The Fall of Minas Tirith by Michiru

The Eleventh Hour

Read The Eleventh Hour

Crouched in the lee of a shattered arch, Orodreth spared a glance at Guilin and Hedhruin, the only two of his captains he could still account for. Guilin’s arm looked to have stopped bleeding, though Orodreth wasn’t fool enough to think that would last; Hedhruin’s face had crumpled around his ruined eye. As for himself, he was starting to feel the three broken fingers on his right hand, particularly his index finger, which was swelling around the signet ring Aegnor had passed on to him.

They were in the shadow of Minas Tirith, or what was left of the proud tower; the trebuchet barrage had riddled it with pockmarks, and collapsed its crown months before. The scattered remnants of their own siege engine littered what had once been the northwest courtyard. Its end had been ignominous; the ash falling down from Dorthonion had prevented it from being used to its full potential, whereas Morgoth’s creatures had had no trouble targeting it.

“What d’you see?” Hedhruin whispered to Guilin, blood flecking his lips at every word; the blow which had crushed his eye had smashed his teeth on the same side; they hadn’t thought to come across any danger so far from the fighting. He coughed in the next breath, and Orodreth heard the familiar soft pitter-patter of a shard of tooth striking the ground as Hedhruin dislodged another fragment. Guilin, staring steadily to the west, shook his head slowly.

“It looks like Menellad and his men were overwhelmed immediately,” he reported gravely. “The lifting mechanism has been destroyed; it appears they sunk the bridge trying to defend their position.” Orodreth, attention divided between the north and south, twisted his signet ring experimentally.

“So we’ve no way out,” he concluded through the spike of pain lancing from his hand.

“Unless we can dislodge them from the bridge to the south, no,” Guilin confirmed. Orodreth felt the captain’s eyes at his back, remorse and guilt as Guilin murmured, “I am sorry, Prince Orodreth.”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for,” he answered numbly, thinking of Laegalad and Finduilas and tiny Gil-galad trapped on Tol Sirion, by necessity mixed up with the one dwindling band of resistance still between Morgoth and Beleriand proper.

“I should have pushed harder for the annúniant,” Guilin berated himself. Hedhruin, running a finger down his now-useless bow, shook his head but did not speak. Orodreth worriedly noted that, beneath the grime and blood, his face was losing color rapidly, and he was swaying slightly, even squatting close to the ground.

“We’ve seen enough,” he decided, signaling at Hedhruin with his eyes to Guilin. “There’s nothing more we can do here.” Guilin bit his lip, casting one last repentant stare to the western bridge, their last hope for escape little more than matchsticks in the chill splendor of the Sirion, then nodded in acknowledgement. He took the lead as they slunk back towards the door hanging off its hinges, which would lead them to a series of interconnected cellars. Orodreth, bringing up the rear and safely within the concealing dark of the first cellar, glanced again at the way out to the northwest courtyard.

It had taken quite a lot of effort to construct the passage from their outpost to the tower. Though the cellars had been interconnected from Minas Tirith’s beginning, the initial barrage had collapsed several of the halls, which had taken hours to excavate. Wasted hours, now that they had confirmed that the west bridge was unusable.

When his companions were far enough in to the next cellar, he collapsed the few shaky supports behind them. There was no sense tempting fate.

 

They emerged filthy and blinking in what had once been the carpenters’ guild’s warehouse but that was now the center of their base of operation. What was left of the sentry of Minas Tirith was ringed about the place, holding off the enemy, though, by the close sounds of combat, Orodreth knew they were being beaten back.

He dismissed Guilin to rejoin the fighting, but Hedhruin had continued to deteriorate on the journey back, and was now unresponsive, stumbling in a strange waking sleep. The few healers remaining—now forbidden from working their craft on the field as the enemy took a perverse joy in cutting them down—swarmed over him, hands methodical but eyes despairing. He glanced cursorily over the women and children present, deliberately skipping over his own family, all of them looking to him hopefully. He looked away, and, with one last, unremarked nod to Hedhruin, which he refused to think of as a farewell, turned to join his men in the streets.

“My Lord,” someone said at his elbow as he made for the warehouse gate.

“Gwenneth,” he returned heavily. Her father, Tadhros, had been his second in command. He was presumed dead, lost in the barrage to a collapsing building.

“Prince Orodreth, I pledge you my sword,” she said tersely, keeping pace with him as he strode toward the door. “As you know, my father himself taught me how to wield one, and I would help defend the people he gave his life for.”

“Where is your mother?” he wondered in lieu of answering, cautiously checking the way before slipping out onto the streets. Gwenneth snorted, following on his heels.

“She has rallied what’s left of Father’s men and is leading them in battle,” she snapped bitterly, “and commanded me to stay behind like some helpless nursemaid.” He thought of his own daughter, and just what would befall the fool to allow her near such carnage if he ever got his hands on them. Then he thought of his own daughter, held in thrall to Morgoth, and of the time Gwenneth might buy his Finduilas from such a fate.

“Very well,” he murmured, feeling yet another weight pressing on his fëa, another death he would be accountable for. “But have a care for yourself,” he added, uselessly. For a moment, she stared at him as if she could not believe her ears, then, a fell light in her eyes, made to rush around the next corner.

He wheeled her aside just in time for the barbed arrow to strike the cobblestone and spin off into the distance harmlessly, but in the blur of action lost sight of exactly where the projectile had come from. The two of them pressed flat to the side of the building, Orodreth wracking his brain to think of another way to his men, Gwenneth’s pulse throbbing in time to his own beneath his fingers.

“We’ll have to run,” he whispered, grimacing as his right-handed fingers jerkily uncurled from around her arm, the movement painful even through the sudden rush of adrenalin. Grim-faced, Gwenneth nodded, hand on her sword hilt, tensing. “Now!” he hissed, left hand still firmly about her wrist.

They dashed around the corner together, Orodreth trying to shield her and keep an eye out for the archer all at once. The soft whistle of black shafts filled the air, but, miraculously, all of the arrows shattered on the stone near their feet.

The battle came upon them suddenly, the change from deserted city to hell as abrupt as the other side of a coin. Gwenneth pulled away from him, drawing her sword and diving into the impossible task of stymieing the oncoming Orc horde. Orodreth gave a brief whisper of thanks that Father had always preferred to fight with two swords, that he had taught him the same style, and drew his shorter sword in his left hand.

He caught a glimpse of Handir and Nendir, his steward’s sons, holding valiantly in the face of a sudden onslaught, the enemy sensing a weak point in the line and pressing it. The two had mustered some of their friends and age-mates together into a frail but tenacious pocket of resistance, nestled between a cracked fountain and the corner of a baker’s shop. Nendir, slighter than his brother, had already lost the use of his shield arm, which hung limp at his side, and even as Orodreth watched he cried out as a curved spear hooked under his ribs. His brother hacked at the spear shaft, only for his sword to bounce off the iron. Orodreth came up behind them, his own sword splitting the metal as easily as if it were wood, and took Nendir’s place on the line as the youth sank slowly to his knees.

An Orc leered at him, eyes on his hair—still recognizably golden beneath stone dust, dirt and sweat—and made as if to smash his arm; Orodreth ducked under the blow and drove his sword into its armpit, yanking it out as the creature howled in pain, reeling back from him. And then he was leaping to avoid having his feet driven from under him by a pike, slashing at an enemy’s throat, twirling in the odd, almost dancing style Father had instructed him in, wishing for the counter-balance of his heavier long sword, noting with grim satisfaction the sudden wariness with which the Orcs were treating him, how they flinched from his eyes.

It wasn’t enough. Soon, the little headway his arrival had made was swallowed by the advancing horde. All along the thin defense, his people were crumbling, struck with awful, lingering wounds to the gut or dead before the light had left their eyes as they bled out from gashes in their throats; Handir was felled by a blow to his spine as he turned to pull his brother away from the encroaching enemy. Orodreth swung again, another tight, curving arc, and cursed as his sword was locked with another, his heavier opponent heaving against him and sending him sprawling a foot back.

He rolled without thinking, ignoring the way his right arm had crumpled beneath him as it broke his fall, barely avoiding being smashed under a spiked mace that cracked the stone where he had been not a second earlier, fighting to his feet in time to see another of his companions fall. He stumbled again, over a block of masonry, and a black arrow embedded itself into the mace-wielder’s shoulder. He bit back despair, refused to turn to see what was left of his people fall victim to swords ahead and arrows behind.

“Retreat!” he called out, reaching mind-to-mind for Guilin and Gwenneth, praying they were yet alive to relay the order. “Back, and mind the archers.” He felt the shadow of Guilin’s acknowledgement, nothing from Gwenneth. With a horrible sense of finality, Orodreth drew his long sword over the protest of his broken fingers, lunging forward. “Go!” he shouted, to the two youths still standing beside him, long sword making short work of the leather armor of his nearest opponent as the short sword bit and whirled and found the smaller weaknesses, the exposed flesh and vulnerable extremities.

In his mind, every next blow was the last one he would give before following his own orders, each Orc felled his last opponent. But somehow his feet never strayed southward, and then the curling, whirling dance was impossible as he stood back-to-back with a boy his daughter’s age; the two youths hadn’t left him, and only one remained, hemmed in with him in a sea of Morgoth’s horde creatures, Orcs and goblins and foul, twisted things he had no name for, all ravening for his blood.

From far off, he heard thunder rolling, and the static sharp crack of lightning, and what must surely have been the thin wailing of his beautiful family meeting their deaths. There was no room for the long sword in the press of bodies, and Orodreth saw his own end: a backwards blow from a club glistening red with the blood of his slain, which he could not duck without killing the boy behind him. He drew back his lips in a snarl, ready to hurl defiance at his killer, when he heard again, louder and more clearly, the high, cold trumpet— of a Noldorin horn. His would-be-killer half turned, something like bafflement in his expression, toward the southeast, where there was a sudden rush of movement, as of many bodies fleeing in terror.

Then, with a roar like more to a bear than a dog, a great hound launched itself out of the sea of horde creatures, fangs flashing like swords through the Orc’s throat, bringing it down by force of momentum and charging ahead with a bawling sighting howl that raised every hair on Orodreth’s neck. He was still staring after the hound when a hand like a vice settled over his arm; his long sword jarred from his weakened hand and he was hauled up off his feet onto the back of a horse cantering full-speed down the ruined street, pursuing the enemy.

The reins were dropped in his lap, his rescuer hefting a javelin and throwing it ahead into the ranks that looked determined to meet them. Drawing up on either side, he recognized from the corners of his eyes Celegorm’s honey-beech hair, Curufin’s inky black. Then Celegorm pulled ahead, once again sounding the charge on his horn, swiping left and right at those too slow or encumbered to outpace him, horse trampling the enemy as he fought to reach Huan’s side.

Curufin’s horse skipped closer, its flank jarring his leg at every other stride. Over the pounding of hooves and the rout of the horde he shouted, “Where are your people?”

“There’s a warehouse southwest, not far from where I was,” Orodreth shouted back. Curufin nodded, notching an arrow and letting it fly into the face of a thing brave enough to stare him down.

“Tyelpë,” he barked.

“Understood,” Celebrimbor answered, reaching around Orodreth to pull hard on the reins as his father spurred his horse onward after Celegorm. In the sudden stillness, Orodreth’s head reeled. Through buildings and ruins of buildings, he caught flashes of more riders, flowing like water over the streets of Tol Sirion north and west, and driving before them the onslaught which had so recently seemed unstoppable.

“Prince Tyelperinquar?” someone inquired, a man in Celebrimbor’s silver and copper patina livery, bearing before him the youth who had been Orodreth’s last comrade-at-arms.

“We’re to succor our cousins southwest,” Celebrimbor answered tersely, impatient as he counted the riders who gathered around him. At fifteen, he wheeled his mount about and again turned the reins over to Orodreth. “Lead the way.”

 

The ride back was a sobering one, if only because, for the first time in days, Orodreth had the opportunity to take in the destruction. Not just of the architecture, which had always been evident and factored into his plans for defense and counterattack, but of the city. Though a watch tower, Minas Tirith had been home for him and for those who abided on the island. He was hard pressed to avert his eyes from the multitude of corpses, which had long gone unnoticed in the increasingly frenetic days of the siege. Some were old, already decaying, the signs of carrion feasting evident; others were fresh, the blood still shining wet under the setting sun. Some were half buried in a slide of rubble, coated in dust. Others—and the anger burned thick and hot in the back of his throat, until Orodreth didn’t know whether to scream or to weep—had been stripped of all covering, and the best he could hope was that only their corpses had been made sport of.

He could feel Celebrimbor shifting anxiously behind him, read the urgency in the faces of the Himladhrim, but could not bring himself to take the horse—not Celebrimbor’s usual steed—past a trot. He did not want to know whether the timely rescue had come too late for his people, his wife and daughter and month-old son; and the more he saw of the city, the more convinced he was that they could never have survived.

Perversely, it was this very thought, not the possibility of rescue, that brought him out of his stupor; he threw the horse into a gallop with a shout, startling Celebrimbor so badly that his nose smacked into the back of Orodreth’s head when the beast reared back, and the Himladhrim were left scrambling to keep up.

They burst down the narrow street where the archers had been before, but they had either fled at the appearance of the Fëanorians or were none too concerned with showing themselves in light of such formidable reinforcements, and so their progress was unhindered up to the very gate of the warehouse. There they met a small, pitifully armed band of Orcs trying to force their way past a knot of faltering defenders; and without pause the Fëanorians had them sighted and planted arrows in the backs of all but eight of them, who turned and fled when they saw the numbers had doubled against them. Four of the riders rode them down, and a ragged cheer went up among his people as they slowly processed what had just happened, the impossible victory snatched from Morgoth’s hands.

Celebrimbor was speaking urgently in his ear, words dripped together like the diamond pendant at his throat, glittering amid a scum of dirt and sweat, but Orodreth didn’t hear any of them. He fell from the horse more than he dismounted, and an unremarked hurt nearly buckled his leg under him; he staggered and shoved his way past the remaining sentry of Minas Tirith and forced open the warehouse gate. Inside, a half-ring of women and children nearly skewered him on a laughable array of long saws and flimsy staves scavenged from the work areas. On them, too, dawned the truth of what had happened as Celebrimbor’s riders set up a perimeter, and they wept and laughed for joy, but drew back from him and would not meet his eyes. Fear weakened his knees but propelled him further.

Finduilas’ golden hair gave away their location. Orodreth followed it as a lost man follows a star, until at last he stumbled to a halt before them.

“Your son is hungry,” Laegalad whispered, without looking up from the motionless, frail bundle cradled in her arms. “See?” She held him up for him to see, and the movement woke the infant, who at once wailed the high, carrying sound of a tetchy baby, and Orodreth dropped his short sword and gathered Gil-galad in his arms, and fell to his knees before his wife and daughter and finally broke down from the sheer relief that somehow his family, alone out of all others on Tol Sirion, had survived unscathed.

 

“Prince Orodreth, my name is Gwindor,” the youth said, heedless of the gash congealing over his eye, and of the frustrated healer attempting to clean and inspect it. “Son of Guilin.”

“I know you. Where is your father?” Orodreth asked, wincing as Celebrimbor wrapped the splint around his right wrist. At some point, along with the three broken fingers, he had picked up a fractured wrist; Celebrimbor was still muttering darkly about the idiocy of refusing to remove a ring from a broken finger before it swelled and became impossible.

Gwindor’s face gave the answer he could not give voice to, and Orodreth felt his heart pang at the loss of his close friend and captain, one more in a growing list. Hedhruin had indeed succumbed to the blow to his head, but his fëa had passed peacefully, as he slept. Much less could be said of Helethil, Gwenneth’s mother, who had retreated when he gave the order, only to be caught by an arrow that pierced her liver. She still lay in the grips of agony, head lolling fitfully, beyond help. Of Gwenneth herself he had seen no sign, and feared the worst.

“I am deeply sorry for your father’s death,” he said, reclaiming his arm. “If there is anything I can do—”

“There is,” Gwindor interrupted. “I have a brother—”

“Gelmir,” Orodreth nodded.

“Gelmir,” Gwindor repeated, throat spasming as he swallowed. “Have you—is there any way to—”

“When and where did you last see your brother?” Celebrimbor asked, voice calm and measured.

“It was this morning. We were still holding at the main square then. We must have been separated during the fighting. I don’t—I’m not sure if he fell back with us.”

“Aratyaro,” Celebrimbor called; one of his riders materialized out of the gloom, body falling into place around his eyes, glowing with the Light of the Trees. To Gwindor Celebrimbor said, “Aratyaro is my valet. Give him as detailed a description of your brother as you can, and he will be found.” Then, one of his fleeting smiles put the star-drop jewels at his throat to shame. “We’ll find him, Gwindor son of Guilin. Rest easy.” Gwindor nodded his thanks, allowed Aratyaro to lead him away. “Give me your leg,” Celebrimbor ordered, once again exasperated. Orodreth rolled his eyes at Celebrimbor’s mercurial mood, but allowed his cousin to examine the limb, gritting his teeth over the pain as it was poked and rotated.

“You’ve done something to your left knee,” Celebrimbor concluded finally. “Hardly surprising, given that ludicrous dance you call a style of swordsmanship.” Scowling off in the direction of the gate, Celebrimbor sighed. “Unfortunately, it’s beyond my skill to treat. And since it’s not critical—”

“It can wait.” The healers had enough on their hands without being troubled by his petty hurts. Orodreth reached out with his left hand, gently drawing Celebrimbor’s attention back. “They’ll be fine, Celebel.”

“I should have stayed,” Celebrimbor muttered, refusing to be comforted. None of those who had participated in the rout had returned, and it was close now to morning. Accounted among the missing were Celegorm, Curufin and Huan. It was almost gratifying to have proof that some things never changed, that Celebrimbor continued to hold himself responsible for things beyond his control. Almost. Then he remembered the death toll, high and still rising, and imagined adding his cousins’ names to it.

“Come and meet my son,” he urged, feeling as useless as Celebrimbor but determined not to fall back into the despair that had nearly overwhelmed him earlier.

“We’re acquainted,” Celebrimbor said with a wry quirk to his lips, having spent several minutes prying the infant from Orodreth’s arms in order to care for his wounds; still, he stood, and helped Orodreth limp from the relatively bright, cordoned off healers’ corner to the dim cavern of the warehouse proper, where those who were not gravely wounded slept.

“This time I’ll introduce you,” Orodreth murmured in his ear as they stumped about as quietly as possible, toward the place he had last seen his family before Celebrimbor hauled him off to be cared for.

He was surprised to find they had moved very little since then, save that Finduilas had claimed Gil-galad from their mother. Laegalad’s eyelids twitched at their approach, but her exhaustion was such that she did not wake, and Orodreth felt such a longing to be able to hold her again and rest without fear that he ached. Celebrimbor helped him sit down next to her before crouching in front of them, reaching out two fingers to brush over Gil-galad’s forehead.

“His amilessë is Gil-galad,” Orodreth said, watching Celebrimbor study his son.

“And his essë?” Celebrimbor asked, apparently too captivated to look away.

“I haven’t given much thought to it,” he admitted. He hadn’t had the time; the siege had been a month underway when his little one drew his first breath, and all his thoughts were soaked in blood by then. He would not give his son a bitter name.

“He’s beautiful.”

“Takes after his mother,” Orodreth joked weakly, earned a flimsy grin in return.

“Explains the hair,” Celebrimbor conceded, rubbing the dark tuft between his fingers. Gil-galad stirred at the touch, face screwing up; for a moment Orodreth had a vision of his son rousing the whole warehouse from its much-needed sleep, but the baby quieted when Celebrimbor offered a finger to be clutched and sucked at and Orodreth relaxed.

“You’re a natural.” He smiled, grateful for the small diversion for his cousin’s sake. The long hours that had passed without sign of any of the riders of Himlad had worn on him, the strain more evident with each that passed. “Some day you’ll make a fine father.” Celebrimbor snorted in derision, but the private smile lurking in his eyes spoke differently.

“You’ve grown old on me, Oro,” he teased. “You sound like Maedhros now.”

“I’ve grown up,” Orodreth corrected archly, crossing his arms and leaning his head back against the wall. “You should try it sometime.”

“I’ll keep that—”

The alarm went up, a sudden cacophony of activity outside the gate; Laegalad jerked out of sleep as Gil-galad cried at the noise. Celebrimbor was off running before Orodreth could stand, but Finduilas, passing her brother off to their mother, heaved him to his feet, mindful of his injured arm, if not his leg.

“Attend your mother,” he snapped over his shoulder as she made to follow him, shoving his way through the milling crowd pushing further back from the gate, where Celebrimbor was marshalling his men in sharp tones of mixed Quenya and Sindarin. His own forces, pitifully reduced to a mere twelve able-bodied assembly of near-crippled men and young women, winced at the higher, lilting notes of Quenya as they stood apart, waiting his approach. Not a few, in whom he recognized the ethereal, twilight beauty of the Sindar, were shooting moody stares at Celebrimbor.

“Certain phrases do not translate well, and it is best to avoid confusion in battle,” he said as he limped to a halt before them, very carefully not giving voice to the implied ‘you’ll have to forgive him’; it was laid bare as steel behind his eyes, and he had little time for a more in-depth rehashing of the old argument that seemed determined to tear his family apart.

“Your orders?” one of the women asked.

“Remain inside, and defend the gate to the last,” he said, flicking an eye to Celebrimbor, who nodded acknowledgement in the midst of his commands without breaking stride. “The Himladhrim have the greater strength.” Though how long that would last he dared not speculate; it was a long ride and hard from Himlad to Tol Sirion, and the Fëanorians’ strength was primarily in that they were fully armed regular soldiers, accustomed to pushing themselves past their limits. Compared to his motley band of citizen-soldiers they appeared strong, but Orodreth could read the weariness in their bearing, and knew they would falter in a prolonged battle.

There came outside a shout of recognition, and Celebrimbor froze mid-word, one arm still raised in a forgotten gesture. Orodreth tensed, pricked his ears again for the cry, which spoke of such fortune as he had not been much acquainted with recently. It came again, clear and joyous, “Hail, Curufinwë Fëanárion, Lord-Prince of Himlad!”

With something like a sob, Celebrimbor threw wide the gate, streaking into the dawn like lightning, his men at his heels.

“Stay a while,” Orodreth cautioned his own, following as well as he could and hanging back under the doorframe. Out of the smoke, tinged gold with the new day, in the forefront of a host of riders came Curufin, his eyes set grim but softening as he reached down to return Celebrimbor’s embrace. Behind the shadows Orodreth had come to recognize in his Fëanorian cousins’ eyes, the Light of the Trees burned undimmed, and Orodreth relaxed, suspicions eased. No foul craft ever devised could counterfeit the joy of Aman.

Curufin straightened, one hand still resting on the crown of Celebrimbor’s head, and surveyed what he could see of the warehouse, roving deep into the dark recesses where Orodreth’s people began murmuring in wonder and no small amount of happiness that their saviors had returned at last. The riders behind him continued filing in, dismounting and greeting their friends among Celebrimbor’s small company, and Orodreth recognized, with a rush of joy and sorrow, Gwenneth and Tadhros among them, and others of his folk; Anwarin, the captain of the amrúniant and Estendir his steward, and people whose names he didn’t know but whose faces he had passed countless times in the street for centuries.

Out of all this, Curufin’s eyes found him, and he swung himself off his horse, striding over. Orodreth was still contemplating the sort of greeting to give one who had rescued them all, unlooked for, when Curufin slapped him hard enough that the echo silenced all sounds of reunion.

“There are to be no more of these suicidal last stands, nephew. Do you understand me?”

His building outrage died in the face of the endearment, one Orodreth hadn’t heard since before Father fell out with Fëanor and his house in Aman; and staring in Curufin’s eyes, Orodreth saw all of Dorthonion in flame, and the uneven account of a few scattered refugees fleeing down the Pass of Anach.

Curufin caught him in an embrace before he could scream as the knowledge writhed in his throat, and under the newly risen sun they wept together.

His father was dead.

---

Chapter End Notes

1. The passage at the beginning is adapted in so far as names have been changed to the forms they took in the published Silmarillion, and Orodreth’s parentage changed to reflect Tolkien’s later placement of him as Angrod’s son.

2. The published Silmarillion claims that “For nigh on two years after the Dagor Bragollach the Noldor still defended the western pass about the sources of Sirion…” (182). I’m following a different timeline based on an abandoned passage in The War of the Jewels, which places (or in which Christopher placed) the assault on Minas Tirith in the same year as the Dagor Bragollach.
3. Annúniant, amrúniant: West Bridge and East Bridge. Technically, actually, Western Bridge and East Bridge—dúniant is West Bridge. But I like the symmetry of annúniant and amrúniant better, so meh.

   While I’m on the subject, many thanks to Elf Fetish’s Name Frames, Sindarin and Quenya. Any name Tolkien didn’t make up came from there, because I still haven’t learned either Quenya (which I’m working on) or Sindarin.

4. Essë: father-name.
5. This story accumulated quite a cast of OCs in its creation, and it might be useful to include a key for them here in case anyone has trouble keeping track.

   Hedhruin is one of Orodreth’s captains. He accompanied Orodreth and Guilin on their last-ditch effort to find a covert way to leave the island. When they encountered a small band of Orcs on the way, Hedhruin suffered a blow to his head that eventually killed him.

   Menallad is one of Orodreth’s captains, having had control of the Western Bridge off the island. In the initial invasion of Tol Sirion, Menellad and his forces were overwhelmed almost at once. Their last act was to destroy their bridge, thus hoping to deny the forces of Sauron easy access to Beleriand proper.

   Tadhros is Orodreth’s second-in-command; his daughter is Gwenneth, and his wife is Helethil. When Tadhros went missing, Helethil took his place and helped lead the defense of Minas Tirith. She later succumbed to her wounds and died the night that Celegorm and Curufin arrived with their riders, but Tadhros they found and rescued, and Gwenneth survived the battle.

   Estendir is Orodreth’s steward; his sons are Handir and Nendir. Estendir was rescued by the riders of Celegorm and Curufin, but both his sons died.

   Aratyaro is Celebrimbor’s valet, who attempted to find Gelmir, son of Guilin and brother of Gwindor in the final days of the siege of Minas Tirith. Ultimately he would fail, as Gelmir had already been taken captive.

   Anwarin is one of Orodreth’s captains, having had control of the Eastern Bridge off the island. In the initial invasion of Tol Sirion, Anwarin and his people were cut off from the main force of Minas Tirith, and spent the rest of the siege trying to break through and reunite. They did not manage it until the arrival of Celegorm and Curufin, which saved Anwarin from death.