, however, that they had not demanded a ransom for him all these centuries, and if money was not their interest, what value could he have? But that was something to worry about later; right now the issue was to get him out, assuming it was indeed Oropher that the small room imprisoned.
After a few more minutes of fruitless attempts at lock picking, Elrohir finally gave up and decided to risk calling out. If Oropher was on the other side of the door, he might have an idea how to help free himself; of course, if it was someone else, Elrohir was possibly about to be in big trouble, but he didn't see that he had many options. Just as he was about to test his theory, however, a cry resounded through the caves behind him, and the thud of heavy feet resounded through the room. Looking about frantically, he spotted a hiding place behind several large casks and dived out of sight just as three figures entered the small cave.
The leader was tall and dressed in a floor length cape that concealed his identity. The other two were large orcs armed to the teeth and looking even more annoyed than orcs usually did. "Find who did this." The voice was low and hoarse, and did not sound like that of an orc to Elrohir. Of course, his height would have ruled that out in any case. The two goblins moved away swiftly, starting a search of the nearby caves. Elrohir wondered how long it would be before they thought to search this one. Something told him he was running out of time.
* * *
"That's the rest of them.''
Celeborn nodded at Thranduil's low voiced comment, as a small group of fifteen dusty and tired looking elves made their way into the small encampment. They were the last of several small parties Thranduil had sent to harass the edges of the orc army and keep it moving in the direction of the pass. Celeborn was glad to have them back, and to see that they had apparently lost no one in their attacks, but he could spare them little thought. His mind was completely absorbed with the plan they were about to put into effect, for it was the only chance either he or Thranduil could see to destroy the invading force without losing the lives of many elves in the process. The mountain valleys in which small patches of forest grew were almost non-existent after the pass, so ambush techniques such as they had been using would no longer work until the army entered the woods of Lorien. Celeborn repressed a shudder at the very thought; they would never reach his home--he would not allow it.
He glanced about the rocky promontory where the elves had concealed themselves behind a few scraggly bushes. He knew there were hundreds of Thranduil's people scattered about, but even his sharp eyes had difficulty picking them out. The dim starlight suffusing the landscape did not help, but he was still surprised at how difficult it was to see any of the elves that he knew were nearby. The few trees that grew this high must have been groaning under their weight, but none could be seen in the branches. Their dark green clothing should have been easily spotted among the rocks, yet he saw nothing that could not be mistaken for a stray patch of grass. He smiled. If he had to be in a do or die situation, he could have done far worse for allies.
Celeborn heard it first, the faint, far off sound of thousands of heavy footfalls, enough to shake the earth itself with their weight. Thranduil tensed beside him a second later and raised a hand to alert his elves. Celeborn felt a rush of adrenaline flood him such as he had not known for centuries. He felt somewhat ashamed of himself--many elves would die if this went wrong, both here and in the kingdoms beyond--but nonetheless he could not deny that it was the most thrilling experience he had had in a very long time. Silently, he nocked one of the arrows from the quiver he had spent much of the night refilling and waited. The timing was crucial, and he could only hope Thranduil's elves were as well trained as he had been boasting. If any of them acted too soon, all would be lost.
The orc army seemed to take forever to show itself, but when it did, Celeborn caught his breath in wonder. He had not had the chance to see it in its full numbers before, and it was an amazing sight as it flooded into the pass like a river of dirty water. He took in a few deep breaths to calm himself, and noted with respect the fact that Thranduil's hand did not tremble even slightly as he held it up, ready to give the signal at the optimum time. As soon as the first few hundred goblins had entered the pass, he dropped his arm, signalling the first runner to leave on his race to alert the elves at the far end of the slender canyon. They had to create a rockslide to bar the army from leaving the pass, but not before it had gone too far to turn about. The elves wanted the orcs to think the rockslide was a small impediment that could be easily removed with a few minutes' work, not to decide to pull out and take another route.
The army surged on for several hours, the jostling ranks kicking and snarling at each other as they were crowded into the narrow confines of the pass. Their heavy shields were at their sides, to be raised in a second as a protective covering over their heads if the elves should try an ambush, and their weapons were ready in their hands. They nonetheless seemed confidant, perhaps due to their numbers or because their sharp eyes were comfortable in the low light. It would be daybreak in a few hours but, if the elves were lucky, this band of orcs would never see it.
* * *
Oh no, Elrohir thought in dismay as the hooded figure fitted key to lock and opened the door a fraction; he could barely see him because the now familiar colours were starting to glow again at the edge of his vision, but he couldn't have a black out now! He had no idea if he moved or spoke during the hallucinations, but even if not, the orcs might come back at any time or summon others to help with their search. If they found him passed out on the floor, he somehow doubted that they would bother waking him up before running a sword through him. He resorted to the old method of banging his head into one of the casks, hoping that the pain would hold off the inevitable, but the slight noise that resulted caused the hooded figure to pause and seemingly sniff at the air, so he desisted. After a few moments hesitation, the cloaked figure resumed his previous occupation and passed through the narrow opening in the door. It looked from Elrohir's angle like an impossible task, as the crack was appeared only a few inches wide, but that had to be a trick of the eyes.
Elrohir noticed that the door did not shut behind the figure, so after a few moments, he cautiously ventured closer, keeping to the shadows instinctively even though he knew they would not help him elude orcish eyes. The door must have slightly shut after all, because there was only a small crack open when Elrohir reached it. He peered in but could see very little. A few candles were burning, so lighting wasn't the issue, but no one was in line of sight from the doorway, nor did he at first hear any conversation. Then the same low voice he had heard addressing the orcs spoke again.
"It seems you may be useful after all, old one. My master will be pleased that I kept you safe all these years; as I told him, it is always good to have an alternative." Elrohir could hear no reply, but the sound of chains clanking together echoed clearly through the room. "Come, it seems your friends are looking for you, but they will find nothing when they arrive."
Elrohir barely had time to duck back behind the casks when two figures emerged from the room. The hooded one held onto a heavy chain that was attached securely to an iron ring about the neck of an elf who almost matched him in height. Elrohir wanted to cry out at the sight, but managed to restrain himself by biting down hard on his lower lip. It was Oropher--it had to be! The elf did not look as battered as Zirak had been, but was rather in the condition of the elves he had freed earlier--dirty, emaciated and exhausted looking, but without signs of serious injury. It was hard to tell what colour his hair might have been, for it was too matted and covered with the grey dust from the caves to be sure, but out of sunken sockets his eyes shone almost as if they held a light all their own, and their colour was the distinctive bright green of Thranduil's house. He did not bother to reply to his gaoler, nor did he put up a resistance as he was drawn along at a quick pace out of the treasure caves.
Elrohir followed the two back to the large main cavern with the dead orcs. No one had bothered to clear them away, although a dozen goblins were pawing through their clothing, apparently looking for plunder. Elrohir paused at the exit to the treasure caves, uncertain what to do. Clearly, Oropher was being moved, and he had to follow or he might never locate him again. It must be night outside by now, and the orcs could even take him beyond the mine if they chose. Yet venturing out into a cavern where at least a dozen goblins already waited, and where others might be concealed in the shadows, did not appeal. His eyesight was hazy at best in the deep shadows of the mines, while the orcs would be able to see him clearly. A dozen arrows coming at him from different directions could skewer him before he even saw his attackers. As much as he hated to admit it, there seemed no way to rescue Oropher without help, and wherever his team was, they obviously hadn't made it this far yet.
Elrohir was distracted from his gloomy thoughts by a fierce battle raging off to one side of his vision. He ignored it, but it did not go away. He resolutely looked in the other direction, but it followed him relentlessly. No, leave me be, he thought desperately. As if things weren't bad enough!
**Elrohir raced up the steepest street in the city, only pausing to slash at an orc that came too close or to avoid a burning cart that careened into his path. All around him elves were fleeing or fighting, orcs were smashing everything that they were not claiming as plunder, and overhead, several dragons wheeled in seemingly impossible loops and arcs, setting more of the ruined street aflame with every pass. Elrohir ignored all of it, so intent was he on reaching his goal--the final battle that raged at the very heart of the once beautiful city, on the pinnacle where the palace topped the spiral of earth like a king's crown and where Fountain Court lay in sparkling splendor. He had heard the battle cry of his house resound through the city minutes before, telling him that his elves had charged the enemy. That they would do this before he could rejoin them said without the need for words just how desperate matters had become.
Elrohir and the surviving members of Glorfindel's house had been trying to slow down the invading waves of orcs to allow the rest of the city's inhabitants to flee. They had been battling two enemies, however, the army flooding through the ruined gates and the stupidity of people who refused to accept that their city was doomed and to get away with their lives at least. He had had to personally pull a family of elves out of their smoking house and, at sword point, order them to leave immediately. Even then, the mother had insisted on carefully fastening the door behind her, as if that would insure that the house and its contents would still be intact for her return. They had also carried enough baggage with them that Elrohir seriously doubted their ability to outrun even the slowest of orcs, but he had had no more time to spare for arguments.
Elrohir drew up short as he reached Fountain Court, the sight before him knocking all else from his mind. A huge balrog, roughly twice the size of the ones he had killed, reared up over him, although it did not apparently see him at the moment. The scurrying elves must look like children to it, he thought in dazed wonder, before the sight of Eirien, his chief lieutenant, snapped him out of it. She was looking less than her usual calm and collected self and was covered in blood, although it was the blackish colour of the orcs' rather than her own, he noted with relief.
"Where are the others?' All he could see in the court were perhaps two dozen elves, whereas there should have been ten times that number, even if his own people were the only ones there.
"We ARE the others--the only survivors!," she screamed at him, tears streaking the smoke residue that covered her fair face. "They are dead, Ecthelion, all of them! That thing and two dragons killed most of them, and . . . " she screamed and dragged him under the remains of one of the great marble pillars surrounding the court, just before the lash of the balrog's whip could turn them both into ashes. Marble dust and smoke billowed up around them, shielding them for a moment from view. "Some were helping to evacuate the palace; I don't know, they may live still, but none of us will for long at this rate!"
"What have you tried to do to kill it?"
"What CAN we do? Few even managed to get close to that thing, and those that did didn't last long. Its hide is just too thick--even mithril blades won't penetrate it! It's Gothmog, Ecthlion, it MUST be! And I always thought the stories about him were exaggerated!"
"Where are the dragons? I don't see them." Elrohir had thought of a plan, suggested by the billowing smoke that churned all about them, but he needed to know that Gothmog was the only opponent he would face if he tried it.
"I don't know, probably off terrorizing the city somewhere. They flew away a few minutes ago." Elrohir nodded, they must have been the ones he'd seen setting fires further down the hill.
"Gather what elves we have left and clear the area of orcs, then form up just beyond the entrance. I'll take care of Gothmog, but I can't fight him and an army of orcs at the same time. You must give me a few minutes without distractions."
Eirien looked at him wildly for a second, her soot streaked hair falling in her eyes and her hands clutching convulsively at his shoulders. "Are you mad? I'm not leaving you to fight that thing alone! I'll relay your orders to the others and then we'll . . . "
"You will do as I tell you." Elrohir spoke as calmly as the situation allowed, for he didn't have much time. The smoke was clearing, and they had to move as soon as it did so. "They need leadership, Eirien, and I can't be two places at once. Do as I say and leave the balrog to me."
"But . . . but you're injured!"
Elrohir was tempted to slap her, but he didn't want that to be the last memory she had of him, so he settled for shaking her instead. "Did your oath of loyalty mean nothing?" Elrohir sighed in relief, seeing something of her usual discipline reassert itself. "Hold the entrance to the court as long as you can, then when you see the monster fall, start your retreat. Aid as many elves as you can to get away from here, but do not stay and waste your lives in a loss cause."
"But the city will fall . . . "
"The city has already fallen, Eirien! None of us can save it! Will you do as I say?" At her tearful nod, he smiled. He would have liked to tell her how proud he was of her, and how good a lieutenant she had always been, but there was no more time. "Tell Glorfindel I'm sorry," he said, then ducked back into the open, grabbing up a fallen elf's spear and throwing it at Gothmog's eyes as he did so. The balrog might seem invincible to the other elves, but Elrohir had just killed two of them and he no longer felt the same way. They COULD die, and this one must, for the fleeing elves would have no chance at escape if it was allowed to pursue them. Fortunately, Fountain Court held the perfect weapon with which to defeat even the greatest of balrogs. Elrohir just had to get him into it.
* * *
TBC