Soundtrack Song: Out the Postern Gate(45:08)

Thranduil and his mighty host marched through the night, lanterns lit by fireflies their only guide through the obsidian dark of the forest. Green cloaked scouts flitted in and out of the trees ahead of the main force, scanning the twisted treeline for any signs of the enemy. The forest was eerily quiet, the usual sounds of nocturnal creatures noticeably absent. None of the elves spoke, both for fear that they would be heard and because it seemed almost irreverent to disturb the perfect silence that engulfed them. 

Taliel gazed watchfully ahead, a hand rested upon the pommel of her sword. Something didn't feel right... Though whether it was a real threat or something wordless and fleeting, she did not know. What she did know was that Edhael was thoroughly miserable. The normally jocose bard wore a frown that had not disappeared since they departed Thranduil's halls, and his cloak was drawn tightly over his narrow shoulders.

"Why must we be so quiet? Surely some music would brighten this repulsive place," he said with a dramatic shiver.

"Music would only serve to alert the enemy of our presence," Taliel replied quietly. "Besides," She added with a slight smile. "I have no doubt the acoustics would be dreadful here."

"Perhaps," Edhael mused. "Or perhaps they're quite good. It might echo quite nicely off the trees."

Instead of replying with a sarcastic remark like she wanted to, Taliel merely shook her head and continued on. Though the snakelike, convoluted branches choked out every last ray of sunlight, she could sense, or rather feel, that it was nearly dawn. Time was running out. The enemy would strike swiftly and without mercy, leaving the elven host possibly only a few hours to arrive. Even now, the scouts that had been dispatched to the Lonely Mountain were returning with word that Esgaroth and the surrounding lands burned, and that a massive host of evil Men had amassed at Erebor's gate with great siege machines. 

Erebor was strong, that much Taliel knew. The dwarven smiths of old had forged it into a fortress that was nigh impenetrable, and the dwarves that had retaken it from Smaug the dragon had rebuilt it into something even stronger. But given enough time, even its mighty gates would fall. And their enemy had most likely saved their biggest surprises for last. No doubt they had magic of some sort at their disposal, and were merely awaiting the right moment to unleash it. 

"You seem... Troubled," a rich voice said suddenly. Taliel turned to see Thranduil approaching, his great elk snorting impatiently as it pulled at the reins. 

"I am," Taliel replied, her gaze meeting that of the elvenking. "Our chances of victory seem low at best. The enemy outnumbers us ten to one, and already are allies are beset on all sides." 

Thranduil's icy gaze grew thoughtful, his silver hair almost glowing in the light of the lanterns. After a long moment his spoke, his voice a low murmur. 

"We do not march to victory," he said measuredly. "Like a full moon on a summer's eve, our time is fleeting. The dark claw of the enemy will soon cover us like a cloud, and so shall our light die. But it is not ourselves we fight for," Thranduil added, giving Taliel a knowing glance. "We fight for those close to our hearts. It is they who give us the strength to carry on when all seems lost. We go to our deaths knowing that our sacrifice may deliver them from utter destruction. Yes, we may be defeated and then all will truly be lost. But our final battlecry will echo through the halls of history and it will never be silenced. For we will have died so that others may live. And even if they too die, we shall meet again in the afterlife."

Taliel let the elvenking's words sink in for a moment. Though her death wouldnt' save Caledorn, it would possibly save countless innocents. If the weakened the enemy enough, they wouldn't be able to advance and cause further loss of life. Perhaps it would be enough... Taliel hoped beyond hope that it would.

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With the first light of dawn, the enemy's attacks were renewed with more force than ever before. Under cover of night they had moved battering rams to the gates, and their archers had built defensive positions all around the gate valley. Shallow trenches wound back and forth like great snakes, strategically placed so that a counterattack from the main gate would be impossible. 

Gerithor stood atop a small observation tower with Dain, Brand, and Glorfindel, and from there they could see the entire enemy force. He scanned the valley grimly, his expression revealing little of the fear he felt in his heart. The enemy force was vast, greater than any army he had seen before. Countless Easterlings stood atop the surrounding hills, rank upon rank of bronze helms and steel halberds glinting in the early morning light. Massive war beasts stood among them, swinging their long trunks restlessly as their riders peered out from bamboo war towers that were strapped to their backs. 

"They've destroyed mah valley!" Dain exclaimed, covering his weather-worn face with his hands.

Gerithor pursed his lips, his steely eyes studying every detail. "Any chance of us escaping through the front gate has vanished," he said as he pointed. "But they've put an arrow through their foot in a way. They'll be unable to send reinforcements or easily retreat in that direction."

"That is because they do not intend on retreating," Glorfindel said grimly. "The men of the Eastlands do not retreat, they fight to the death. They are men of iron wills and iron hearts, conditioned for battle and thirsty for the blood of their enemies. They will likely force their orc and Haradrim allies to fight the same way. 

"Now as for the trenches themselves... They render it nearly impossible to return fire upon their archers. Only elves and rangers would have the skill to do such a thing, and we have too few to spare. However..." At this the silver-haired elf put a hand to his chin thoughtfully. "If we attack the trenches head-on, we may at least be able to keep them occupied long enough for the rangers to get the women and children to safety."

"Aye," Brand agreed, speaking for the first time. "The battle will be brutal, but once we storm the first line of trenches we too will be protected from archer fire."

"That would leave you to bloody close-quarters fighting that their archers would be ill-suited to," Gerithor mused. "You'll need quick men, swordsmen with no fear."

"I think you mean axemen!" Dain growled. "Our berserkers should be able to cover the ground between the gates and the trenches with nigh a scratch!" 

"Very well then," Glorfindel said, grim determination in his eyes. "On the plains of Erebor we make our stand. May Eru save us."

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The loud boom of the enemy's battering ram thundered through the armory. Several children were crying, their only solace the shaky embraces of their fearful mothers. The rangers did what they could to calm the group of frightened townspeople, moving to and fro and offering quiet words of comfort here, or a reassuring hand on a frail shoulder there. 

Gerithor took a deep breath as he watched. He too was afraid of what was about to happen. A handful of rangers, even seasoned warriors like the ones accompanying him, would be hard put to protect so many defenseless people against the enemy that awaited them outside. 

He lifted a gloved hand, watching it as it shook. Already his was feeling the rush of blood to his veins that only fear or adrenaline could give. Calm down, he told himself, hoping that somehow the feeling would subside. He had felt the feeling before, many times; But it had never been quite like this. With the fear itself came a feeling of foreboding... And a strange feeling of ending. Of finality. As if he stood on a great precipice, and below him was a vast nothingness. He could not turn back, nor left or right. His only recourse was to step forward into this black abyss, knowing fully that he would probably not return and not knowing what awaited him below. 

Slowly, he flexed his hand, hoping that the blood would rush back into his cold fingers. It was strange, he pondered, that uncertainty and fear of the unknown held such a strong sway over Men. Elves seemed to inherently know what was about to happen, as if they could see into the murky depths of the future. Dwarves did not care, for they were a rash people that only cared about gold and gems and the treasures that lay under dirt and stone. Orcs only had one desire: Destruction. But Men... Men spent their entire lives looking to the stars for guidance, or sitting behind piles of dusty and ponderous tomes to digest the words of ancient seers. They held a natural fear of death, and for what took place after. 

Gerithor knew that he too held this fear of uncertainty in his heart. The creeping spectre of Death filled him with fear as well. And there was nothing he could do to assuage it. Even now he could feel it, as if it were watching him from some shadowy corner, waiting for the right moment to carry him away. 

He was so lost in thought that he did not notice Gilian's silent approach. A gentle tap on his shoulder startled him to attention. 

"Gerithor, they're ready. The assault on the trench has begun," Her voice quivered slightly, but she attempted to look brave. Gerithor nodded slightly, not wanting to show her his own fear. 

"Tell the men," he replied, reaching for his bow. "When we move, we'll have to move quickly. Stagger the rangers on the south side of our group, that's where the enemy will strike from."

"Aye," she said as she turned to carry out his orders. 

"Gilian," he said softly. She looked back to face him, her eyes searching his own. 

"Stay close. I... I don't want to lose you." His voice broke slightly, and he could feel his eyes well with unshed tears. 

Gilian ran to him and wrapped her arms around him, burying her head in his chest. "I don't want to lose you either Gerithor. Don't die..." 

"I'll do my best," he replied, smiling slightly as he returned the embrace. "And besides, I don't think you'll let me die." 

Gilian laughed softly. "Of course I won't. The rangers will need a leader after this is over..." Though she didn't say more, Gerithor could tell that there were words left unsaid. He held her for a moment longer, a moment that was over far too soon.

"Ready yourselves!" Begalon, one of the lead rangers, shouted from his position near the postern gate. 

"Let's go," Gerithor whispered, reluctantly releasing Gilian. Her face was moist with tears, but her expression was one of resolve. 

"For the north," she said, fitting an arrow to her bowstring. 

"Aye," Gerithor replied. "For Middle Earth!" 

The door opened with a groan, and with a final shout the rangers charged out into the blinding light of dawn.

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Hey everyone! This is my first real update in a long, long time. Hope you like it!