Silmarillion fic -- New Star Rising
A small story from the first year of the War of Wrath. This follows A New Star, but you don't have to have read it first.
There were too many orcs. There were twelve at least in the hunting party, and five of the pursued, two Elves and three humans, the youngest a woman of sixteen. They would not make it back to the shore.
“Stay behind me, Miriel,” her uncle said grimly. They were encircled now, cut off from flight. Now they would be picked off one at a time, until the wall they made broke. Miriel put another arrow to her bow. She had nine left.
Adraniel did not blow her horn again. If anyone could come, they would have. She shifted her grip on her sword hilt. It glowed like blue flame.
And then they were upon them. One, two, three arrows spent, one to the throat of an orc. Taran dropped his sword, clutching his right arm as though he could stop the blood with will alone, Merik shoving him behind his shield. He stumbled into Miriel, fouling her shot. She looked at her uncle and saw the truth in his face. The orcs began to close.
There was a sudden movement in the trees above, and then something dropped to land amid the charge - no, someone. Two someones. Blades flashed in the air, cloaks flowing, steel vambraces and dark hair. Back to back they stood, but not static. Their movements were a whirling dance, each covering the other, moving in deadly, perfect time, exactly matched.
Orcs fell. Orcs fled. The dance stopped.
Miriel lowered her bow, the last of the orcs disappearing into the trees.
“We heard the fight,” one of them said. “We came.”
The other said, “Is anyone injured? I can help.”
“Taran is,” Miriel said, her voice steady though her hands were now shaking. Two young men - or were they Elves? They looked no older than she, alike as twins with dark hair and gray eyes, fair faces and old leather armor oiled from many years, shining steel vambraces. On their cloaks each wore a silver, eight pointed star.
“Let me see.” One of them knelt down, his hands gentle despite the streaks of blood on his face. “Taran, is it? Let me see the wound.”
The other cleaned off his sword on the grass, a very practical consideration. He glanced up at her sideways. “You’re a good shot.”
“Thanks.” She knew of no such device, nor had any idea where they might have come from. Nobody lived up the Sirion, not anymore. “Who are you?”
He straightened up, sheathing the blade. “We’re the sons of Earendil. I’m Elros and this is my brother, Elrond.”
There were too many orcs. There were twelve at least in the hunting party, and five of the pursued, two Elves and three humans, the youngest a woman of sixteen. They would not make it back to the shore.
“Stay behind me, Miriel,” her uncle said grimly. They were encircled now, cut off from flight. Now they would be picked off one at a time, until the wall they made broke. Miriel put another arrow to her bow. She had nine left.
Adraniel did not blow her horn again. If anyone could come, they would have. She shifted her grip on her sword hilt. It glowed like blue flame.
And then they were upon them. One, two, three arrows spent, one to the throat of an orc. Taran dropped his sword, clutching his right arm as though he could stop the blood with will alone, Merik shoving him behind his shield. He stumbled into Miriel, fouling her shot. She looked at her uncle and saw the truth in his face. The orcs began to close.
There was a sudden movement in the trees above, and then something dropped to land amid the charge - no, someone. Two someones. Blades flashed in the air, cloaks flowing, steel vambraces and dark hair. Back to back they stood, but not static. Their movements were a whirling dance, each covering the other, moving in deadly, perfect time, exactly matched.
Orcs fell. Orcs fled. The dance stopped.
Miriel lowered her bow, the last of the orcs disappearing into the trees.
“We heard the fight,” one of them said. “We came.”
The other said, “Is anyone injured? I can help.”
“Taran is,” Miriel said, her voice steady though her hands were now shaking. Two young men - or were they Elves? They looked no older than she, alike as twins with dark hair and gray eyes, fair faces and old leather armor oiled from many years, shining steel vambraces. On their cloaks each wore a silver, eight pointed star.
“Let me see.” One of them knelt down, his hands gentle despite the streaks of blood on his face. “Taran, is it? Let me see the wound.”
The other cleaned off his sword on the grass, a very practical consideration. He glanced up at her sideways. “You’re a good shot.”
“Thanks.” She knew of no such device, nor had any idea where they might have come from. Nobody lived up the Sirion, not anymore. “Who are you?”
He straightened up, sheathing the blade. “We’re the sons of Earendil. I’m Elros and this is my brother, Elrond.”