A Way to Freedom

Written in fanfiction form by Gilraen, from the roleplay created by K, (Artalion and Lainauriel) Happy Hobbit (Findley and baddies), Ringhilwen, (Maethorwen) Keeper of Vilya (Eldaline), Pipsqueak (Bror), Sadistic Yoda (Thalin), Mhairi (Morikelva), Andaariel (Heliana), Syriana (Polgara), Beleg Strongbow (Beleg Strongbow and Malathar), and Gilraen (Eäniel).

The evil in the North is growing stronger. Beneath the mountains of Thangorodrim lies Angband, stronghold of Morgoth. Imprisoned within its walls are Elves, taken from their own fair lands, unlucky wanderers worsted in Orc attacks. Presumed lost by those they once knew, they long ago lost all hope of being rescued. However, Morgoth has not yet succeeded in twisting them all into evil beings. Some remain strong and continue to fight and dream of escape. This is their story…

He looked around the cell, ten Elves cramped together in this grey, damp cave. Some were talking quietly, some were in the state of deep thought akin to sleep, and others- the others sat in wretched silence. Those prisoners no longer wore visible chains, but Morgoth had destroyed their hope, their passion for life. Most now thought that any attempt at escape was impossible and futile. But there were some whose passion and hope still burned fiercely within them. Though they were careful to hide this as they labored for Morgoth during what they assumed to be the day, at night in the cells whispers had begun. Whispers of escape…

It had started as just an idea, a vain dream to take one’s thoughts off the hell of Angband. But now…now it was almost a reality. The plan was rough, for they feared to plan too much when anything could happen. Artalion himself was one of the ringleaders of the plan, along with his wife, and until late, his oldest friend Rudhore. But Rudhore was gone now, lost forever in the fires of Angband. May his soul rest in peace in the halls of waiting, thought Artalion. Thoughts of Rudhore soon gave way to thoughts of his and his wife Lainauriel’s pasts. They had once lived in the Forest of Doriath, protected by the Girdle of Melian. Artalion had been an archer, a marchwarden on the borders of the Forest. On a time Artalion had had led out a hunting party against a band of Orcs who had wandered too close to the border. The Elves had fallen into a trap, and though they had fought bravely, almost all had been slain or taken captive- Artalion and Rudhore had been among the latter. Neither had any idea but their deepest fear as to where the Orcs were taking them, but they soon found that they were to be brought as slaves to Morgoth.
Lainauriel, Artalion’s wife and a skilled healer, learned of the attack on Artalion’s company when she was called to attend the two surviving members of the band. They told her all that they could of the skirmish, and of their belief that all but they had been slain. Lainauriel had tried to grieve, but in her heart she did not truly believe that Artalion was dead. Unaware that she was with child, Lainauriel departed Doriath, against the counsel of Melian, who feared for the Elven-woman wandering alone in the wild. Any fears that Lainauriel had for herself were laid aside, for she dreaded that her husband might have been gravely wounded or taken captive. Both Melian’s and Lainauriel’s own fears proved well founded, for Lainauriel, too, was waylaid and taken as a captive to Angband. There she was reunited with Artalion, whose spirit had slowly been crushed throughout the time of his captivity. When their child was born, the baby was taken from them and delivered into the hands of Morgoth’s servants. Both Lainauriel and Artalion knew that there was no hope for the child, and yet Lainauriel was the inspiration that Artalion needed to begin planning the escape. Though he had originally planned for only himself and his wife to flee, Lainauriel had persuaded him to take as many others with them as they could.
Suddenly, a voice broke in on his thoughts.

“You’re thinking about it again, aren’t you?” The sound was still sweet and musical, despite her years of suffering at Morgoth’s hands. Though she didn’t know it, Lainauriel was the reason Artalion had begun to believe their plan could work. So pure and beautiful, Morgoth was utterly unable to corrupt or defeat her. Just looking at her and hearing her voice gave Artalion the reassurance he needed- the reassurance that the power of good could overcome any evil.

“You know me too well, my love,” Artalion replied, and as he looked upon the face of his wife he could not resist a smile.

“I hope we are doing the right thing. We are leading the others to what will almost certainly result in their death, and for what? A dream. Do you think that we will ever really escape these walls of stone and fear?” A note of desperation crept into Artalion’s voice as he spoke. However, Lainauriel looked calmly up at him and squeezed his hand.

” And what do you think life will be like here, once we are used up, once our will is broken and our purpose served. What then? Do you believe that Morgoth would spare us? Those that go, will go with you of their own free will- they all know the dangers that they would face, but would rather face those dangers than stay here to suffer an age of torment.” Lainauriel’s passionate eyes blazed, reminding Artalion of why he had fallen in love with her in the first place. He sunk back into thoughts of the upcoming escape, his eyes glancing around the cell at the other captives. He knew the names and histories of some, but others no longer knew even their own names.

There was Maethorwen, a black-haired Nandor, who had forsaken the westward march of the Eldar and had lived in the Vale of Anduin for a time, before moving north again to the realm of Thingol and Melian, There she had lived among the Sindar who ere under the rule of Thingol, and among the Laiquendi. It was during her time in Beleriand that Maethorwen had become a skilled swordsman, and it was perhaps then that she had earned the name Maethorwen, which is warrior-maiden. Artalion could tell that she was unwilling to give into the despair that threatened to suffocate them all. One of the few Elves who still stood straight; she was only waiting for a chance to escape. The fire in her black eyes had not gone out yet, and Artalion hoped that he could give her chance.
The Sindarin woman who sat beside her was Eldaline, with the golden hair and icy-blue eyes of her kind. She, too, had been waylaid and captured by Orcs. Eldaline had been part of a band of Elves that had been traveling to join the great March of the Eldar, but had been ambushed. As Artalion watched her, a tear slipped down her cheek, and he wondered if she was remembering that horrible day. He recalled her peaking of it as if it were a time so far away that parts of it were only a glimmer of a memory.

“The ambush…I can still hear the cries of my companions as they fell around me. And Valdaroth, my lifelong friend…That is one of the things I can still see so clearly…her face, as the as one of the Arc’s black darts found a mark in her back. Her eyes, as I held her, staring, distant, glassy…” Her voice had trailed off, and Eldaline had never spoken off her past again.

And the last Elf that he knew was Eäniel, who sat, slightly separated from the others, by herself. Eaniel of the Noldorin, grey-eyed and darkly auburn-haired. She was perhaps the youngest of the captives, and did not speak much. When she had spoken of what had befallen her, it was with bitterness and regret. Artalion had gathered that, on a time, she had been one of the Elves of Gondolin, and was a runaway from the city, desiring freedom from its walls of stone. Like all the Noldorin, she was skilled in hand and mind, and had a passion for tales and lore. But she had been captured, like the others, by a marauding band of orcs.

One other of the captives Artalion knew, but only by name- Malathar. The others were lost.

* * *

It was Lublolo’s turn to feed the prisoners, and he hated having to bring them food.

“Let ’em starve,” he snarled, slouching down the tunnel. A whip across his back changed his mind, though- ever since the Orcs had arrived, the wildmen of the North, like himself, had fallen out of favor with. Now the orcs were given the good jobs, while only menial tasks were thrust on him. Seething with anger, he went he went to the cells, thinking that he would not be the only one to feel the lash. He stomped up to the bars, and banged loudly against them with the bucket he held, knowing the sensitivity of the Elves’ ears. His squat, broad frame blocked out what meager light filtered into the cell.

“Well, my pretties,” he snarled, baring his teeth at them, “here!” He flung food into the cell to land on the filthy floor, and then stepped through the doorway himself. Maethorwen turned away resolutely, but a weak, glassy-eyed male, once a great warrior, reached forward toward the meal. Lublolo’s whip struck his hand with lightning’s speed. This was one of the guard’s favorite games: taunting and tormenting the prisoners over the meager, spoiled rations, and Lublolo, after attending to the Elven man, turned quickly to face Eldaline, who had reached out for a bit of bread that was just out of her fingers’ reach. He planted his booted foot next to her hand and raised his whip, ready to strike. His whip fell, and he laughed as Eldaline cried out in pain, the familiar red line welling up on her skin. Maethorwen could see the look of pain on the Elf’s face, and Eldaline scrambled aside to avoid the next whiplash. A heavy boot on the hem of her threadbare cloak held her from escape: desperately, she tried to unfasten the clasp that fastened the cloak at her throat, but as she fumbled with it she felt Lublolo grope her. He wanted more than just a ‘she-elf’s’ pain.

Artalion heard the sound of the scuffle but did not look up. Such an event was not unusual in the cells, especially at mealtimes, when tempers were often high; but this was not the usual scuffle. Lainauriel laid her hand on his arm, and it was her worried expression, more than anything, that spurred him into action. He looked up to see an Elf being assaulted by one of Morgoth’s guards. His face twisted with rage, and he leapt to his feet, his hand going automatically to his hip where a sword had hung in the old days. He mentally scolded himself- no sword had hung at his side for longer than he cared to remember.

“Please, don’t let him!” Eldaline begged, as she struggled to free herself from his grip. Her struggles were in vain, though, for Lublolo held her firmly, pressing his lips against her cheek.

Artalion started forward. He had come to think of these prisoners as his charges, and meant to protect Eldaline. One or two other Elves stirred, but before they or Battalion could intervene, Eldaline caught Lublolo’s hand and bit him, hard and deep. Lublolo dropped her to the floor, snarling and cursing as she crawled away. Lainauriel went to Eldaline and gently put her arm around the younger Elf. Lublolo, however, had recovered from his surprise at Elaine’s retaliation, and he charged at her, taking her from Lainauriel’s side. He brought his whip to bear, this time counting the lash-strokes as they fell.

“One, two, thr…” he never finished his count, for an Elf known to the others only by his name Malathar stepped forward, and grabbed the upraised arm of the wild Northman.

“Stop!” His rich Elven voice echoed through the darkness, and the others fell silent. To hear such a sound in Angband was rare, and they gazed at the lone Elf in fear- they all knew that he risked his life in such an act.

“Let her be.” Malathar could not stand by to watch the fair Elven maiden be beaten, though he knew that his punishment for such an intervention would be punished. Lublolo halted in mid-strike, and wheeled around to face the Elf, the Northman’s face contorted with rage and the very air around him charged with malice. Sneering up at Malathar- who stood at least a head taller- Lublolo grabbed the bucket that he had dropped earlier and swung it viciously against Malathar’s knees. Malathar fell with a gasp of pain, and as he fell the bucket swung again and struck him in the face. The stricken Elf lay upon the floor, stunned. Lublolo continued to assault the fallen Elf, beating and kicking the limp form until he was satisfied with his destruction. At last, the Northman seized the Elf and half-frog marched, half-carried his limp body from the cell. As Lublolo left, he turned back once, his eyes falling once more on the cowering form of Eldaline.

“Say goodbye to your pretty boyfriend!” he sneered. Then the door slammed shut, and the darkness returned.

Eldaline lay huddled on the floor hard by where the strange Elf had fallen. Pain washed over her and took hold of her body as her mind ran with questions. Who was that Elf? Why had he tried to save her? What was Lublolo going to do to him? Slowly and painfully, she raised herself to her knees, and looked around at the others she shared the cell with. Some gazed back at her with sorrow and pity, and others’ faces held no expression but the blank stares of surrender. She struggles to stand, and walked wordlessly to the farthest corner of the cell and sat down with her back to the wall, cold and hard. With her face turned away from the others, she cried. She cried for the pain, the anger, the hurt, and for reasons she did not even know. Fear gripped her heart as she felt the last shred of hope she had held on to fade away… she knew now that they were forever doomed to be captives in this cold, dark sunless world that she had known for countless years. As she closed her eyes and felt the tears run down her face, she felt a hand come to rest on hers. Looking up she saw an Elf with a kind, yet sad, face.

Lainauriel sat with Eldaline through the night, holding her hand and using what healing power was left to her to soothe the other Elf’s wounds and fears. When Eldaline had finally fallen asleep, her tears leaving clean rivulets down her grime-streaked face, Lainauriel left her with Eäniel and went to speak with her husband. Now was the time to reveal the plan, for she knew that they could not continue in this way for much longer.

* * *

They hated this stone corridor. Every day the Elves were forced to march down it, shuffling in rows of three, overseen by orcs with leering faces and quick whips. They were making their way to the forges, as they did every morning- if morning it could be called- to do their work as the slaves of Morgoth, making weapons and armour for the Orcs.

This morning, though, was different. The heavy despair did not hang in the air. Instead, there was a scent of hope, and a whisper was passing through the prisoners like a spring breeze through the trees. Last night, Artalion had told the Elves in his cell about his plan and wish for them to escape. Lainauriel had urged his to talk to them, for they were rapidly losing hope. Beatings were becoming more frequent, and they were being made to work harder and longer than ever. But now that a new hope had been born, Elves whom Artalion had taken for lost were beginning to come out of their stupor. As they moved along the corridor, the Elves could see into the cells of other prisoners. In one of these cells was the Dwarf Bror, Daughter of Nali. She knelt wearily in her prison, listening to the whispers of the passing Elves. She knew that it was very unlikely the Elves would take a Dwarf with them when- if- they escaped, unless…unless the quarrels of old could be remedied, which seemed highly unlikely. Both Elves and Dwarves were stubborn, proud races. Bror sighed, and looked dispiritedly through the bars, and murmured, almost sorrowfully, to herself,

“The orcs are giving the Elves trouble again.”

Indeed they were. A whip cracked behind Artalion, followed by a cry. Instinctively, Artalion began to turn, but a restraining hand fell on his arm.

“Leave it. We will have our turn. Soon, the tables will turn.” Lainauriel spoke softly, her voice barely to be heard above the clank of steel and rumble of gears, and she continued to stare straight ahead, not looking at her husband to whom she spoke. Despite her impassive face, Artalion knew that she was as angry as he about the beatings. He envied her control.

A murmur rose through the bedraggled line of Elves behind them. Something, something evil was coming, with a smell of burning flesh and a roar that tore at the very soul. The Elves, fettered in chains, began to shuffle forward, pushed frantically by those behind them. Cries of horror and fear traveled in a cresting wave of voices. A balrog was coming.

The Elves tried to hurry forward to flee the searing heat, feeling their skin blister. The beast did not attack, as they so greatly feared, though: it merely continued to plod along, seemingly oblivious to the Elves. From time to time it roared, its hot breath flooding the tunnel and stifling the air. The prisoners’ lungs ached in the heat, and their breathing became labored and painful. Finally, when they feared that all would be drowned in the heat the balrog turned aside, and it could be seen that it went not at its will but under the command of the minions of Morgoth.

Bror’s thoughts and muttering had been broken by the passage of the Balrog, and she crouched in the corner of her cell, trying to shield her face from the searing heat. As the balrog passed, though her surprise and fear, the door of her cell opened. But the guard who now held the door ajar wanted nothing to do with Bror. He and another orc simply threw a battered body into her cell. At first glance appearing dead, it lay unmoving, but Bror crept over to look more closely. It was an n Elf, still alive, if only barely. A jagged line of staples ran across the Elf’s once-fair face, holding his fractured skull together. Each one had been driven in with an agony that had almost driven him to madness.

Malathar had been returned to the cells.

Outside in the corridor, an Elven woman turned her sad gaze on the Dwarven call as she passed, and saw the still form on the floor of the cell. Her breath caught in her throat, and the woman broke from the line and knelt by the cell. As she dropped to her knees, she reached through the bars and took the unmoving Elf’s hand in her own. It felt cold and lifeless, but at her touch Malathar began to stir and looked up at the other Elf. Eldaline’s face went white as she saw the staples, now a permanent reminder of Morgoth’s cruelty. A tear slipped down her face, leaving a rivulet in the grime there. Anger raged in her heart as hope faded. If this was what they had to look forward to- torture, starvation, pain- then what was there to live for? Why should they struggle on?

She squeezed his hand gently, and whispered, “Malathar?”

His eyelids fluttered open, and his lips moved soundlessly for a moment until her gained enough breath to speak.

“How…do you know…my name?” he asked in a hoarse whisper, his face etched with the pain of speaking.

“Lainauriel told me,” Eldaline responded, “Why? Why did you do it?” Malathar opened his mouth to answer when the Elves behind Eldaline began urging her to keep moving, before Lublolo saw that they were stopped. They were chained together, and there was no way that they could continue on unless Eldaline began to move. The Elf chained behind her- Maethorwen- tried to pull her away. Just then, Eldaline heard a shout, and looked over her shoulder reflexively.

Lublolo was pushing his way through the chained and frightened Elves. Eldaline saw his whip rise, and heard the familiar crack as it lashed across her back. The pain shot through her like a flame. Lublolo paused only to shove Maethorwen aside, slamming her headfirst against the wall. Eldaline gave up and sank to the ground, not caring anymore. Better to die now, she thought, then to live on in cursed immortality. The light began to fade from her eyes, and the last thing she remembered was being grabbed roughly by the hand a being dragged away, her limp other hand sliding from Malathar’s.

Maethorwen struggled to get up, blood from a cut on her forehead running into her eyes, but was pushed back down again by a guard as he walked past helping to carry Eldaline’s inert form. Maethorwen stared at her, fear gripping her heart- but she could still see life pulsing in the vein at her throat. . Eldaline was not dead, only unconscious from the pain of the lashes.

Again, Maethorwen tried to get up, and again she was pushed back down, in her stumbling knocking others in her file down as well. One scrambled back to his feet quickly and helped Maethorwen stand. His eyes, once a sparkling silver-grey dulled now to a somber greyish-dun by the smoke, bore into hers. He did not speak, but Maethorwen could tell nonetheless by the light that shone through his smoke-dulled eyes that there was still strength left in him. As the group moved forward again he wiped the blood from her forehead with the sleeve of his tunic.

As the group moved on, Bror watched in awe- and anger. Though the Elves paid no attention to her, what she saw enraged the Dwarf. These had once been fair creatures, lovely Elves, singing in the woods or sitting by rippling, flowing waters, and she still see in their eyes a bit of the old day. Their grey depths still held some magic that she could not wholly understand. And the Orcs…fouler than dirt…evil, utterly evil…their darkness was quenching the Elves’ light. There was another battle here, higher than he one apparent, a battle between wills. Bror growled and gripped at her side where her axe had once hung, longing to feel the touch of its smooth wood again, longing to cleave and cleanse this filth.

She edged her way to the bars, muttering hoarsely, “I’m with you. Bror the Dwarf, at your service, and your family’s.”

But the Elves did not hear her, and did not respond.

The Dwarf in the cell next to Bror did, though, but also did not respond. His name was Thalin, and he carried a deep-seated hatred and fear f Elves that stretched back to the time when his father had been attacked and killed by an Elf. Thalin knew that in such dark times as this any help, even from those he thought he shared a mutual hatred with, his pride and anger would not allow him to make the gesture Bror had.

* * *

Farther down the long and winding corridor, the elves had reached the forges. More of a cave than a room, it was deep underground, hot and sooty and poorly ventilated, if indeed one could believe it was ventilated at all. It was also terribly loud, ad one could tell the newer prisoners from the ones who had been there longer by the way the newer ones would wince as if in pain every time a hammer clanged or a furnace roared. Some of the Elf women, Maethorwen and Lainauriel included turned aside from those going on to their wok stations. Here they would work, making leather vests and trousers for the Orcs and men who held them prisoner. Lainauriel hated this job because those who worked preparing the skins for use were none too thorough. Often the women would have to scrape blood and fat off of the leather before they could make anything of it. Her face was screwed up in disgust, Lainauriel picked up a hide and, with Maethorwen on the other side of it, stretched it across a table, holding it in place while two other women began to scrape it down.

As they worked, a new pile of hides was thrown onto the table, a snarl escaping the lips of the Easterling who had thrown them. Lainauriel sighed sadly as she looked at them, for the thought of wanton slaughter of the poor beasts for their skins pained her.

“Keep busy,” the Easterling growled, “Or yours may be added to them.” She knew by the glint of cruelty in his eyes that he spoke truly, and felt even more loathing, her thoughts going to Rudhore, who had lost his life here. Were these the skins of Elves and Men? Lainauriel tried to shut the thought from her mid and forced herself to keep working. Next to her, Maethorwen winced; not looking at the guard, knowing that eye contact would only provoke him further.

Maethorwen’s mind drifted as she worked, thinking back to that morning. She had walked with the silver-eyed Elf, not speaking, to the door of the workroom. She wondered what tortures he and the other men had to face.

She looked over at Lainauriel again, and their eyes met for a brief moment. A spark of light glinted in the other’s eyes, and Maethorwen’s heart leapt- she was not alone. Not all of the women had been conquered.

Throughout the day Maethorwen tried to move closer to Lainauriel so that the two could talk, but always the guards were too close by; the work horn blew before the two had a chance to speak together. It would be even more dangerous to talk while en route back to the cells, so Maethorwen kept silent as they were re-shackled together and let out of the forges.

Back at the cell, their shackles were unlocked and the cell door was slammed shut behind them. Some of the Elves simply sank down in their places along the wall, not looking at the others, their eyes like blank slates.

Maethorwen, on the other hand, stood standing until the guards had resumed their posts further down the hall, then crossed to Lainauriel and the male Elf who was always with her. Before she could begin speaking, though, the sounds of an approaching orc came floating to their ears- it must be time for their daily rations. As the orc came into view through the door of the cell, Artalion’s face fell as his heart sank. They had dealt with this one before- he liked to play tricks on the Elves; he enjoyed watching them beg for food. Artalion sighed as Grishnak placed the food just outside the bars of the cell, and watched helplessly as one of the Elves reached out for it, and was rewarded in their impudence with a bite to the hand. Anger and pity flamed in his eyes towards Grishnak and the poor Elf. Lainauriel placed a hand on his arm, and leaned over to whisper in his ear,

“He can only bite one person at a time, and we far outnumber him, so perhaps the lot of us should go for it at once and share out the food afterward,” Artalion smiled to himself- trust his wife to come up with an idea like that! He nodded in agreement.

“Yes, but we must have more than just the two of us. Otherwise, the orc would call for help before we could reach all the food.”

Lainauriel’s gaze traveled over to Maethorwen, who was standing silently before them. Lainauriel beckoned for the other Elf to sit, and explained their plan to her.

When everything had been explained, Maethorwen cast a sidelong glance at the orc, who was leering over at the prisoners, and then looked back at Artalion and Lainauriel, her face set.

“Come on, then, she murmured, and stood up.

“Wait but a moment,” Lainauriel stood as well, “We still need more Elves involved. The more people we have, the more the orc will be confused, and the greater chance will we have of succeeding,”

Maethorwen nodded, and she and Lainauriel began moving around the cramped cell, talking to the more alert Elves. Though it was a simple thing, banding together lent a sense of excitement and purpose to the air as had not been for a very long time.

Artalion continued to give the orc sidelong glances, judging when the best time would be to make a move. When the orc turned away for a moment to investigate a noise issuing fro another cell, Artalion seized the chance. Beckoning the others on with a glance, he began to move forward, noting with another backwards glance that many of the Elves were doing the same. With light footsteps that went unheard be their guard, the prisoners hurried

Maethorwen nodded, and she and Lainauriel began moving around the cramped cell, talking to the more alert Elves. Though it was a simple thing, banding together lent a sense of excitement and purpose to the air as had not been for a very long time.
Artalion continued to give the orc sidelong glances, judging when the best time would be to make a move. When the orc turned away for a moment to investigate a noise issuing fro another cell, Artalion seized the chance. Beckoning the others on with a glance, he began to move forward, noting with another backwards glance that many of the Elves were doing the same. With light footsteps that went unheard be their guard, the prisoners hurried forward, seized what food they could, and beat a hasty retreat back to their corners and places along the walls. One of the Elves let out a small cry of triumph and excitement, and Grishnak whirled around again to face them. He looked quickly at the floor where the food had been, and then to the Elves crouched along the walls, their expressions bland but their eyes shining. It took their guard a moment to comprehend just what they had done, but soon he understood. An evil smile crossed his face, and he stalked menacingly towards the center of the cell, trembling with rage.

“You thieves,” he spat, “you thieves, you filthy little thieves, you spoilt my game. But you’ll pay!” Grishnak drew back his hand; preparing to strike the poor Elf who had the misfortune of being nearest him, but at a call from a dark shape outside of the cell Grishnak let the arm fall back to his side. If Grishnak had been summoned by Morgoth himself- and perhaps he had been- he could not have run faster. The orc left the cell at a dead sprint.

For once, it seemed, luck was on the Elves’ side.

Echoing down the stone corridors as Grishnak made his way to the chambers above, came fierce orcish epithets and surly gripes which the Elves’ sharp ears could discern: ” I dun nuthin'” “Stinkin’ Elves” ” What’s he wan’ me for?” “I’ll teach ’em” “Heh- they’ll pay” “I’ll have ’em all I will, every last one!” The echoing grumbles finally faded from earshot, and the prisoners fell to examining their prizes- bread, a little, meat, and precious, blessed pieces of fruit. Unwitting that it had come from Eldaline’s table they noted not its spoilage, but only that it was better and ore plentiful fare than they had seen in many long days.

* * *

Orcs in these times were no more than bullies, dealing out pain to those unwilling or unable to defend themselves. Though in following years Morgoth, and then Sauron, developed this race of Morgoth’s creation into fierce warriors, these early orcs lack the blind drive of obedience and ferocity ingrained into latter generations. Some orcs, Grishnak included, had the ability to create- and the tenacity to express- their own feelings.

When told of his new duty Grishnak was duly enraged. “Not that! Touch an Elf a filthy stinkin’ Elf. No! Why? Why should he? Beat her, yes, bite her, yes, yes, yes, but that…” ‘That’ he would not do.

Neither threat, not application, of torture- for Morgoth was as cruel and unrelenting to his followers as to his enemies- would sway Grishnak. As the wheel of the rack turned so did the wheels of Grishnak’s brain. He knew well enough that sooner or later he would be made to do as Morgoth wished, and he finally gave in. But he acquiesced only resolving to make the Elf suffer dearly for his pain.

* * *

A cold breeze filtered into the cell where Thalin languished, reminding him of his days in the mountains: a pace, he thought, that he would never see again. Thalin’s troubled mind had eased some over time, but more was still needed for him to fully recover. What had hurt Thalin most was the killing of his pride. Along with shaving the Dwarf’s hair off, Lublolo had also removed his long red bears, a thing that took years to grow.
Hours passed, in which could be heard loud bangs coming from the cell of the other Dwarves, Malathar, and Eldaline. Thalin was pounding on the wall with a piece of stone clenched in his fist. When faced with inquiring glances from his cellmates, he merely responded, “I’m not staying here for the rest of my life! This wall is thin- it makes a loud sound”

Thalin continued to pound on the wall with an awkward strength, and then spoke again in a softer voice.

“When the guards come, kill them!” He gave a long peal of maniacal laughter, and resumed his frenzied pounding.

* * *

Back in the cell, the Elves joined in a circle, dealing out their food and celebrating in their success in outwitting their guard. They even began to laugh a little, a sound that had not been heard in that place for years beyond count. The food was a blessing beyond measure, especially the fresh fruit, and everyone was able to eat, at last, enough to fill themselves. When the last bite had been taken, a noise echoed down the hall outside. The laughter was instantly silenced, and the circle began to break up as the Elves backed away from the cell’s door, afraid that it was Grishnak come back to inflict the punishment he had promised them in his mutterings.

Instead of their raving orc guard, however, it was Eldaline who walked past between two guards. Her head was bowed and her cheeks were tearstained.

The Elves crept forward to stand by the bars, trying to see where their companion was being taken, but soon the darkness swallowed her as she moved down the long corridor.

One by one, the Elves turned away from the bars and returned to their places along the walls, their mood subdued and their conversations conducted in soft murmurs.

Eäniel returned to her corner and sat down, feeling stronger and more alert than she had in a long time. The food had revived not only her body but also her mind. She could think more clearly than she’d ever been able to do since she had landed herself in this accursed place. But with her mind awoken, her emotions were also sharpened painfully. Elation and excitement over working together to get the food had flooded her mind a moment before, but that had changed when Eldaline had been led past their cell. Eldaline’s plight was not a novelty to the captives, but it hurt Eäniel in a new way.

What would happen to Eldaline? And what had happened to Malathar?

Eäniel leant back against the wall pondering these questions, neither of which having happy answers.

Suddenly she became aware of a faint pulse in the stone, as if someone were beating on it on the other side. She sat up again, trying to hear the beat as well as feel it through her hand, which she placed against the stone. Canting her head t one side, she caught it, merely a faint, varied rhythm, subtly different from the ceaseless pounding of steel in the forges.

“Everyone, be still a moment,” she called out softly to the others, “Can you hear that?”

The murmuring voices went silent, and Lainauriel turned to see what had put Eäniel’s guard up. Straining her ears, she, too, heard the hollow, almost imperceptible but growing gradually louder. Everyone’s thought was that it was some new evil of Morgoth- what would they be tormented with now? Some of the Elves began to back away from the wall, but Lainauriel was drawn irresistibly forward until she stood next to Eäniel, whose hand was still against the wall. As Lainauriel leaned forward to put her ear against the stone, several voices broke out behind her.

“What is it? What can you hear?”

“Shh!” Lainauriel said, her light tone still commanding, “Something is being hit against the wall from the other side, but there is also another sound…”Lainauriel strained even harder to hear, and her eyes widened in surprise as she finally understood what else she was hearing. It was a sobbing, cry, harsher than the voice of an Elf, yet with a desperation in it that no orc could ever feel- cries of despair and a longing for home. But what was it?

“A Dwarf!” Eäniel answered her companion’s unvoiced question. Lainauriel mentally scolded herself. Now that she had caught the thread of the voice, she wondered how she had not known who the voice belonged to- and the Elves were marched past the Dwarves’ cell every day- any cry coming through the wall would have to be a Dwarf’s.

The pounding stopped for a moment, and though the sound of it had been faint the silence that followed was oppressive. But then, a sweet, clear, voice answered back to the Dwarf’s Lainauriel turned in surprise to Eäniel, who was singing. Her voice was lifted in an Elvish air of hope and finding home at journey’s end, echoing the Dwarf’s longing for the mountains of his home.

_”The journey may be long indeed,
The path is fraught with toil
But none can take the hope from me
Of Home’s familiar soil

The lamp will then shine out again
The grass is always green
This hope I keep, this hope I sing-
I will find home again”_

But the Elves were not alone in their hopes and plans for escape.

_Finite Part I_

Note: Not all characters have been introduced yet, and some characters are no longer part of the continuing RPG.