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"A peaceful sight, is it not?"

Gurithon had approached Thranduil with his characteristic stealth, meaning the king had had only the briefest of warnings that his Captain of the Guard was nearby. Thranduil turned away from the misty surface of Lake Evendim where he had been watching the hills ripple and dance in their own reflections.

"For now." Thranduil replied, almost wistfully. "Soon the waters of Nenuial shall run red with blood I fear."

Gurithon placed a reassuring hand on Thranduil's shoulder. "You are pessimistic, Sapling. By all reports Prince Eärnur and the men of Gondor are here in force, as are many of the Eldar of Lindon. Oren tells me that the main army will meet Angmar and his servants in the west, at which point the Gondorian cavalry shall attack Angmar's side from the hills. We need only await them and rout the survivors if they make it this far east."

"So you were actually paying attention to Eärnur's messenger when they arrived this morning? By the glaze of your eyes I would have sworn you were in reverie." Thranduil raised an eyebrow sideways at his oldest and most loyal friend.

"I can multitask with the best of them, my lord."

Despite himself, Thranduil chuckled. "Indeed." With one last look at the calm of Lake Evendim, the king of the Woodland Realm gestured toward the camp. "Come, shall we walk?"

Thranduil and Gurithon spent the remainder of the morning inspecting the encampment and the six thousand elven warriors within. Everywhere they saw blades being polished to a high gleam, armour being tested and muscles being stretched. The warriors of the Greenwood were ready for battle at any moment. According to the missive from Prince Eärnur, they could likely expect Angmar to attempt an eastern retreat sometime in the night. Very likely the armies of the Witch King and the combined forces of Gondor, the Dunedain and Lindon were even now joined in battle.

They had had some interesting news though; Imladris's contingent would meet the Woodland Realm at Lake Evendim, coming up from the south. By all reports Elrond himself would not be leading their troops; it seemed the Last Alliance had soured the half-elven lord on battle. Instead a rather legendary figure had been appointed to lead the troops in Elrond's stead; Lord Glorfindel himself. The last time Thranduil had met Glorfindel, the two of them had had a rather unfortunate misunderstanding in the courtyards of Imladris. As such, Thranduil fully intended to give Anthelísse a piece of his mind when (and if!) he returned to the Greenwood. After all it had been on Elrond's behalf that she had urged Thranduil to join the campaign in the north.

They came upon Thenniel on the edges of the encampment, hard at work warming up theirs archers for battle. The fire-headed Silvan elf had been promoted to the position of lieutenant by Thranduil after her part in detecting the threat to Emyn Duir. She greeted Thranduil with a respectful bow and Gurithon with a smile that could have melted the snow-caps of the Misty Mountains.

"Thenniel." Thranduil said. "Well then, have you decided how best to place our archers for when Angmar comes?"

Thenniel nodded. "Yes my lord." She turned and pointed to a natural tunnel formed between the Hills of Evendim. "You see that pass? It will present a perfect vantage point and high ground for engaging the retreating forces of Angmar. I have spoken with Gurithon and he agrees, we will station archers on both sides of the hills and rain our arrows down upon the filth as they flee."

"Excellent. I leave the ordering of our ranged troops to you then." Thranduil said, satisfied. "Gurithon?"

"Yes Lord Thranduil?" Gurithon asked.

"You shall be stationed on the hills with Thenniel and her archers to begin with." Thranduil tried not to smile as he watched Gurithon's eyes light up. "Once the enemy is in sight, you are to ride down and join me on the field with a detailed account of their numbers. Agreed?"

"Gladly, my lord." They may have been on the eve of battle, but the Captain was beaming like an elfling on the Solstice morning.

A horn rang out clear and mellow across the hills, its echo causing the faintest of tremors on the surface of the lake. The sound was undeniably elven. Nearly every head in the camp turned to the south, tracking the call of the horn to its source with inhuman accuracy.

Thenniel shaded her eyes and smiled fiercely. "Imladris is here it seems." She said, her keen vision picking out the banner of the Hidden Valley even at a distance.

Following the Silvan lieutenant's gaze, Thranduil too could just pick out riders on the horizon. A full seven thousand from the looks of things, all of them members of the famed elf-knights of Rivendell.

The sight both lifted and darkened Thranduil's spirits. It was good to have allies...but he was not looking forward to dealing with the proud and powerful Glorfindel. It would not do to not be present upon the mighty elf lord's arrival though. Even a king could respect the reputation of the Golden Flower of Gondolin.

"Shall we?" He spoke to Gurithon. "If I must play politics with Elrond's champion, then you are by no means getting off easy either."

"You honor me as always, my king." Gurithon chuckled, rolling his eyes ever so slightly.

As it turned out, they had little time to actually exchange pleasantries with Glorfindel and the troops of Imladris. Thranduil had just barely seen Glorfindel ushered into the royal pavilion and gotten seated with a goblet of Dorwinion in his hand when a second horn call rang throughout the camp. This one was by no stretch of the imagination of elvish make though. This was an ugly sound, the strangled staccato of an orcish war-call.

"What is this?!" Thranduil exclaimed, standing less than ten seconds after he had sat down. The wine in his goblet swished dangerously and he carelessly slammed it down on a nearby side table. "Eärnur informed us that we could expect Angmar no sooner than nightfall, at the very earliest!"

Glorfindel cocked his head, flaxen blonde hair parting around his slanting ears. The reborn lord of Gondolin waited as a second horn blast came to them through the walls of the pavilion. When Thranduil opened his mouth to speak, Glorfindel held up a finger to ask for silence. Thranduil would have been livid at such a gesture if he weren't so alarmed.

"That is not Angmar." Glorfindel declared at length, standing with the liquid grace of a cat. One of the last remaining Noldor in Middle-Earth, Thranduil realized the similarity of Glorfindel's bearing to Anthelísse's. Thoughts of his wife and son still Thranduil and brought him unnatural clarity of mind.

"If not Angmar, then who?" He asked quietly.

"...Herumor." Glorfindel spoke the name with grim certainty. "Only once before have I heard that horn, and it is without a doubt the horn of the cursed Black Númenórean."

"I do not understand." Thranduil admitted, signalling for his servants to bring his armor. They would not have much time, judging by the distance of that menacing horn's call. "If this Herumor is a fallen Númenórean, how could a mortal such as he be threatening us now?"

"Because he is no longer mortal." Glorfindel had arrived already arrayed in his full battle armor. He moved to the entrance of the tent, back to Thranduil and arms folded. "He has fallen further than you know, Thranduil son of Oropher. Possibly almost as far as he who is now called the Witch King of Angmar." He paused to let his words sink in. "Long have I suspected that Herumor joined the ranks of the Nine, the Nazgûl, after he fled Númenór."

One of the servants working to outfit Thranduil into his molded greaves let out a silent gasp. Thranduil felt much the same himself. To have not one but two of the Nazgûl, Sauron's nine darkest servants arrayed in battle against them certainly changed the face of things. Gurithon looked positively ill where he stood to one side of the pavilion, fingering the hilt of his sword.

"Besides the horn you say you recognize, what cause have you to believe that this Herumor is indeed bearing down upon us now, Lord Glorfindel?" Thranduil asked, pulling his hands into reinforced leather gloves. He flexed his fingers several times, readying them for his own sword.

"Because it makes sense." Glorfindel replied, still with his back to Thranduil at the entrance. "Herumor was long thought lost in the south, perhaps in Harad. He had ties to Angmar even when he dwelt in Númenór though. No, I would not doubt for a minute that Herumor, after accepting power from Sauron, returned in stealth to add to the growing power of Angmar in the north."

"Then we shall just have to match Eärnur and the elves of Lindon in our battle." Thranduil said with dark determination. "They are met in battle against Angmar, and we shall deal with this lesser Nazgûl for our own part."

"Take care not to underestimate Herumor, King Thranduil." Glorfindel warned, finally turning to face him. The elf lord's blue eyes were ageless, but careworn. "He has not endured this long without being both wily and resourceful."

"I underestimate nothing, Glorfindel GoldenFlower." Thranduil replied. "I merely have faith in the combined forces of the Woodland Realm and Imladris."

It was exactly the sort of thing his father would have said, and for a moment Thranduil felt the spirit of Oropher was with him. As he accepted his sword and mounted his horse, Thranduil said a silent prayer to Oropher, wherever he might be.

'Father, be with me on the field of battle, as you were so many thousands of years before. You laid down your life for my sake, and I will gladly do the same for the sake of my own child. Come what may, let what happens here today bring in a better world for him.'

Side-by-side with Glorfindel, Thranduil rode to the head of the army. In the sparse minutes since the horn of Herumor had been heard, the armies of the Greenwood and Imladris and arrayed themselves on the shores of Lake Evendim, ready and waiting. Gurithon nodded to Thranduil, then rode off into the hills to meet with Thenniel and her archers. Thranduil watched the Silvan elf go with a feeling of foreboding.

A breeze rippled the flags on the spears of the army, alighting strips of blue and green in the chilly air. The low rumble of hundreds upon hundreds of feet made the very earth shiver. Their enemy would soon be upon them. Thranduil only hoped they could deal with this Herumor before any sign of Angmar from the west. If Angmar managed to overpower the Gondorians and came upon them early, they would be trapped between the vice-like pincers of two Nazgûls and their troops.

Over the hills to the north, the first signs of the enemy showed themselves. Like black locusts, hundreds of goblins, orcs and trolls came spilling into the valley. Thranduil's grip tightened on his sword, and he counted as fast as he could from afar.

"So few?" One of Glorfindel's captains asked, speaking up from behind them. "I count only eight hundred, my lord."

"Pah, we could dispatch as many without so much as emptying our quivers!" Another elf shouted. Thranduil slipped and let a sardonic smile touch his lips. If this was all this Herumor had to boast, then Angmar was in a sorrier state as far as allies went that they had imagined.

"Wait..." Glorfindel had his head cocked again, listening.

"Whatever is it now, Lord Glorfindel?" Thranduil asked cheerfully. "Concerned that perhaps an army of field mice is coming to flank us? For that is what these goblins shall surely be beneath our blades." The comparison earned Thranduil a rush of appreciative laughter from among the ranks of the Greenwood.

Suddenly, a roar cut the air like a hundred bull moose in heat. The elves' laughter died immediately, and Glorfindel looked at Thranduil with a morbid half-smile.

"Not field mice, King Thranduil." He said. "A dragon."

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