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Eärendil ran as fast as he could. He didn’t want to. He wanted to stay with his Amya and Atya. But Amya had told him to run, and so he had. Now was not the time to argue.
Sometimes, when she hadn’t been able to sleep, he had snuck into their sitting room and overheard Amya and Atya talking about what they would need to do to prepare for an attack. They had been so worried that they had eventually showed him where the secret path was – the secret path that Amya had told him they had disobeyed her Atya, the King, to create. And now, with the city under attack, Eärendil knew he had to obey and put their plans into motion.
But he did wish his Amya and Atya were with him. He didn’t really understand why they couldn’t go together. His Atya was the best swordsman; all Atya had to do was kill those orcs and that weird elf, and then they could go back to the city together. And along the path, which the orcs had been blocking, and which would get them there far faster than the random route Eärendil was forging around the cliffs.
Eärendil heard a strange scream behind him. He threw a glance over his shoulder, not stopping his run.
There were six orcs behind him. They were mounted on wolves, as they had been when he saw them facing Atya. Had they escaped Atya? Or, worse, had Atya been struck down? Eärendil couldn’t imagine it. Atya had killed Amya’s cousin, Maeglin, so easily, and Maeglin had been called one of the greatest warriors of Gondolin. Obviously, he wasn’t really the greatest, since he had betrayed the city, according to Amya, but he had been really strong.
The orcs were gaining on Eärendil, and quickly. Eärendil only had a chance because he had spotted them while they were still far away, but he knew they would catch up soon. Eärendil looked around for a solution. He had to escape them, but he could not outrun the wolves.
Not on open ground, at least. Outwards from the city were the encircling mountains. Of particular interest was a nearby steep slope covered in loose shale, a scree. Atya probably wouldn’t be able to climb it, Eärendil thought, which meant the orcs definitely wouldn’t be able to follow him.
Eärendil turned and dashed to the scree. As he reached it and continued up it, he heard angry yells from the orcs. Eärendil continued running up the scree, jumping lightly from rock to rock in the hopes of not causing another rock slide.
The orcs did not give up, though. On either side of the scree, there was normal slope, covered in dirt and grasses and hardy bushes. The orcs split up, three riding up on either side of the scree.
And then, Eärendil saw the cliff. It was not overly tall and was weathered, and Eärendil would be able to climb it, but the scree ended there and the orcs would be able to go around. Once he climbed it, the orcs would have him surrounded with a cliff at his back. Eärendil stopped running and looked around for a new solution. Upwards was a cliff and the end of the scree; Eärendil would be captured if he went there. Downwards was where he came from and the other end of the scree; returning would put him in the same situation he had just escaped. Either side of the scree were even worse options, because he would be bringing himself to the orcs. If Eärendil was his Atya, he would just go one way and kill the orcs, and go wherever he wanted. But Eärendil had only recently started learning how to wield a blade, and he didn’t have a sword or a knife.
“Princeling!” one of the orcs yelled. “There is nowhere left to run. But if you come here and surrender, I will not hurt you.”
Eärendil shuddered. His heart was pounding in his chest, he was stuck, and he was being hunted. If he gave up, he wouldn’t need to fear being caught. The hunt would be over. But only because he would be captured.
Amya and Atya wouldn’t want him to give up. That was why Amya told him to run. And Eärendil did not want to disappoint them.
“No,” Eärendil yelled back. “Leave me alone!”
The orcs exchanged looks. The one who had spoken dug around in one of his saddlebags and pulled out something that looked like a coil of rope. The other orcs grinned.
“Thakta’s gonna get you,” one of the other orcs called as the now-named Thakta dismounted, still holding the coil of rope.
Eärendil bit his lip and evaluated his opponent. Thakta was large and not particularly graceful. Eärendil thought he was faster than the orc would be, and as long as he could move faster than the orc, he could stay out of grabbing range.
When he got to the scree, the orc moved like Atya would on loose rocks: carefully, picking his footing slowly and carefully.
“Princeling,” Thakta cooed, still moving forward. “Those were your parents you abandoned, weren’t they? Your Amya and Atya?”
“I did not abandon them!” Eärendil yelled. “Amya told me to run!”
“Whether your Amya told you to or not, you still left them to their doom,” Thakta growled, smiling. “Your Atya will die and your Amya will kneel.”
“Atya is a great swordsman,” Eärendil argued. “He will defeat your allies and come kill you for trying to hurt me.”
“Oh?” Thakta grinned. “Atya will defeat the Lieutenant of Angband and half of His hand-picked squadron?”
Eärendil had heard of the Lieutenant of Angband. Sauron. He was the most awful of the Enemy’s servants. Elven heroes had faced him and fallen. All the people who spoke of him did so with horror, Atya and all the other great warriors of Gondolin included. The orcs had been lead by something that was not an orc. Eärendil had called it a weird elf, but now he had to consider that the creature might be the worst option of all. Sauron.
“No,” Eärendil said. “That cannot be.”
“But it is,” Thakta insisted. “You do not have to believe me; you will learn I speak the truth when we get back to my Lord.”
Eärendil realized then that the orc was far closer than he wanted him to be, and was looking quite pleased. Grimacing, he turned to dash further away, so Thakta wouldn’t be able to surprise him somehow. But as he began to move, Eärendil heard an odd swish and crack in the air, and something hit his back.
It hurt. More than anything Eärendil had ever felt before, it hurt with a shocking sharpness. Eärendil fell, and only all his gracefulness was enough to ensure he fell into the slope instead of down. As it was, the loose rocks hurt to fall on, and he cried out. Eärendil turned to look at Thakta, the most likely source of the pain, and saw that he was not holding a coil of rope. Uncoiled, now, was a whip.
“Stay down,” the orc ordered, cracking the whip in the air again.
The opposite of what the orc wanted was clearly the correct option. Eärendil shoved himself up, only to fall again, when the whoosh and crack heralded another stab of agony on his back.
“Amya,” Eärendil whimpered.
“Your Amya can’t help you now,” the orc promised from far too close.
He was standing over Eärendil, the latter realized. Looming.
“Leave me alone,” Eärendil requested. His voice shook.
The orc laughed. He stooped and grabbed Eärendil’s upper arm, yanking him to his feet. Eärendil had managed to get his feet under him, so he wasn’t relying on the orc’s grasp on his arm, just in time to receive a punch from Thakta’s other hand, still holding the whip-hilt. Eärendil crumpled to his knees with a sob.
“You will obey me and my Lord, or I will hurt you,” the orc growled, pulling Eärendil back to his feet with uncaring force.
“You are hurting me now,” Eärendil protested. He yelped as the orc forced him into motion.
“I have been very gentle, so far, because my Lord wants you undamaged,” the orc insisted, pulling Eärendil towards the currently riderless wolf. “But he did not request you uninjured or untouched; I can hurt you far more than I have if you continue to be difficult.”
Eärendil swallowed roughly and stayed silent as he stumbled across the loose rocks.