Aesuthiel handed the boy back to his sister and hoisted her glaive into a fighting position. She was one of the few warriors at the back line, and there the orcs struck the hardest. She stepped forward in front of the women and children, the rage that that she felt under the surface suddenly burst. She swung her glaive in numerous fighting patterns, her feet firmly planted as orc after orc swarmed towards them.

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Atalante didn't understand what was happening for a moment, but as she searched the path ahead with her eyes, she comprehended it almost instantly. With a shaky intake of breath, she drew the slender sword hanging at her belt and thought of her father - now, if any, was the time to avenge his death, not join the panicked ranks of weaponless women and children. She attempted to swallow her own fear. Ada, this is for you!

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((is this where the balrog comes in?))


The orcs seemed just to keep coming no matter how may Aesuthiel slew. They were hard pressed at the rear, until Glorfindel came amongst them. He gave a yell and took up position next to his sister, his naked sword flashing as he hacked and cut at the enemy. Aesuthiel's heart gave a cry of fear as the sound of distant crashing echoed towards them.

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((that's fine about Cuwe, I just copied and pasted it from another site-I don't have the little marks either. lol))

Cuwe had been walking beside the other elves, lost in his own thought and his frustration of having to leave the city when orcs ambushed the band. Quickly he swung his still-bloody sword up, facing the nearest orc. As it rushed toward him, he shifted his feet to a firm stance, then swung his sword, killing the orc. More were around him, and he fought swiftly, dodging orc blades as he did.

Atalante swung her sword up in bewildered astonishment - there were so many! At least in the city there had been somewhere to run - her thoughts were cut off abruptly as a hideously leering orc came at her, swinging its filthy blade, and by pure reflex she stabbed and the sharp elvish blade went clean through him. She jumped back with a startled yelp, barely retaining her hold on the handle, her face ghost-white.

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Aesuthiel and Gorfindel fought back to back, keeping the orcs away from the children and women. "Tuor, we need to get higher up into the mountains." Shouted Glorfindel above the clash of battle. "Somebody help get the wounded and younglings in the center where the orcs can't get to them.''

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....I would think that the orcs would be thickest at the front, since it's not like they were chasing the refugees....they were more like, blocking the way, but the back is fine, since we've gotten a bunch of posts about them back there.

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Sirithadar's eyes seemed almost to gleam with his fury, lossed upon those orcs foolish enough to waylay them. His sword, being made by Noldorin smiths, shone with a white light, which was reflected off his shield and his eyes. He did not wait for the orcs to come to him, but ran towards them, his blade cleaving flesh with ease. He didn't make a sound, though, not even a snarl of hate, or a battlecry - his rage was too cold for that. As he spun away from the first Orc, wrenching his blade out of it, he felt something hit his shield and bounce off. "'Ware the Archers!" he shouted, finally breaking his silence. The archers among the refugees shifted their fire from the closer Orcs to those farther away - those with bows, who were the more dangerous. Even as the last of them fell, a red glow appeared around the corner, behind which the thud of heavy footsteps continued. Sirithadar froze. He had seen that glow many times this night, and it did not bode well. He pressed towards the front of the line, where the Balrog was, but realized he was not the first. Glorfindel sprinted past him, his entire face seeming to shine, a blue tinge cast on it by the light from his sword. Realizing that the greater warrior would do his best to stall the Balrog, Sirithadar turned around, running back, to fill in the gap where Glorfindel had been, for Aesuthiel was now being sorely pressed. Every chance he got, he looked back towards the front of their column, and one of those times, he could almost have wept at the sight. There stood Glorfindel, his golden hair contrasting the white of his helmet and hauberk. Before him stood the Balrog, its red sword raised to strike, its mane of fire streaming behind it. As Sirithadar turned back to his own fight, he heard the clash of weapons from that fight of champion against Valaraukar, and wept inside.

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When the orcs ran towards them, Erana at least woke up from her deep thoughts and grabbed her sword even tighter. She kept her speed and walked towards them, slaying the first few who dared to come close to her.
When the fourth came towards her, she suddenly got aware of the pain in her leg again, she slightly tripped and fell on her knees, but managed to block the orc's sword and at least stabb him. But still, the orc was able to cut her arm.
When Erana turned around, she saw a fiery glow. Her mouth dropped open out of fear and despair. "A Balrog!" she thought. She gathered all her strength once more and got up again.

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Aesutheil felt as if her heart was being ripped out of her body. There was Glorfindel, all alone like a great hero in a ballad, fighting the balrog. She knew it would be a fight to the death, if only she could get to him fight at his side, then maybe. But no, if she left now it would only serve to doom the women and chldren to death. She wanted to scream her fury, but instead redoubled her attck against the orcs, who where falling now like leaves.

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When Erana saw Glorfindel run towards the Balrog to fight him, she would have helped him with all her might, ran after him and fight with the Balrog as well. But she couldn't. One of the reasons is that she could hardly walk, another that if she would leave her position now, the orcs would have a better chance to break through and kill all of their small group.

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The entirety of the small battlefield was lit with the glow from the elvish blade of Glorfindel and the fiery weapon of the Balrog, lights that stayed strong and did not dim, but contrasted sharply, almost physically, with each other. Whenever Sirithadar could take a moment to glance over his shoulder, though, it seemed as though the light from the Balrog's sword was dimmer. The Orcs seemed to notice it too, because they became more fearful, more hesitant before rushing in to attack. Sirithadar, however, did not necessarily gather strength from the sight - he felt too spent from the fight and destruction of his city earlier that night. A roar of pain signalled the drawing of first blood in that fight - the Balrog had been wounded. The orcs quailed for a moment, then continued to come on, continuing to die to the blades of the small line of defenders. Sirithadar almost lost his sword as it slipped in his hand - the hilt was covered in dark blood.

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Atalante slipped and nearly fell in the pools of dark orc blood that covered the ground where she stood - most of them had not been felled by her small sword. She gasped and attempted to catch her breath, pushing her dark hair out of her eyes, which were still wide with shock. The roars from the head of the column caught her attention and she whirled to catch a glimpse of a fiery presence, obviously battling someone - but she couldn't see. Fighting her way forward, Atalante looked over the heads of the group ahead of her and managed a glance at the heated battle that continued even as orcs fell around them. Glorfindel! she thought agonizingly.

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The orcs where growing less numerous, but Aesuthiel's heart was filled with dread. If Glorfindel died she didn't know if she could keep on living without him. No he wouldn't die, she wouldn't let him. The thought of Glorfindel dying seemed to give her new strength, and she charged the orcs, her eyes seathing wiht rage.

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Sirithadar smashed his shield into the face of the nearest orc, knocking it off of its precarious perch on the top of a boulder. It landed, much as Sirithadar had hoped, on its own blade. The fighting was hard and fierce now, as the Orcs fought with redoubled malice, for the light from Glorfindel's sword was growing dimmer as well. It was obvious that both of the two great combatants were growing tired, but it seemed as though Glorfindel was tiring faster. The clash of the swords was now less audible over the noise of other weapons on other armor, but every once in a while a roar of pain could be heard, but no sound of anguish did Glorfindel make. That did little to drive on the Orcs - if their great leader, the Balrog, roared in pain while the elf didn't, who was the more powerful? At any rate, whenever the Balrog drew blood, the orcs seemed to cringe a little more.
Twisting his sword before pulling it out of the latest fool of an orc, Sirithadar didn't bother glancing over his shoulder - by now, the orcs were pressing too close to have a chance to do something like that.

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Atalante, too, had no more opportunities for anxious glances at the battling Glorfindel, as she was hard pressed to defend herself. She was gasping for breath and looking rather bewildered, having never used her sword for more than a few fleeting seconds here and there, and finding it not only awkward but heavy, after prolonged use.

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Aesuthiel swung her glaive low and up, knocking an orc of balance, and then stabbed it throught the heart. For the briefest moment of time she was free of enemies and she chanced a look back. Glorfindel was clearly spent, his sword arm dropping lower and lower, his blows coming slower. An orc came for her, breaking her train of thought, but she was to slow and his sword came crashing down on her shoulder. The orc blade glanced off her armor, but Aesuthiel had felt the crack of her collar-bone breaking. Her glaive was useless at close range, drawing a dagger from her belt she quickly dispatched of her foe.

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