MY BROTHER’S KEEPER
Written By Ryan Powers
Themes and Setting Inspired by J.R.R. Tolkien


	Sitting high upon his black leather saddle, the High Lord Ralen looked out upon 
the hills and compact huts of Hobbiton.  This town, populated by small, furry creatures 
called Hobbits, had been a haven of light and happiness even after the fall of the Shadow 
upon the land of Middle-Earth.  Occupied by destroying the strongest concentrations of 
his rule in the lands of Men and the Elves, Lord Sauron had allowed these simple beings to 
live for a short time while his main forces were occupied elsewhere.
	That time had just ran out.
	His face emotionless, Ralen reined in the dragonlike Fell Beast he rode upon, 
turning it back to face his troops.  Like him, they wore the black plate mail of the Dark 
Elves, a lidless eye ringed with flame upon the left breast.  Their dark, slanted eyes gazed 
back at him, betraying not the slightest hint of regret or compassion.  Underneath each 
was a Fell Beast, wings folded against their backs, their eyes no more expressive than their 
riders.  Ralen allowed himself a brief moment of black glee … he had trained his soldiers 
well.  
	Reaching back, Ralen pulled his war-hammer from its sheathe, holding the heavy 
weapon one-handed.  At the drawing of the weapon, there was a rumble from overhead, 
as dark clouds that had not been there mere moments before blotted out the sun.  
Beneath them, the small, human-like hobbits looked up at the sky, a shiver of fear 
running through them.  Even in the Shire, isolated from the rest of the world, they had 
heard rumors of the Dark Lord and his terrible wrath.  That his would-be destroyer, Frodo 
Baggins, had come from this place, was a cause of great dread amongst these gentle 
creatures.  Though none spoke it, every heart in Hobbiton knew full well that the wrath of 
Sauron had come at last.  
Turning back towards the town, Ralen pulled back on the reigns, forcing the Fell 
Beast to unfurl its wings and rear back, hissing.  He raised the war-hammer to the sky, and 
a bolt of lightning seared down, striking the enchanted weapon and causing it to crackle 
with electric fire.  From behind him came the sound of a half-dozen longswords being 
drawn, as a half-dozen pairs of wings stretched and prepared to take flight.  As silently as 
death, Ralen pointed the weapon towards one of the many hillside holes that made up the 
majority of the town.  A flash of blue flame erupted from the hammer, and immediately 
half of the entire hill exploded, sending clods of dirt, grass, and the charred husks of 
hobbits into the air.  Before they even had time to reach the apex of their path, however, 
Ralen’s Fell Beast leapt into the air, spreading its leathery wings and taking flight as its 
rider bellowed a terrifying and beautiful war-song, a mockery of an ancient Noldor chant.  
Beneath the terrifying majesty of the Dark Lord, the hobbits screamed and fled to their 
homes, where they were obliterated by blasts of lightning or cut down as they ran by the 
Dark Elves.  
Within half an hour, the town of Hobbiton was destroyed, the hobbit-holes stuffed 
with brush and set afire, choking their inhabitants with smoke.  The ones who had homes 
above ground were dragged into the shadows and torn apart gleefully by the revenous Fell 
Beasts, while Ralen and his soldiers looked on expressionlessly.  Where that morning had 
been a town of sunlight and life, was now a smoking charnel pit of miniature bodies.  The 
only survivors were a handful of maidens that had barely achieved adulthood, who would 
feed the dark urges of their orcish charges when they returned to Gorgathol.  Their dirty, 
tear-streaked faces pleaded for mercy with faces that had none.  
After a minute of listening to their simpering cries and pleas, Ralen himself strode 
to the hobbit-maidens, his hammer replaced on his back.  They flinched away from the 
Dark Elf as he gazed down at them expressionlessly.  
“Why are you doing this …” the youngest of the girls whispered, her eyes 
remaining averted from the dark beauty of his Elven features.  
Ralen reached down, firmly but gently turning the hobbit-girl’s chin so she was 
forced to look up at him.  He looked into those large, cool pools that before this day had 
known only innocence and joy, and offered her a smile that was colder than the heart of 
the Dark Lord himself.  
“For the same reason all of us are still alive,” he replied, not releasing his hold on 
her chin even when the shudders began to wrack her tiny frame.  “For the savior of all 
Middle-Earth … Sauron.”
At the mention of the Dark Lord’s name, the maiden fainted dead away.  Still 
wearing that cold, hard smile, Ralen ordered his men to bind them together, that the Fell 
Beasts might better transport them to their fortress in the Hithaeglir Mountains.  Then, 
turning away, the Lord of the Dark Elves looked out upon the devastation he had wrought 
upon this land of innocence and light.  He sought within himself any measure of 
compassion or remorse for the destruction he had caused … and found only the burning 
eye of Sauron, emblazoned upon his very soul.

*  *  *  *  *  *

	Horin looked down at the map, cursing inwardly.  The wrinkled parchment 
detailed most of Middle-Earth, from one sea to the other.  The lands occupied by Sauron 
and his lieutenants were colored red; the pockets of resistance to his rule were colored 
yellow.  There were a few of these splotches around the mountains of the West and North, 
and much of the frozen expanse of the Northen Waste remained free from the crimson 
taint of Sauron’s forces.  Unfortunately, only the hardiest of their soldiers could withstand 
the climate that far north, so most were forced to lurk in the tunnels beneath the 
mountains, hidden in dark passages long forgotten even by the Dark Lord.  
	As Horin pondered over the bloody landscape of Middle-Earth, there came a 
rapping on the wooden door of his private chambers.  He uttered a loud grunt of 
acknowledgement, and the door swung open, revealing a dwarf whose long red beard 
hung in two braided tails.  From the battered look of his armor and the numerous cuts that 
covered his body, he had just escaped a slaughter.
	“Dwalin,” Horin stated.  “What happened?”
	“The Shire …” Dwalin gasped, limping into the room.  “We knew that the Dark 
Lord would seek revenge for Frodo’s attempt to destroy his power, but this … Mahal 
protect us, THIS …”
	At this point, the other door to Horin’s chambers opened, and a robed, frail-
looking figure hobbled in on a wooden staff.  At the tip of the staff was a crimson jewel, 
clutched in a carved dragon’s claw.  Horin glanced at the figure, but reached out a hand to 
support the injured dwarf.
	Dwalin resisted with the pride usual in his race, but after he almost stumbled and 
fell on the stone floor, he suffered himself to be aided to a stool.  Horin handed the dwarf 
a cup of Air, and shakily, Dwalin told his tale.
	Starting at Hobbiton, the Dark Lord’s legion had spread up throughout the Shire, 
destroying everything in their path.  Those few hobbits that were spared were sent away to 
toil as slaves in the Dark Lord’s mithril pits, while those that resisted were submitted to 
the most horrendous of tortures.  Horin listened, struggling to keep his expression 
neautral, as Dwalin told of bodies that were twisted and warped with black magics until 
the hobbits begged for the release of death, and how any that tried to lift a finger in 
response were consumed from within by electric fire.  
	“Hobbiton was the worst, because it was where Master Frodo began his journey,” 
Dwalin continued on in a monotone.  At first, he had seemed almost to weep, and then to 
barely be holding back a scream.  Now, though, he just droned on, telling of horror after 
horror.  “Only a handful of maidens were spared … and I don’t think I need to tell you 
what those vile monsters must’ve done to the poor lasses in their grasps.
	“Of course, they couldn’t keep word from getting out to the rest of the towns in 
the Shire.  A bunch of them wanted to run away, and they were about to have a mass 
evacuation of the town when I happened along.  I was able to convince them that they 
would have no chance of surviving at all if they ran … but they might be able to make a 
successful stand, if they worked together.”
	At this, Dwalin fell silent.  After almost a minute, the robed figure finally spoke, in 
a low, rasping voice.  “And what happened?”
	“The Dark Elves.”
	Horin could not resist instinctively drawing in his breath.  The Dark Elves were 
among the most feared of Sauron’s tools, for good reason.  Created to be the 
representation of all that was good and pure in existence, even Elves proved to be 
vulnerable to the Dark Lord’s temptations.  When they went into the darkness, they lost 
their connection to the Valar, the beings that had created them … but gained in power a 
thousandfold.
	Dwalin, meanwhile, had continued.  “They fought valiantly, those hobbits did … 
I’ve gotta give ‘em that.  They even managed to fell one of the bastards’ rides, and it 
looked like the rider was going to be overcome … but then, he came.”
	“Ralen,” the figure said.  It was not a question.
	Dwalin nodded.  “When he appeared, all was lost.  He annihilated our ranks with 
bursts of fire from his hammer.  The hobbits scattered in terror, which neutralized our only 
advantage, our strength of numbers.  After that, it was Hobbiton all over again … we 
were slaughtered.”
Horin turned away, his massive shoulders slumping.  Though the massive warrior 
was the very image of youthful strength and vigor, at this moment he looked incredibly old 
and tired.  “Thank you, Dwalin.  Please, go to the infirmary and see that your wounds are 
treated.  We shall discuss this later, at length.”
“Yes, m’lord,” Dwalin intoned, climbing off of the stool and hobbling off to the 
door.  When it had shut behind him, Horin and the robed figure stood in silence together, 
Horin staring at the map, the figure staring at him.
At last, Horin spoke.  “We thought he was dead, Drathir.”
The figure nodded, slowly.  “So we did.  Obviously, such was not the case.”
“How could this happen?  I thought you said that you sensed no sign of his 
existence.”
	“I didn’t,” Drathir replied, giving Horin a glare from underneath his hood.  
“Sauron is quite capable of cloaking his servants with his powers.  And be glad you are my 
half-blood; otherwise I would have to challenge you for that tone.”
“And bring down the entire Resistance upon your head for killing its leader?” 
Horin smirked.  “I grew up with you … I know you better than that, Drathir.  It isn’t your 
style.”
“Perhaps,” the mage replied coolly.  “But back to the business at hand.  Obviously 
we cannot allow this to go unredressed.  Sauron has struck fear into the heart of this 
realm; if we do not use that to our advantage, we cannot hope to be effective against 
him.”
Horin snorted.  “Even with our enchanted weapons, what can we do against an 
enemy like that?  He doesn’t just control an army of Dark Elves, or have a hammer that 
controls nature itself; he has the entire legion of Sauron behind him.”
At that, Drathir turned, and hobbled towards the door.  “The same thing I have 
been doing my entire life, my brother … survive.”

*  *  *  *  *  *

	Ralen stared up at the black stone of his ceiling, his dark eyes cold and unblinking.  
Next to him, curled up in the sheets in the fetal position, was one of the elven maidens 
from their personal harem.  Corrupted by Sauron’s powers and brainwashed, these 
beautiful shells of women provided the Dark Elves with company when they tired of the 
grunting stupidity of orcs and the foulness of the trolls. 
Laying next to him, upon a stone table besides the bed that he lay upon, was the 
thing that gave him more company than a dozen such concubines ever could. Menelenar, 
the great war-hammer presented to him by the Dark Lord Himself when He had found 
him, broken and bleeding from an attack by a horde of trolls.  Though he had vanquished 
the beasts, his companions had abandoned him, and when Sauron appeared before him, a 
circle of flame that could only have been the One Ring on his hand, he knew that all was 
lost.  He had reached for his sword, determined, at least, to fall with his blade drawn as a 
true warrior, and then …
The line of his thought were interrupted when the door slammed open, a stunted 
figure stumbling in.  Immediately, Ralen sat up, grasping the hammer and hefting it, 
lighting his pale features with blue fire that suddenly flashed across the mithril head.  Then 
he recognized the figure, and alarm turned to anger.  It was Ulaag, captain of his orcish 
legions, who stood panting and fearful before him.
“What is the meaning of this, swine?” Ralen snarled, arcs of electricity crackling 
around his hammer.  Beside him, the golden-haired toy looked mildly up at this 
confrontation.
“Forgive me, Master,” Ulaag cried, eyes bulging in terror.  “But one of the Higher 
Ups wants to speak to you …”
“Higher Ups?” Ralen smirked.  “Who is higher than I am?”
“I am, Elf,” a cold, harsh voice uttered from behind the orc.  At the tone of that 
voice, Ulaag shuddered in fear, and even the nearly-mindless girl at his side cringed against 
him, shivering.
Ralen paid neither orc nor maiden any mind, nor did he show any fear.  “The 
Witch-King of Angmar.”
Through the entrance emerged a figure covered in shadows and a black cloak.  
Under the cloak, nothing could be seen, mostly because underneath it was a form that was 
more mist than substance.  The only features visible of the Lord of the Nazgûl were his 
fierce, blazing-red eyes.  The elven maiden took one look at those eyes and uttered a tiny, 
fearful mewling sound, pressing her soft flesh harder against Ralen, burying her face in his 
shoulder.  Still refusing to acknowledge the girl, Ralen met the Witch-King’s crimson gaze 
with his own black eyes.  For a time, they stood like that, Elf and shadow of Man, staring 
at one another, their wills battling for supremacy.  It was a fruitless battle for both.
At last, the Nazgûl spoke.  “The Dark Lord has sent me to congratulate you on 
the slaughter of the hobbits.  You have shown that even the slightest abuses against His 
throne will not be tolerated, and for that, you have found favor in our Lord Sauron’s 
eyes.”
“That is good to hear, and I thank Sauron for His kind words,” Ralen replied 
coolly.  “But I’m sure he wouldn’t send the most powerful of the Nine all the way to 
Gorgathol just to congratulate me.”
Once again, the two servants of Darkness regarded one another silently.  The elf-
girl at Ralen’s side had fallen into mindless sobs, and he pushed her away, annoyed.  At 
last, the Witch-King turned towards Ulaag, regarding the orc with his burning orbs.  
“Leave.”
Ulaag glanced at Ralen, who nodded slightly.  Without needing any further 
encouragement, the orc scuttled out of the room, closing the door behind him.  The 
Nazgûl turned his gaze briefly to the elf-maiden, who had returned to the fetal position, 
every now and again shuddering, and then once again turned towards Ralen, who still held 
Menelenar in his hand. 
“Sauron believes He has located the final Elven Ring,” the Witch-King intoned.
“Very good,” Ralen replied.  
“As you know, Galadriel’s he tore from her after he had broken the Lady of 
Lothlòrien and bound her upon the uppermost spire of the Dark Tower, where even now 
her body remains.  The accursed Gandalf was more difficult, but in time Sauron cast 
even the White down, flaying the flesh off of his bones even as he tore the ring from his 
hands.  But Elrond's …”
“I am quite aware of all this, Witch-King,” Ralen interrupted.  “Get to the point, 
please.”
	The blazing orbs of the Nazgûl narrowed.  “Watch your tongue, Elf.  After all this 
time, there have been rumors of a Elven lord that escaped the destruction of Lothlòrien.  
Presumably, this was who Elrond passed the Third Ring to before he was captured.”
“And I’m assuming this lord is rumored to be with the Resistance, correct?”
“Yes.  Lord Sauron has decided that you will be the one to find this lord.  
Whether you capture him alive or not is of no consequence; only that you gain the Ring 
of Air, and deliver it to His hand.  Of all the Rings of Power, only this one eludes Him.”
“The Dark Lord’s will is my will,” Ralen replied.  By this time, the elf-maiden had 
crept meekly back to him, and he allowed her to cling, trembling, to his side.  “If that is all 
…?”
	The Nazgûl’s eyes narrowed further.  “I would advise you to be more careful when 
speaking to those who could destroy you, Elf.  Though the Dark Lord is pleased by your 
devotion to his throne, do not think that reduces the hatred he has for your race.  And 
even his most powerful servants are not immune to his wrath …or need I remind you of 
Saruman’s fate?”
	“You do not frighten me, Witch-King,” Ralen sneered.  “We both know that I 
know the Rebels better than any of Sauron’s minions, especially their leader.”
	“Only because he is--“
	“Enough,” Ralen interrupted.  “Tell our Lord that I will stop at nothing to reclaim 
that which He helped create.  Vilya will be upon his hand if I must cut it from this elf-
lord’s fingers myself.”
For a long moment, the two continued to stare one another down, Ralen matching 
the Nazgûl’s unblinking gaze with his own.  Most beings would have been driven 
completely mad by looking into the blazing orbs of the Witch-King’s eyes for so long, but 
Ralen met it evenly, his face not betraying the least bit of fear or intimidation.  
“See that you do,” the leader of the Nine intoned.  “The Dark Lord does not 
tolerate failure.”  With that, the shadow turned away, with a final disgusted glance at the 
concubine at his side.  Without a further word, he departed from the room, the door 
slamming shut behind him seemingly of its own will.
	The concubine snuggled against him, the horror of the Nazgûl already forgotten in 
her nearly-brainless mind.  Ralen simply stared up the stone ceiling, ignoring the girl 
rubbing her hands over his smooth chest, lost in his own thoughts.  Then, something in his 
eyes darkened, and he smiled, a flash of white teeth cold as a wedge of ice.  He turned to 
the girl, who smiled back hesitantly, and stroked her gold-blonde hair.  She kissed his 
fingers, and he rolled on top of her, still smiling that icy smile, black eyes glittering with 
dreadful purpose.  Never had Ralen looked more like his dread Master, than in that 
moment.

*  *  *  *  *  *

	As Horin looked out over the force before him, he felt his heart sink inside his 
chest.  Though he refused to allow it to show in his face, Dwalin must have sensed it 
anyway.  “Sir?” he asked, raising a bushy eyebrow at him.
	“Are these the only survivors?” he asked.  In front of the two were perhaps three 
dozen Hobbits, many of them women or children.  
	“From the Shire, yes,” Dwalin replied.  “Thankfully, the Shire is only one of the 
places where the Hobbits live—they do have other places, after all, and many fled after 
hearing of the slaughter in Hobbiton.  We have done our best to spread the word to those 
that escaped, and I have heard words of a force of Hobbits coming this way through the 
mountains.”
	“How many?”
	“Three, perhaps four hundred.”
	Horin nodded silently.  He looked out at the assembled survivors, and six dozen 
wide eyes looked back at him from three dozen dirty, fear-stricken faces.  In some, the 
sparks of rage glittered … in others, however, there was only terror and resignation, as 
though in their minds the Dark Elves were still coming at them, leaving hacked-apart 
bodies and charred remains in their wake.  He had seen survivors like this from every 
race—Man, Elf, Hobbit, Dwarf—and the same haunted expression looked back at him 
from them all.  Despite the difference between their races, how they reacted to the 
destruction of their homes, their loved ones, and their very lives, was the same.
	“Welcome,” he began, attempting to exude an air of power, wisdom, and 
protection.  Whether he succeeded or not, it did not change the expressions of the 
survivors before him.  “This is Fuinost, the home of the Resistance to Sauron’s dark rule.  
Any of you who would do so, may stay here.  Those that can fight will be trained in the 
arts of war, that you might have your revenge upon those that destroyed your homes.”
	An old Hobbit shambled up to the front of the gathering, walking with the aid of a 
staff that was almost as withered as he.  “I am Forin Proudfoot, sir Horin.  I am the leader 
of these few Hobbits, and we will offer what help we can.  But I am far too old to ride off 
into battle … what of those that cannot fight?”
	Horin smiled down at him.  “I believe your wisdom will be well-used with the 
Resistance, lord Forin.  Others will be aid us in the growing of food, or as watchers for 
patrols.  In return, you will be given food, and such shelter as can be found in these dark 
times.”
	Forin nodded, and began to hobble back to the main group when a tall, blonde-
haired elf clad in shining armor entered from one of the side passages in the chamber they 
stood in.  At the sign of his features, some of the Hobbits trembled and turned from him, 
while others quivered in anger.  The elf simply looked at them compassionately, and at the 
kindness in his eyes, many of the Hobbits relaxed their guard.  He then turned to Horin, 
who was looking at him inquisitively.  
	“Sire, I must have council with you,” he said.
	“Certainly, Aradan,” Horin replied.  He nodded to Dwalin, who bowed back; he 
would continue the initiation speech.  He then turned and opened the door that led out of 
the chamber, and into one of the corridors that lead to the rooms where their people were 
housed.  Once Aradan had entered, he shut the door quietly behind them, and then only 
the small torches of the corridor lit them.
	“We have reason to believe Sauron knows we have the Third Ring in our 
possession.”
	“How?”
	“I know not; the Dark Lord has ordered the public execution of a number of 
known Resistance supporters, not far from here.  It has been rumored that Ralen, Lord of 
the Dark Elves, himself will be in attendance.”
	“A trap, most likely.”
	“Indeed.  But … sir Horin, one of the people to be executed is my sister, Idril.  
After our parents were cut down by the orcs, I promised to keep her safe … I could not 
live with myself if I allowed her to die.”
	“And no doubt the others have family, as well,” Horin frowned.  “I must ponder 
this.  Thank you for the information … I will consider this matter most carefully.”
	“Thank you, lord Horin,” Aradan bowed.  With that, he turned back towards the 
door where they had entered, and left him in the corridor by himself.
	“It would be suicide to go there,” a voice said from behind him
	Horin was already turned all the way around, his sword Mîrlachel already drawn 
and lighting the corridor with the glowing red gem set in the hilt, before he realized it was 
Drathir who had spoken.  His half-brother chuckled mirthlessly, leaning upon his staff, 
which glowed with a dim fire of its own.  
	“We cannot simply allow the Dark Lord to execute the innocent,” Horin stated 
tersely.  “If we do not protect them—not only innocents, but those who supported our 
cause—then we will be no better than Sauron himself.  Not only that, but we will have lost 
a great amount of the respect we have gained in the eyes of the common people.”
	“I am well aware of that, Horin,” Drathir replied.  “I simply wanted to make sure 
that you knew that this is a fruitless gesture, at best.  At worst, one of our men could be 
captured and made to tell the location of the final Elven Ring.”
	“Any member of the Resistance would sooner die than reveal such knowledge, and 
you know it.”
	“Would they, now?” Drathir replied.  His gray eyes glittered cynically.  “Perhaps 
they would, if given the chance, choose torture and death over betraying their cause.  But 
the Dark Lord has ways of extracting knowledge from people … and torture is only the 
least of them.”
	“I am aware of that.  Which is why I am planning a quick, concentrated strike.  We 
will attack, recover what prisoners we can, and then retreat into the tunnels.”
	“And if the rumors are true, and Ralen is, in fact, in attendance?”
	Horin grimaced.  “Then there will be a reckoning …”
	
*  *  *  *  *  *

The banners of the Dark Lord—the clashed swords of the orcs, the bloody tears of 
the Dark Elves, and the Lidless Eye of Sauron—fluttered over the plains of Evendim, 
where the wooden platforms of execution were set up.  On the platform stood a dozen 
traitors to the Dark Lord’s empire, of all races … Elves, Men, Dwarves, and even one of 
the massive, treelike Ents.  All stood shackled and lined in a row at the edge of the 
platform, looking out at the people that had gathered to see them.  Most were solemn-
faced villagers, that had been forced out of their homes by the Dark Lord’s edict … but 
others were cheering and laughing, glad for such fine sport to liven up their days.
Ralen stood apart from them all, on a nearby hill.  His Fell Beast, Seregrauk, stood 
beside him, looking down at the assembled masses with a combination of boredom and 
hunger.  He reached over and petted the monstrosity’s hide with a single, gloved fist.  “Be 
at ease, Seregrauk,” he whispered.  “You will feast upon their remains soon enough.”
As he said this, there was a flapping of wings from behind him.  He turned, and 
saw one of his lieutenants guiding his Beast down to the ground, its wings flapping quickly 
as it slowed its decent.  When it had landed, the Dark Elf saluted him, and Ralen returned 
it.
“Any sign of the Rebel scum?” he asked.
“None, milord,” the lieutenant replied.  “We have patrols searching the 
surrounding area for any sign of the rebels.”
“Very good.  Make sure they know not to attack until I give the order … we must 
make sure they are securely within the jaws of the trap, before it snaps shut around them.”
“Yes, milord.” The Dark Elf bowed, and pulled back on the reigns of his Fell 
Beast.  The creature hissed, spread its wings, and took flight, headed in a eastward path.  
Ralen’s dark eyes charted its path, his hand idly stroking the war-hammer at his belt.  At 
his touch, tiny arcs of electricity crackled between the head and his gloved fingers.  
Menelenar was ready; soon, the plains of Evendim would become his killing field, and his 
beast would feed upon the corpses of those who had abandoned him.  

*  *  *  *  *  *

Hidden in the crowd of villagers come to watch the execution, two figures in 
especially ragged cloaks watched as an Orc strutted out on the platform, looking as 
officious as one of his foul race could, and read out a decree in badly slurred Common 
Speech.  He declared that the individualss assembled before the people today were to be 
executed for high crimes against Lord Sauron, Savior of Middle-Earth and Master of its 
Peoples.  
“There she is,” one of them whispered, gesturing with his head minutely.  The 
other nodded; he could hardly have missed her.  Idril stood in the center of the platform, 
her high forehead pointed straight ahead, no expression of fear on her face.  Her 
determination made her already unearthly beauty almost hard to look at, and many of the 
crowd murmured at what a shame it was to destroy such a lovely creature.  
While the figure that had spoke was still staring at the elven girl, the other was 
searching the hills.  If it was a trap, there was sure to be some sort of lookout, at least …
There.  On one of the hills, almost out of the range of his eyesight, stood a figure 
beside a massive winged beast, looking down at the assembled masses.  There were likely 
more, but that was the only one he could detect, for the moment.  
The Orc finished his declaration, and stepped back.  Now a number of other Orcs 
appeared at the rear of the platform, and began prodding one of the prisoners towards the 
edge of the platform, where a massive troll stood, a battle-axe as big as a man clutched in 
both of its hands.  The prisoner, a tall Man with a mane of flame-red hair, did not go 
easily, struggling against his captors, but at last three Orcs surrounded him and forced his 
head down, over the basket that would catch his severed head.  The troll smiled grimly, 
and lifted the axe high over his head, ready to send it on its fatal arc …
Without warning, a massive fireball erupted from the crowd, smashing into the 
troll and sending him staggering towards his fellows, bellowing and aflame.  The Orcs 
squealed and scattered before the troll’s bulk, as everywhere eyes turned to the source of 
the attack.
The second cloaked figure now stood apart from the rest of the crowd, holding up 
a sword that was ringed with flames.  The fire lashed around the blade, seeming almost 
alive, as the figure ripped off his hood to reveal the harsh features of Horin, leader of the 
Resistance.  
“NOW!” he bellowed, and from behind the execution platform, masses of 
Resistance fighters poured from secret trapdoors set in the ground, quickly overwhelming 
the small guard of Orcs and smashing them underfoot, running quickly towards the 
prisoners.
“No!” one of them, the red-haired man that had been saved, yelled.  “It’s a trap!  
They’ll kill you all!”
As if on cue, clouds swept over the sun and turned the sky pitch-black.  Lightning 
crashed, and as one, prisoners, fighters and villagers looked up as a blast of lightning split 
the sky.  It arced towards the hill where Horin had seen the figure, and struck an object 
that could only have been a war-hammer.  
“Ralen,” he whispered, as the figure uttered a terrifying war-cry.  From all 
directions, more fell beasts appeared, bearing Dark Elves who added their own voices to 
the cacophony of the sudden storm.  
Then the other figure was running towards the platform, a glowing elf-sword in his 
hand.  Orcs charged him, and he cut them down almost unthinkingly, leaping onto the 
construct and running towards Idril.  At the same time, however, a Dark Elf swooped in 
from his left, forcing him to throw himself on the ground.  The Dark Elf’s sword sliced 
through his cloak, drawing blood, and he flung it off of him as a wind began to blow, 
making it difficult to stand.  The Dark Elf swung around for another pass, and this time 
Aradan leapt to intercept him, their Elf-swords smashing together as the Dark Elf was 
knocked from his ride, the two grappling on the platform as the icy flames of their swords 
bathed their features in cold light.  
“It’s a trap!” Horin bellowed, struggling to be heard above the cries of the 
townspeople and the screaming winds.  “We have to retreat!”
“No retreat this time, coward,” came a voice that was all too familiar to Horin.  He 
whirled, his sword held at the ready, washing his features in crimson light. 
Before him, black hair whipping around his cold features, clad in gleaming ebony 
armor, electricity crackling and snapping around him like whips, stood Ralen, Lord of the 
Dark Elves.
For a long moment, the two regarded one another, Horin’s ice-blue eyes locked 
upon the Dark Elf’s black ones.  As with the Nazgûl lord, the two stood their ground, 
both search for the slightest sign of fear, of hesitation.  
	As with the Nazgûl lord, it was a waste of time for both.
Then, with a scream of rage, Horin attacked, Mîrlachel leaving a bright swath 
behind it as it sliced through the air.  With blinding speed, Ralen blocked the blow, the 
blue lightning of Menelenar and red fire of Mîrlachel lighting the two enemies with an 
eldritch violet.  For a moment, the two stood eye-to-eye once more, grimacing in hatred as 
they struggled for supremacy.  Then Horin pulled away, raising his sword to block a blast 
of lightning that leapt from the head of Ralen’s hammer an instant later.  
“You are quick as ever, Horin,” Ralen said, his voice dead and emotionless.  “I will 
take much satisfaction in feeding your intestines to Seregrauk.”
“And you run your mouth as you always have, traitor,” Horin growled.  “Myself, I 
allow my actions to speak for themselves.”
With that, Horin grasped his sword in both hands, eyes closed in concentration.  
Ralen chose that moment to swing with Menelenar, the crackling war-hammer whistling 
through the air towards its target.  It was repelled, however, by a blast of heat that 
suddenly surrounded the warrior.  As Ralen took a step back, surprised, he noticed that 
the flesh of his enemy seemed to actually be on fire, though it neither blackened nor 
burned.  
“Ahhhh … you have grown stronger, I see,” Ralen muttered, barely audiable over 
the scream that suddenly burst forth from Horin’s lungs.  The flame leapt onto a single 
point on the sword, the red gem that sat on the hilt, and then shot forward, creating a bolt 
of flame that seared towards Ralen’s face.  Hurriedly, he raised Menelenar, surrounding 
himself with a tunnel of pure lightning that caused the bolt to explode before it could 
contact him.  The explosion caused him to stagger backwards, momentarily blinded, and 
Horin attacked once more, Mîrlachel being stopped a bare inch from Ralen’s throat by his 
war-hammer.  The Dark Elf shoved it away, angrily, and Horin spun agilely, striking from 
Ralen’s other side with equal rage.  Once more, Mîrlachel and Menelenar met, and the 
impact caused sparks and tongues of flame to fly from the two deadly weapons.  The two 
struggled with each other, fighting for leverage as they glared into each other’s faces, not 
noticing the grass around them that began to catch fire or the heated battle around them.  
Locked in a dance of hate and destruction, the two disengaged, and began to 
swing again.

*  *  *  *  *  *

	Elsewhere on the field, a figure cloaked in black robes walked slowly through the 
masses of conflicting armies, seemingly paying no attention to the battle raging around 
him.  He moved almost leisurely, walking with his staff held close to him as he wandered 
along, ball on the tip of the staff glowing softly.  When an enemy, be it Orc or Dark Elf, 
came to close, the orb’s glow intensified a hundredfold, and the creature backed away 
quickly.  Such cowards they all are, the figure thought, and continued his seemingly 
meaningless wanderings.  
	Soon, he found what he was seeking.  The two leaders of the armies had fought 
their way to the top of one of the surrounding hills, blue and red fire leaping and twisting 
around them as they struck, parried, and then struck again.  They were alone; no being 
even dared come close to the apocalyptic battle between the two.  While he watched the 
two, a particularly dull-witted Orc tried to run him through from behind.  The ball on his 
staff leapt to life immediately, lashing out with a burst of flame that set the unfortunate 
beast to burning instantly.  It screamed in agony, running from the cloaked figure as fast as 
he could, waving its arms around until a Hobbit cut its legs off at the knees, stabbing it 
through the heart when it continued to scream and try to run with the squirting stumps of 
its legs.  The figure took no notice of this, instead watching the mortal combat unfolding 
on the top of the hill with mild interest.  His slightly-slanted eyes went from one to the 
other as their weapons clashed again and again, lighting the hilltop with flashes of crimson 
and azure.   
	At last, Horin struck a blow to the Dark Elf’s chest, slicing open his black armor 
with a vicious slash.  Ralen stepped back, looking down at his wound for a moment before 
meeting the Man’s eyes.  Horin was about to bring his sword down in a final stroke before 
he suddenly found himself staring into those black pools, and hesitated.  Then, he 
completed his stroke, but in that hesitation Ralen had the time to block Horin’s killing 
blow.  In a whirlwind of rage, he resumed his attack, redoubled by his wound.  Horin 
began to lose ground before the Dark Elf’s silent attack, the smashing of their weapons 
matching the thunder around them.  At last, Ralen struck the warrior’s massive thigh, a 
sickening crack ringing over the battlefield as the femur was shattered.  Horin screamed in 
pain and fell to his knees, feebly blocking his opponent’s blows until, finally, Menelenar 
struck his sword from his hand.  It flew off into the grass, still smoking.  Horin fell on his 
back, eyes closed, waiting for the end.  Ralen raised the hammer over his head, a bolt of 
lightning ripping down from the sky and flooding the head with electric fire …
  	“Twitch, and your beast will be feeding on your own remains this day,” Drathir 
intoned from behind him.  His voice was completely emotionless, as though he were 
remarking upon the weather.  Then, Ralen felt the blazing heat of the wizard’s orb on the 
back of his neck.  He would not have time to strike before he, himself, would be burned 
alive.  
	“Clever, wizard,” Ralen hissed, frozen save for his lips.  “You always were the 
craftier of the two.  I suppose you will incinerate me now.  Sauron knows, you’ve wanted 
to do so for years.  Then maybe you could kill the musclebound fool at my feet, as well,”-
with that, he indicated the now-unconscious Horin-“and then you could lead this little 
band.  Isn’t that always what you wanted, traitor?”
	“Perhaps at a later date,” Drathir intoned.  “For now, I have use of you.”
	Ralen laughed.  It was a harsh, barking sound, completely devoid of humor.  
“Usage of me, eh, Drathir?  How that must infuriate you.  From the moment you emerged 
from your mother’s womb, you hated me.  You despised me for my pure elven blood, my 
skill with the sword, my talent with the women.  Tell me, where you even then plotting 
this, as your frail little body pored over those ancient books you used to read?”
	“The workings of my mind are none but mine to know,” Drathir replied.
	“So you think … but the Eye of Sauron pierces even your dark heart … brother.”
	Ralen hissed, then, as the blazing orb of the wizard’s staff suddenly pressed against 
the back of his head.  The heat was gone almost as soon as it had begun, but its message 
was quite clear.  
	“You’ve no right to call me that, fool,” he rasped.  “Had you even the slightest 
dignity, you could have overthrown the Dark Lord himself by now.  But instead, you 
snivel and worship him like some warped god.”
	“It’s called loyalty, traitor,” Ralen growled.  “Something you would know nothing 
of, as you left your own brother to die at the hands of orcs.  It was Lord Sauron that 
saved me, not you.”
	“Enough of this,” Drathir said.  “You want Vilya, the Final Elven Ring, for your 
Dark Lord’s hand.  I know where it is.  You do not.”
	“So what do you propose?”
	“The Ring is at the bottom of the Shrine of Galadriel.  You will gather your forces 
and meet our own there two nights from now.  There, you musclebound fools will no 
doubt have your final confrontation.”
	“And I take it that you join the side of the winner?”
	“Correct.”
	“It will be myself, and Lord Sauron.  You haven’t the slightest idea of the power 
even now he calls to himself.  And when you bow before me, I will smash your neck with 
my hammer.”
	“We shall see.  For now, get on your beast, and ride.”
	“And should I decide to strike you dead, once I am out of your range?”
	The heat was removed from the back of Ralen’s neck.  He turned, and looked into 
the cold, reptilian eyes of his half-brother.   He saw nothing but cold, icy calculation in 
that gaze.  
 	“You could do so, if you so chose. But would you choose to invoke a wizard’s 
death-curse?”
	“What foolishness do you speak of?”
	“When your back was turned, I burned a rune into the back of your hair.  All I 
need do is utter a single word, and you will feel more pain than even your Master could 
imagine in his black heart.  Then, you will die … but I imagine that, by the time it comes 
for you, you will welcome death to escape the pain ripping your mind apart.”
	“You are bluffing.”
	“Am I?”
	There was silence, as the two stared at one another.  Neither Drathir nor Ralen 
blinked.  The eldritch lightning around Menelenar crackled and snapped hungrily, as 
Drathir’s features finally moved.  
 	He smiled … the smile of a skull risen from the grave.
	Ralen’s eyes narrowed for a moment … and then he whirled away, bellowing for 
his Fell Beast to come.  Come it did, holding the half-eaten body of a hobbit in its claws, 
blood splashed around its maw.  Seregrauk had not fed so well in months, and as he 
swung onto the monster, it gazed at the fallen warrior as though he were imagining Horin 
as dessert.  Then Ralen raised his war-hammer to the sky, bellowing for withdrawl.  
Everywhere on the field, the Fell Beasts and their Dark Elf riders took flight, stretching 
their thin, ragged wings and soaring into the air, more often than not carrying a fallen 
warrior in its claws.  An archer’s arrow sunk into the flanks of one of the Beast, and it 
screamed, dropping the still-living body of an elven maiden it held in its claws.  The one 
that had struck the blow hurried and caught the maiden in his arms, before her back could 
be shattered by the fall.  Without much interest, Drathir saw that it was Aradan and his 
sister.  As he turned away, the two embraced, tears running down both of their faces.  
Drathir cared nothing for the emotional reunion, instead crouching next to Horin’s 
unconscious body, placing his hands on the warrior’s destroyed femur.  He closed his 
eyes, grimacing, as power flowed from his hands to the broken bone.  It came slowly, 
painfully.  He was used to the spells of destruction and darkness, not of healing, and soon 
he was sweating as he concentrated the full force of his will on reassembling the shards of 
bone in his half-brother’s leg.  At last, it was done, and Drathir fell back, coughing 
violently from the exertion.  Small flecks of blood flew from his mouth as he slowly fought 
to wrestle the fit under control.  He felt an armored hand on his shoulder, knowing it was 
Horin, and pushed it violently away.  Eventually, he regained control of his lungs once 
more, and stood.  
	“Where is Ralen?” Horin asked, standing somewhat tentatively on his newly healed 
leg.
	“Gone.  He said that there was no point in destroying you here, when the ultimate 
humiliation was yet to come.  He wanted to make you suffer before he killed you.”
	Horin shook his head.  “That can only mean one thing.”
	“Vilya.”
	“Yes … we must assemble our forces, and take the ring back from where it is 
hidden.  And we must ride as soon as possible.”
	“We will need a day to organize the movement, perhaps two.”
	“Then that cannot be helped,” Horin sighed.  “We can only hope that we are able 
to reach it in time.”
	Drathir said nothing.

*  *  *  *  *  *

	The doors of Ralen’s inner sanctum suddenly burst open, knocking the orcish 
guards posted in front off of their feet with a crash.  The leader of the Dark Elves whirled 
upon the hapless guards, drawing his hammer as he strode towards the closest one.  It 
squealed in terror and backpedaled desperately as lightning crackled and snapped around 
Menelenar’s mithril head.  Ralen’s eyes, though still pitch-black, seemed to be burning 
with unholy anger as they pierced the orc with the fury of his rage.
	“Get out,” he snarled, and the orcs scrambled to their feet, more than eager to do 
so and escape the wrath of their master.  They quickly exited, closing the heavy wooden 
doors behind them as softly as they could.  
	Ralen stood, seething, in the dim torch-light of his chamber.  Impossible that he 
had that musclebound fool within his grasp … only to be denied at the last by that fool, 
Drathir.
	“Kill you,” he hissed, lashing out at the walls with the lightning from his hammer.  
The bolts sizzled out and destroyed part of the wall, blasting crumbled stone out into the 
night.  “Kill you, kill you, kill you ALL!” More lightning flashed out, vaporizing stone and 
mortar before the fury of the Dark Elf’s attack.  Never before had Ralen been so utterly 
consumed with wrath, and he struck out at whatever was close by, his vision blurred by 
the intensity of his fury.
	RALEN, boomed a voice from behind him, and the Dark Elf’s blood suddenly 
froze in his veins.  Only one entity in all of Middle-Earth had a voice that crackled with 
such malevolent power … the one entity in all of Middle-Earth that Ralen feared.
	Ralen turned, and looked into the ornate mirror that was mounted on one of the 
walls.  It was, remarkably, untouched by the destructive fury of his tantrum.  Around its 
polished-silver edge ran exquisitely carved flames, demons and hapless souls burning 
within them.  It was not the frame that drew his attention, however.  Rather, it was the 
massive, slitted Eye, ringed with flames, that pierced him from the depths of the mirror.  
Around it, the once-polished surface was clouded by roiling clouds of darkest black, 
obscuring everything but the single Eye that stared into the blackest depths of his soul 
with malignant clarity.
	“Lord Sauron,” Ralen whispered, immediately bowing to one knee and placing the 
handle of his hammer against the floor.
	WHERE IS VILYA, MY SERVANT? boomed the voice of the Dark Lord.  It 
came not from the mirror, but from everywhere at once.  Ralen’s mind shook at the 
booming tone of that voice.
	“I have located it, my Master,” he said, keeping his eyes lowered to the ground.  
He dared not meet the gaze of that massive, serpent-like Eye, lest It drive him insane with 
the unholy knowledge contained in Its lidless depths.  
	Suddenly, a bolt of agony ripped through his mind.  He cried out, eyes closed, as 
his hands clutched at the sides of his head.
	THEN WHY DOST THOU RETURN WITHOUT IT? the voice of Sauron 
boomed.  Blood was beginning to trickle from Ralen’s nose, and splattered on the floor in 
crimson drops.  I NEED NOT TELL THEE THE PENALTY FOR THOSE WHO 
FAIL ME IN THE DUTIES THEY HAVE ASSIGNED.
	“My Lord … please …” Ralen whispered.  The pain intensified, making his head 
feel like it was being crushed in a vice … and then lifted, leaving him panting for breath.
	VERY WELL, Sauron rasped.  WHERE IS IT?
	“The Elves have hid it … in the catacombs beneath the Shrine of Galadriel,” Ralen 
said, his voice uneven.  “I have … intelligence that the Rebels are coming to … claim it 
before we can get there.”
	The Eye stared at him for a moment, and he struggled to keep from squirming 
under Its firey glare.  AND THINE BROTHERS AMONGST THEM, OF COURSE.
	“Yes.”
	EXCELLENT.  I KNOW THOU HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN HOW THEY 
BETRAYED THEE, LEAVING YOU FOR DEAD THOSE YEARS AGO.
	“No, my Lord.  I will relish the chance to spill their blood upon the stones of the 
Shrine … and then, present the Elven Ring of Sapphire to Your hand myself.”
	GOOD.  AND IF THOU FAIL, PRAY THAT THY BROTHERS SLAY YOU 
THERE … FOR WHATEVER FATE THOU WILL MEET AT THEIR HANDS WILL 
BE NOTHING COMPARED TO WHAT WILL AWAIT THEE IF THEE 
DISAPPOINT ME AGAIN.
	“Yes, my Liege,” Ralen whispered.  When he looked up, the Eye was gone, the 
mirror now simply a reflective piece of metal again.  The dark magic that had turned it into 
a messenger had departed. He silently shuddered, and then turned towards the double-
doors once more.  Calling for the Orcish guards, he began to plan for the coming battle.
	He would not fail, again.

*  *  *  *  *  *

	As the moon arose over the desert of Amarth, it glittered upon the marble surface 
of a single stone set on the top of a hill.  The stone had been worn away almost 
miraculously by the harsh winds, so that they formed the shape of a woman, one arm 
stretched upwards while her hair flowed behind her.  Some said that it was the spirit of 
Galadriel, returning to the land where once the Elven city of Lothlòrien had stood and 
carving her likeness out of the chunk of marble that jutted towards the sky.  Its pose and 
gentle curves seemed to suggest a sense of courage and compassion, a light of hope in a 
desert of utter despair.  
	It was not for the statue that the two massive armies, one light and one dark, had 
assembled, however.  Deep within the hill was a tunnel leading down into a labyrinthine 
underground fortress, where the combined forces of the Dwarves and Elves had stood 
against Sauron for the final time.  Though the Dark Lord had burned the woods of 
Lothlòrien to the ground, devastating the land so it became a barren and blasted 
wasteland, he had left the fortress of Telost largely untouched.  Now, in the heart of this 
fortress, glowing dimly in the dark depths, was Vilya, the Elven Ring of Air.  Its cold blue 
light dimly lit the pedestal it was put upon, contained beyond so many spells of sealing that 
even Sauron's Eye could not penetrate it.   It was for this treasure, the final Elven ring, 
that the legions of Sauron and of the Resistance were assembled, merely a half a day's 
march from one another.  
	Throughout the ranks of Sauron, small fires were lit sporadically, shedding light 
for the legions of Orcs and Trolls that sat around them, chanting war-songs and making 
vows of how many of the Rebels they would destroy on the marrow.  Within the ebony 
tent in which Ralen sat, however, there was no fire.  The darkness surrounded him, 
encasing him in its power, and his ebon armor and dark hair nearly blended entirely into 
the darkness.  Only the pale flesh of his skin was visible, and even that was only barely 
recognizable from the moonlight filtering through the hole in the top.  His eyes were 
closed, Menelenar at his side as always, as he stretched out his mind, seeking for the 
armies that Drathir had told him would be there.   Everywhere, there was only barren 
desert, sandstorms raging across its surface like angry children.  But then, he found them 
… camped almost completely opposite the Shrine, huddled in their tents to escape the 
raging winds.  In the largest tent sat his two brothers, heads bowed together in secret 
conference.  The spell he was casting allowed him to see their lips moving, but not to hear 
what they said.  
No matter.  By the time the bloated sun was high in the sky, the two armies would 
meet on the field of battle.  In one swift stroke, the Rebels would be crushed without 
mercy, the final Elven Ring would be his, and Sauron would reward him most handsomely.  
Perhaps he could even convince the Dark Lord to dispose of that troublesome Witch-
King.  After all, who better to lead the strongest Men on the planet than the strongest Elf? 
Still, no reward the Dark Lord could offer would come close to the personal 
gratification he would gain in flaying the flesh off of his brothers’ bones.  He still 
remembered the day as though it were yesterday … Horin, the musclebound fool, insisting 
on charging the gates of Mordor while the main part of its armies were dealing with the 
battle raging against the alliance of Elves, Men and Dwarves outside the Black Gates.  He 
had tried to convince the warrior otherwise, but he would not be turned.  Loyal to his 
brother to the end, he had fought valiantly, despite his growing sense of doom as the Dark 
Land emptied its legions against the forces of the Light.  A lucky Orc had managed to 
smash him to the ground with its maul, and though he was able to slice that one in half 
with his sword, the others, seeking easy prey, surrounded him, punching, smashing, 
slashing.  He killed dozens of the foul creatures, but they overwhelmed him in the end.  He 
cried to his brothers for help, but  …
The Dark Elf’s teeth ground slowly together in rage, as he remembered the last 
sight of his brother before they met again at the battle on the plains of Evendim.  He was 
being dragged down by the foul hordes of the Orcs, and cried out to his brother a final 
time, begging for help.  Horin had turned then, met the Elf’s eye … and then turned away, 
leaving his brother to be dragged down by the dark hordes.  When the Shadow fell over 
the sky, showing that the quest to destroy Sauron’s Ring had failed, the armies of the 
Light had fled in terror from the darkness, and his broken body was left behind. 
He could still remember that dark, powerful voice, echoing in his mind.  “Thou 
hast been betrayed by thine own flesh and blood.  I, too, was once betrayed, and I 
hunted my betrayers to the very ends of Endor until they were destroyed.  I can give 
thee the power to do the same.  That … and so much more.  Join Me, Elf, and I will 
heal thee … remake thee to be stronger and faster than any Elf ever was.  I will give 
thee power beyond your wildest dreams, power enough to crush thine enemies as 
though they were mere insects.  Only join Me, and I will do all these things for thee.”
He had resisted at first, held back from his true potential by outdated concepts 
such as morality and a misguided loyalty to those that had betrayed him.  But at last, he 
had accepted, and the One Ring covered his body with eldritch flame, healing his wounds 
and making him whole.  Sauron forged a armor of blackest mithril for him, and gave him 
mastery over the storm with his mighty war-hammer.  Then He set him over a force of 
other Elves that had fallen to His temptation or were magically brainwashed into joining 
the Dark Lord’s forces, and the Dark Elves were forged in the fires of Ralen’s hatred.  
Now that his betrayers were at last within his grasp, Ralen found it difficult to 
control himself.  He wanted to charge ahead, wipe out the Rebels as they slept, and hoist 
Horin and Drathir’s heads upon his banners.  But he wanted their failure to be complete.  
He wanted his brothers to fight their way through the hordes of foul creatures and 
demonspawn he placed in their way, to make their way to the labyrinth deep below the 
shifting sands … only to find Ralen with Vilya, the final and strongest Elven Ring of 
Power, upon his finger.  Their deaths would be slow and agonizing, and before he was 
through with Horin, his limbs would be shattered in a hundred places, his eyes exploded 
and leaking out of their sockets by his lightning, whimpering and pleading for death.  And 
Drathir … he would strip that mage of his powers, leave him helpless and weak, and force 
him to bow before the Master of Dark Elves.  Then, and only then, would he consume his 
half-brother with Menelenar’s electric fire.  
As the moon shimmered upon his darkly beautiful features, a smile creased his 
face.  It was cold, dark, and utterly devoid of any compassion.

*  *  *  *  *  *

	The meeting of the two armies did not occur until the sun was almost directly 
above the marble stone that marked the Shrine.  It was Drathir, with his magically-
enhanced sight, that first saw the black horde marching towards them across the sands.  
As they came closer, the horde covered more and more of the horizon, until they seemed 
to number in the millions.  Above them rode a group of figures on Fell Beasts, obviously 
keeping the massive army moving together.  They could only be the Dark Elves.
	“They’re here,” Drathir said.  “From the way they’re going, we’re going to reach 
the Shrine mere minutes before they do.  Just enough time for us to slip into the labyrinth 
and go after the Ring.”
	Horin nodded, and turned towards Aradan.  The three of them rode on the back of 
massive war-horses, the best that could be found on this blasted world.  Their hooves 
seemed unhindered by the sand underneath their hooves, as though it were no more than 
simple dirt they tred upon.  The Elven warrior was accompanied by an additional figure, 
riding behind him--Idril, his sister.  Slung on her back was a quiver of arrows, and in her 
seemingly delicate hands she held a bow made of polished bone.  She turned towards 
Horin as her brother did, her ice-blue eyes unafraid, trusting.  They unnerved him, as he 
was not the least bit unafraid.  
	“Drathir and I will go into the labyrinth, alone,” Horin said.  “We cannot afford 
any more men than that.  Even the sacrifice of the two of us is a loss I would not allow if 
we were not the only two that knew how to reach the place where the Ring is.  You will 
lead the army in my stead, until we can return with Vilya.”
	Aradan nodded.  “We will fight to the last, Lord Horin.”
	“No!” Horin shouted.  “If you see you are being routed, fall back.  As long as part 
of the Resistance survived, more will come to replace those are lost.  But some must 
survive for that to happen, or our dream of a world free of Sauron’s taint will be for 
naught.”
	 “And if they force us back before you emerge?”
	Horin glanced at Drathir, who was seemingly oblivious to the entire conversation, 
instead peering at the horizon with his dark eyes.  “With any luck, we will have Vilya in 
our possession by them.  That alone should be enough to turn the tide.  The Ring of Air is 
the mightiest of the Three, after all, and with its full might unleashed …”
	Aradan nodded, slowly.  “Very well.  Will you and Lord Drathir ride ahead, now?”
	“Yes.  And Aradan … if we should perish, you must survive to lead the 
Resistance.”
	“I?  But … Lord Horin … I am merely a soldier.  I am unworthy of such a task.”
	“So was I, Aradan,” Horin said softly.  “So I still think I am.  But you will 
succeed, because you must.  The Light will guide you to where you must be, and that is all 
you will require.”
	Aradan bowed slightly.  “Thank you, Lord Horin.  The One be with you.”
	“May He be with all of us,” Horin replied, and kicked at the sides of his horse.  
The massive beast leapt forward, deceptively fast, and began riding towards the marble 
spire upon the hill.  Drathir followed soon behind, crouched low on his horse as though 
the wind might blow him off of his steed. 
	Aradan turned to his sister, who still clutched the bow in her hand.  Their eyes met, 
and without a word, she drew an arrow from the quiver at her back.  The head was 
polished mithril, the feather taken from one of the Great Eagles that once ruled the sky.  
She notched the arrow, pulled back, and fired.  It flew high and true, searing through the 
air in a high arch.  At last, its arc reached its peak, and plunged back towards the earth.  It 
fell upon the desert plain directly in front of the marble spire, the impact driving it halfway 
into the sand, where it stood up at an angle, an open challenge to the dark horde before 
them.  Within a few minutes, a black arrow flew from the hordes marching towards them, 
flashing up and then back down exactly as Idril’s had.  The arrow landed mere inches from 
the elf-maiden’s.
	The challenge was accepted.
	With a roar, both armies charged the field.  Swords of both light and darkness 
were drawn, Fell Beasts and war-horses spurred forward, songs of Elves and Men and of 
unspeakable creatures mingling together in a cacophony of rage and bloodlust.  Soldiers 
on both sides stumbled and fell in the shifting sands underneath them.  The Resistance 
fighters paused just long enough to help their companions to their feet, whereas the 
legions of Sauron simply trampled them underfoot, heedless to their cries of pain and pleas 
for help.  
	The Resistance drew the first blood, as a Hobbit lunged towards a small orc, 
drawing his blade across the monster’s throat before it could finish bellowing its war-cry.  
The advantage was short-lived, however, as a troll rose its rocky fist high into the air and 
smashed it back down, with the unfortunate hobbit underneath it.  Blood splashed on any 
soldiers that were within ten feet and covered the troll’s massive hand.  An Ent, trunk-like 
legs rising and falling as it charged, then shattered the troll’s stony arm with a single blow.  
The troll retreated, screaming in pain as black blood gouted out of its destroyed limb, and 
the horde closed around it, moving forth to swing at the Ent’s wooden legs with their 
swords and axes.  The Elves, Men and Dwarves closed in on these, and the battle began in 
earnest.  
	For what seemed like hours, the two forces raged against one another, neither 
seeming to be able to gain anything beyond a momentary advantage over the other.  Then, 
suddenly, the forces of Sauron retreated.  The Resistance moved forward warily, only to 
stop dead as the horde suddenly parted.  Stomping towards them was a horror that turned 
the sand beneath it to glass in the blazing fire of its stride.  Its black hair covered its 
hideously muscular body, fangs jutting out from its mouth as it bellowed to the sky.  A 
pair of horns curved upwards from its forehead, and its entire body seemed to be aflame.  
In one titanic, clawed hand, a whip with nine heads on its snapped sadistically through the 
air; in the other, a sword of fire slashed and cleaved the air.  It was the most feared of the 
Dark Lord’s minions, regarded with even more terror than the legendary dragons.  Of 
those that were foolish to look directly at the beast, many fell down and died from sheer 
terror, while the others were paralyzed with their sheer fear of the thing.
	“A-a-a Balrog!” a tall Man screamed, turning to flee.  “Run!  Run!  Ru-“
	His frantic screams were stopped short, as the Balrog’s whip sliced through the air 
and, subsequently, the warrior himself.  He fell to the ground in two pieces, his legs still 
trying desperately to flee for several seconds before realizing they were dead and falling 
still.  The Balrog threw its head back and bellowed laughter, flames shooting from its maw 
as it did so. Ralen had held back nothing in this final assault, even calling upon one of the 
few Balrogs left in existence, and this show of power caused the resistance’s hearts to 
tremble.  The countenance of the fire-demon was so utterly horrific, the entire army 
retreated from it.  
	Save one single, delicate figure; a elf-maiden, clutching a bow in one hand, a 
notched arrow in the other.  The Balrog stared towards her, and the two’s eyes actually 
met for a split-second.  In that fraction of time, Idril almost faltered, but then let loose her 
arrow.  It had been blessed by Elrond himself before he had fled Middle-Earth, and it flew 
towards the fire-demon without err.  The Balrog blinked, curious at this tiny creature that 
so boldly attacked it … just as the arrow pierced the black orb of its right eye.
	The fire-demon shrieked with such force that the sand itself blasted away from him 
in a wave.  Both light and dark forces backed away from the injured demon, as in its rage 
it began to cut down anything in its path, be it Orc, Dark Elf, or Man.  At last one of 
Sauron’s wizards cast a spell of sleeping upon the demon, and its bulk fell to the sand, the 
Eagle’s feather still jutting out from its gushing eye socket.  
	Heartened by this victory, the Resistance surged forwards, attacking with a brutal 
ruthlessness that matched that of the Dark Lord’s forces.  The two armies struck at one 
another, bodies simply falling to the ground and being trampled underfoot as the two 
forces struggled against one another.  The Dark Elves swooped and dived amongst the 
fray, cutting down soldiers and then flying back up out of range.  At last, however, a Man 
wielding a massive two-handed sword severed one of the Fell Beasts’ wings, causing it to 
crash to the ground on top of its rider, temporarily stunning both.  A group of Hobbits 
surrounded the enemy, and began stabbing at the Dark Elf with daggers and short swords.  
The corrupted Elf screamed and begged for mercy, even as the blades gouged out his eyes 
and ripped open his jugular vein.  As last, a Hobbit’s blade pierced through his armor, 
piercing into his black heart, and he died with a horrifying shriek, his body bursting into 
flames that seared any who were too close, and reducing the hobbit that had struck the 
killing blow into ash.  
	It seemed as though the battle would never end, when suddenly a massive 
whistling sound appeared.  Both armies paused, looking around warily, looking for the 
source of the noise.  As they sought it in vain, the sound grew louder and louder, until, 
with a massive explosion, the hill of the Shrine of Galadriel exploded upwards.
	From the depths of the earth, caught in a whirlwind of sand and electric fire, two 
figures emerged, flying into the air even as they struggled with one another.  One was clad 
in silver armor, broken in numerous places, while the other bore the black armor of the 
Dark Elves.  From their struggles, a blazing blue glow could be seen--and the Ring was on 
Ralen’s hand.

*  *  *  *  *  *

	The two brothers reached the Shrine of Galadriel less than a minute before the two 
armies clashed together before them.  Horin sent the two horses away with a smack from 
his sword, the two war-horses riding away from the battle and, hopefully, to safety.  
Meanwhile, Drathir was making slow, cryptic passes in the air with his hands, muttering 
strange syllables in the language of magic.  The winds swirled around them and the dual 
roar of the armies surrounded them, as though in mockery of their efforts.  Drathir 
continued his passes and chanting, eyes closed, unhurried by their apparent plight.  The 
armies moved closer and closer, and if Sauron’s hordes hadn’t spotted them by now, they 
certainly would before long.  The armor-clad warrior was about to push the wizard aside 
and start digging himself, when suddenly a wedge of the hill opened up, spilling sand in all 
directions.  A black gash appeared in the sand, slowly spreading until it was wide enough 
for a man to fit through, if he crouched.  Almost as soon as the entrance opened, however, 
it began to slide back down.  The wizard and the warrior quickly slipped into the entrance, 
Horin having to crouch and hurry down the first few steps of a long stairwell to keep from 
being smashed by the descending slab of stone.  Then the door slid shut with a click, and 
the two were surrounded by utter darkness.  
	Drathir uttered a word in the tongue of magic, and the orb at the end of his staff 
suddenly flared to life.  The orb cast enough light to see that they were now at the top of a 
curved row of stairs, the brown stone walls to either side completely devoid of any 
decoration.  Stairs trailed downward in a tight spiral, and it was impossible to tell how 
long they went on.  The general impression was one of great depth and ominous size, 
however.  
	Horin drew his sword, and the crimson jewel on the hilt added its own light to the 
darkness of the stairwell.  With a glance at one another, the two began to make their way 
down the steps, Horin holding his sword at the ready, Drathir following shortly behind 
him.  The two descended silently, going deeper and deeper into the earth.  Horin began to 
lose count by the second hundredth step, and gave up completely around three hundred.  
If Drathir knew the true number of stairs they had descended, he did not care to disclose 
such information.  Slowly, in spite of himself, Horin began to sense the tons and tons of 
rock that stood above them, held back only by the tunnels build by the Dwarven smiths 
more than a decade ago.  Yes, their craftsmanship was unparallelled amongst the 
intelligent races, but it was all to easy to imagine the smiths leaving a weak spot in the 
walls, a spot that could slip at any moment, dumping the hill and several tons of rock 
down on them …
	Suddenly, just as the claustrophobia was becoming too much for the warrior to 
stand, the spiral ended in a long, brown-stoned corridor.  At the end, stood a massive 
ebony door.  Once, it had stood on massive bronze hinges that could only be opened with 
the use of massive pulleys on the inside.  Now, however, it leaned loosely on one of the 
hinges, a massive dent engraved onto the side of it.  Only a very powerful weapon could 
have so devastated the gate, which had been still intact even after the legions of Sauron 
had swarmed in.  The dent was in a very familiar shape, one that caused Horin’s hopes to 
plummet.  
	It was a shape that only a war-hammer could have made.
	With a glance at one another, Horin and Drathir paused.  Then, they moved 
forward cautiously, expecting anything.
	They emerged from the corridor into a massive, cyclopean cavern that swept away 
from the center on all sides, reaching so far up into the darkness that the ceiling could not 
be seen.  In the center of this cavern, stood a gigantic fortress of stone and iron, the open 
gates covered in Elven runes.  The signs of the first and only battle on this site were still 
visible; the scorch marks of exploded spells covered the stone walls, arrows and broken 
swords littered the ground, and the walls themselves were broken down in places and 
covered in a thin covering of moss.  Still, the ruin of Telost was a mammoth structure, 
commanding respect and awe in anyone who looked upon it.  
	Anyone, at least, other than the owner of the cold, mocking voice that rang out in 
the dark chamber.  The voice was devoid of respect or awe, and full of black, vile power.  
Only three individuals on the entire face of Middle-Earth could possible have such a 
ghastly laugh as that.  The Dark Lord Sauron himself, the Witch-King of Angmar … and 
Ralen, Lord of the Dark Elves.
	Suddenly, a hurricane-force wind smashed into the walls of Telost, causing the 
blocks of stone to first groan in protest and then explode outwards, smashing with brutal 
force into Horin and Drathir.  The warrior was protected somewhat by his armor as the 
wind picked him up like a scrap of paper and hurled him against the rock wall.  His half-
brother was apparently far less fortunate; his frail, robed body slammed into the wall, 
slumped to the ground, and did not arise.
	Through the billowing dust, strode a single, dark figure.  His long, black hair 
flowed behind him, and on one hand a star of sapphire blazed brightly.  In the other a 
massive war-hammer was carried, lightning still crackling and snapping around its head.  
The eyes were two dark globes, piercing into Horin’s soul.  
	For the second time, Horin stood face-to-face with his stepbrother, Ralen.
	“Ahhh, my brother,” Ralen rasped, as Horin struggled to get to his feet and failed.  
“How weak you have become.  Not even able to give me a decent challenge anymore, 
where once you could have defeated me soundly.  Or is it perhaps that you did not grow 
weaker … is it that perhaps, I just grew so much stronger?”  
	With that, he pointed the hammer towards Horin’s chest, a blast of lightning 
leaping outwards and striking him directly in the chest.  Horin screamed as the electric fire 
ripped into his body, causing his limbs to spasm uncontrollably.  He felt the blood in his 
ears beating faster and faster, as his brain swelled at his skull, threatening to explode 
outwards …
	When suddenly, Ralen lowered the hammer, the storm of electricity stopping as 
quickly as it had began.  Horin’s body felt drained and weak from Menelenar’s blast, and 
he was unable to resist as a wind current lifted him up, holding him upright suspended a 
foot above the floor.  
	“No, not yet,” Ralen rasped.  “Not yet.  First, Horin, I want you to tell me 
something.  I want you to tell me how you can call yourself a hero … how you can even 
continue existing … when you KNEW that you abandoned the one that had stood by you 
through everything.  Even when we were children, Horin, and the other children would 
gang up on you because they knew they couldn’t fight you by themselves, I would always 
help you, even if it meant I had to take a beating myself.  But then … when I needed you 
most … you turned your back on me.”
	“Never … turned my back on you,” Horin struggled to say.  “I … tried to find you 
… but … the tide took me away.  Fought for hours … trying to find you, but … couldn’t.  
Spent years looking for you … searching …”
	“Lies!” Ralen screamed, striking his brother across the face with a gauntleted fist.  
“I saw you that day, ‘brother’, and I saw you recognize me!  You could have helped me 
on that day thirteen years ago, but instead you turned your back on me.  You left me to 
die there, Horin.”
	“Saw …?” Horin gasped.  “I … never saw you … only monsters … the legions of 
Sauron, everywhere.  I … would never abandon you, brother.”
	Ralen’s rage, where it had once been multiplying as he confronted his brother, 
slowly began to fade into confusion.  “But … I remember it, like it was yesterday.  I 
looked into your eyes, and you saw me … but you turned away …”
	Horin shook his head.  “No … brother, don’t you see?  Sauron … He’s changed 
your memories, somehow.  He convinced you that we abandoned you … so He could turn 
you into His servant.  You are not a tool of evil, Ralen … I know that in my heart.”
	Ralen turned away.  “But … why would Lord Sauron change my memories?  Why 
would He want to make me His puppet?”
	“So He could use you to destroy your own brothers,” Horin said, with more 
energy now.  “And crush the only resistance to His dark reign.  Evil’s greatest tools have 
always been darkness and deceit, my brother.”
	“I …” Ralen’s shoulders slumped suddenly, his head bowing as though in some 
great struggle.  “I … I … my head … my MIND … what … father … why did you leave 
us … killed by a mere Man … mother … brother … Lord …”
	Suddenly, Ralen’s hands flew to the sides of his head, clutching his skull as he 
screamed in agony.  The wind current holding Horin up disappeared, and Horin fell to the 
ground, barely keeping his footing.  His face was full of hope, as he moved towards his 
enemy.  “Ralen … come back with us.  We can be united again … as when we were 
young and innocent.  Before Sauron, before any of this.”
	Ralen looked at him for a moment, his clouded eyes full of pain … and, for a brief 
moment, a shard of hope.  He reached his hand out towards his brother … and then, 
clenched it in renewed rage.
	“Lies,” he whispered.  A sound came from Horin’s left side, and he saw that 
Drathir was standing as well, holding his back in pain and leaning heavily upon his staff.  
	“Ralen, no!” Horin cried, reaching out for him.
	“Lies, lies, lies!” the Dark Elf bellowed, suddenly swinging his war-hammer behind 
his head, blue fire pouring around him.  “All lies!  You only want to corrupt me, as your 
idiot father corrupted my mother!  And you,” he snarled to Drathir, “the child of that 
corruption.  They called it marriage, but we both know it was only a legally justified rape.”
	“No!” Horin cried again, trying to step closer without being struck by the bolts of 
lightning that flowed from Menelenar.  “My father loved your mother!  He would have 
given his life for her, and she would have done the same!  And he loved you as his own 
child, just as I loved you as my full brother.”
	“Lies,” Ralen whispered again.  “Love is a lie … there is only darkness, death … 
and power!”
	With that, he swung Menelenar in a deadly arc towards his brother’s head.  Horin 
barely managed to deflect the blow with his sword, electricity sizzling his face as the 
hammer swung mere centimeters from his temple.  The Dark Elf allowed the momentum 
of his swing to turn him in a complete circle, and again brought the hammer crashing 
down on Horin in a two-handed overheaded blow.  Horin dropped his own weapon, 
reaching up with both hands to grab the handle of the war-hammer, stopping its path 
before it could end on his skull.  Electricity snapped into him like a living thing, enraged at 
being touched by someone other than its master.  He held on only through the sheer force 
of his will, and even then only barely.  He saw Ralen, his eyes blazing in rage, draw back 
the fist that bore Vilya on the index finger.  With all the strength he could muster, Horin 
wrenched one of his hands from the electrified hammer, thrusting it forward to meet 
Ralen’s punch.  He grabbed the Dark Elf by the wrist, and instantly the current blasting 
through him ceased.  Menelenar would not endanger its master when he was connected to 
the target himself.
	Ralen screamed in rage, and a tornado of wind swirled from his first, blasting 
Horin towards the far wall.  Still, he held on relentlessly, his grip only tightening until his 
fingers had nearly dented the ebony gauntlets of the Dark Elf.  Ralen tried to strike with 
his war-hammer, to bash his brother’s skull in, but Horin was strong enough to brunt most 
of the force so that the blows were, for the most part, harmless.  Horin was weakening, 
however, and Ralen seemed to be growing stronger by the second as his fury raged within 
him.  At last, Ralen pointed his fist towards the ceiling.  “You are strong, ‘brother’,” Ralen 
snarled.  “But can you resist the full force of the greatest of the Three?”
	Suddenly, a hurricane of concentrated wind spiraled around them, once again 
smashing Drathir into one of the walls.  Though he padded himself with one of his spells, 
he still hit very hard, and began to be dragged along by the force of the wind.  Horin, who 
was slightly outside the eye of this hurricane, was buffeted and yanked by the winds, until 
it seemed that his arms would be torn from their sockets.  Silently, he prayed to the One 
for the strength to hold on, as the castle and the walls around them began to shake with 
the force unleashed by the Ring of Air.  Massive chunks of rock fell and were whipped 
with crushing force into the walls and the castle of Telost, shattering brick and stone alike.  
Still the force continued, until finally a piercing light appeared, far above their heads but 
seemingly falling closer.  Then Horin realized that the funnel of the wind had lifted the two 
of them above the ground, and were carrying them towards it.  It was, of course, daylight, 
the blazing sun of Amarth sending its rays down to the two combatants as they struggled 
and continued to rise.  At last they exploded outwards, and even through the glare that 
made it almost impossible to see after the darkness of the cavern, they saw the two armies, 
paused in their struggle to gape at the godlike figures rising from the desert sands.  Then, 
the two were obscured by a solid wall of grit which twisted up around them, swirling up 
until the sides met, blocking out most of the sun.  Sand slashed into Horin’s face and the 
exposed parts of his skin, going fast enough to rip thin gashes in his exposed flesh.  
Blinded by the gritty substance, Horin grappled for the ring on Ralen’s hand, at last 
touching a hard stone that nearly seared his fingers with the power radiating from it.  
	With a final burst of strength, Horin yanked himself towards Ralen, smashing his 
armored knee directly into the Dark Elf’s face.  His enemy reeled, momentarily stunned, 
and Horin wrenched the ring from Ralen’s finger.  At first it caught, and Ralen tried to pull 
his hand away, but only suceeded in yanking it the rest of the way out.
	The sandstorm stopped instantly, the wind dying down almost immediately after 
the ring lost contact with Ralen’s finger.  They hung, suspended, in the air for a fraction of 
the instant … and then they plummeted back down to the Earth, hurtling past the still-
gaping armies and into the darkness of the underground fortress.  The ground rushed up at 
the two brothers incredibly fast, and neither doubted that such a fall would kill them both.
	Horin’s situation flashed through his mind very briefly, as he fell with increasing 
speed.  If he did nothing, he would be smashed to pieces by the stone floor.  On the other 
hand, it was doubtful if Ralen would survive, either, and perhaps Drathir could escape 
with Vilya before the legions of Sauron flooded in and massacred him.  But then, he 
thought again, that was entirely too chancy of an option.  So, offering a prayer to the One, 
he slipped the Ring of Sapphire upon his finger.
	Instantly, he felt the power of the Ring pouring into him, awakening stores of 
strength he hadn’t known he possessed.  The magic of the Elven-smiths surged through 
him, setting his nerve endings on fire.  Without even thinking, he clenched his fist, and 
thrust it towards the ground.  He felt the power surge out from him, as a blast of wind 
suddenly hit him from below, striking with such force that his descent began to slow.  
Ralen, too, was experiencing the slowed falling rate of the air current, but was still falling 
much faster than Horin.  His eyes met Horin’s for an instant, full of anger and confusion 
and a strange, clouded senseof sorrow.  Then, his armored body crashed into the ground 
loudly, where it lay still.  Horin landed soon after, the impact still enough to stagger him 
though he landed on his feet.  The power that had flooded him was suddenly gone, and he 
fell to his knees, panting.  
	A dark shape arose from the corner, and as the orb at the end of its staff lit up, he 
saw that it was Drathir, still alive but staggering worse than ever.  He looked at Horin and 
the body of Ralen silently, and then fixing his eyes upon the ring on Horin’s finger.  “Vilya 
…” he whispered, and moved forward slowly.  “Let me see it …”
	Horin moved to take off the ring--what use was it to him anymore, now that the 
battle was done?--but suddenly stopped.  “Why, brother?”
	Drathir was mere meters away from him now, and his face curled downward into a 
snarl.  “Give it to me, damn you!” the wizard roared, a surprising powerful voice coming 
from his frail body.  He made a grab at it, but Horin pulled away, now looking at Drathir 
with suspision.  
	“What has gotten into you, Drathir?” Horin asked.  “Ralen is dead, finally … what 
more do you want this for?”
	“Give it to me, or so help me, I’ll kill you where you stand,” Drathir snarled, the 
orb of his staff suddenly leaning towards the armored warrior.  “I went to all this effort of 
luring you two in here together, and I refuse to be stopped now!”
	“You …” Horin whispered, looking at his half-brother with dawning anger.  “You 
are the one that told Ralen where the ring was, didn’t you?  But why?”
	“You don’t understand, do you?  How humiliating it was to depend on the two of 
you to protect me?  My body was too frail for the swordplay the two of you so enjoyed, 
and my magics at the time were only beginning to develop.  Even when had grown to 
adulthood, I was forced to stay with the two of you fools because of my father’s wishes.  
A pity I did not have the stomach to defy him then.  He wanted us all together … but now 
he is dead, Ralen is dead, and soon, so will you be.”
	“But Drathir … why?  We always tried to help you whenever we could …”
	“Arrogant fool!  You think I enjoyed your help?  Having to depend on those 
without half the intelligence I did, being barely able to defend myself against a simple 
schoolyard bully … how I hated the both of you.  I hated you for being stronger and yet 
so stupid with it.  And now, I am the strongest.  When I kill you, I will be the only one of 
us, as well.”
	“And then what?” Horin snarled.  “You join Sauron yourself?”
	“Perhaps.  It really all depends upon how the battle above goes.  I may choose 
instead to lead this little band of rebels myself … under my hand, they may actually have a 
chance of overthrowing the Dark Lord.  A pity you’ll never live to see it, brother.  It’s a  
very sad death, turned to dust by lightning … but we must move on, after all.  Goodbye, 
Horin.”
	With that, lightning crackled around the surface of the orb, building on the surface 
into a large, crackling ball.  Horin knew he could never dodge the blast, nor could the 
Ring of Air distract him in time.  Instead, he closed his eyes, waiting for the end to come.
	He heard a shriek of agony, and it was a second before he realized that it was not 
his own.  He opened his eyes, and saw lightning surging through the wizard’s body, his 
frail limbs jittering under the power of the current.  He screamed again, and then the 
power ripping through him intensified even further, reducing Drathir to dust before 
Horin’s eyes.
	He looked over, and saw Ralen lying on his back, still gripping Menelenar in one 
hand.  The mystical lightning in it had died, however, which Horin did not take as a good 
sign.  As he watched, a stream of bright red blood flowed from the side of Ralen’s mouth 
down his cheek, dripping onto the stone floor.  His eyes were fixed upon Horin’s, and 
though they were clouded with pain, he thought he saw his brother as he truly was, not 
clouded by the influence of Sauron.
	“Horin … I remembered,” Ralen whispered.  “When I fell … I realized … it was 
just an illusion.  It … was not you … I saw.”
	“It was Sauron, I knew it,” Horin said, kneeling at his brother’s side.  “Now be 
still, brother.  You mustn’t exert yourself ....”
	Ralen shook his head, firmly.  “I … am not long for this world … regardless.  Not 
… Sauron.  Drathir.  He … manipulated us the whole time.  That’s … why he told me 
where it was.  Sauron … just took advantage of what was there.”
	Horin took the Dark Elf’s hand in both of his, squeezing it gently.  “Brother … 
you must survive.  You have to live on …”
	Ralen smiled slightly.  “I’ve made my mistakes … brother.  Now … I pay for 
them.  Go now … take your men, and the ring.  Flee … because soon, Sauron himself will 
… direct his full might … upon you.  Save … yourself.”
	Horin’s eyes began to blur.  “No …” he whispered.  “No, Ralen … not now that 
I’ve finally found you.  I’ve lost one brother today … I can’t lose another.”
	Ralen’s eyes closed, as his throat strained to utter his final words.  A bubble of 
blood emerged from his lips, and burst.  “You … did not.  You … saved me … brother … 
in … the only … way that … truly … mattered …”
	With that, the Dark Elf’s body shivered violently.  Horin closed his eyes, tears now 
flowing freely down his cheeks, as he held onto his brother’s hand until the shivers finally 
passed.  He looked up at Ralen’s face, and found that his eyes were glazed over, devoid of 
the spark of life.  Quietly, respectfully, he pushed his brother’s eyelids closed, making him 
seem almost as though he were resting.  Other than the blood, at least.  
	“Goodbye, Ralen …” Horin whispered.  “I wish that you had only seen the light 
earlier … but at least that you died knowing the truth.  Now … I have a Dark Lord to 
overthrow.”
	Taking Mîrlachel in his hand, Horin gave a final look back at the ruins of the 
castle, and of the body of his dead brother that lay on the stone.  Then, hefting up his 
blade, he began the long walk back up the stairs, to rejoin his men.

THE END