A/N: A thousand apologies for taking so long. In addition to writer's block, Freelancer-the-astrophysics-major wasn't quite getting the grades she wanted, so school took priority. But now that school's out, the next chapter should show up relatively soon. I guess we'll find out. I'm rather happy with the depth of this chapter, and the next one will be almost all battle. Yay.

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Chapter Eight: The Glorious Battle, Part I

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A week later, everything was in place at the forest of Brethil. Elecon was true to his word, and twelve boats, each capable of bearing fifty soldiers, were anchored in the Sirion. Finrod, Maedhros, Fingolfin, and his sons were off deciding who would go where. Artanis had been with them for a few hours, but soon grew bored; there was little she could do with them. She wanted to find Celeborn. They hadn't spoken much during the journey across Beleriand to this point; he'd been stolen by Finrod and Turgon and she by Celebrimbor. Now that she had successfully extricated herself from the eyes of her admirer and Celeborn was no longer in the company of those who desired to take advantage of his shrewd military mind, perhaps they would be able to find a moment with each other.

As her feet wandered around the large camp at the edge of the forest, so did her mind. Her thoughts dwelt in Valinor for a moment, with her father, who was now king. She wondered how he and the few Noldor who remained in Aman were faring. Finarfin was a quiet, gentle soul who never desired to rule, although his marriage to a Telerin princess suggested otherwise. He was the youngest of the kings, too, but through him and him alone, the Three Kindreds were unified; Ingwë, king of the Vanyar, was his uncle and the king of the Teleri, Olwë, was his father-in-law. In many ways, it was almost fitting that Finarfin son of Finwë should become king of the Noldor; fitting in a cruel, ironic way. The title would never have been his if his family hadn't been torn apart.

Thinking about her father was painful, and she quickly turned her mind to something else. Something outside her family. Something that could soothe her heart.

She thought of Celeborn.

It had barely been a month since they met, but it felt like years. She'd always been able to make friends quickly, but her friendship with Celeborn was different. Their first meeting had not been what she would call perfect, but their rough beginning was smoothed out hours later by his grace and charm. He was not only different from anyone she'd ever met before, but anyone who ever lived – there was no one else in all of Arda who was suffering from permanent blindness. But the disability was not the first thing about him that intrigued her, and nor was it the most prominent. He had the power to endure and overcome impossible hardships. He had the makings of a king.

She couldn't find him with the other Sindar, and asked Saeros if he'd seen him. Saeros said Celeborn had gone down to sit by the river. Artanis thanked him and walked down to the banks of the Sirion. Sure enough, there he was, underneath a willow tree some fifty yards upstream from where she was. Further up the river, the boats floated, but there was no one else nearby. They were alone.

He heard her coming while she was still a good distance away and smiled. "Good morning, Artanis."

"How did you know it was me?" she asked as she drew closer.

"Well, unless any of your friends have some strange habits that I am not aware of, you are the only one here wearing a dress."

She laughed and sat down next to him. "How long have you been here?"

"Not long, and I do not believe much longer," Celeborn answered. "Peace and quiet is desirable from time to time, but I only need enough of it to remind me that it is not something I greatly enjoy."

"Really? And why is that?"

He sighed and felt around in the grass. "I don't know," he admitted. He found a small stone and picked it up. "My brothers and I were raised this way – to be soldiers, always on the move. Tranquility is not something to which we are accustomed." He chuckled softly and rotated the stone between his thumb and forefinger. "I wonder what my father would think if he could see me now."

His words caught her by surprise. "He… he doesn't know you're…"

"Blind?" He threw the stone into the river. "No. He died two years before it happened."

"I am sorry to hear that."

"You should not be. I am not." He sighed again and ran a hand through his silver hair. "I barely knew him. We did not see eye-to-eye. This … drive of his… his determination to make his sons the finest soldiers in Doriath… it tore our family apart. Did I ever tell you that Uncómien and Galathil are my half-brothers?"

"No." She had noticed that Uncómien and Galathil looked more like each other than they did Celeborn, though.

"They are. My mother died when I was just a year old. Wolves. The circumstances surrounding their mother's death are mysterious, but some believe my father's ambition drove her to take her own life."

She gasped. "No…"

"I'm sorry. You must think my family is mad now."

Artanis shook her head. If any family was mad, it was hers. "There is one in every family," she said. Fëanor was the first person to come to mind, but he was not the only one she could name; even her own was among those she thought of. "Do not let your father's actions define who you will one day become."

He smiled. "I am trying."

She sighed and looked at the reflection of the sunlight dancing on the river. Water and sunlight were two of her favorite things. But when water was running red with blood, as it was when the Fëanorians slaughtered the Teleri at Alqualond She closed her eyes and tried to force the images out of her head, but she could not. Instead of Alqualondë, her mind conjured an image of the river Sirion flowing with the blood of five thousand Elves marching to their deaths.

"Celeborn," she said, "do you think… will we succeed?"

"Yes," he replied, and nodded. "Yes, I think we will. The armies are strong, and the Enemy is being taken completely by surprise. By the time they realize what is happening, the battle will be half over."

That was reassuring, but she still could not shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen to someone she loved. She decided not to pursue the subject further. The last thing he needed was the added weight of her needless fears on his mind. "Thank you," she said. "I just had to hear it from you."

Their heads turned toward each other, and for a moment that lasted no longer than a heartbeat, Artanis wondered what it would be like to kiss him. She was attracted to him in both mind and body, but dare she hope that she would ever be anything more than a friend? Celeborn was blind, but his disability did not alter his station: he was a prince of the greatest kingdom in Beleriand and second in line to the throne. She came from a noble line, but all the status her birthright bequeathed her had been abandoned the moment she left Aman. Here, she was nothing but an exile.

"There you are!" came a voice from behind.

The voice belonged to Finrod. Artanis and Celeborn stood to greet him, and she noticed that her brother had a spring to his step. "What is it?" she asked.

Finrod was beaming. "We're ready to move out."

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"These are the soldiers we'll be sending on the boats," Turgon was saying to Elecon and Valendil as Finrod, Artanis, and Celeborn entered the main tent. "They're all experienced in handling watercraft and combat from that front. We'll divide the remainder between the two of you and Saeros to lead into either mountain." It had already been established that the Sindar would take on the task of leading the Noldor to the location; they knew the land and therefore could get them much closer before being detected.

"Ah, Finrod, Artanis, Celeborn," Fingolfin said as his kinsmen and the Sindar prince came in. "Welcome."

"How are we faring?" Finrod asked.

"Excellent," Turgon answered, and gave Valendil a scroll. "These are the ones we'll be sending on the water."

Valendil thanked him and looked over it. "Thank you." He put the scroll down and looked up. "Elecon, I would like you to lead the boats, and I will take a company into the Crissaegrim. Celeborn, would you be willing to go with Saeros into the Ered Wethrin?"

Celeborn nodded.

"Then we'll send Maedhros, Fingon, and Aegnor into the Crissaegrim, Turgon, Angrod, and myself into the Ered Wethrin, and Finrod and Orodreth with the boats," Fingolfin said. "Are there any objections?"

"What about me?" Artanis asked.

A look of surprise crossed Fingolfin's face as he looked at his niece. "You wish to go into battle?"

"Boats," Finrod said firmly, knowing his sister would not stand down for anything in the world. Besides, he wanted her to keep her as far from harm as possible, and the boats would be the safest option. "Artanis will go with the boats."

Artanis would have preferred to be with those going into the mountains, but there was no time to argue.

Fingolfin gave a conclusive sigh and looked around at his kinsmen and allies. "Then let's move out. We attack at dawn of the seventh day. May we see each other soon."

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Light.

The Orc named Dûrag hissed as his eyes fell upon the pale glow of the impending dawn in the east. He, like all his kind, hated and feared light, and even here, in the shadow of mountains on either side, they were not safe from the fire of the Sun. He hated the location, too. The Pass of Sirion was far too small to accommodate four thousand Orcs. They could not get into Beleriand through the open land between Himring and the Ered Luin because of the efforts of Fëanor's son Maglor – Dûrag had lost count of how many times the echo of his master's voice screaming that name rang through Utumno. Melkor had always been the type to hold a grudge, but his hate was even greater when it came to the Fëanorians.

Dûrag cast a long look at the ridge of the Crissaegrim mountains to his right and sniffed the air. There was no sign of any danger, but his instincts told him there was reason to be wary. He hoped Sauron had not decided to send another Balrog to the site; only a few days ago, Gothmaug himself had appeared and demanded to know why they had not yet invaded Beleriand. Dûrag hated Balrogs too. He hated everything. He lived and breathed hate. It was all he'd ever known.

Another Orc soon appeared at this side, a squat, dirty creature named Glaruk. "What do you sense?" Glaruk asked.

Dûrag grunted and poked the muddy ground with the end of his spear. "There's something out there."

A sudden hissing sound in the distance quickly grew louder. Dûrag didn't even realize it was an arrow until it struck Glaruk in the forehead. The other Orc held his position for a moment, eyes wide with shock, and then fell.

The arrow that hit Glaruk was the first of a shower that began to rain down from the Crissaegrim. Dûrag let out a cry of alarm and stumbled backwards, holding up his arm to shield himself from the arrows. "We're under attack!" he yelled, and began running back to the main encampment. "Take up arms!"

He felt an arrow hit him in the side, and he fell to his knees. Dûrag reached for the arrow in hopes to remove it, but then another one struck his chest. Howling with pain, the Orc threw his head around wildly, trying to see where these enemies were coming from. That side was not exposed to the Crissaegrim! Why had he been hit?

He pulled the arrow out of his chest and looked at the shaft. It was an Elvish design; Noldor, from the looks of it. But how could the Noldor have reached here if all their strength was being spent holding back Angbad's other wave?

He reached for the other arrow, the one in his side, and cried out in frustration when he recognized its design: Sindar. That was how they were able to come here and take them by surprise! The Noldor would never have been able to do it on their own. They would pay for this. They would all pay.

But he, Dûrag, would not be the one to collect payment. A third arrow hit him, and whether it was Noldor or Sindar, he would never know. His eyes closed, and he knew no more. Not even hate.

Glaruk was the first. Dûrag was not the second. Nor would he be the last.

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The Elven camp hidden in a small valley in the Ered Wethrin just below the ridge that stood over the pass below was all but deserted; occupied now by only Celeborn and the two soldiers Fingolfin insisted stay with the Sindarin prince and keep him updated on the status of the battle. It was nearly noon now, and although the Elves had the advantages of both surprise and light, the Orcs were putting up a greater fight than they'd anticipated. Though an Elven victory was almost guaranteed, the Orcs were not going to make it easy. Their enemies would not retreat. They would fight until their last breath and there were none left to die.

Celeborn, like all his kind, hated Orcs. However, unlike most, he held a degree of mixed respect and pity for his enemies. He pitied them because of the one whom they were forced to serve, and he respected them because they were unafraid to die. It was very rare for the Elves to take prisoners, especially when Orcs were concerned, but every time an Orc had been taken prisoner, they had never begged for mercy or for their captors to spare their lives. They did not know compassion or forgiveness, but they did know life, and no living thing, be he Elf, Orc, Dwarf, Maia, Balrog, Vala, Eagle, tree, or any other race, truly desired for their own life to end. Celeborn knew that even as his stepmother Arindë drove a sword's blade through her own heart, it was not death she was seeking, but rather, the only way she could think of to send a message to her husband in hopes that he would see the error of his ways before it cost him the lives of his sons as well.

Arindë did not die for death, but for love and for life. Celeborn often wondered whether or not he would love anyone enough to be capable of such an act. As a soldier, he'd sworn to die for king and country if need be, but that was a different sort of life and death. Would he die for his brothers? Uncómien had certainly known death was not just possible, but even likely when he rescued Celeborn from the Orcs that blinded him thirty years ago, but Galadhon's youngest son had not gone in with the intention of dying. Was that all love was – death?

Life did not permit Celeborn to continue his musings for long. He heard the sound of falling rocks outside his tent, and curiosity overtook him. "Artirno? Heldafion?" he said, calling the names of the two Noldorin soldiers.

"Prince Celeborn!" one of them cried; he did not yet know them well enough to discern between them. "Ru – aaaaaaaaaah!"

Instantly, Celeborn's remaining senses heightened with the knowledge of danger. The voice that shouted the warning had come from the left, so he ran to the right. Even as he ran, he knew he would not get far. He did not know how many were there, but he did know that a blind former soldier had no chance for escape.

He felt pain first. A sharp, stabbing sensation in his shoulder.

Then he felt the cold, hard ground, and a rock against his skull.

I never told her I love her.

And then nothing at all.

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Gold stars for my reviewers: Morelen, Saint, Marnie, Arinya, AngelQueen, Nevdoiel, Skycat14, Galorin, ravyn, Tenshi Androgynous, Aenigmatic, blue bunny, Amydion, Melkor, and all the people that bugged me via AIM and/or e-mail. :o)

Translations:

Artirno – "noble watcher"

Heldafion – "naked hawk" (Don't ask. I was being random and having way too much fun with the dictionaries.)

Arindë – No translation that I am aware of; again with the randomness.