Chapter 55: Escape
Third Age 1277
Thranduil woke to the sound of hushed voices. He was still in the healing ward. Someone had set his body down on the cot beside his son's. He must have been unconscious for some time for Legolas was already changed out of his stained clothes and the blood was washed from his face and hair. The boy's eyes were closed, but his expression was peaceful. The healer who tended him earlier was still seated by his side. Neurion, his name was, Daerel's first apprentice. Thranduil prayed she had taught him well.
Thranduil rose from the cot to join the healer. "My son?"
"He will mend," said Neurion, "but it will be some days before I wake him. The spell we cast is deep, he will linger there while his body heals."
Neurion's eyes swept over the King, alighting on his throat. "Would you like me to heal you as well?"
"Do not waste your energy," Thranduil said. He leaned down to stroke Legolas's hand and laid a kiss on the boy's forehead. If Thranduil was certain of nothing else, he knew his son would be well. "I do not want him left alone."
Neurion bowed his head. "I will have a healer at his bedside both day and night."
"Thank you."
A shadow appeared in the doorway, drawing Thranduil's gaze. Haldor was already clad in armor, prepared to ride out.
"My king. We have assembled Limrond's guard. They await your command."
Thranduil looked upon his son one more time before departing. Without a word he strode from the healing ward to retrieve his armor. Haldor followed after him. They walked in silence and when they reached the king's chambers, Haldor helped Thranduil dress. Neither ellon spoke, until at last their task was done and Haldor's eyes rested on the dark bruise forming on his king's throat.
Haldor lifted his gaze to face his king. Thranduil appeared to have regained control of his anger, but there was always the possibility he would lash out again. Others who knew Thranduil less well might have tried to apologize. Haldor did not bother. The King knew Haldor would not regret his actions. There was no need to pretend otherwise.
"I had to," said Haldor. "You would have killed her."
"I still may," Thranduil replied.
"She saved your son," said Haldor.
"She disobeyed my command," Thranduil countered.
"No," Haldor declared, forcefully this time. "She obeyed her queen. My father would have done the same, as would I."
Thranduil said nothing to this, he merely stared at Haldor, his expression grim. Haldor bore his king's gaze with practiced ease. He would not be the first to look away. Haldor was right, and somewhere beneath his fear and rage, Thranduil knew it.
Thranduil broke first and without another word he was out the door. Haldor followed after him, more than a little surprised that he had won the argument.
Limrond's warriors were assembled before the palace gate. Lord Feren ensured all was prepared. The ellon bowed before his king when he approached, but when he straightened his eyes belied his nervousness.
"My king," said Feren. "It will be a three-day ride at speed with the aid of the deer and horse herds."
Thranduil nodded but said nothing to the other ellon who had restrained him. Instead, he crossed the field to greet the most recent Lord of the Forest.
Feren did not know whether to be relieved or concerned by his king's lack of reproach. He assumed his and Haldor's punishments would come later, and so doing, turned his attention to Haldor. He lowered his voice so no other would hear.
"I spoke with Roewen of the ambush before she and Faentôr fled. We are unlikely to find any alive."
"He knows that," Haldor said of their king.
Feren nodded, but the concern etched on his face did not ease. He eyed Haldor warily, for he had no wish to provoke anger in yet another friend today. "You need not come with us," Feren said.
Haldor appreciated his friend's offer, but he could not accept. He needed to be there, for his king's sake, as well as his own. "I will find my father – and bring him home."
Feren had no opportunity to argue the matter, for the King rode up beside them. He looked down upon them unkindly. "Take to your mounts, we are wasting time."
Thranduil commanded his hart forward and every warrior in Limrond followed after him, Feren and Haldor the last behind.
Thranduil left his rage in Limrond, but what consumed him on his way to the mountain was worse. It crept out slowly from the darkest corners of his mind, where it long lay hidden. Caladhel's light had banished it, but now it came forth once more to envelop him – a cloak, a shield, a wall to barricade his heart. The bricks laid themselves down, one by one, until nothing and no one could touch him – and so it was by the time they reached the wood at the foot of the mountain.
It had taken days to reach Caradhras, as Feren claimed. The horses were tired, and they grew uneasy as the open fields gave way to woodlands. Feren called out a warning as they drew nearer to the point on the road where Roewen said the ambush occurred. The elves rode in silence. The wood was quiet, too. All that could be heard was the breathing of horses and the click of their hooves. No birds. No beasts. Not even the leaves of the trees seemed to move. They had fallen silent.
There was no need to ask the why of it, for they were no more than two miles into the wood when Thranduil spotted it in the distance, a body hung from a tree blocking their path. He heard a gasp or two from those behind him and his horse reared, but Thranduil urged the animal forward. As they drew closer, the road began to curve and that was when the other bodies appeared in their sightline. The corpses had been burned, so it was hardly possible to tell they had once been elves. They were recognizable only by the pieces of armor and clothing and other items scattered across the road.
Thranduil pulled up beside the first body hung in his path. This corpse had been one of his people, but who, Thranduil could not tell. Only the charred scraps of clothing suggested the victim had been a Silvan elf. His face was shrunken, his jaw gaped wide in an eternal scream. Thranduil gestured for his warriors to dismount. He drew his sword and with one fluid stroke he cut the body down. He repeated the same ritual with each victim, studying every face for some hint of recognition, but often finding none.
Thranduil's warriors went to work. Feren commanded some to sweep the nearby woods and trees. Others were sent farther out to scout the orcs' path of retreat. The remainder were set to carefully wrapping the dead in shrouds for transport home.
Thranduil was only half done with his task when a different sight caught his eye, a tree set deeper into the wood. There was a body there, too, only it was not burned. Thranduil dismounted from his horse and approached the tree. Haldor and Feren followed after him. From the road, he could see only the hand and arm of someone bound to the trunk. Thranduil recognized him immediately upon sight of his face.
Iordor's unseeing eyes were fixed upon the forest floor. One of his arms had been broken and he bore other injuries from arrows. But they were not what killed him. Someone had seen fit to slice him open and tear out what had once been inside. Thranduil would have thought Iordor's ravaged body a most terrible sight, if the horror of it were not overshadowed by the crown he wore - Caladhel's crown. Thranduil could conceive of only one reason why the orcs would leave it behind.
A rustle of leaves ripped Thranduil's attention from Iordor to the warriors who followed him. They were too far away yet to see and Thranduil held up his hand to halt them.
"Return to the road," he said to Haldor.
His king's expression told Haldor all he needed to know about the bound elf's identity. "He is my father."
"I know," Thranduil replied, "and he would not want you to see him like this. Feren and I will tend to him."
"Would you not rather search for your wife?" Haldor asked.
Thranduil reached out and carefully removed the crown from Iordor's head so that Haldor and Feren saw it for the first time. The diamonds sparkled in the dim forest light.
"We will not find her among the dead," said Thranduil.
"My king..." Haldor began but was cut short.
"Go. See to the others."
Haldor obeyed his king's command, if reluctantly. He did not wish to leave his father in others' hands, but if it provided Thranduil some comfort to shield Haldor from pain, then he would allow it.
Haldor turned back to the road to join the others while Feren approached the tree. Thranduil had already laid his wife's crown on a nearby log and drew a knife to cut Iordor's bonds. Feren came around to brace Iordor's body and when he did so he saw what their king had wished to keep from Haldor's eyes. He muttered a curse, one which Iordor would have appreciated.
Thranduil and Feren made quick work of removing Iordor from the tree. They laid him down and Feren drew a roll of cloth from a bag he carried. The pair wrapped the cloth around Iordor's stomach to hide the gaping wound. They reset his arm as best they could and Thranduil wrapped it, too.
"Do you think there was a reason they did this to him, other than sport?" Feren asked.
"Perhaps."
Feren glanced at the crown the king had removed from Iordor's head. "Roewen said Iordor helped them escape. Do you think they recognized Caladhel as our queen?"
Thranduil was quiet for a moment while he finished wrapping Iordor's arm. "I think they would recognize a crown," he said, "and know it belonged to one whom others would die to protect."
"Do you think he revealed her identity?" Feren asked.
Thranduil stared down at Iordor's pale face, his lord and servant and friend. In all the years Thranduil had lived, Iordor never failed him. Thranduil laid a hand on Iordor's forehead and brushed the hair back from his eyes. "No," said Thranduil. "He would have died before betraying Caladhel."
Feren was inclined to agree, but who could say what secrets one might utter when in the grips of such pain.
"Take the crown," said Thranduil. "I will carry him."
Feren did as he was bid and followed his king who carried Iordor back to the forest path.
Haldor took his father from Thranduil when at last the two emerged from the woods. He laid Iordor on a shroud and wrapped him carefully within, all the while reciting a prayer for his father's spirit to find peace.
Feren rejoined the other warriors, aiding them in preparing the other bodies for the journey home. Thranduil, for his part, took care to examine each body to be sure they were properly prepared. Doing so, he could not help but notice that many of them were missing arms and legs. They would likely find the missing limbs where the orcs had camped for the night, their bones picked clean and discarded.
Feren appeared at his king's side a short time later. "My king. I believe we have identified Lady Beleth."
Thranduil's voice caught in his throat and his jaw clenched against the bile threatening to rise. "Are you sure?" he asked.
Feren nodded his head ever so slightly.
Thranduil took one more look at the last body he had been examining and steeled himself for the sight of his aunt. The invisible wall laid down around his heart rose a few rounds higher. When he was ready, he nodded to Feren and followed where the ellon led.
No more than fifty paces down the road he saw her, hands crossed over her chest, wrapped in cloth to her shoulders. Thranduil was surprised how easily he recognized her face, though it was no more than a blackened husk of what had been. Thranduil was thankful his uncle had already sailed. He could not bear the thought of Túven seeing her in such a state. He knelt at his aunt's side and laid his left hand upon hers. Her hand was smaller now, shriveled to the bone, but still he held her as she had done when his own flesh was blackened and burned. Even amid the agony of those early days, Thranduil recalled how his aunt had held his hand when even Naerwen could not bear to look upon her son. He owed Beleth the same comfort now, he owed her courage and strength, and something more.
Thranduil had not prayed to the Valar since he was a child, nor was he inclined to invoke them in song. But for Beleth, who had been both aunt and mother to him, he would hold onto hope of some fate beyond this day. Softly he sang to her, so quietly that others nearby could not overhear. It was a song of peace for the dead. It called on Namo to reunite her with her loved ones, and for Irmo to bring rest to her soul. Thranduil did not know whether the Valar heard him, nor did he care, it was Beleth's soul to which he sang.
When the prayer was done, Thranduil drew back the shroud to cover his aunt. He shed no tears, but took a few slow, deep breaths, to regain his composure. Upon doing so, he noted that several of his captains were gathered, talking quietly together. He went to join them.
"My king," said Feren, upon noting Thranduil's approach. "We have taken account of the dead. You were right. The queen is not among them."
"Have any of the scouts reported in?" Thranduil asked.
"The orcs split up before departing," said Haldor. "There are at least five sets of tracks leading away from here, all in different directions."
"Tell the..." Thranduil halted his command mid-sentence, for the quiet of the forest was disturbed by the sound of horses approaching on the road. Feren had sent two scouts ahead on horseback towards the mountain, but more than two were approaching fast.
His captains knew what drew their king's attention, for all eyes turned to the road. A company from Imladris came into view a few minutes later, riding fast. Thranduil's scouts rode with them.
The company slowed their horses to a walk by the time they reached Thranduil's party. Lord Glorfindel rode at the fore with Elrond's sons at his sides. Thranduil was in no mood to deal with any of them. He had other matters to attend to.
"King Thranduil. My lords."
Thranduil nodded to the elf who greeted him. "Lord Glorfindel."
Glorfindel dismounted and the elves of Imladris followed after him. They had been made aware of the ambush by Greenwood's scouts, but the sight of the many dead was more terrible than they had imagined.
"Your people were late arriving," Glorfindel said to Thranduil. "We came looking for them."
"I thank you for that," Thranduil managed before he turned aside to resume tending the dead.
If Glorfindel or the young Lords of Imladris were surprised by Thranduil's casual dismissal of them, they did their best not to show it.
Elrohir turned to Haldor, with whom he was most familiar. "Our cousins?"
"Prince Legolas was returned to Limrond by Roewen. Queen Caladhel is not among the dead. It appears they have taken her captive."
"And Lady Daerel?" Elladan asked.
Haldor's steady expression faltered. His eyes fell to the ground. It was all Elladan need be told.
"May I see her?" Elladan asked.
Haldor again met the young lord's eyes, he looked to Elrohir, too, and back again. Slowly he nodded his assent and directed the young Lord of Imladris to where Daerel's body lay. Elladan followed Haldor, with Elrohir trailing closely behind. Haldor knelt down beside a slight form wrapped for transport. Carefully, Haldor drew back the shroud to reveal a face hardly recognizable as the elleth Elladan sought.
Elrohir set his hand on his brother's shoulder in silent support, but it was not enough to keep his brother standing. Elladan fell to his knees beside Daerel's corpse. He stared at her wide-eyed, the terrible truth of her fate warring with his heart's disbelief.
Haldor retreated, allowing the young lord to mourn privately with his brother. He had seen Elladan and Daerel together before in Imladris and Lothlórien. Their fondness for one another was no secret to any who had the opportunity to observe them.
Haldor returned to speak with Glorfindel and Feren. By the time he rejoined their conversation the other warriors from Imladris had been dispatched to aid in caring for the dead.
"There are at least five sets of orc tracks heading away from here," Feren explained to Glorfindel. "They could have gone anywhere."
"North," said Glorfindel. "The orcs went north."
"You sound certain," said Haldor.
"Rumor has reached Imladris from the men of Arthedain of stirring in the far north of the Misty Mountains," Glorfindel explained.
"When was this?" Feren asked.
"Prince Argeleb brought with him such news when he arrived."
Haldor noted the care with which Glorfindel chose to answer Feren's question. He had answered it truthfully, but without offering any specific timeline. "Was this before or after Lord Elrond invited our queen to his council?" Haldor pressed.
Glorfindel hesitated only a moment before answering. "It was before," he admitted, "but you know as well as I that there have been no signs of orcs in our stretch of the mountains for close to a thousand years. The wise do not put much stock in tales told by common men. They are like children who fear their own shadows at times."
"But not this time," Haldor replied.
Glorfindel's gaze flicked to the dead before returning to Haldor. "No. This time the shadows were real."
Haldor looked to Feren and Feren to him. They had a decision to make and neither option seemed wise at the present time.
After a moment, Feren decided on a course. "If you value your lives," he said to Glorfindel, "you will not tell our king you knew of this before our queen departed Limrond."
Glorfindel's attention shifted to the King of Greenwood. Thranduil appeared eerily calm considering the circumstances. "What reason have you to say this?" he asked.
"He nearly killed Roewen when he learned she left Caladhel behind, despite her having saved his son's life. I cannot say what he would do should he hear this news from you today."
Glorfindel was familiar enough with the Silvan captain to know how close she was to both her king and queen. Thranduil trusted none of his people more than he did Roewen. It was a trust born of long friendship and love. If it were true that Thranduil had lashed out at her, then he was capable of any action against those he cared for little or not at all.
"If that is your counsel," said Glorfindel, "we will heed it. Now, I assume your king will be wanting to track the orcs. We will aid you in that task and any other your king requests."
It was then that the three ellyn went to work, dividing their warriors among several tasks. The first to depart were messengers who rode out in three directions: south, east and west.
Haldir had taken a more leisurely tour of the border this cycle, stopping several times to spend an evening or two with friends. All was quiet within Lothlórien – and without – as it had been for many years. The long quiet had caused some of the younger wardens to begin neglecting their duties. Thus, Haldir made it a point to inspect the watch stations unexpectedly. It kept the wardens on their toes. On this particular trip Haldir found only one pair of wardens arriving to their post behind schedule. He reprimanded them for their lateness and warned them of future punishment, should it happen again. The pair were adequately contrite and so he left them to their duties. It was not that Haldir was entirely inflexible in the face of changing times. He was glad for the peace Lórien and its people had known these last thousand years and he hoped it would remain so for a long time to come. But despite that hope, Haldir would not allow his wardens to forget the importance of their task.
The footpath Haldir was on turned and climbed high to crest the hill overlooking Caras Galadhon. His mood always brightened at the first sight of the trees. He had missed sitting quietly on his porch beneath the mallorn, he missed his brothers' constant bickering, and even missed the smell of Orophin's terrible cooking. He missed all of that which made home, home, even after scarcely two moons away.
Before he could return to his telan, Haldir needed to report to Lord Celeborn. He was already a few days later returning than he had originally planned and did not wish to cause his lord any undue concern. He arrived at the Lord and Lady's telan before noon and was quickly granted entry. He was directed to the study where he and Celeborn often met to speak. Upon entering, he noted that both Lord and Lady were preparing to eat. He would be quick about his business and leave them to their meal.
Haldir bowed formally in greeting. "My lord, my lady, I apologize for my late return."
"No apology is necessary, Haldir," said Celeborn. "You did say you were planning a leisurely tour. I trust all is well?"
"It is. I will have a full written report for you tomorrow."
"I trust it will be sufficiently boring," said Celeborn.
"I will try my best to make it interesting."
Somehow Celeborn doubted that was possible.
"Have you eaten?" Galadriel asked.
"Not yet, my lady. I have only just arrived back in the city."
"Then please, join us," Galadriel gestured to the chair across from hers.
"I have traveled far today," said Haldir. "I am hardly dressed for a meal."
"Sit, Haldir," said Celeborn. "Muddy boots do not offend us."
Haldir did not feel entirely comfortable sharing a meal with his lord and lady while in his present state, but he was not about to argue with them. He took the seat Galadriel offered and the three discussed what news Haldir had missed while on his border tour. Celeborn also informed Haldir of his brother's antics while he was away. Ever since the death of their father, Celeborn had taken a more active role in the lives of Thandaer's sons. This was particularly true with Rumil and Orophin, for they were both still very young by the measure of elves. To them, Celeborn had become a second father – or a third – if one considered how fatherly Haldir often behaved towards his younger brothers.
Their light hearted banter was interrupted less than an hour later by a servant calling at their door. Another elf was ushered into the room after him. He was a warrior of Imladris, by the cut of his cloth. He bowed a bit stiffly, as though he had ridden for many miles without dismounting.
"My lords, my lady, I bring news from the King of Greenwood."
A wave of confusion passed over the faces of the three Lórien elves, for they could not fathom under what circumstance an elf of Imladris would bring news from Greenwood's king.
"What news?" Celeborn asked.
"A company traveling from Greenwood to Imladris was attacked at the foothills of Caradhras. Lady Beleth is dead. Prince Legolas was injured, but his guard escaped with him to Limrond. And Queen Caladhel… the queen was not among the dead. It is believed she is taken captive by orcs."
The messenger was barely finished with his speech when the upturning of a chair caused a loud, jarring crash. Galadriel was on her feet and out the door before either Haldir or Celeborn were able to process the news the messenger delivered. Upon coming to their senses, they, too, rushed out the door. They were fast on the Lady's heels, for it took no great wisdom to know her course. They reached her private glade just as she poured the water into the mirror's bowl. She let the pitcher fall from her hands onto the forest floor and stepped forward to gaze into the mirror.
Celeborn and Haldir stood silently, watching Galadriel watch the mirror. Her expression was blank, but her eyes moved ceaselessly as vision upon vision passed before them. They clearly offered her nothing, but then nothing was something, or so Haldir thought. And all the better that no shadow passed over the Lady's face.
As time lengthened, Celeborn stepped closer to his mate, concerned as he was for her welfare. He had never seen Galadriel expend so much of her power before and he feared what consequences might come of it.
"Galadriel," he called out to her softly, as though he feared disturbing her might cause greater harm.
And perhaps it did, for no sooner had he spoken, then his wife screamed. It was a cry so deep, so primal, like the sound some creature might make when being ripped apart for another's meal.
Celeborn reached his wife in time to stop her from collapsing to the ground. She sobbed wordlessly in his arms, unable to give voice to the horror revealed in the water's depths.
Caladhel awoke in darkness. She had to blink three times before she was certain the trouble was not with her eyes. She lay on a floor of cold stone. She attempted to rise but a sharp pain in her side caused her to moan. She bit back the pain, and ignoring her body's cry for help, lifted herself into a seated position. Her right hand moved instinctively to clutch her side. The arrow was no longer there. She recalled the moment it was ripped out and the searing pain that followed, and then nothing.
How long had she been unconscious? Where was she now?
Caladhel tried her best to slow her beating heart and quiet her mind so she could listen. The first sound she heard was that of water falling across stone. She crawled slowly towards the sound, her left hand feeling its way across the floor's surface. She could detect no pattern in the stone. The floor was not made of brick. It was smooth but cracked in places. Between the cracks some type of moss had grown. At least, it felt like moss to Caladhel, but it must need no light to grow in such a place.
Caladhel stopped when her hand reached a wall. The stone was wet and slick. She touched her fingers to her lips. It was water, pure. It dripped from a crack in the stone. All her senses told Caladhel she was somewhere underground. Only a cave could be so dark. It reminded her of that night long ago when she was locked in a room with no fire, but even then, there had been the dim light beneath the door. Caladhel suspected this prison, too, had a door. Now she had to find it.
Caladhel took a deep breath, and despite her body's protest, forced herself to stand. She kept her hand on the wall and walked slowly, extending one foot forward to test the ground before putting weight on it. Eventually she found it, a wall of a different form, made of metal and adorned with spikes. There was no handle. Caladhel did not expect there to be one. She leaned against the edge of the door frame for a minute to listen to the silence. She could hear the drip of water. It was almost exactly across from her. She decided to complete the circuit in case there was more of her prison to explore. She made it around, back to the dripping water. The chamber was irregularly shaped and no more than forty steps around.
Caladhel cupped her hands below the rock to catch the dripping water and drank what she could. She eased herself down to the floor where the stones were drier and allowed her body to rest. For the first time, she focused her attention on her injury. There was pain, yes, but also something else, something inching outward from the wound. It felt unlike anything Caladhel had ever known.
It felt like death.
Thranduil had once described his scars the same way. After all these years, she finally understood him. Caladhel knew the cause as well. It was a poison many an elf had suffered before, and it was easily cured – but only if treated quickly. For some the poison ran too deep and those elves could only be healed in Valinor. Caladhel had once asked Daerel what happened to elves who were not treated at all. The healer had no answer, or if she did, she would not say. Caladhel feared she would soon find out for both of them.
Caladhel laid a hand on her side and attempted a simple healing spell intended to dull pain. It would not stop the poison's spread, but it might keep her head clear enough to think. As she repeated the chant the pain receded to a dull ache.
Once her body ceased its demand for attention, Caladhel was able to turn her thoughts to other matters. Her last full memory was of Roewen and her son racing away from the ambush. Caladhel needed to believe her son was safe and so she refused to indulge any doubt about it. What she did do was consider her present circumstance. It seemed strange to Caladhel that she was not dead. Orcs were not known for taking elves prisoner, not since ages long past. They could have tortured her in the forest, if that was their want. There was no need to bring her here.
Caladhel found herself suddenly hoping that the others were already dead, for she did not want to imagine them as captives. Despite her want, Caladhel felt the silence was more frightening than if there had been screams. She did not want to fathom the idea of being left in this pit alone, forever, but the thought refused to abandon her.
All Caladhel could do was sit and wait for whatever was to come. But if that was all she could do, she would do it bravely. Caladhel started singing an ancient lay about the creation of Arda, the beginning of time.
In the beginning, there was darkness…
Caladhel was not renowned for her singing voice, but she could sing as well as any other elf. She shut her eyes and the world unfolded as she hummed the tune. It was a small comfort, but it would have to suffice.
Caladhel was nearing the scourge of Ungoliant when at last she heard a noise beyond the door. Two sets of heavily armored boots approached. As they neared, light crept in through the frame of the door. It glowed orange and red. She waited for what felt like an eternity, and maybe it was, for her captors had no reason to hurry. She wanted desperately for the door to open, and for it to remain closed, and both at the same time.
Caladhel had heard two sets of boots, but when the door to her prison cell opened, three figures entered. Two were great, pale orcs, such as she had never seen before. The third… the third was something else entirely. Its feet made no noise. It was clad in shadows and black robes. Caladhel forced herself to rise, though the effort in doing so made her dizzy. She leaned against the wall for balance.
One of the orcs sneered at the other. "Lat thrak ash golgi?"
"Not any she-elf," hissed the robed figure. "This one belongs to Greenwood's king."
The very sound of the figure's voice was a knife in Caladhel's side. She bit back a cry but clutched at her wound instinctively.
"Lat ûs?" the orc said.
"I am certain," the figure replied. It raised its ghostly hand and upon that hand it bore a ring, Elven-made.
"It cannot be. You fell with Sauron." Caladhel whispered these words quietly to herself, but the wraith chose to answer.
"Did I?"
"Why have you brought me here? What do you want?" Caladhel asked.
What do all men want?" the wraith replied.
"You are not a man," said Caladhel. "Not anymore."
"Perhaps not, but I want the same as I did before. And I will have it in time, when all the houses of Elves and Men and Dwarves have fallen."
The figure moved across the room to stand before Caladhel, as much as it could stand, lacking form. "He will be the first to fall, your Elvenking. The Darkness knows him. It has touched him before. It will be easy now. You were the light that drove back the Darkness. Now you will be the shadow that haunts him, ere he falls. Perhaps we will send him a token of you, from time to time."
The wraith reached out its ghostly hand to her, but Caladhel, on instinct, retreated. She took no more than three steps away before a different hand took hold of her by the throat and lifted her easily off the ground. She clutched at the orc's wrist, but she would not break his hold. He spoke to her then, in the common tongue, haltingly slow.
"Unwise of your mate to let you out of his sight. Unless he has grown bored of you. It is said that elves grow bored of flesh with time. Orcs do not. That is why your people diminish, while our numbers grow."
Caladhel felt her strength waning as the orc tightened his grip on her throat. She had to act fast before she lost consciousness and so she drove the heel of her boot into the orc's knee hard enough to hear a bone crack. The orc dropped her in surprise, but upon regaining his footing, struck her hard. Caladhel hit the stone wall and went crashing to the floor.
"Kurv golgi!" the orc roared. "Lat istub nûl!"
Caladhel rose unsteadily to her knees, using the wall as a girder. It was painful to breathe, she was certain several ribs were broken, but it was no matter. She had accomplished her task. With her left hand Caladhel braced herself against the wall, with her right she clutched a blade that only moments ago had been secured on the orc's belt.
The wraith saw it first. "What do you think you will do with that? There is no escape from this pit."
"You are wrong." Before anyone could stop her, Caladhel turned the knife on herself, plunging the blade straight into her heart.
"No!" the wraith shrieked so high and loud the very mountain shook.
It was the last sound Caladhel heard before the lights went out.
A/N: For those of you who are only familiar with the films, there might be some confusion as to when and where we are in Middle-earth history. The Hobbit films make it seem like Sauron and the Nazgûl returned to Middle-earth at the time of Bilbo's adventures. In fact, they had been back for thousands of years by that point. Below are a few key events.
861: The northern Numenorian kingdom of Arnor is split into three - Arthedain, Cardolan and Rhudaur
1000: The Wizards arrive in Middle-earth.
1050: The Necromancer (Sauron) founds the fortress of Dol Guldur where Oropher's palace once stood in the south of Greenwood.
1272-1349 (*we are here*): Orcs begin to re-infest the Misty Mountains. The Witch King founds Angmar north of Rhudaur. Rhudaur comes under the control of Angmar.
1356: Angmar begins war on the northern kingdoms.
1975: Angmar is destroyed in the Battle of Fornost. The Nazgûl flee to Mordor.
2941: Bilbo's adventure
3018-19: War of the Ring
