Dawn broke.
Yet no sun was seen.
It had risen, but was veiled.
To the west of Dol Guldur the host of the Woodland Realm stood in rank upon the darkened plain, their spears bristling like a thicket of silver thorns. Elrond, Gandalf, and Legolas stood grave and still. Thranduil was foremost, astride his mighty elk.
His voice rang out clear:
"Children of the Greenwood! Some among you may yet recall the ancient visage of this forest, ere the shadow crept and choked the life from its roots. Here once was our dwelling, our first home, until the darkness drove us forth to the north.
"Yet the shadow does not rest. It hungers and creeps ever onward, gnawing at even our last refuge. But now, our host has come in strength. Today we shall drive out the shadow, and kindle again the breath of life beneath these boughs!
"See the black vapour ahead? There lurks our foe, waiting to bar our path. But here, before the gates of our old home, I shall lead you in the charge! With bow and spear we shall teach them the doom of justice.
"Victory shall be ours! Strike now!"
"Kill!"
With his command, the elven ranks surged forward, their voices as one. Gandalf and Elrond moved at the vanguard. They exchanged a glance, and each raised his hand.
Narya, the Ring of Fire, blazed upon Gandalf's finger. Crimson light poured forth, heat rising as though the summer sun itself had descended into the forest. Flame leapt from nothing, burning black mists to cinders.
Vilya, the Ring of Air, shone upon Elrond's hand. The winds howled, fanning the fire into a greater storm, sweeping the vapour away. The veil was torn aside, and the beasts hidden within were revealed—Orcs in their thousands, snarling wargs, and spiders of monstrous girth.
The two hosts clashed in thunder.
Thranduil, Gandalf, and Elrond together moved to meet three of the Ringwraiths.
"Morgoth's power!" Gandalf's eyes flared wide, for he too recognized that black essence.
And the two elven-kings knew it well. They had known it from the stories of elder days, in the long wars against the first Dark Lord. Rage ignited within them, for no wound in the memory of Elves was deeper than that inflicted by Morgoth.
Orcs and trolls, wargs and spiders—all were once noble things twisted by his hand. He had scarred their race beyond healing, and that hatred lived on in their very blood.
Now, beholding his shadow once more upon the Ringwraiths, Elrond and Thranduil's wrath erupted. The air itself heaved with their power as wind and wood and flame rose to their command, driving the Wraiths back.
And Gandalf, no less wroth, cast aside his guise of frailty. He grew in stature, robed in white light, a power holy and pure. His staff flared like a star, each stroke a blow of unanswerable might. The Wraiths staggered beneath the assault, their strength unravelled.
This was no common skirmish—it was the wrath of kings and wizard unleashed upon the servants of shadow.
Fear took root among the enemy. Their ranks buckled; their courage withered. Elven blades rose and fell, and the Orcs shrieked as they were driven back. Already many turned to flight.
"Press them!" Thranduil's cry rang out. "Justice shall prevail! Drive them eastward! We must join with King Kaen!"
Meanwhile, to the south of Dol Guldur, another host stood poised: twenty five thousand Elves, arrayed in shining ranks, facing an equal horde of Orcs.
Sauron had set his strength there, as if to honor his old foe. Not rabble, but red-eyed Orcs filled the field, and foremost among them was his deadliest servant—the Witch-king of Angmar.
He had returned from death, clad now in the strength of Morgoth's remnant, risen to mythic stature. Two more Ringwraiths of great power flanked him.
He laughed, a chill, hollow sound, and his rasping voice carried across the field.
"Galadriel. Celeborn. The Dark Lord bids you welcome. And he wonders—since Celebrían departed, how fares your sorrow?"
At that name the air grew still. Celebrían—daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn, wife of Elrond, mother of Elladan and Elrohir. Once she had been taken by Orcs, tormented until her spirit broke. Though she was saved, she sailed at last across the Sea, unable to endure Middle-earth. Her absence was a wound never healed.
An arrow whistled, passing through the Witch-king's form to slay an Orc beside him. Elladan stood with bow drawn, Elrohir at his side, both faces burning with fury.
But Galadriel and Celeborn did not answer with wrathful cries. Their eyes were cold as starlight, their presence vast. Together they stepped forward, and the very air trembled.
Galadriel's voice rang with scorn:
"I know that power upon you. It is Morgoth's—the foulest of all, the bane of every race. Sauron drags it up from the deep earth and lends it to you, thinking thereby to subdue us.
"But if you believe it enough to overcome me, then you are a fool. I fought before your kind drew breath. I shine still though you have perished a thousand years ago. You wield only borrowed shadow—I am light unending."
She lifted her hand. Nenya, the Ring of Water, glowed with a cold blue light. An unseen tide surged forth, striking the Witch-king and his companions like a storm. They were flung back; Orcs in their hundreds crumbled into dust.
That was Galadriel unveiled. That was the power of the Lady of Light, the princess of the Noldor. Hers was the stature of legend, a strength that even the Maiar did not lightly withstand.
Celeborn roared, charging with his blade, alone holding two Ringwraiths at bay.
And Elladan and Elrohir, their grief made fury, fell upon the Orcs with the warriors of their house.
The Caladhîn Elves, ever bathed in Kaen's radiance, burned with silver fire. Their spirit had been kindled higher, nearly rivaling the High Elves themselves.
At their head were Tauriel and Yenagath, both seasoned ,leading their kin like rivers of light pouring through the dark.