Faith

by Kellen

Feedback: Please, since this is a stretch for me. Here or at kellenanne@yahoo.com or kellen@writing.com

Disclaimers: There are original characters in this story, but the concept, and some characters are to be credited to JRR Tolkien and his estate.

Author's Warning: Despite my record, this is short on humor, long on angst. To put it quite bluntly, there is lots of death and lots of anger and crying and screaming and danger. If you found a Kellen fic to find something to laugh at, kindly hit your browser's back button and go find my other fics.

Rating: PG-13

Summary: When tragedy strikes, a family must pull together in the midst of uncertainy and grief to save those most affected. Sort of a Legolas coming of age story.

Author's Note: Since Tolkien left so much to the imagination when it comes to Legolas' family, original characters run rampant. This is not Mary Sue, it is not a self-insert, even though a young girl is part of the main focus of the story. It is merely a "family" fic, and a survival fic, and frankly I needed a character who is quite vulnerable. A young girl is. Thank you for your consideration in this.

Faith

Prologue

The wood was deceptively silent. Even the small patrol riding through the spotty sunlight made almost no noise, and one would have thought that armed riders in the forest were the natural order of things. Such was the way of the Elves, though. They belonged with nature, forever in harmony with Arda. That was the intent of Iluvitar.

Such beautiful things rarely go as intended.

One of the Elves, a dark-haried one riding beside his leader, shifted on his horse. "Do you feel -" he whispered.

Taricir, the leader, nodded. "Aye, I do, Mener." He turned to Mener, bow in hand. "It worries me not, however." He smiled, but Mener knew, despite his apparent ease, Taricir was more than ready to reach into his quiver when needed. "We are more than a match for any fell creature."

Mener laughed softly even as he strung his bow. "You never cease to amaze me."

Taricir shrugged. "I do that well, don't I?"

Mener smiled and they rode in silence for a moment before Mener turned a concerned gaze on Taricir. Taricir nodded and Mener held up his hand, halting the patrol. Only the soft rattle of weapons permeated the unnatural silence.

"How fares Bronwe?" Mener asked as he sighted along his bow. The arrow quivered ever so slightly, as if in anticipation.

Taricir patted his big mare's neck. "Ready," he answered.

"It is well, then." As soon as Mener finished speaking, a great cry rose and the first of the orcs broke through the trees near them.

Time seemed to pass slowly, but it was mere seconds before the orcs were too close for arrows to be effective. The orcs dove into the patrol, pushing the Elves away from each other.

Silence ruled the day no longer.

Taricir felt Bronwe tense, and the fearless mare surged forward to meet the rush of the orcs. As Taricir put his bow, then his blade to use, so did Bronwe her hooves. The horse whirled, never unbalancing her master, never putting him in greater danger. Mener watched for a moment in awe, as he always did when he saw Bronwe and Taricir move; it was as if Bronwe knew the Elf she carried into battle was the kingdom's heir. He was to be protected, as well as respected, in battle. In Mener's eye, Bronwe was as much a warrior as any of their patrol. She had saved Taricir more times than any of the Elven warriors had, and had killed more foul creatures than any one warrior had.

Mener had switched from bow to sword and raised it high, yelling a challenge to orcs charging him. He urged his own green colt forward and the slight youngling responded without hesitation. All around them, the patrol was engaged. In theory, they were to work as a unit. Unfortunately, the orcs did not always honor the Elven theories. As it stood, the patrol was still trying to come back together after the flood of orcs forced them apart, but trying was not doing and each warrior, it seemed, was fighting individual battles.

They would be decimated that way.

Mener swung his blade in a wide arc, neatly cleaving through an orc neck that strayed too close to the horse's side and kicked the body away. Another orc, unfortunately being smart enough to see that Mener was momentarily occupied, came in on the other side. The colt, too inexperienced in the ways of battle, tried valiantly to move his master out of the way, but only made matters marginally better. Mener was unable to bring his blade back across in time, but instead of the blade sinking deep into his side as it was meant to, the blade bit into Mener's arm. The cruel point skated along the bone, tearing mercilessly through his shoulder. The colt danced sideways as Mener cried out, inadvertantly taking the Elf away from immediate danger. Then, in a move that proved to Mener the colt would rival Bronwe's status as a warrior, the colt lept into the air, twisted sideways and brought both forehooves down onto the head and shoulders of the orc that had attacked Mener. Mener grabbed at the horse's mane in order to stay astride as the colt trampled the orc. His sword fell to the ground, making no noise in the uproar.

Taricir urged Bronwe toward the remnant of his patrol that had managed to come together. He knew they could not fight like this, not separated from each other. He'd already seen Mener take injury, and had seen three or four Elves cut down. "To me," he cried, pitching his voice so it soared over the battle sounds. Bronwe faltered as her shoulder collided with an orc. Taricir felt her misstep and for one terrible moment, he thought they were going down. He tensed, prepared to jump away but Bronwe scrambled for purchase, going down on one knee before she surged upward and rejoined the tired patrol who were slowly, wearily gathering together.

But Taricir could feel they were not gaining headway. It wasn't until Taricir managed to join them that spirit was revived and the Elves determination soared again. He could see Mener, battling one-handed, obviously in much pain, not too far from him. Taricir allowed a grim smile. That colt Mener was working had instincts nearly as good as Bronwe's. The youngling was protecting his master with a ferocity that Taricir admired and he made a note to praise Mener later for the Elf's choice in horses to train.

He was making his way toward Mener, to help protect his second, when Bronwe misstepped again. Without conscious thought, Taricir stabbed an orc -- he'd long since stopped counting -- and tried to bring Bronwe back toward the relative protection of his circle of warriors. She limped again, this time a whinny escaping her as she set weight on the leg.

Mener looked up, swiveling his gaze to find Bronwe. That whinny -- it was sure to be her. He knew it as well as he knew Taricir's voice. But he also knew that Bronwe was typically quiet during a skirmish. She fought ferociously, yes, and was more fearless than most Elves he knew, but she never made a sound.

Unless something was wrong.

Relief filled him when Mener found Taricir alive and whole, if concerned about his mount. It was short-lived though. His colt reared in response to several orcs taking advantage of Mener's distraction. Mener, who had been fighting by using his bow as a staff, scrambled for some semblance of control as the colt twisted. An orc, finding the opportunity he waited for, darted in on the colt's unprotected side and drove a spear into the horse's side, just in front of Mener's leg. The colt screamed, going down, and Mener, injured as he was was unable to leap from the horse's back. The Elf landed hard, his head cracking against the cold ground. His bow clattered out of suddenly senseless fingers. Orcs shouted gleefully.

Taricir lept from Bronwe's back -- she'd never be able to reach Mener in time -- when he saw the spear drive into the colt's side. Panic put a burst of speed to his feet and he plowed into the fray with a gracelessness born of desperation. He blocked the sword coming down on Mener's neck, and while he deflected the blade prodded Mener's side, praying to all that was holy that the Elf would wake up and move. He was so busy protecting the insensate Elf that he couldn't do a thing about the orc he knew was behind him. "Mener," he called. "Wake up." He parried again, frustration and desparation growing. "Mener!"

It was Taricir's last act among the living. The blade behind him sank into his back. He turned dimming eyes onto Mener, pleading wordlessly that Mener not join him this day in the Halls of Mandos. When Mener's eyes fluttered open, and he started to move, Taricir let go, knowing at least his friend had a chance.

Mener came to hearing his name called franticly. His first sight was that of Taricir dying. His commander seemed to dim, his eyes losing their glow. Mener's grief manifested in a rage never before seen by those around him. Soon, the patrol had rallied, and the orcs fled.

They gathered their dead, solemnly bearing the once-heir of Mirkwood back to the home he'd never see again.