Legends of Belariath

Jackel

You may be familiar with the forest surrounding the Lonely Inn, you may not be. If you are, then you'll know there are many paths and roads winding through it. Have you ever stepped off of the beaten path, and just wandered through the underbrush? Most dont. A few do, the few who posess the meens to protect themselves, or those who know the game trails well enough. Jackel, a Sylvan Ranger, is one of the brave few who spend more time in the forest, than they do at the Inn, or the shops in town. Yes, Jackel is a strange name for an elf, but it wasn't always his name. No, he was born Fëanáro Telemnar about a hundred and fifty years before the floating continent appeared in the skies over Belariath.

In the first hundred years of his life, he stayed in his village, with his family and friends. He had a sister, she was his twin. His father had named her Tamuríl, and later on, about 75 years after she was born, she was called Tamuril the Fair. Mablung, his best friend and teacher, later married Tamuril with her fathers blessing. He convinced Feanaro soon after marrying his sister, that it was their duty to the Gods to combat the enemies of the Sylvan elves. So, after saying good-bye to his family, Feanaro went with Mablung, and several other hopefuls, numbering six in all, on a trip that took two days.

They headed north, past three other villages, with somewhere around fifteen miles between the villages. Through the entire trip, they only stopped once, and it wasn't even long enough to build a fire. Sitting by a creek, they ate venison strips, washing it down with a few handfuls of water. After a twenty minute break, they moved on. Upon reaching their destination, a small wooden fort manned with fewer than fifty archers, and around seventy five foot soldiers, they walked through the town, some of the others that came with Feanaro left them, and went their own way, but Mablung stuck by his side, a large grin on his face the whole way to the guard captains post, up onto the walls of the fort. The Captain of the Guard turned out to be Mablung's father, and Feanaro instantly understood his friend's smile. He had always liked Mablungs father, who had frequently gone hunting and fishing with them when they were still young.

When the two friends explained their plans, the Captain was reluctant at first to take them into the garrison, and explained that, "while your intentions are certainly honorable, Mablung, you are my son, and you, Feanaro, are his best friend. Under other circumstances, I would sign you up immediately, but I must ask the two of you, if you are ready to fight, and die for your country?" He said it with more fealing than Feanaro had ever thought he had seen from the captain. "Have either of you ever killed? I dont meen animals, either, boys..." and the Captain of the guard showed the faintest sign of worry in his eyes.

The two friends looked to one another, and then back to the Captain, and answered in unison, "no." Feanaro spoke up first, intent on fully explaining the situation. "Sir, Mablung and I have been friends for more than ninety years. We do everything together, hunting, fishing, and training with the sword as well.We have never been forced to kill..." and here, he turns, looking to Mablung with a grin, his friend nodding to him, he turned back around. "But should the need arise, neither of us will hesitate. If need be, Sir, I shall write home, to my father, and he will be happy to boast on his only son." staring directly at the captain, Feanaro showed no fear, nor any other emotion, for that matter.

Mablung stepped forward, standing equal with his friend. It was his turn to help present the case, and it was his words that convinced his father to let them sign the roster, effectively enlisting them in the military effort to secure the massive forest land that held within its branches and amongst the trunks of the trees, more than thirty different elven encampments, along with twenty or so nonmilitary villages. One of which, was the village Feanaro had grown up in. Mablung stood as straight as a mighty pine tree, his black hair falling like a river over his shoulders. He locked his green eyes onto the face of his father, and spoke from his heart.

"Father, Captain... the only person in this world who knows me better than Feanaro, is you. Your always saying that I've got a good head on my shoulders, and a mighty swing with a sword. You've told mother that you haven't seen a better archer in nearly sixty years! Most of all, Father, you told your own parents not two years ago, how well I would do as a soldier under your command..." Stepping forward a little, Mablung leaned forward, less than six inches from his fathers face. "Let me do my part. I've trained for a hundred years, father! Let us try..."

Standing straight up, perfectly still, Feanaro turned his eyes on the pair, face to face. The resemblence was undeniable, Mablung looked exactly like his father, except for his hair. Mablungs was free, free to move with the wind, while his father's was tied back, and hidden by his helm. he watched them until Mablung stepped away from his father, coming back to his friends side.

The captain, staring at his son for the briefest moment, reaches up with his gloved hands, and pulled his helmet from his head, and held it down by his side. Sweat streaked down his forehead and cheek, and his skin was a little flushed, from the heat of the sun. looking between them both, he nodded his head, "alright, but this is how we will proceed. I have no doubts about your skills with a sword, Feanaro, as your father was very skilled as well. Nor do I doubt your skills, Mablung, as I myself have trained you for this day, since you were still a small child. However, as soon as you sign this register, you are soldiers. You will act accordingly. Immediately after signing, I want you to go into the fort, to the armory. Have the worker there sharpen your swords, and restring your bows. He will also issue you some simple, leather armor, and two cloaks. One is for the summer, so you'll be wanting that one out and ready. The other is for winter patrols, you will leave this one in the barracks until it is needed.

"After stowing your civilian gear in the barracks, you will report to Sergeant Resiewdub, He's in charge of scouting expeditions into the forest, hunting, and tracking any intruders in the area. Now, both of you, sign this..." and he'd pull from his belt, a rolled piece of parchment, and spread it open on the walkway, producing a quill from a pouch at his hip, he hands it to Mablung, "Im proud of you, my son. You will go far..." And taking the quill, Mablung smiled, and signed his name. Looking up from the register, he hands the quill to Feanaro, grinning from ear to ear, "until the end."

Taking in everything that was about to happen to him, Feanaro took the quill, the tip of it hovering for a second over the parchment. Then, with a smile, he put quill to parchment, signing his name, and starting a new path in his life. He and Mablung did as they were told, proceeding to the armory, after getting lost for a moment. The sylvan male in the armory was a scrawny little man, his armor barely fit him, and his helm slid down over his eyes. Feanaro looked him over, and drew his sword, "I am Feanaro, new recruit. I've been ordered to let you sharpen my sword." The little man stared at him for a moment, then took the sword from Feanaro, examining it closely, he tossed it over his shoulder, into a pile of swords, "crap. I'll give you a new sword, and your friend too, if his is as shitty as yours. Is there anything else you'll be needing, son?" he had his arms crossed over his tiny chest, and was looking rather bored with his assignment.

Mablung, having been standing behind his friend and examining the piles of various pieces of armour and weaponry, looked at the man finally, and spoke up, "yes, there is. The captain has ordered you to restring our bows, and has also said you are to issue us basic leather armor, and cloaks, summer and winter. And I shall be needing arrows, as well..." turning to Feanaro with a smile he would inform his younger comrade, "you can never have too many arrows..."

The tiny elf nodded his head, and went into the back for several long moments, and the two young soldiers, as they now were, could hear much rumaging. They both started looking around the armory, testing various weapons, some of which neither could lift from their places on shelves. Finally, the little man returned, dragging behind him two suits of leather armor. He had four cloaks drapped over his shoulders, bowstrings slung around his neck, and a fresh quiver of arrows on his back. Dropping the armor infront of Feanaro, he began distributing their gear. after sorting out the armor and cloaks, he quickly strung both bows with fresh strings, and returned them to their owners. wiping his brow, he reaches out, picking up the two swords he had selected, "I'm giving you these swords, boys... free of charge. Just let me keep the old ones, and bring me back any empty quivers. If your on duty, I'll give you a fresh supply of arrows. If your not, you'll have to buy them from me. Good luck, soldiers." That said, he hands over the two shining new blades.

Mablung held the sword up infront of him, examining the edge of the blade for a moment, before he slides it soundlessly into its new sheath. "well," he turns his eyes on Feanaro, "I guess we report for duty." With a grin of excitement, he turned and strode out the door, his best friend of almost a century hot on his heels. Mablung, who had frequently accompanied his father to the fort as a child, knew where the barracks were from the start, as well as the mess hall, and the training circle as well. He took them straight to the barracks, where they stored their winter cloaks and what few possessions they had brought with them, in trunks at the ends of their beds. When they left the barracks, they were all business, looking everywhere for the sergeant, untill after searching most of the fort, Feanaro happened upon a much taller elf, standing just inside the gate to the fort. The man turned around as he aproached him, and spoke in a loud, clear voice, "are you Feanaro? Or Mablung?"

Approaching the man calmly, Feanaro stopped, ten feet away, and decided to cover for his friends absence. "I am Feanaro, yes. Mablung is still searching for you. he should be along soon. You are Sergeant Resiewdub?" he had absolutely no intention of reporting to anyone but the sergeant, but he had to stall until his friend appeared. Feanaro didnt have to stall long at all, as Mablung stepped up beside him, silent as could be, until he called out, "I am Mablung." He glanced over to Feanaro, and grinned the tiniest grin, then turned his attention to the other man. This elf was very tall, for an elf, i meen. He had broad shoulders, and was well muscled, with a large scar extending up and across the right side of his face. When he spoke, he did so in a raspy voice, very unlike the voice he had called out to them with, "I am Sergeant Resiewdub. The Captain told me you were coming. Im not here to hold yer hands, boys, but, if you pull yer own weight 'round here, then I don't see why we can't become friends. Alright, that said and done, Feanaro... yea, you.... I want you to patrol the northeast, about eight hundred meters out, alright? stay out of site, if you come upon anyone, announce yourself, but stay hidden! if you can take them into custody, then you should call for a runner. can you mimick a hawk? yea, that'll work. do that if you need a runner. they'll bring some men to you, to take the prisoner. If the intruder is hostile, kill on sight. any coin or trinket on the body, you can keep, but bring the weapons and armor to the armory for redistribution. Understand?"

Feanaro nodded, letting the orders sink into his head, "Yes, sergeant. Sergeant, um... my friend here, will he be coming--" but the sergeant cut him off. Aparently, he was in a hurry to stand guard some more, and spit on the ground at Feanaro's feet, his raspy voice low in tone, "no, we dont have enough rangers as it is to cover all the woods, let alone double up the guard... no. Mablung, you'll take the northwest, eight hundred meters out. Same orders. Understand?" It was as though Feanaro had been kicked in the stomach by an angry troll. His best friend would be somewhere else? they had never before been separated like this, and it was hard, but he had to follow orders. So, when Mablung accepted his orders, they headed out of the fort, marching north. After a few minutes, they separated, not speaking once the whole time.

Many years followed, Feanaro and Mablung advanced in rank faster than anyone could have expected, becoming sergeants after only two years, and then being promoted to field officers, commanding small bands of troops in battle throughout the forest. As the years passed, Their friendship became stronger, making them almost brothers. More soldiers fell under their command, until they both commanded nearly five hundred infantry, and three hundred archers a piece. Fifty years pass, they pass like the days pass to men. Goblins, pushed from their homes by Human cities far to the west, fled eastward, eastward into the outer edges of the elven forests. some believe that when the goblins arrived, they were clueless about the elven occupation of the forest. That would explain the initial slaughter of any goblins caught near the forest. Soon, however, withing a few years, many things happened, two of the most noted to Jackel, still known as Feanaro at this point, were the appearance of a very large, very real floating continent in the skies to the southwest, and a steady increase in the number of goblins camping outside his forest. Indeed, the goblins did seem to multiply over night, almost...

a few months after the appearance of the flying island, the goblins massed for an attack. They had no idea where the elves were, but they had every intention of finding out, even if it meant burning the forest to the ground. They had infact, located only two elven encampments, both estimated to be small in garrison and arms. these encampments were the destination of over five thousand goblins, all marching to war. That was when Mablung contacted Feanaro via runner, his letter saying, "Feanaro, my dearest friend. Surely you too have noticed the advance of the goblin army to the west? I knew you would have. My friend, my scouts tell me that their army is only twenty kilometers from your position. I am already enroute to assist you." That was how the greatest battle of Feanaros life began. In the past several years, his men had thrown together a very small, yet easily defendable fort. there were no civilians here, only hardened soldiers. The fort was a strategic emplacement, as it was the outermost encampment on the western side of the forest, but it did not house all of the soldiers at once. no, it only housed around half of the soldiers stationed there at a time. the other half slept outdoors, if at all. However, the troops rotated every week. Fifty archers were on the wall at all times, and another hundred in the trees surrounding the fort. Nearly two hundred and fifty footsoldiers, divided into smaller squads of six to eight, were patrolling the forest at every hour of the day and night. Runners were stationed every two hundred yards, able to relay messages faster than the enemy could move to intercept.

The day after Mablungs message arrived, the goblins struck. Runners brought news of goblin forces moving through the woods in the direction of the fort. several advanced scouts had already fallen to elven arrows, and a few hunting parties dispatched without any friendly losses so far. Feanaro, never one to sit behind a desk, gave orders to his runners as he himself rallied the troops stationed inside the fort. Telling the runners to, "bring every footsoldier I have to that gate. its the only way in here, and they cant get in! I want all the troops, except the archers, that were on patrol to fall back, put them in defensive positions on the north, and south sides of the fort. Archers from outside, I want them to group in closer to the fort, if they see a goblin, put an arrow in it. Runners, keep feeding our archers arrows. Go!" turning, he strode into his quarters, pulling his helm onto his head, he fastens his cloak around his armoured shoulders, and then steps back outside, greeted by no less than fifty elven warriors standing in perfect formation, facing toward the gate. these were his best troops, his personal pick to lead an assault on the goblin forces. Walking between them with a smile on his face, he stands infront of his task force, "Okay! glad to see you all could make it! We have a problem! there's five thousand goblins knocking on our front door! now we have help coming, Captain Mablung and his division will be here in a few hours, so all we have to do until then, is pick off as many as we can! lets go!!" drawing his sword, he turns, facing the fort's only gate, and points with his sword, "march!"

All at once, as a single unit, fiftyone left feet lifted from the dirt path, swung forward, and then set back down, the first step toward hell. Feanaro and his fifty soldiers all understood that should Mablung's devision fail to reach them in time, their lives were over. Another step taken, dust kicking up on the leather clad feet of the small detachment. They marched right out the gate, the already formed units didnt move, not one elf moved a muscle, except for the Captain and his fifty. They marched on, straight through the ranks formed infront of the gate, stopping ten paces infront of the defensive force. Feanaro turn, his sword held down to his side, and addressed the whole assembly as one. In a strong clear voice, "Elves! We all know the risks today! an invading force threatens our way of life! This, we cannot allow! Defend our homes, defend our forest! 'Til death!" Thrusting the sword into the air, a single loud, resounding thud, from two hundred and fifty elven fists striking their own chests. Nodding once, Feanaro stepped back to the front of his devision, and without spoken command, they moved as one, marching no more than fifty yards before dissapearing silently into the forest. Soon, even at the gate to the fort itself, distant sounds of battle could reach every elven ear. Feanaro had marched just in time. He and his men had broken ranks, spreading out over a wider area, ten in the back were archers, who were watching in every direction. the rest, swordsmen, moved as silent as death himself, trained in these forests, they were at the advantage. Soon, they proved it.

As the devision moved down an embankment, one arrow was fired from an elven bow, and fifty heads turned. twenty yards infront of them, there stood a goblin scout. Except, he wasnt so much standing, as he was pinned to the tree behind him, the arrow protruding from his forehead. The elf who fired the arrow peeked over the next hill, and then crouched down again, signaling to the others with his hands that eight more goblins were on the other side, and headed this way. Feanaro takes in the information quickly, looking up at where there would soon be several goblin warriors. Fifty years of small skirmishes here and there... it wasnt enough experience to handle this massive army... no, focus! there's only eight here... he was thinking to himself when the first two of the goblins came up over the rise. They both died instantaneously, arrows sticking out of their chests. and then there were six more, running down the hill, into fifty elven warriors, hidden in the trees. It was easy, to pick off the little beasts one at a time. Feanaro didnt even bother, but let his soldiers do the work of dispatching the enemies. The cooing of a dove from over head drew his attention. One of the archers had made his way up the embankment, and was relaying information quickly. "Twenty, no, fourty more! they haven't spotted us yet." all this was done with hand signals, and as Feanaro turned, beginning to spread the information, he heard a horrible cry. So loud was it, it was heard at the fort. Whipping back toward the hill, he looked up in time to watch the archer who had relayed the info. fall, several arrows protruding from his body at various angles. turning his head, Feanaro gives a whistle, not even bothering to hide it. he wanted those goblins to come over that hill.... and they did.

The whistle was for the archers, who immediately took aim, and the first nine of the enemy to reach the hilltop, dropped back down it, dead. then they were over, thirty goblins, charging fullsteam. Feanaro and his fourty nine met them head on, the archers pumping arrows into anything that didn't look like kin. Swordsmen slashing away with brightly polished blades of the finest elven steel. With their homeland advantage, the elves had soon destroyed the small detachment of goblins, but had in turn, lost three more of their own number. However, they had no time to rest. An elven warrior came quickly to Feanaro, speaking in hushed tones, "Sir, I have spotted a large enemy force, about one hundred meters to the west. I think they've noticed one of their patrols is missing, sir..." with that, the soldier moved away again, keeping watch. Feanaro snapped his fingers, just once, and every elf looked at him. explaining in hand signals, he says, "we cannot fight this force. not head on... we must let them pass right through us, and then hit them, when they are confused, we will be all amongst them. but be sure you can dissapear before you strike! kill one, two if necessary, then vanish!" searching their faces, he finds they all understand, and signals to go. immediately, fourty five elves, and Feanaro, all vanished into the brush and trees.

Not even two feet away from where his hand was laying, a heavy boot thudded onto the ground. Not daring to move, Feanaro, stares ahead, watching as several goblins, dozens of them, walk in a fanned out formation, (or maybe they were just walking?) searching diligently through the forest, several of them stopping to examine the bodies of fallen goblin and elf alike. taking a quick glance around, he could see almost fifty goblins standing around, and walking loudly through the brush. Carefully, he picks up a twig in his right hand, sword gripped in his left... wait....now. He snaps the twig, and from nowhere, he and fourty five elves appear, blades flashing, and then disapear again. the vast majority of the goblins had died quickly, a few were still dieing, and about five more were looking at their companions corpses, dumbfounded. those five died even faster than the others, as hands quickly forced their heads back, and daggers drug across their throats, spilling their lifesblood. Feanaro watched those last five die, smiling... maybe this wouldnt be so bad after all... and then something was wrong...

The forest was still, silent... and then it was chaos. goblins pouring in from every where, catching the small band of elves unaware. They had no time to hide. Feanaro swung with all his might as a goblin warrior raised his club, intent on crushing the elfs head. His sword bit deep, slicing through leather armour, and goblin flesh and bone, nearly cleaving the beast in two, Feanaro cries out, " 'Til death!" and to his surprise, he is answered, from deeper into the forest, a loud, strong voice, "Until the End!" There was Mablung! He had upwards of five hundred elven warriors with him, and two hundred archers. Elves and goblins clashed in a major battle for the first time in nearly two centuries. Five hundred elven swords clashing on goblin armor from the north, south and east, while five thousand goblins poured down into the dried creek bed that Feanaro had hidden his men in. Mablung fought bravely, cutting down many who stood in his way, and Feanaro faired equally well, destroying any who crossed his path, his fourty five elves holding their own against thousands. Feanaro pushed, his men pushed, hacking a path straight through the goblin horde, finally meeting up with their brothers in arms, Feanaro meets up with Mablung, both captains standing side by side, felling goblin after goblin as they conversed, "We are out numbered, Mablung! We should fall back, head to the fort! I've got a defensive perimeter set up that will shred the foul beasts!" Feanaro cried out over the ring of steel on steel and the horrible cries of the wounded. Mablung agreed, calling out to his elves, "Fall back to the Fort! Fall back!!"

Around seven hundred and fifty elves broke combat, many dieing in the retreat, about thirty of the warriors falling after being shot down by goblin archers. They ran as fast as they could, but the goblins were hot on their trail. after several minutes of running, a sudden rushing sound makes Feanaro look back, watching goblin after goblin being picked off by hundreds of hidden archers. Taking command, he calls out, "All Mablungs archers! I want you in the trees, both sides of the road! Warriors!! Form Ranks!" Two hundred archers dissapeared into the trees, more and more arrows flying over their heads into the forest and the goblin army that was strong advancing, not even thirty yards away. The warriors formed up, forming lines equal with the defensive formations, well out of archer range. If the goblins wanted them, they would have to get through four hundred or more hidden archers. Elven archers, at that...

And then, the world collapsed. Just under five thousand goblins came through the tree line with a battle cry that shook the wooden walls of the fort Feanaro and his men were defending. Running at full speed, their notched and battle worn blades held high, five thousand goblins quickly slammed against the formed ranks of almost fifteen hundred elven swordsmen, and were immediately shoved back, dozens of goblins falling to the elves blades. Mablung, not twenty paces to Feanaro's right, screamed at the top of his lungs, a battle cry that neither elves or goblins had heard in hundreds of years, tearing his vocal chords with the effort, "SYLVANS! NO GOBLIN SHALL LIVE TO TELL THE TALE OF THIS DAY!!!" and breaking ranks, Mablung and a dozen elves under his command waded into the goblin army, hewing down any that stand in their way, dozens of goblins falling before them. They steadily made their way through the army, hacking and swinging their elven made blades with centuries of skill and training. Eventually, they were surrounded by the enemy, dark blades flashing all around them. Feanaro, who knew Mablung better than anyone else, knew almost immediately that his friend would fall, if he could not get to him. and sygnaling ten of his men, they waded into the depths of hell. Eleven brave warriors fought their way against nearly impossible odds, managing to make it a mere fifty yards, to Mablungs entorage. Just as Feanaro made it to his friend, it seemed a thousand goblins flooded their area at once. Dozens of goblins fell, for each elf that died, for more than two hours, untill finally, only the two friends remained. Standing back to back, they cut down foe after foe, the corpses of fallen enemies slowly building into a mound around them.

Hundreds of Goblins lay dead as the day wore on, hundreds more would fall before the sun sank below the treeline. Feanaro and Mablung stayed together, fighting like demons against impossible odds. Their blades flashing to and fro in the dying sunlight, goblin blood caked to the weapons. Soon, the goblins apparently decided to leave the two elves alone, and instead threw their entire force against the assembled elven army, armor and weapons clashing again and again. Friend and foe alike fell to the ground, grievous wounds on every body that fell. Arrows rained among the goblins, almost every one killing an enemy. Slowly, very slowly, the goblins numbers being depleted, but the elves had fewer bodies, and the odds were against them. The goblins were winning... and they quickly unleashed a new and powerful weapon that none of the elves had foreseen: Magic.

In the very back of the goblin mob, there was one who had neither sword nor armor, but only carried a simple knife. In place of his armor, he wore robes, and the knife was only for dire circumstances. He was a mage, a goblin mage. The mage had watched the entire battle from a distance, working out in his brain just how his spell would be best used. Shortly after the main host of goblins decided that Feanaro and Mablung were to strong to fight head on, the mage took notice of the two warriors, hacking their way back to their own ranks, and made his choice. With a few words of power that no elf heard, and a symbol traced in the air, the mage created fire. The magical flames engulfing the goblins hand. Taking aim, the fool threw the fire like you would throw a stone, and the ball of flamind pain slammed into Mablungs back, engulfing him in flames almost instantly.

Screaming in agony, Mablung tore into the goblins with the ferocity of a wild lion, tearing foes limb from limb with his blade, and igniting even more goblins as he passed them by, until he finally could not go on, and fell to the ground, the fire burning itself out, leaving the elf mortally wounded. Feanaro had never seen such horrors, and fought hard to get to his fallen friend. Finally reaching Mablung, Feanaro knelt down beside his friend, his brother, tears in his eyes for the first time since he left his home all those years ago. The mighty Mablung, friend, brother, warrior and commander in arms, lay dead among the hundreds of filthy goblins he helped to destroy. Something in Feanaro's head broke, nothing seeming real anymore, he stood, sword clenched in his hand, and searched hard. Eying the back of the enemy forces, he finally sees what he is looking for, as another fireball leaves the hands of the mage, exploding against the wall of the fort. Anger and hatred for this race of fools and murderers of elves filled Feanaro, and he roared into the air around him, not knowing what he did. His voice echoed off the trees and fort, reverberating all around over the din of battle.

With a cry of rage, Feanaro started swinging his long sword in great arcs, hewing goblin heads from goblin necks with every swing, cutting a bloody path toward the mage who killed his best friend. Apparently, the goblin magic user knew his death was coming, for he cried out to his companions, "Help! The Jackel has come for me!!" but before he could cast any more spells, or say anything else, Jackel as the mage had named him, cleaved the beasts head in half, killing the bastard just like he had killed Mablung. The cry of 'Jackel' echoed around the field of battle, falling from the lips of goblins before their heads fell from their necks. After many hours, battle ceased, goblins and elves alike gathering their dead, and retreating for the night. Jackel, as he was now called by everyone under his command, sat atop the walls of the fort, bow in hand, all night long, never sleeping. The goblins never returned. Soon, he heard from his superiors that the goblins had been reduced to a mere fifteen hundred in number by their forray against the elven line of defense, and they had bypassed the fort that night, only to be slaughtered deeper in the forest a day later by more than fifteen thousand elves. After hearing the news of their victory, Jackel reported to his commander, Mablungs father, who had been placed incharge of the entire elven army. Telling him of his sons death, Jackel explained to him that he would no longer command elves in battle.

"Sir, I just can't do it anymore. Mablung was like my brother! I cant continue that which ended him... I just cant..." shaking his head, he turned his back to the commander, who stood from his desk, and slowly walked up behind Jackel, placing a hand calmly on the younger elf's shoulder, "Feanaro, I understand how you feel. Mablung was my son, afterall. My only son... This was between the two of you ever since that first day on the ramparts. You joined up together, maybe its best if you ended your careers together... These are my orders: you will leave this place, no longer a soldier. I am releasing you from your duties, and wishing you luck. I have lost one son... I will not lose another, of my blood or not." Turning Jackel around, he embraced his dead sons best friend. "The men tell me that the goblins have given you a name, out of fear for their lives. Jackel.... This is your name now. May it bring fear to all your enemies, and inspire courage in any that follow you." Smiling, he hugged Jackel again, and then released him, returning to his desk. Jackel, unsure of himself, spoke calmly, "Sir, I am sorry for Mablungs death... I will go now, may you live forever, leading our people to victory along the way." Snapping off his very last salute, he turned and marched from the office, never looking back. Stopping off at the cook's tent, he filled a couple of pouches with venison jerky, and gathered two water skins, then went to the armory. That same elf was there, hammering away on the blade of a new sword. Looking up from his work, he smiled slowly, "I remember you, lad... need me to fix somethin?"

Jackel shook his head, and held out an empty quiver, "fill this up. I am leaving this place, ne'er to return." The worker stopped smiling immediately, and nodded, taking the quiver, he made to stow it away, but Jackel stopped him, "no, I want that quiver. I will accept no other." the stern look on his face convinced the worker it wasn't wise to argue. Taking up the quiver again, he walked into the back room, and soon came back out, fourty new arrows tightly fitted into the quiver. Handing it over, he reached behind him, and produced a small package, handing it over as well, "well, lad... I'll ne'er see yeh again, so I thought I'd help if I could. Inside there, you'll find some clothes, a cloak, a pair of boots, and a few bow strings. also, theres a sharpening stone in there for your sword." Nodding, Jackel thanked the worker, and headed back outside, taking one last look around, before he calmly walked down the path that led out of the fortress, one foot infront of the other. Leaving the place behind, he walked steadily, with a purpose, and dissapeared among the trees of his forest. Elven scouts and archers through the forest spotted him, walking at the same pace, heading southwest.

When he reached the edge of the forest, he found he was accompanied by more than two hundred elves of different standings and ranks, all hidden from him in the trees. Grinning to himself, he took a single step outside the forest, then turned back to it, and raised both fists into the air, giving off the loudest whooping cry he had ever given. Immediately, two hundred voices returned the cry, sounding mournful. Smiling, he raised his voice, "Lads! Go back to the forest! You do not need me here, and I have places to go. Stay, and keep our homes safe!" Turning around, facing away from the trees, he gathers his few belongings, the quiver that once belonged to Mablung, as well as his friend's bow and sword... and to the continued whooping of elves in the trees behind him, he started off on the dirt path that is life. He looked back over his shoulder, smiling sadly. He was already hoping to come back home one day, even though his feet kept walking, a piece of him stayed. Stayed with the forest, with Mablung, and with the hundreds of elves that fought beside him. Turning his eyes back to the road, he shook his head to himself, wondering where he would go, and what wonders he would find.

He would never return to this place, though he didn't know it. For many more years, around another hundred and fifty years, he would wander the realms of Belariath... but that's another tale, for another time. For the time being, lets just say that we havent heard the last of Feanaro, later named Jackel.

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