-General-
The Orcs moved amidst the shadows with unsettling agility and maneuverability. They were not to be confused with the brutish beasts of later ages; these had once been Elves, bathed in the light of Ilúvatar, now corrupted by the darkness of Morgoth. Lethal creatures that, beneath the veil of night, revealed their true nature as relentless predators.
Had it not been for Ilarion's vision—superior even to that of the finest hunters—they would never have known of their approach, stalking them from the darkness.
In the camp, the Noldor already awaited them, concealed; their only tell was their collective breath mingling with the salt of the sea. Little by little, cautious footsteps began to be heard at the edge of the clearing; a laugh laden with contempt rang out in the darkness, as if the Orcs were mocking the apparent lack of a watch.
Perhaps they thought the Noldor were overconfident fools, believing there to be no danger. At first, the Orcs had not planned to attack; it was curiosity that had drawn them in. However, upon discovering that these were enemies of their Lord, the decision was immediate.
How did those Orcs know they were adversaries of Morgoth?
The return of the Dark Lord had been known for some time, and many of his ancient followers had returned to shelter beneath his shadow. The orders were clear and had been given long ago: every Elf arriving from the sea was to be hunted and slain without mercy.
"Fools," hissed an Orc as he sniffed the air. Sensing the clustered Noldor, he found nothing amiss: their stench permeated the camp, and the makeshift tents were saturated with their trail.
Another of the Orcs, more alert, drew in the air again. This time his face contorted sharply; with a guttural cry, he turned toward the spot where the Noldor were most concentrated.
"No, you idiots, it is a trap!" he managed to hiss before being silenced by an arrow that cleaved the darkness.
His death was but the prelude to what was to come. With shields raised high, the vast majority managed to survive the surprise attack.
"Kill them!" bellowed one of the beasts, lunging like a predator at an unwary Noldo who, before he could even unsheathe his sword, was run through by the Orc's steel.
Immediately, another arrow whistled through the night and sank into the creature's eye. Its body fell lifeless, collapsing beside that of the unfortunate Elf.
Both forces clashed like beasts fighting over prey. The clash of meeting metal, mingled with cries of fury and agony, shaped a bloody scene. Fingolfin, leader of that contingent of Noldor, led the charge, tearing through the putrid flesh of the creatures with skill and a terrible elegance. He was a true engine of death.
The battle did not last long. The numerical superiority of the Noldor, combined with the relentless cover of the archers, quickly overwhelmed the dozen Orcs. These, despite their agility and ferocity, could not withstand the cold steel of the Elves.
With an indifferent gaze and his breathing barely altered, Fingolfin seized one of the Orcs by the neck, lifting him as if he were a child. That gesture laid bare the immense strength of the son of Finwë.
"Tell me, beast," he began, his voice firm. "Who is your master? Why did you attack us?"
Fingolfin was yet unaware of the true nature of Orcs. The tales Finwë had told him spoke only of a portion of his people kidnapped and tortured by Morgoth; their appearance was never mentioned, nor the tragic kinship those beings bore to the Elves.
The Orc could barely cling to life; he gasped with difficulty yet still managed a sneering smile. His yellowed, misshapen teeth contrasted grotesquely with Fingolfin's white, well-tended ones.
"Why don't you find out for yourself, you stupid Elf?" he spat, summoning what little strength remained to spit in the face of the son of Finwë.
With an indifferent expression, Fingolfin tossed the now-lifeless body of the Orc aside. A Noldor woman hastened toward him and offered him a clean cloth.
Sighing, he cast his gaze toward the fallen. That dozen Orcs had taken four Noldor with them. Now he was certain: these were the dangers his father had spoken of in days of old, creatures capable of standing their ground against even the most skilled swordsmen. According to those old tales, there had once been many more of these beings, but the Valar, alongside their host formed by all the Elves, had wiped out the majority.
He could not even imagine what that war had been like... a battle of equals.
---
Meanwhile, Ilarion watched with a serene face the fear reflected in the Orcs' eyes. Like beasts recognizing the alpha, they backed away step by step. This was the other dozen that had accompanied the first group; upon sighting the fire lit atop the cliff, they had decided to deal with that camp.
These creatures belonged to the second generation of Orcs. Morgoth had used the first as a foundation to create them, and although they still retained a level of combat comparable to that of Elves, their intelligence was inferior to that of their predecessors. Thus, it never occurred to them that the fire was not a matter of chance, but a signal meant to alert the camp on the beach.
What, then, was the cause of their fear?
The Elf standing before them radiated a presence that consumed them from within. His purity illuminated the darkness that dwelt within them, causing Morgoth's corrupt energy to seethe like magma in their entrails. The contrast was unbearable.
Primal instinct intensified. They knew this Elf would not let them leave, and fear gripped their hearts. It was like facing one of their Lord's most fearsome servants, a creature whose mere presence instilled terror: a Balrog.
Such was Ilarion's strength, capable of rivaling the corrupted Maiar... perhaps the weakest of them, but even so. It must not be forgotten that the lad was a fruit still green, watered by none other than the Valar themselves. Without a doubt, a sword destined to be tempered in countless battles, until it became so sharp it could sever the darkness that plagued Arda.
In contrast, the Elves—and especially Galadriel—watched Ilarion's bearing with stirred emotions. Or perhaps it was not only him they saw, but the echo of another time: Fëanor, that Noldo who dared to stand against the Valar, a being whose mere presence commanded respect. Though not all chose to follow him, they had to acknowledge it... Fëanor had been, without a doubt, the greatest of them all, even more so than Fingolfin.
"Ilarion..." whispered the beautiful Elf.
She was still very young, far from the wise beauty—feared by enemies and loved by allies—that she would one day become. With courage, she stepped forward to stand beside her beloved half-cousin.
The son of Fëanor responded with a slight smile, recognizing the fragrance and the warmth of kinship. Taking a deep breath, he unsheathed Silmacil; instantly, the blade took on a dark blue hue, akin to the firmament under moonlight.
With no escape, the Orcs attacked in an act of desperation.
The response was immediate: Ilarion's elegant prowess met them without mercy. The sound of flesh being severed resonated in the night, while screams faded like distant echoes.
With a spin, Galadriel soared through the air and split open an Orc's face; at the same time, a dark blue light pierced the second one attempting to attack her from behind. She and Ilarion crossed their movements with precision, their faces mere inches apart, as if the entire world had narrowed to the instant before a kiss. They moved as if sharing a single heartbeat, dancing amidst a rain of blood.
Hand in hand, they spun with swords raised and, like deadly blades, struck down four foolish Orcs who attempted to surround them.
In a movement worthy of a waltz, Ilarion dipped Galadriel backward; with one foot lifted, she thrust her sword upward and impaled the face of another beast.
Both were smiling.
They relished their bloody dance: an act morbidly beautiful, laden with affection. A chilling contrast. Warm and loving with their own... ruthless and indifferent toward those who were not.
**
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