The Pentagrid Net

[Lief Erikson]

Slythre was utterly silent, but she knew that this would not avail her against the foe she tracked. She had managed to get away from the other members of the company, they were heading towards the books. She on the other hand was on a different errand. She was seeking to find a more roundabout way, one which would lead her behind the remaining Nazgul. She was armed only with her dagger against a terrible enemy; one who knew the ways of the darkness far better than she. Yet she had years of experience on her side, and she would use them now. And this blade had held her in good stead against innumerable orcs and other worse things in the past. Why should it not be enough now, for this wraith? One short blow to the neck was all that it would require.

She moved along through the utter darkness in total silence, feeling her way with her hands. It was either intuition or years of experience that led her upon this route, but whatever it was, whe knew that it led her the right way. Tessar was leading the others; he could sense the magic of the books and would be able to find the source easily enough.

The darkness ahead began to change slightly; there was now a very faint blue light upon the roof of the hole through which she crawled. From what it was coming she couldn't yet tell, but now from far ahead she could detect faint sounds of movement.

[Selwythe]

Burg snarled in fury as he got to his feet, indignant at losing his composure in front of his men. They scattered now, panicked and alarmed, as the solitary rider rounded its way back, riding toward him. His mouthed curled in a sneer as he saw a black arrow embed itself in the horse. The horse wobbled slightly before collapsing in a heap, flinging the rider before him. A Rohirrim, he concluded even as the despisal of that name sank home. All his breed were taught to hate the golden land before they knew hatred itself.

He raise his black sword, halting the front row of men, scavengers hunting for a meal, and vultures swooping on the dead and defenceless.

"Halt, comrades, for I command!" he bellowed. He certainly did, after slaying that honourless captain, no doubt a rival in the chains of command. "Follow those scum! Follow and defile the forest! Today, they curse our foul feet!" he ordered as he gestured at the direction the Elven riders had left in. All around him, a deafening war cry sounded as Orcs and Uruks alike rallied. They were fools, but at least they knew when to obey, and whom.

He watched as a sizable host set off in pursuit. They had been outmaneuvered, but the day could yet be saved.

---------------

Erenfor glanced back as the host sped forward. The war cry had been thunder in a storm, and he knew whatever time he had bought would soon end. His far-seeing eyes gazed far, but he did not see the Rohirrim. He hoped he was still alive. He had been a fool, headstrong enough to break away and pick a fight he could not win.

He sighed. The youngling had a future, but he could not risk and sacrifice all the lives of his men for him. Thousands of long lives for a mortal. His face hardened as he saddened. The sundering of Elves and Men was too real.

He looked forward again. The boy would confront his destiny and emerge hero if he did. He, he still had a mission, and he had to give up half of the world, if need be, to save the world.

----------------

Alfwine stirred and grimaced. His side burned where it had hit the ground, and his head was light. He shook it and a hideous face filled his vision. His foe. His nightmare.

"A Rider of Rohan?" the Uruk spat at him. "You be here whilst your homeland burns in agony?"

He made no answer, as fear and rage both surfaced within him, converging as one. He held his yellow stare levelly.

"Oh yes," he continued taunting. "We will remake Rohan in OUR image, in OUR honour, in OUR pleasures! I can sense the great host even now! Crossing the Isen! Pouring into the plains! Killing all and burning houses! Tell me, scoundrel! Where be your kin? Where be your comrades? Where be the man and his horse?"

"You killed them," he answered, emotionless. Realisation had sunk in as he watched and listened.

The Uruk threw back his head and laughed.

[Lief Erikson]

Galkier winced, and got to his feet. The wound had cut through his armor and he'd lost quite a bit of blood; that could weaken him during the remainder of the battle. The arrow hadn't given him more than a minor hurt, for he wore armor underneath his jerkin and had been protected. Apparently, however he hated and detested the Isengarders, he realized as he looked around, this orc Burg had gotten things pretty well under control. Where was he though?

"You!" he snarled, seizing one of his own troops by the shoulder.

The orc cringed as he recognized his master. "Sir! What do you want from me? I'm sorry, I was always loyal, I was only following that foul maggot Isengarder because-"

Galkier slapped him in the face to cut off the babble. "Where is he now?"

The orc stared at him blankly. "Who?"

"Burg!"

"Oh, ah . . . I don't know. Haven't seen him. He sort of vanished . . ."

"Where are my officers?"

"Ah . . ." the orc looked around wildly for a moment, and then pointed. "There!"

"These orcs are willing to follow wherever they find strength," Galkier growled to himself as he walked toward them, rubbing once again his injury, in spite of the pain.

"What are you doing?" he asked them loudly as he strode into their midst. Their looks of surprise and guilt were pleasing to him. "Thinking of deserting, eh?"

Their babbles of loyalty were most satisfying; he had not lost control.







The orc torrent roared forward, hacking through bushes and undergrowth, uncaring for any living thing in their mad rush to kill. Some attacked the forest, others ran along its edge. Still others of the large army from Isengard, and all of Galkier's remaining followers chased Erenfor and his followers.

A group of eight were running along the forest's edge, and they almost passed the old man at the forest's edge without noticing him. They were almost upon them when they suddenly stopped in surprise. This easy victim was ignoring them. His eyes were closed and he was seated, cross legged with his back against one of the trees of the Pentagrid Forest.

Two of them grinned evily and sauntered up to him, drawing daggers. They never knew what hit them, but in the space of two seconds they and the rest of their company had been destroyed.

Colmade turned the attention in his mind to another part of the Pentagrid Net. He could feel the trees screaming with outrage throughout the forest. Orcs were storming through, but the trees were coming alive. Colmade knew that the orcs were comitting suicide to attack this particular forest in this fashion. The trees were incredibly strong, and it would be an easy task for them to tear apart the intruders, once they were suitably roused.

Colmade turned his mind aside again, and with the fringes of the Net, in the outlying territory he sensed General Erenfor gathering his troops for a counterattack against the orcish host. Galkier apparently was still alive, and taking back command of his followers. Burg had temporarily disappeared, so apparently many of the Isengarders were also following his lead in hunting down Erenfor's party.

But it wasn't long before once again Colmade's attention was called back to the tower in the center of the Net. There was a fight going on there, and several members of the company had penetrated the tower. In the interior, there was tension and darkness. Colmade saw BÃ*renath and Lumenion run from the path and enter the tower, quickly dashing through the passages towards the center, led by elven instinct and the power that they held.

Mal was fighting a ringwraith in the doorway, an invisible battle, as the rest of all forces for dark or light, closed in to struggle at the final threshold of the key to power.

[Selwythe]

*Crap, I embroiled myself in a soliloquoy?*

The air stilled startingly in silence as Alfwine drew himself up, wincing with the pain in his side. His face was stone, and he never took his eyes off his foe.

"When will you ever learn," the Uruk shook his head in mockery, "to bend knee before the tyrant, to serve, and to amuse. The Golden Hall burns, young fool. It burns in your soul. When will you submit?"

The young man held himself steadily, and he was proud of it. Yet fear ate at him inside, that and horror, and perhaps regret. But most of all, rage. Pure, unbridled rage. He trembled with it. He had once, in times long past and blissful, in the warm sunshine, yearned for the life of a soldier, of chivalry and honour. It was a dream shattered by reality.

"...and you know what we will do? You captives will beg for mercy, beseech me on my knees, and kiss my hand! You..." the Uruk stopped short in mid-taunt and ducked hastily as Alfwine drew his sword and slashed at him in a fluid motion. Within seconds he too had drawn his blood-stained sword and he danced the forms with the young man.

Concentrate, Alfwine willed himself, even as he parried another strong blow, staggering backwards from its intensity. He had to stay focused and intent. The instant he surrendered to his emotions would herald his doom. He grit his teeth as he dodged. Fear, anxiety, anger, he blanked them all out.

He sought the opening, the relent in the ceaseless attacks, and finally found it, and he dived forward, surging his strength into the gap, attempting to pry it open. Too late, he realised it was a feint, and his opponent swung his sword downwards at his head at an inhuman speed. Frantically he lifted his sword to meet it, and in the sickening moment as blade glanced on blade, steel crashed on steel, something gave, and he stumbled as his sword clattered to the floor, his sword-arm numb in shock, a thousand nettles pricking his nerves.

Then the blade returned, thrusting at his chest. He dodged sideways, but his body was failing. It drew a deep gash as it glanced against his midriff, yet he felt nothing, only exhaustion.

Then he crumbled to the floor. Then as he landed, full feeling returned and he became aware of pain. Stark blinding pain in his side, his arm and in his chest. It was all he could do not to cry out in sheer despair and weep in torment, but he bit his lip shut. He would not make a sound of defeat to show that he was crushed, and offer any satisfaction to his enemy. He would not submit to his enemy. He could die with all his honour.

As the Uruk stood before his prone form, raising his sword and blacking out the light of the sun, he glared back in defiance.

"Meet your doom, blasted fool," the Uruk whispered, "and join your cursed family, your cursed people in their graves."

Alfwine did not look, but he knew he was bleeding where he was biting. In his heightened sense of torturing pain, he still felt it. Blood. It was bitter, and cold.

[Lief Erikson]

The first of the orc force didn't even have time to be surprised by the sudden shower of arrows that cut them down. The ones behind them died almost as quickly. The third row dissolved as the orcs fled, but Galkier rallied his men quickly, preparing for a rush that would break the small but stiff resistance in front of him. Erenfor, however, was even faster.

His elves whipped out their blades and came into the enemy center, quickly slashing down any who stood in their way. Men charged from other angles and Galkier turned his head in dismay, seeing himself outflanked as well. The orcs began to break in dismay, fleeing as the three pronged assault burrowed into them.

Erenfor's steely eyes locked with Galkier, and they each knew that the other was the leader of the enemy. Galkier raised his sword in a two handed grip and roared out a challenge.

"I'll carve your eyes out, elf swine!" He leapt forward, swinging for his enemy's head. It was a feint, but Erenfor parried his suddenly changed low line attack with ease. Coming back, he pressed Galkier closely, cutting and dodging with nimble grace. Galkier knew that if he could slay this opponent, the fight could well end there. He also knew that he was outclassed, but he wasn't about to let that stand in the way of victory. Victory was what was important, even if it meant losing a little face in front of his orc followers.

"Close in and kill this elf!" he shouted, and his orcs turned their heads toward him. Seeing their commander's plight, they quickly charged Erenfor, mobbing the bright elf in a group of writhing black bodies. Axes, swords and maces flailed out, yet it seemed the elf captain was untouchable. Even some of his own followers, who had seen him in action before stared in wonder.

His hair flew wild and free and his sword danced, slaying opponent after opponent, parrying, slashing and cutting as it hacked through enemy blades and heads, severing heads and arms in a flurry of brilliant swordplay.

Galkier's lip curled in fury. Moving around toward Erenfor's back, he drew forth a small dagger and raised it in his left hand. Then his arm whipped forward and the knife sped forth, burying itself up to the hilt in the captain's side.

Erenfor grunted in pain and stumbled, and the three remaining orcs that had been about to flee hesitated. Then, one of them gave a howl of victory and leapt at him as he sank to one knee. Galkier's grin widened as he stepped toward him, raising his battle sword.

But he moved too soon. Erenfor slashed through the wrist of the orc that had charged him in the front, cutting off its sword hand. Even as it stumbled back, howling, he leapt upon the last two and killed both.

Galkier's sword missed the back of his head by a hair, hesitated only a second to regain his balance, and then he clove downward. Erenfor had noticed him though and raised his sword to parry 5, blocking the opponent's blade neatly.

Galkier's left fist came upwards, snapping quickly into Erenfor's right wrist. His brute strength was probably twice that of Erenfor's, and the sword was soared through the air, landing on the grass several feet away. Galkier stumbled forward, at the release in pressure, and fell upon the elf. Erenfor quickly raised his fist upward and snapped off three successive blows to the orc's gruesome face. Ignoring the pain, Galkier seized Erenfor by the neck and brought up his armored knee into his opponent's stomach. A final blow to the face with the crest of his sword laid the elf out on the ground.

Galkier grinned in evil pleasure and raised his sword for the two handed blow that would sever his enemy's head.

The elves and men stared in horror as the blade came down. But before it struck, Erenfor uttered a piercing cry of pain and came up in near impossible speed. Galkier staggered backward, astonishment written on his face. The orc dagger with which he'd stabbed the captain was now planted straight through his neck, the tip protruding from the other end.

Three seconds Galkier stood, wavering, and then he collapsed. Erenfor stood above him, motionless and stained in blood. For a few seconds, the sound of battle dropped, as the orcs stared. Then they broke and fled. Many fled in the direction of Erenfor, and even though he was empty handed and alone before them all, none approached him.

[Selwythe]

*Burg did not follow the Orcs. He stayed behind to fight the annoyance. Alfwine's not dead.*

[Lief Erikson]

*Sorry, I was wondering about that. I wasn't positive whether or not Burg was the orc scout or the orc captain or both. I chose to assume that Burg and the Uruk that was such an annoyance to Alfwine were two different orcs, because I didn't think that the orc leader himself would be doing that scout work in the danger zone. I see I was mistaken, and I thought about asking you first to make sure. I think I've corrected it pretty well now, though.*

[Lief Erikson]

*Is Turion a man or an elf? I forget.*


The Nazgul didn't watch Tessar as he approached, but he knew he was there. They both sensed each other in the spirit world, as closely as if they saw each other with waking eyes. Tessar was just as wary there as he was in the body, for he knew what it was he was confronting.

Turion, Kaytrien and Tessar all were coming, and Tessar knew how close he was to what he'd sought. He had entered the long hall with pillars and tunnels. One of the tunnels led to a passage back toward the surface, but there was a secret door inside through which the books were to be found. And in the hall outside, the Nazgul waited.




Tessar stopped at the entrance to the hall and was silent for a moment in the dead stillness, his head toward the impeneterable, as if listening. Kaytrien looked at him for a moment in bewilderment; Turion simply waited, his hand resting casually on his sword hilt.

"Kaytrien, Turion," Tessar said quietly to the other two after about ten seconds. "I think that you should wait here."

"Why?" Kaytrien demanded to know, though quietly.

"You aren't prepared to face this creature, it is far beyond you. Turion might be able to handle it, but the darkness there is impenetrable and I believe it is too dangerous. I must deal with it alone, and this is a dark that my light cannot break."

Turion agreed, and Tessar left them.

He strode through the middle of the empty hall slowly, until at last he reached its center. Then, he slowly sat down, cross legged on the floor and closed his eyes. When he had been young, he had dealt almost entirely in the fireball throwing rough sort of magic. Now, in his many years, he had developed the stronger sense of what it truly was. Another elf had been investigating the spirit of such power, and in it she had discovered more fully her own. Now he did as he had discovered with her all those years ago, and entered into the spirit world.

The room about him became bright, and there was an inner radiance to all things. The stones were silver and pearl, and he felt the life in all things. The stone beneath him spoke a greeting. He saw a pile of books lying some distance away, gleaming brilliant white. There were probably walls in between him and them, but they no longer mattered.

Tessar stood up and looked around. The Nazgul was standing about a dozen feet away from him, a pale sword gleaming in its fleshless hand. Its beard and hair whisped about its long face, blown by an invisible wind. It shown in silver and white, and it seemed to be standing in a thundercloud.

It raised one hand slightly in mild surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"You stand between me and a treasure that I am called to receive," Tessar answered. "Allow me to take it or I will destroy you."

"Have you ever tried to destroy a Nazgul?" the old man asked, smiling with his mouth. "It is not such an easy chore, elflord."

"Then you refuse to stand aside?"

The ancient king's armor shifted as he raised his left arm to point across the distance that separated them at Tessar's face. "Fly now, while you have the chance."

[Lief Erikson]

The thundercloud seemed to roil, but Tessar drew his blade. A fire ran along its tip, and it shown in a blazing fury as he stepped forward. He swung downwards for the wraith's head, and it countered his move. The blades clashed, and they were together in a roiling cloud of thunder and lightning. Darkness and brilliant light.

Tessar pushed the Nazgul backwards, and the creature fell to the floor.

Its face was livid with anger, but there was some fear there as well. Up it came, sweeping in a diagonal upward cut. Tessar parried, attacked, counterparried, and lightly twisted his wrist in a series of quick feints before launching a real attack for his enemy's heart. The blade struck iron armor, and the Nazgul's blade shifted the attack into the air. It aimed a blow at Tessar's head but he ducked it, taking several steps backward.

The Nazgul shrieked, a shriek of mindless hatred and of dreadful terror. There were words in its cry, of despair, rage and violence. Tessar heard and understood them.

"My master will blacken you forever, your flesh shall be eaten and your mind made visible to his unending torture; I have seen it happen before, you fool who dares to face the powers of darkness and thinks that he may live . . . !"

Tessar covered his ears in pain; he hated to understand the cry of the Nazgul, but with the knowledge of this place came the knowledge of what happened within it as well.

The thundercloud ripped at him and the Nazgul seemed taller. A look of triumph filled its face as it spoke words of power and death that came to it from the Lidless Eye; Tessar could see the eye behind the Nazgul, glaring red and black over him as the Nazgul raised its sword.

The pale king fell backward, fighting wildly. The Eye was gone, and several dim shapes struggled with the silver warrior as it flailed at them in self defence with its gleaming sword . . .



BÃ*renath stabbed inward, but his sword was shattered by the Black Rider's returning blow. His black cowl and robes whirled about him as he twisted to respond to Lumenion's next onslaught, then briefly twisting to block Slythre's incoming dagger . . .



The wraith lost itself from them, for they were unaccustomed to the dark, but they had done what was needed. They had intervened at the time when it was most necessary, saving Tessar at the point of death. In the spirit realm, one had added weaknesses as well as strengths.

The thundercloud blasted about him as he leapt upwards, bounding up in the air and slashing at the pale king. The power was in him, blazing in strength now. The wraith gave another cry, but it availed him not. Tessar struck.

He felt the king's pain. The silver warrior was weakened, in pain, and outnumbered. The power was gone from him and was with his opponent. Even if the others weren't helping Tessar now, he would stand no chance.

He backed up several steps, paused and took one final, hunted look at the whole situation. Then his face twisted in final rage and despair as his eyes went back to Tessar. "I hate you, I hate you, may your soul burn in agony; I will never forget or forgive . . . !"

His wordless shriek died away as he ran, fleeing across the dark hills of the spirit world.



The torn black cloak fell to the ground and Tessar's eyes cleared. Sighing softly, he sheathed his sword.

[Selwythe]

*Yes, looks good. Turion is a Man.*

Alfwine watched, his breath drawn in ragged rasps as he watched the black sword swing downward at him, toward his neck. The motion was so slow, yet he could not gather his strength for a defence fitting before death.

Then the Uruk fell away from him as a black stallion leaped over his head at his attacker. The abandoned mount back at the Elven camp. His adopted mount. His horse, and as he slowly realised, his friend.

--------

Burg shrieked in rage as he struggled to get up. The stallion butted him, challenging him. Then he finally found the opening and stabbed his sword into its side, shouting in triumph. He withdrew it, and laughed.

He turned, barely quick enough to parry a blinding attack by the young man. His eyes widened into anger, into surprise, and gradually into fear.

-----------

Alfwine swung his sword with precision on every stroke, every stab, every sweep. Rage was his guide, and hatred was his energy. Deep in concentration, he alienated himself from his body. His fatigue was ignored, feelings distanced. All he knew was his duty. His arm twisted and writhed with a mind of its own, and void of pain.

He bent and swept at the Uruk's legs as his foe hastily retreated, and he caught up the tattered banner with the White Hand. Then with all his might, he swung his sword at him as he parried the heavy slash with both his hands on his sword. He swayed unsteadily, and Alfwine, half collapsing in exhaustion, fell against him, plunging the banner, sharp end, deep in his heart.

Even as his broken arm numbed and pain, blocked out a while ago, came gushing in like a wave of knives at his side, he lost consciousness. And even as he fell, he realised wryly that his duty was done, and if he was to die, it would be without regret.

[Mathron]

OOC: Sorry for the delay - moving back into college, lack of internet, etc.


---


IC:

Malagar and the Nazgul danced around each other, locked in a terrible combat in the darkness of the tower and the night.

Their blades would have flashed in the moonlight filtering through the windows above, save that the Nazguls blade was forged in the heart of Sauron's land, and loathed the touch of any light, whether from Stars, the Sun, or the Moon. Malagar's was but a shard of the weapons he had once wielded, but still retained a shadowy magic, and the light that flickered across the blade seemed, instead, to be drawn within, absorbed within a shadow darker than the pitchest night.

They danced around each other, with Mal the master in speed and skill - every blow the Nazgul launched at him was evaded or deflected with a mastery of swordplay honed over the countless centuries of Arda's existence. Yet should even one strike land, it could end the battle, for the Nazgul was possessed of an ancient and terrible power and might that rested in its blade and its form.

Malagar possessed a power more ancient still, yet refused to call upon it - he had chosen to abide by the Valar's decree and, while he remained in this land, would not use the powers he had once known. So though his blade struck past the Ringwraith's defences time and time again, it could not penetrate the armor, nor strike the spiritual form of the wraith.

He could only keep it locked in combat, and pray his companions did not need his aid.


---

Harnauro droze himself up the stairs, bleeding from a dozen wounds. He had engaged the second Nazgul as long as he could, having caught up with it atop the stairs and hurled it back with all his might - yet all his strength could not truly harm it, and it struck him time and time again. Though few blades could hurt him, its struck deep, and his blood ran long and cold across the floor.

Yet he had delayed it long enough for his companions to approach, and as it turned to deal with them, he had struggled up towards the books, knowing that if any other Nazgul were about, he would have to hold them off. He knew not what form he was truly in at the moment - in the pain, he drifted from man to wolf, and back again. Yet he knew he had a duty here, and would not fail in it.

[Lief Erikson]

Through the fog of pain and anger, a light shown into Harnauro's head. He saw an elf approaching through the darkness. It was Tessar, clad in brilliant white and standing on the threshold of the spirit world.

"What's happened to you?" Tessar asked quietly in the elven tongue, looking upon him in sadness and pity. "The Nazgul blade has worked horrors upon you, and forced you to meet me in another way. Yet beneath that there is a pain deeper still . . ."

Yet he didn't intrude, pulling aside the iron walls that Harnauro had built around his heart. It would have been easy for him to remove the shroud, but the elf knew that this was not his secret to know, at least not intrusively like this. It was for Harnauro to tell to whom he chose.

Tessar laid his hand gently upon the fur of the wolf head. Pain faded from Harnauro's wounds, and he slumped down in a deep sleep.







have you done

Tessar blinked, coming more fully back from the spirit world and listening to the voices around him.

"What have you done?" Slythre asked again, more impatiently. "Are you here?"

He didn't bother with answering the question. "Come on, we have another task to accomplish right now. The books that we were sent for.

"They're this way," he told them, motioning with his hand, but they didn't see it.

Then he remembered that the shadow of the Nazgul was gone, and all of a sudden the room was filled with a brilliant light. For several seconds it dazzled them, and they closed their eyes against the brightness. Then slowly their eyes adjusted to the beams of the star, and they saw the hall of the Istari in its glory and power, as it had been many years ago. The walls caught the light, rekindling its old flame. The elven star died, but the walls glowed with their own magic, and the power shot through them.

Exhileration filled the stone, excitement touched the walls and hidden chambers of the underground structure.

Light shot through it, dispelling darkness all the way to the top. Fiery rays poured from the snow white tower and blazed out through the very Pentagrid Forest itself.



The gaze of Saruman was forced away as he looked through his palantir upon the light that he had once been apart of. He was one of many colors now, and was forced aside by what he had once mastered.

The darkness of the blazing Eye in Barad-Dur flinched at the light that shown now.

The Nazgul Mal fought screamed and was torn away from the tower in agony.



Colmade smiled as the Pentagrid Net filled with full strength, its shining strands temporarily visible to even the unaided eyes of all who stood about. The light shown too bright for any shadow to come again for many long years . . .

[Selwythe]

"Aye, he slew Great Burg, he did."

"He? I'd wage he no spent more twenty winters unda the oppression," somebody spat.

"He's down, we can..."

Alfwine finally opened his eyes with great effort, and his breath caught as he saw the two Orcs staring down at him. Yet if he was surprised, they would have been petrified. Immediately they turned and ran, leaving him alone.

He tried to move, and winced despite himself. His sword-arm he could not move without stirring thousands of nettles within himself, and his other would not move for its exhaustion. His side seared as his tattered and tainted white cloak grew a deeper shade of red as he tried to writhe.

Teeth ground with effort, he pulled himself up by his good arm, and nearly fainted from the effort. Stars swam across his vision, and colours were at once dull shades of grey, at once vivid garish spears piercing his eye.

Then he turned, and he sighed, in disgust and relief. The Uruk captain still lay there, the butt-end of the Isengard banner-pole embedded deep in its chest, and its dirty flag flapping wildly in the breeze, small in its defeat. He was lucky to be alive, lucky to have survived. All around him, chaos ruled. Orcs and Uruks fled in all directions in panic at the death of their leader, cutting down whatever lay in their path, friend or foe. Shrieks and howls filled the air as Orcs fought Uruks, and Uruks fought Orcs, and they too fought their own kind, and they mingled so that he all he could discern was a scene from a nightmare. Yet, they gave him and the fallen Uruk leader a wide berth, and had that been another time, where he was not ridden with wounds and bruises, he would have been proud of the achievement which had caused it. But now, all he wanted was to lie down, and flee the pain of his body, and escape the struggles of the world.

He blinked, his vision was still much a palette of colours, yet he was sure he had not imagined it. For the whole day, the dark clouds had gathered, and the air stilled and howled in irregular intervals, heralding the storm that was to follow. Yet it never came, and now, he was sure he had caught sight of a beam, whiter than white and bright as the heavens, shoot across the sky from the forest, dissipating the darkness.

He shut his eyes in agony as purple images of the blinding light danced across his vision. All around him, he heard the cries and howls stop for an instant, and return again in full force as Orcs and Uruks shouted and screamed in fear, before embarking on a full-blown, blood-curdling rampage, as all tried to leave the scene with greatest haste.

Amid the uproar, he discerned a soft whinny, a panicked whimper of a fallen horse. He saw his stallion, lying in a puddle of blood, and scarcely moving, but he heard the faintest of pleas for help. It had lived on its own in the wild in the past, and only knew solitude, yet now, it screamed in its mind for the presence of the only being it knew.

His eyes stung in recognition as he crawled awkwardly, but frantically, across the ground. His pain intensified: his sword-arm might have belonged to another as it fell away from him, useless; his knees screamed in agonised torture as he lengthened hundreds of bloody cuts, and provoked thousands of angry bruises; and his side still seared with a deep throbbing pain, threatening to bore into him. He closed his eyes and scrunched his face as an Orc, Uruk, he knew not which and did not care to, passed agonisingly close, kicking dirt and mud in his face. On and on he worked toward his goal, his body screaming in protest and fear. On all fours, he did not see the trail of blood marking his wake, and his head grew light as it threatened to blank out. He did not care how pitiable or humbled he looked, only that he had to get there.

The wind was knocked out of him as a dark minion kicked him in his accursed injured side as it ran, its spiked foot driving in. He flipped around in agony as his eyes, though open and frantic, saw only darkness and a black night slowly creep in. His body was on fire, as he bled again, in pain and defeat.

[Selwythe]

Then his hand closed around the mane of his stallion in his wild convulsion. His breath slowed in contentment, even as he surrendered to the growing darkness, cold as ice, within him.

"We will yet make it," he comforted soothingly in ragged gasps, as much for the horse as for himself. "Fear not the wrath of the Light. The Valar bless us."

His eyes closed as his body once again failed in exhaustion, even as chaos reigned all around him. He was but a young man, a reluctant adventurer, caught and entangled and snared by the eternal war between good and evil, and hapless to gain rein of the swirling of his fate. Now, he lay wounded in a battlefield, bleeding tears and weeping pain, alone in his struggle, caught between two greater powers. No, alone with his only friend left in the world.

Consciousness slipped from him, leaving him to the piercing embrace of ice, cold and relentless.

[Mathron]

The Nazgul fled, and Malagar let it pass, let it run off, screeching into the night. The light that flooded forward meant that the others had won - had accomplished what needed to be done.

At first, he flinched from the light, out of instinct and an ancient affinity with shadow - but a calm came over him, and he smiled, and embraced it. He took the stairs four at a time, and reached the top to see the others staring at the glory of the hall. Harnauro stood, human again, resting against one wall, and Malagar smiled again at the obvious joy on Harnauro's face - his life, Mal knew, was with far too little beauty, and this moment had been surely worth the battle.

"Another safe haven," he whispered. Another battle won. But they couldn't let things end here - for if the shadow won out over the rest of the world, it would eventually fall over the Pentagrid, and all the other havens of the world.

Harnauro started, noticing Mal behind him. "It is... beautiful, is it not?"

"It is." Malagar thought back to his days in the Blessed Lands, and was saddened once more.

Harnauro turned and glanced at Mal, wondering at the tone of his friends voice. Malagar explained nothing, but rather said, "We can rest and recover her, but there are more battles yet to be fought. This has been but one battle in a war, and though we ignored the signs of the growing darkness... I know that I, for one, can stand aside no longer."

Harnauro nodded, and a bit of weariness returned - until he look at the light once again.

"Very well. But for now... for now, I think, we have time to rest."

"For now, we have time to rejoice."

[Lief Erikson]

Erenfor caught sight of the one he was looking for at last, nearly buried in the jumble of dead and dying orcs. The young man's face was pale and his body smeared with mud and gore, and for a moment he was afraid that he had come too late.

His own wound from the orc knife ached with pain as the poison worked its way through him; he would have to get to a healer soon. But the orcs fled now, and he had had to take advantage of it to turn this retreat into a rout. It was done now; his warriors were cutting down the orcs with ease. And he had kept a close eye out for this young Rohirrim.

Elves were skilled at detecting life quickly, and it was only a short time before Erenfor felt the man's life breath.

Reaching down from the saddle, he scooped up the young fighter and pulled him up alongside him. Glancing down at the horse which had stood steadfastly beside it in the turmoil, he remembered the love which was held between the man and horse in Rohan. He took it by the bridle with his other hand, and rode back through the tide of destruction to the men and elves of his followers.

"Take care of him," he ordered a couple young doctors that had followed the troop. "He has fought well, as befits a man of Rohan."

At that moment, light pierced the sky, shining like a beacon from the Pentagrid Forest. Like a second sun it blazed power and radiance, and Erenfor turned his head toward the source of magic in amazement.

The orcs that remained crumpled to the ground, crying out in anguish and terror. The elves and men stared at the light for a moment, and then the new strength filled them and they executed the remaining orcs that were alive, killing all until no evil thing was left alive in the field of war.

[Arat-Falathion]

BÃ*renath and Lumënion sat down beside Turion. "So this is it then, the battle is won." BÃ*renath said. "I´m afraid this is only the beginning, my friend." Turion replied. "My journey shall continue, I am planning to go to Gondor and search for Aragorn there." BÃ*renath nodded. "And so I shall travel with you, and my brother might as well, for this is the only way I can repay you I´m afraid..." "Very well, so you shall aid me at my side, and your brother as well, till we reach Gondor. From there you should do what ever you please... Now, let us get some rest!" Turion laid down on his back and closed his eyes, and BÃ*renath and Lumënion joined him...

---------------------
- Falathion

[Lief Erikson]

The remainder of the day was spent cleaning up after the battle. The rest of Erenfor's army had been summoned, and many of the doctors were needed. Erenfor himself had been drugged and put to sleep as the physicians of the army tried to cure the poison that had by now infected large parts of his body. Alfwine was inside the same healing area, receiving close attention. His wounds were bad, but it was certain that in time he'd make a full recovery.

That night, there was a celebration held within the Istari foundation. Yet it was subdued; there was great fear among the men for the life of their general.




Four days later, the battlefield had been cleaned up entirely. The members of the company had gathered together with Colmade on the grass on the field outside the entrance to the Pentagrid Forest.

"I want to thank you all," Colmade told them. "Because of your help, the books have been saved and the old tower brought to new life.

"But I have decided not to move the books from their home. Rather, I am sending out messengers, birds of the air, other creatures as well as my own power, out to collect wizards from around the world. Isengard was once just as fair a place as this tower is now, though in a different way. Now we have a chance to come into a new home, a temporary one which will last us until Orthanc is removed from the clutches of the traitor Saruman and returned to our keeping.

"The trees will remain subserviant to the Istari order, but I will inform Barkvein that the violent defending of the forest isn't going to be as necessary anymore. They can stop travelers and question them, but this must return to being a place of peace, as it has been in bygone years."

He looked at each of the others in turn. "Well, the need for the company is ended. You all responded to my call and fulfilled your errand admirably. Now, we must all go our own ways. Mine remains here, where it has been for many years already. But each of you has yet to choose your own path. I leave you to it, but if any of you ever comes this way again, you will always be welcome here at the Pentagrid Forest."

[Selwythe]

Alfwine opened his eyes, and winced as a pain bore within him at his side. A pain which was buffered and muffled, but not vanished. His sword-arm was fixed in a cast, weak and broken. Dimly in his mind he remembered what had caused it as he stirred and blinked.

For beauty surrounded him, holy and unblemished. His golden bed was worked in intricate carvework, its sheets a pure white. The smell of flowers permeated the air, and golden sunlight streamed softly in through the gilded window. The whole room shone with a holy radiance that filled him with life as he drew deep breaths of the air.

Have I left the circles of the world then, he wondered with a tinge of remorse, is this then heaven?

"Nay, but simply the humble abode of my camp for the wounded and sick," a voice boomed as Alfwine he turned around. He had not known that he had spoken the last aloud.

"And too sometimes the reviver of men who were valiant in battle, who overcame odds through sheer bravery," the Elf continued.

Alfwine looked at him. He knew him. He had been general of the host he had followed, and he had also met him once, on a night which seemed so far away in an inn when he too awoke in a strange place. He was weak now. Even holding on to a crutch, he staggered at times. His limbs were slow, and no longer moved with a dangerous grace.

"Let it be known henceforth that the sunder between Elves and Men is not deep, for both are valiant and brave, and our people will be needed when the real shadow strikes. Let all myths be debunked, all lies discerned, all enmity buried. The heavens smile upon our meeting, valiant man of Rohan," the general intoned.

Alfwine smiled. "I salute you, General Erenfor."

[Mathron]

Malagar sat, resting against a tree within the Pentagrid. The others were feasting after Colmade's speech, and a grand celebration was taking place between men and elves - and even some Ents, watching from the shadows.

Mal felt a strange similarity between now, and nearly a year before, when he had returned to Middle Earth, leaving the islands he had dwelt in for so long. He had come to Fangorn, another ancient forest with ancient Ents, nearby another tower of ancient sorcery.

"So is the fate of the world. When one ending comes, another beginning arises to replace it," he whispered to himself, feeling the chill of the night's air. It was a sad though, but also comforting.

"Someone seems quite thoughtful tonight," said Slythre, stepping out of the shadows to greet him. He glanced up, his eyes twinkling, and shrugged. The last year had done much to restore his faith in the world - as well as, perhaps, to demonstrate to him that the race of man was not quite the inferiors he once saw them. He had seen many brave men during his recent adventures - and brave women, too.

"Darkness is still afoot," replied Mal, "but for now, we have a victory and safety."

She shook her head, and moved to sit beside him. "It is more than that. You are quite somber yet - I see very little of the merry trickster you first introduced yourself as."

He shrugged, again, though a smile remained on his face. "I've learned to take joy a bit more seriously, perhaps. And even during these victories, I still feel the call to battle - the enmity between myself and our foe goes far back indeed."

She looked him over, and her voice was certainly serious now. "Is that what you plan to do, then? Seek him out and battle?"

"Not... not as such. But I will continue to join in the fight against him. Perhaps taking it closer to his own borders - I hear that the guardsmen, those countries set up to watch his borders, are hard pressed. I plan to head there and do what I can to aid the battles. Harnauro, also, will come."

She looked up at the night sky, making out the twinkle of stars from beneath the deep forest canopy. "Erenfor still has work to do here - stray orc bands still roam the land, and he seems to want to aid the warrior from Rohan - perhaps by sending his force there to aid them."

"And where will you go?"

"I still have an offer for my services with his company. Where else would I go?"

He raised an eyebrow and said, as though offended, "You know you are more than welcome to travel with us."

She smiled, but before she could respond, they heard a call, and saw Tessar waving them down to the feasting. As they rose to their feet and headed to join the others, he heard her whisper upon the wind, "Maybe. Maybe..."