It was an errand hindered by darkness.

Ciradwen, tireless as she was by nature, still felt the heavy hopelessness that seemed to permeate the night, acutely feeling of something unkindly in the way the moon shined upon their party of seven before it was engulfed by dark clouds.

The wardens, four in total, had been tasked with escorting the trio of traveling scribes. They'd gone silently, taking light steps by the edges of trees, keeping low on mountain passes, aided by the grace and agility gifted to their kind and keen to be swift and cautious.

Through the plains they held close, rarely sparing a moment to rest unless needed, not because of some new ill word or warning held in the wind, but of a vague premonition peculiarly shared among them early on, now that they were days into the journey and the memory of it had not faded easily.

Ciradwen had felt no peace since then, always circling and moving at the lightest disturbance near or far off and she had not been alone in this anxiety.

"We will be there soon enough," assured her companion, Lethelrin, whose fingers lazily and almost inelegantly thrummed the string of his bow.

He seemed at ease, thought Ciradwen, the long braids behind his pointed ears wavering with his movements but she did not miss the uncertain flickering of his gaze, ever ready as she and the others were to defend or flee if need be.

They had now stopped reluctantly, the beginnings of a strong storm emerging rapidly and were able to take shelter at the mouth of a dense cavern. The entrance was wide, which seemed good for quick escapes but it had left them feeling exposed.

"The lot of you make for the most dire company," said Roanir with mild exasperation. His side rested against the cavern wall, the light of their fire illuminating his upturned profile eerily and casting a large shadow behind him.

"Dire times may lie ahead, Roanir," said Ciradwen. "But you are right," she then added quickly, "that does not mean we cannot try to ease each others hearts at least. Lethelrin, sing for us, something to make us smile and forget we are wary."

Lethelrin smirked, a mild quirk in his brow forming. "I thought you did not like my singing."

"Don't be absurd. Of course I like it, just not when I am thinking or trying to," she clarified. "There are times for silence and times for pretty words and pretty tunes, do you not agree?"

"Aye, I agree. But perhaps I do not feel inspired yet, unless sweetly compelled," Lethelrin replied cheekily, his dimpled smile showing.

"Will you be sweetly compelled when I take that bow from you to keep it safe from your crude handling of it? It is not an instrument, Lethelrin," said Ronair with an admonishing look.

"Depends on your definition, does it not?" replied Lethelrin easily, un-chided by Roanir.

"Sometimes I think you do not deserve it, with the way you treat it," scoffed Roanir.

"You are merely jealous that archery is still your failing," said Lethelrin.

"Let us see then!"

"Now who is the dire company," muttered Melveroë softly, her eyes intent on sharpening the blade of her sword. "Both of you have soured an otherwise peaceful night."

"Something is approaching," said Lethelrin suddenly, rising to face the outside where the rain still poured heavily and had begun slowly flooding in. The other wardens rose as well, abandoning their tasks and banter, ready to meet whatever lie in wait for them. Their charges were also not timid at this news, and while not as skilled, they would not submit themselves to inaction if it arose that they should all partake in battle. Terenes, Vildorne and Soldarith were valued scribes, carrying on a mission of their own deemed just important enough to have gained escort of four trained warriors.

"I do not see anything," said Ciradwen. "This downpour is too thick."

Just then lightening cracked sharply, striking a tree with such a force that it split and came down, the bright flash revealing where it fell in the path just outside. Ciradwen peered intently in that direction, watching for the silent flashes of light from the sky that shown nothing but wet land and shaking trees, but there was something just as Lethelrin said. It was muted by all the noise of nature's wrath and she almost swore their was a musical, yet entirely ominous, tune to it. It was not imagined.

It grew louder, only deafened by more cracks and booms of thunder and lightening that seemed to come as aftershocks to the great tree's demise. Whatever unease they all thought they had felt, it had finally come to a head. This is it, thought Ciradwen, this is at last what we had all envisioned.

"It seems as if the dark omen of our first night will reveal now what it intends for us," said Melveroë, her blade raised before her and her grey eyes shining wide with trepidation. "Surely if it is orcs then we can take care of them," said Terenes, almost shouting now that all the noise from the outside had risen to a high roar that echoed in the cavern as it had not before. Even their fire had seemed to dim at the expectation and almost fading courage. But they did not have to wait long.

Many darkened figures appeared trudging down the slopes to the path that led straight to them, far too many to count and effectively trapping them it seemed. The bent, gnarled shapes holding crude and ghastly armor revealed what they had all expected: orcs. Ciradwen and the other wardens with her were not strangers to battle, nor were they unfamiliar with the tactics and loathsome qualities that orcs possessed and nor were they naive in what would soon take place. She held her stance, as did the others, and tried to quash the sickening fear and dread that filled her insides like jagged pieces of ice. Too much blood would soon be shed in this darkness.

Roanir shared a quick, yet strained glance with Melveroë, one that she could not read the intention behind, but there was some comfort she found that at least they each would not die alone.

"Oh," they heard one of the scribes say behind them in such a tragic whisper, they did not know who it was that had emitted the word but it was full of such pathetic anguish that spoke clearly of what they surely felt but would or could not express. It was curious, however, that their foes seemed to file in at such a leisurely pace. Ciradwen did not know what to think of such…careful actions.

"In dark places we find treats," jeered one orc who neared, his yellowed teeth bared as he spoke and laughed before adding, "but they will be for our master to keep."

"Shut it," growled another, shoving back the one who spoke.

The party of orcs soon moved, shifting aside to reveal a cloaked figure that had been hidden, but how they did not know for it was a brightly colored one of red. Tall, lean and most definitely not an orc. Only the straight mouth and narrow jaw of the stranger was visible until pale hands removed the hood and they were all shocked to see the face of another elf.

A haughty gaze regarded them all carefully and Ciradwen felt a chill rise up her spine at the inspection.

"They will do," he said simply.

Lethelrin did not wait for any signal before he sent an arrow flying straight to strange elf's heart. His arrows were always true, but with a swift wave of the elf's hand the arrow snapped in mid air and was thrown to the side as it lost all force, utterly defying nature.

They were doomed, thought Ciradwen.

"Who are you?" Roanir cried out, his expression torn in alarm and outrage.

But the elf did not answer, merely nodding his head to orcs that flanked him as he stepped aside, signaling the start of battle with a raised hand. Loud cries of fury came from the elves and then horrid shrieks from the orcs followed, then joined by the clang of warring blades loosed arrows that zipped through the air for a target.

Ciradwen struck one orc down first, partially severing the creature's head from its short neck before she kicked it away and defended herself against another whose wretched face seemed to be devoid of features with only lumps of mottled flesh where a nose and lips should have been, its slit pupils gazing upon her hungrily before fading to lifelessness as she dealt it a harsh blow of her sword, effectively cleaving the top of its skull before striking against another foe who tried to best her from behind.

"Retreat into the cavern!" she heard the scribe Terenes shout to his own and they did as he bade, disappearing into the darkness as the other wardens tried to block the force of the orcs from following them, but Ciradwen instantly knew it to be pointless.

Her companions in arms were tireless, but their numbers were too low compared to this small army of orcs that had been summoned from out of nowhere.

Ciradwen turned at the sound of Melveroë's yelp and subsequent grunt of submission, watching as three bared down on her, yanking her hair back and delivering harsh blows to the she-elf's midsection.

"No!"

Distracted, she barely ducked the slam of a jagged shield before running towards the scene with Roanir and Lethelrin joining to try and save their companion, too, but Roanir was pulled back by many rough hands and he was knocked down as well. It was not long before Lethelrin joined him, failing in his own attempt as he was overwhelmed.

Ciradwen was then left alone to flounder among jeering orcs too great in number, circling her menacingly before flinging globs of mud at her eyes and face, trying to blind her and pull her down while fought in the heavy rain and muck. No orc helped their own whose limbs she hacked, of course, them being merely pushed aside so that they could continue their sport of breaking her down as if it were an entertainment.

All it took was a moment of reprieve when seeing through the rain, grime and blood stained vision, her attention fell on Roanir some ways away whose legs had been hacked viciously at the calves, though still attached. His leather boots were stained red and black from the mingling blood that would not wash away so easily while Melveroë lay prone beside him and Lethelrin clutched at his side, not uninjured himself. One side of his face bled profusely over his grey robes and when his arm was kicked away by a grubby boot she saw that his ear was missing.

Their defeat had come too quickly and they cursed as they were hauled up only to be restrained by burning, coarse ropes, too weak and sick in their hearts to put up anymore resistance except the feeble attempts to break free that were quickly met with harsh blows.

"What will you do with us?" asked Lethelrin, his head tilted to the side as blood poured from his ear. The orc closest to him merely smiled.

Just then shouts of horror and dismay filled the cavern once more and they knew at one that it was Terenes, Vildorne and Soldarith had at last been captured as well.

The elf cloaked in red appeared again, his rabble of many orcs parting in waves for him as he looked down on Lethelrin.

"The time will come when you will thank me," the elf in red said, not even the faintest flicker of an emotion on his narrow face. His eyes were the lightest shade of blue Ciradwen had ever seen with dark thick brows arched high, and Ciradwen swore they held no life, too closely resembling the dead look of a corpse with open eyes as if they were sightless, though she knew he was not blind when his unsettling gaze met hers sharply, cutting into her stare before he turned his attention from her and then to Roanir and Melveroë, and then at the three scribes who were brought on their knees to join them.

They had failed to protect them.

"Who is the eldest?" the elf in red asked. None replied.

"Speak or I shall cut this one's throat," he said, revealing a great sword from his robe and pointing it at the throat of Vildorne who trembled, eyes darting wildly around and unable to settle on anything as he contemplated their fate.

"I am," said Terenes finally.

"What does it matter? Who are you?" Roanir demanded, his lips now stained red, a large bruise forming beneath his left eye.

The crowd of fifty or more orcs around them jeered again, rattling their shields and beating crude drums in anticipation.

"It matters very much," the elf said in passing, stepping in front of Terenes with his sword raised. "By how much older do you think you are compared to the rest of your party?"

"At least several hundred years," Terenes replied uneasily, but holding stronger than another scribe at his side who practically wept in terror.

"Forgive me," said the elf flatly.

"Forgive you for what? Of what do you spea–" said Terenes, silenced and for a moment no one knew why, having seen only a glint of silver and the swift movement of the other elf's robes.

It was Soldarith who screamed, unable to contain her shock and grief as Terenes' own head slid from his shoulders and fell from his still kneeling body and rolling between Ciradwen and Lethelrin who had paled in utter horror at the sight. Ciradwen's mouth fell open slack and she recoiled when the body at last fell forward, the ends of Terenes' blonde locks still held to his shoulders, sheared so swiftly and when they fell they parted and fanned out into the mud before quickly moving blood soaked them up.

"My name is Amondur, your new master," said the elf, wiping the blood from his blade with a cloth.

"You are no master of ours," spat Lethelrin whose body shook, blood still pouring from the wound where his ear had once been.

"Perhaps not yet, and I will not pretend that you do not hate me, but I will give you the greatest gift, and in the end you will surely see fit to accept it," said Amondur.

"You are a monster, whoever you claim to be and you are worse than any orc, you are filth!" Ciradwen shouted, much to the delight of the orcs who watched on with eager blood lust, hopeful that she should meet a similar end as Terenes.

"May we take his flesh, master?" said a simpering orc hunched low, appearing beside Amondur hopefully and openly salivating at the sight of fallen elf.

"Do not speak to me," hissed Amondur sharply, pulling his robes away from the pathetic grasp of the greedy orc who longed to taste newly spilled blood.

The scribe Soldarith's head hung low as she wept, her face turned away into her own shoulder and facing Vildorne who looked as if time had ceased, wide eyes fixed on the ground and appearing sickly, likely hearing nothing but the rush of blood in his ears that matched the sound of the heavy rainstorm that had not yet let up.

Ciradwen had seen the death of her own kind before, but the act so plain and brutal before her made her mind halt and she could feel no hope or even any reasoning on what they should do to survive. There was no peace to be made.

"Place his head on a pike, leave it as a gift to whomever comes to look for you, if they even will. Leave a trail with the body," ordered Amondur plainly before adding, "perhaps if he is not eaten too much your fellow wardens will recognize him."

There was no humor or mocking in his words, but still Ciradwen closed her eyes, feeling it unbearable that he should speak so cruelly.

"Why…" wept Soldarith softly to herself.

Amondur turned to her and placing a hand on her head he stroked her hair softly to which she naturally cringed away from, but Amondur seemed to take no notice or offense at this and continued petting her ever so gently as if she were his own to comfort. Soldarith let out a loud wail of despair that echoed in their ears until she could hold herself up no more and pitched herself forward to lie in the muck, utterly spent from grief.

"You will not fade," assured Amondur before leaving her and turning back to the wardens. He looked to them but spoke to his own. "Cover their faces and take them with us while our tracks can still be washed away."

"You are not an elf, but a beast," said Roanir as a foul sack was thrown over his head, not alone as others faced the same treatment.

They all saw darkness, and soon knew it, as great blows were delivered to the backs of each of their heads.

The last thought Ciradwen had was of home, of Lorien, and of the life she still had wanted to live there.