Chapter 4

The boy walked through the dark halls with hanging shoulders and tears in his eyes. While he walked he kept a hand on the walls at all time, not only to find his way in the darkness but also to ensure himself that the walls at least had not abandoned him; that they were still standing high and tall between him and the approaching danger.

The small human tracked his way back into the hall were the swords were still shining, more brightly now than they had ever done before. He stopped moving.
Here it was, the proof that he had not been dreaming, the proof that he was right.
Orcs were coming to Imladris and he, Estel was the only one that knew.

He thought of Ada Arathorn, who had been killed by orcs, and Ada Elrond who had looked so tired and beaten, not at all as if he was able to fight today.
He thought of Glorfindel and the warriors, who could fight but didn't listen, and of the stone elf who was said to be the best swordfighter Imladris had ever seen, but who had not moved from his post at the window for as long as Estel had lived there.

And then he thought of his Nana, the only other person who could protect him, who would maybe listen to him, but she was sleeping in their room, for once dreaming a good dream, and he knew he could not wake her to tell her orcs were coming, for it would be the meanest thing he had ever done.

When he looked at the swords again he knew none of the people he had thought about would be able to protect him today, as they all seemed somehow smaller, weaker than he was.
He was the only one that could move, he was the only one that knew orcs were coming, and so he was the only one that could protect them.
He knew what he had to do.

His eyes fell back onto the swords on the walls again, too high for him to reach. But if he were to become the protector of Imladris today, if he were to save Ada Elrond from the orcs, he would need a sword.
A good sword, not too long, not made for an elven adult. His eyes fell on the only sword in the Hall that was not glowing, a sword Estel knew that had belonged to some important person that had cut off Sauron's finger with it.

It was broken, and the piece with the hilt did not have a point, but otherwise it was perfect, it was exactly long enough for a boy his age, and the blade was still sharp.
The hilt fit Estel's hand perfectly, almost as if it belonged to him, and with the sword in his hand Estel felt that he was doing the right thing. He was supposed to do this. He was destined to fight evil.
With the blade in his hand the boy forgot his fears. He would not let the orcs hurt the people he cared about; they would not set a foot in Imladris.

He, Estel, son of Elrond, would meet them head on.

It was hard to stay brave in the dark forest, with branches in strange shapes Estel had never seen before, and sounds he could not place, but he did his best.

The young boy tried to remember the days when he had been in this forest with Glorfindel, Ada Elrond or his Nana, when the forest had seemed golden and friendly in the sunlight, and it had felt like an extended home.
He had to constantly remind himself that these trees were not scary, that they were friends of the elves, and that they would never hurt him.
He had no elven hearing, he could not hear their voices, yet he knew orcs had entered here.

Twigs were broken, the trees were scared, heavy boots had stamped on the forest-floor.
If he listened to the ground he cold still hear the echoes of their feet.

The orcs were closer to Rivendell than he had expected, yet they still had to cross the ravine that separated Imladris from the rest of the mountains. It was narrow but deep, with a river running at the bottom that was barely visible even at the best of times.

Estel did not know how the elves had ever managed to build a bridge across it, he just knew they had done it, and had done it only once.

Determined to reach that bridge before the orcs did, young Estel forgot all his fear of the dark forest, and started running.

He shifted restlessly as he did not like this place, he did not like this place at all. The smell of elves was strongly in the air, and he was certain the roots of the trees tried to trip him as he went.
He feared the dark branches above him as each of them could hold an archer, a swordsman, a hidden dagger.
He could almost feel the magic of this place infecting him.

There were many tales about this place, passed by orc to orc when they called for horror-stories by the fire in the midst of the night.
These woods were said to be treacherous: orcs could walk in, and never walk out again.
It was said that a group of orcs could spend an eternity trying to find this valley, and that they would eat each other long before they would see a sign of their prey.

But those stories were standard for almost every elf-infested place. The real horror-stories spoke of the protectors of this valley.
There was a tale of a golden-haired rider that shone with a terrible light, burning the eyes of all that tried to fight him.
Another spoke of a dark-haired elf-lord who could command the rivers to fight on the side of the elves, and who let the waters swallow all that came near.

There was also a tale of an elf-warrior that could split himself in two: One moment orcs had been fighting him, and the next he had appeared behind them as well, thus trapping the orc between the two versions of himself.

Yes, he had reason to fear this place, even if they had found the valley easily and the river had proved no problem.
The orc feared that when they would finally meet resistance it would be worse that all that he had feared.

"Halt!" a voice commanded them from across the bridge, it's owner invisible by the darkness and the mists. "You shall not enter these lands!"

The orcs swore beneath his breath, and he wondered for a few short moments if his commander would notice if he just snuck away now and lived on in the mountains forever, far away from all elven warriors.

But then a gentle breeze lifted some of the mists, revealing the one who had challenged them.
The orc chuckled at his own fear and licked his lips.

The moment he had seen the small human boy with the broken sword, he had known that the only real danger was to die of laughter.