Chapter 5

Estel watched as the first orcs set foot on the bridge, and tried to remember the lessons Glorfindel had given him. There had been a certain movement he had learned that should help him fight a large amount of opponents, but he could not remember what it was.

The orcs were approaching; he could see the grins on their ugly faces. They knew he could not remember his moves, Estel was sure of that. They were laughing at him.

The boy shook his head.
No. He must not let himself be distracted by their taunting, that much he remembered. He must keep his eyes on their swords and fight them, one blow at the time.
He could do this; he had practiced.

The orcs came ever closer, the wind carried their smell as a warning ahead of them. He could see the bloodstains of previous victims on their blades.

The small boy did his best not to shiver.

When the first orcs lifted his blade, Estel had to force himself to remember his Nana, sleeping in their room, his Ada Elrond, so hurt already. He had to remember that he was the only thing that stood between them and the orcs, otherwise he would have turned and run.
Instead, he lifted his blade, and waited.

The first orc had died and Estel was still standing, but he had no time to feel pride or happiness about it, as this battle was not yet over.

After they had seen the first of them die the orcs were no longer grinning, as they did not find the child with weapons so funny anymore once he proved he was somewhat of a threat. Instead they approached him more carefully, with several orcs at the time, and Estel was quickly losing ground.

He knew that the moment the orcs had pushed him back far enough he would be lost. The bridge was narrow, and the beasts could not move past him as long as he did not allow it, nor could they approach with too many at the time, but once they had pushed him off it that advantage would be gone.

The orc he was fighting now was twice his size and it's blade was longer that Estel's arm. It was hard to remember that moving backwards would kill him in the end when that blade was so close. The child tried as best as he could to stand his ground.

He did his very, very best.
But not even that was good enough, and before long the boy stumbled over the last tile of the bridge, while the orcs were closing in on him.
He was trapped.

He had tried to be brave like the elves in the stories, but maybe because he was human, or maybe because he was only seven and a half years old he had found he could not.

Tears slid down his cheeks and his throat was hoarse from screaming. His back was bleeding, he could feel the blood trickle down it; the places were the whips had touched him still burning.
Though he could feel the ropes he was tied with dig themselves deeper into his flesh every time he moved he could not stop shivering.

He did not feel brave anymore, or strong, just scared, very very scared.

"Nana..." he whispered softly, longing for her arms around him, for her to tell her that it was only a bad dream; that it was all over now.

But the only ones there were orcs that insisted on hurting him; that let the whips rain down on his back like fire.
His lip was too hurt for him to bite it any longer, and for a moment he could not breathe through the blood in his mouth.
He struggled to clear his airway, accidentally breathed some of his own blood, and cried when painful coughs ripped his back to pieces.

That was the moment the young boy broke.

"NANA! ADA! HELP! HELP ME! PLEASE!"

The elf stumbled through the forest, following the path leading through it, moving as fast as he could, for he had great need to reach Imladris. If he had trusted his body he would have moved through the trees, but wounds were still bleeding from his last meeting with orcs and he would not risk a fall so close to his destination.

More than his body his spirit yearned for Imladris, for the peace and rest that could be found there, but most of all for the elves he had not seen in such a long time.

It had been too long since he had walked this path, and it had changed in his absence. Though the forest still embraced him as a long lost son, he could feel a darkness that had not been there before. For some reason the wind had brought the stench of orcs with it.

But that could not be. Not here, not Imladris, it was supposed to be well protected.

The elf moved on, more careful now, and in spite of his injuries he slipped the bow off his back and strung it. The deep wound in his chest would make it painful to draw, but it was to be preferred over dying, that at least was certain.