Rhochanar

The forces of the sons of Feanor had successfully conquered the town square, and now Lord Maglor and his men were making their way towards the center of Sirion, and hopefully Earendil's house. In the meantime, Rhochanar and his men had their own mission. Rhochanar tapped his fingers against his thigh five times – an old nervous tic of his – and looked behind himself to his soldiers waiting patiently on the doorstep.

"Nothing for it." Rhochanar's armored fist reached out and rapped urgently against the wood of the door. "In the name of the sons of Feanor, give us entrance." Nothing happened, obviously, and Rhochanar jiggled impotently at the door handle. He glanced behind at his men, again, and threw his body weight against the door. It took a few tries, but eventually the hinges gave away against the strength of a soldier of the Noldor in his prime and Rhochanar forced his way into the little house.

Note to oneself, use a battering ram for the next houses.

In anticipation of the invading army, the door had been hurriedly barred with a length of wood. The windows, too, had been nailed shut, so that inside the house was dark and stuffy with a choking heat. What little light that had made its way through cracks in the planks illuminated the motes of dust floating in the air and the family that huddled against the far wall.

As Rhochanar stepped past the door to come in closer, he felt the imperceptible movement of air before his brain registered what it meant. Battle instincts kicked in, and his armored forearm came up to block the blow from the young elf hidden behind the door. The kitchen knife clattered to the stone floor, and Rhochanar easily grabbed the elf's wrists with his other hand and twisted them behind the elf's back. His men quickly jumped forward to help. One of the family members, a child of indeterminate sex, uttered a little scream before being quickly shushed by its mother.

Rhochanar passed the elf – a boy who had not yet reached the full height of adulthood – off to one of his soldiers and turned back to the family. He raised his hands in a placating gesture and immediately felt stupid for it. "Elwing," he tried. "Where is she?"

The mother's eyes darted back and forth between Rhochanar, his soldiers, and her son in their grasp. "Calion is just a boy. Please be gentle with him."

Through the doorway, Rhochanar could hear the clang of steel against stone as some Feanorian soldiers ran across the cobblestones with their spears. He waved his hand impatiently. "Yes, of course. We don't have time. Where is Elwing and the Silmaril?" He frowned. "If you have knowledge, it would be unwise to keep it from us."

The little elfling was clearly terrified, and the mother was struggling to keep it from wriggling out of her arms. The mother looked bewildered. "The Lady Elwing? Who am I to know the movements of high lords and ladies?"

She was likely telling the truth, but Rhochanar had to do his due diligence. Knowing how intimidating it would look, he stepped closer. "Do not lie to one such as I. Where have you hidden her away?"

It was easier being on a battlefield. There were rules there, and soldiers in their different armor so you knew exactly who you were dealing with. There was you, and there was the other side. All there was to do was conquer. Even in Doriath, the lines had been clear. Here in this cramped house where his brow felt sticky with sweat and a heat-sickness had started to rise in him, Rhochanar felt adrift.

Rhochanar stepped forward again and raised his voice. "You would do well to speak truth to me. I have your family right here. Tell me again, where will we find Elwing?"

A few things happened at once in that moment. The child wrested itself from its mother's arms and ran towards Rhochanar. There was a commotion outside as arrows fell like rain onto the street and the Feanorian soldiers outside took cover. Rhochanar's elves looked up, distracted. And the boy who Rhochanar's soldier had been holding broke free and grabbed the knife from the floor, swinging it towards Rhochanar before he could react.

Another soldier who had been paying closer attention moved quickly. The boy's breath left his body with a surprised grunt as the sword lodged itself in his stomach.

If you hadn't known what had caused it, the sound on its own was unremarkable. Like cutting into a ripe melon in the heart of summer. Rhochanar, a soldier of many battles, had heard it and similar sounds before.

The boy's mother hadn't. Iarben, face now pale, withdrew the sword and caught the boy as he started to fall, not ungently. Iarben diplomatically refrained from retaliating when she pushed him out of the way and ran forwards to clutch at her son.

Rhochanar fought to keep down the nausea in his throat as he stepped away from the family. "My apologies," he stammered. "We'll let you be, now."

Her wail rang in Rhochanar's ears as he and his men stumbled out of the house and shut the door behind them. Across the narrow street, he caught Lord Amras' eye and gave a distracted wave. Rhochanar took in a stuttering breath.

One house down, all the rest to go.