This chapter hasn't been rewritten yet. I decided to rewrite the first five chapters because I wasn't fully satisfied with them. If you're reading this, that means Chapters 1 through 3 have already been revised, but Chapters 4 and 5 have not. So if you notice any inconsistencies, formatting changes, or differences in style, that's why. I just haven't gotten to those two yet, but I'll be updating them soon. Until then, if you spot issues in Chapters 4 and 5, don't worry, that's expected.
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[Weeks later. The training grounds]
[Kalros— Witness POV]
"…and then I shot three with three arrows!" Velan proclaimed to the gathered listeners.
Kalros rolled his eyes but smiled. The hunters had gathered at their usual evening spot, retelling the battle for maybe the twentieth time.
"You missed twice," Kalros pointed out. "I was right next to you."
"Details!" Velan waved dismissively. "The point is—"
"The point is we won," Angrod interrupted. The older warrior's voice was quiet but carried weight. "But it won't always be that easy."
Silence fell.
"What do you mean?" someone asked.
"I mean there'll be more." Angrod stared into the distance. "They fled from something. Came south looking for… whatever orcs look for. And where there's twenty-five, there's hundreds. Maybe thousands."
"You think they'll come back?"
"I know they will."
Kalros felt cold despite the evening warmth.
"Then we train harder," he said firmly. "Get better. Stronger. So when they come, we're ready."
Heads nodded around the circle.
But Kalros saw the fear in their eyes.
We're not warriors, he thought. Not really. We're hunters who learned to fight. What happens when real war comes?
He looked toward the settlement center, where Selas was undoubtedly still working despite the late hour.
He knows. He's known all along.
That's why the walls. The training. The weapons.
He's been preparing us for this.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Next week. Another forest clearing]
[Selas POV]
True to Angrod's prediction, more orcs came.
A larger group this time—maybe forty. We detected them early, thanks to increased patrols.
I assembled seventy-five warriors. Half veterans from the first fight. Half new volunteers, eager for their own "combat baptism."
Same tactics. Encircle. Shoot. Close to spear range only when necessary.
Another victory.
No casualties on our side.
But this time, the celebration felt more subdued. Less surprise, more grim satisfaction.
We were getting used to killing.
I wasn't sure if that was good or terrible.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Two weeks later]
Two more orc groups appeared in quick succession. We eliminated both—one from ambush during their march, another in open battle.
The pattern was becoming routine. A disturbing routine, but routine nonetheless.
I organized rotation schedules. Every capable fighter would get their baptism by fire in these skirmishes. Better to learn now, against small groups, than when the real threat arrived.
Because it was coming. I could feel it.
We strengthened the wall guards. Doubled night patrols. I insisted on it, knowing orcs were less bold under clear starlight, but bolder under cloud and shadow.
Some complained about the extra duty. Most accepted it grimly.
No one doubted the threat anymore.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Deep night. The wall]
[Angrod — Witness POV]
The alarm bell shattered the darkness.
Angrod jerked awake, already grabbing for his spear. Around him, the other guards scrambled to their posts.
"What—"
"ORCS!" The watchtower sentry pointed frantically. "Hundreds! From the north!"
Angrod's blood turned to ice.
He climbed to the rampart and looked out.
Oh gods.
They covered the ground like a dark tide. Torches bobbing. Weapons glinting. More than he could quickly count.
A hundred? Two hundred?
"SOUND THE ALARM!" he roared. "EVERYONE TO THE WALLS!"
The bell rang again. And again.
Throughout the settlement, lights flared to life. Doors burst open. Warriors poured out, weapons in hand.
Women herded children toward the assembly hall. The eldest, and those who didn't have the stomach for fighting, followed. Just like the drills.
Selas appeared at Angrod's side, breathing hard from running. He took one look at the approaching horde and his face tightened.
"Archers!" His voice cut through the chaos. "Loose at will! Don't let them reach the walls!"
The first volley of arrows arced into the darkness.
Screams.
But the orcs kept coming.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Selas POV]
The battle became a blur of violence and desperate defense.
Arrows sleeting down into the mass of orcs. Most hitting. Some missing in the darkness. Firelight making everything confusing, shadows dancing.
They reached the wall.
Started climbing.
"SPEARS!" I shouted. "KNOCK THEM DOWN!"
All along the rampart, defenders stabbed down at climbing orcs. Kicked them loose. Pushed crude ladders away.
But there were so many.
One orc crested the wall near me. I speared it through the chest, kicked it backward. It fell shrieking.
Another took its place.
Behind me, I heard a woman's voice—steady, controlled. "Left side, two climbing!"
Arrows hissed past. The orcs fell.
Lómiel. The healer, now warrior, providing covering fire.
All around, the Avari fought with desperate efficiency. The training showed. The drilling. Thirty years of preparation compressed into this single night.
We held.
An hour passed. Maybe two. Impossible to track time.
And then, finally—the attack faltered. The orcs pulled back, regrouping in the darkness.
Waiting.
"They'll come again," Angrod panted beside me. Blood streaked his face from a cut above his eye. "At dawn, probably."
"Probably," I agreed.
But they didn't.
As the sky lightened, we watched them retreat. Not fleeing—withdrawing in something like order. Back into the forest.
Leaving their dead behind.
I counted bodies in the growing light.
Forty-three orc corpses. Maybe more hidden in the trees.
But they'd numbered near a hundred and fifty at the start.
They learned to retreat. To preserve their force.
They're getting smarter.
"Casualties?" I asked quietly.
"Three dead." Angrod's voice was hoarse. "Mirwen took an arrow to the shoulder. Talros has a broken arm from a club strike. Maybe thirty other wounds, mostly minor."
Three dead.
The first Avari to fall in battle.
I closed my eyes briefly.
I'm sorry. I tried. I tried to prepare us.
"Names?"
"Calwen. Thornas. Elendir."
A name is never just a name. Somewhere below, a mother would be waiting for footsteps that would never come. A partner would keep turning toward a door that would never open.
I committed them to memory. Would add them to the Book of the Fallen we'd have to start keeping.
"Get the wounded to the healers," I said. "Rotate the guard—half rest, half stay alert. And find me exact numbers on enemy casualties and their retreat direction."
He saluted and left.
I stood on the blood-stained rampart and looked north, toward the retreating enemy.
They'll be back. With more. And more after that.
We can't stay here.
Starlight faded into a cold gray over Cuiviénen, painting the lake gold and crimson.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[That afternoon. Emergency Council]
I called both Council tiers together—all thirty-three founding clan heads and my advisory council of specialists. With the population growth, there were now additional clan representatives, but the original thirty-three retained their special status.
They filled the assembly hall, faces grave.
Word of the night attack had spread. Everyone knew we'd held. Everyone also knew this wouldn't be the last.
"Three dead," I said without preamble. "Thirty-one wounded, three seriously. Against approximately one hundred and fifty attackers." I let that settle over them. "We won. Decisively. But they'll be back."
"How many next time?" Talanor asked quietly.
I gestured to Angrod, who'd been coordinating the scouts since dawn.
"A few thousand," Angrod said flatly. "Maybe more. Camped fifteen leagues north, across the lake. Building. Preparing. It's not a raiding party anymore—it's an army."
Silence crashed down like a physical weight.
"A few thousand," someone whispered.
"We can't hold against those numbers," I said. "Not indefinitely. Not with two thousand people—including children and eldest—and only a fraction able to fight at once." I met their eyes. "We're outnumbered in fighters, and they can take losses we can't. Every Avari who falls is irreplaceable. Every orc? They seem to have endless replacements."
"What are you proposing?" Thoron asked, though I suspected he already knew.
"We leave Cuiviénen."
The assembly erupted. Voices overlapping, some angry, some frightened, some relieved.
I waited for quiet.
"This is our home," Galwen protested—silver-haired eldest, mother of five, grandmother of twelve. "We were born here. All of us. We can't just—"
"We can," I interrupted, but gently. "And we will. Because staying means dying." I stood, walked to the center so everyone could see me. "I've been preparing for this possibility for thirty years. The walls bought us time. The training kept casualties low. The food stores, the wagons, the weapons—all of it was building toward this moment."
"Where would we go?" Írissë asked. Her voice shook slightly.
"West." I'd studied the vague geographical knowledge passed down through generations. "Away from Utumno—away from the source of these orcs. There's land out there. Empty land. Where we can rebuild. Grow strong."
"The Eldar went west," Talagan pointed out. "To Aman. Are you suggesting—"
"No." I shook my head firmly. "Not to Aman. We wouldn't be welcome there, and I wouldn't go if we were. But west in Middle-earth. To Beleriand, maybe. Or beyond. Somewhere we can make our own place."
"The ones who abandoned us went that way," someone muttered bitterly.
"The ones who are still Quendi," I corrected. "Still elves. Who might trade with us, if we meet them. Or might not." I shrugged. "But we're not going to beg. We're going because it's smart. Because survival matters more than pride."
"How long do we have?" Caldor asked practically.
"Three months to prepare. Four at most before that army is ready to march." I looked at him. "Can your people get the wagons ready? Enough to carry supplies and those too young or injured to walk? We'll need enough for two thousand."
His eyes widened slightly at the scale, but he nodded. "If we work day and night. And if the woodcutters can keep pace."
"They will." I turned to Eol. "Weapons. Arrowheads especially. As many as you can produce. We'll need thousands."
He nodded grimly. "We'll empty the bog ore deposits. Every last piece."
"Talanwen—leather gear. Boots for everyone. Armor where you can manage it. Water skins, bags, straps for carrying supplies."
The leatherworker's guild head straightened. "We'll work around the clock."
"Mirwen—preserve everything from the harvest. We march before winter. Need enough dried food for months."
"Understood."
"Mireth—medicines. Bandages, salves, anything that can be carried. We'll need field supplies for the entire journey."
She was already making notes on a wax tablet.
I went through each specialist, each clan head, assigning tasks. Breaking the impossible into manageable pieces.
Two thousand people.
Fifty wagons.
Months of travel through unknown lands.
Insane. This is insane.
But staying was suicide.
When I finished, Thoron stood.
"A question, Chief."
"Ask."
"Will we ever come back?"
The hall fell silent.
I looked at him for a long moment. At all of them—my people, who'd trusted me at the Sundering, who'd followed me through thirty years of relentless preparation.
Two thousand souls who'd chosen freedom over safety.
"Yes," I said quietly. "Someday. When we're stronger. When we have allies. When we can stand against whatever darkness breeds in the north." I touched the acorn in my pouch—warm, constant, Ilvëa's gift. "I swear it. This is not goodbye to Cuiviénen. This is… a strategic retreat. We'll return."
"Then I support this," Thoron said. "We leave. We survive. We grow strong. We return."
One by one, the others voiced agreement. Not everyone—some faces showed doubt, fear, even anger.
But no one voted against.
The decision was made.
We would abandon our home.
On our terms. By our choice.
Before the darkness could take it from us.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[That night. The lakeshore]
[Selas POV]
I stood at the water's edge, staring out across Cuiviénen's dark expanse.
Somewhere on the far shore, an army gathered. Thousands of orcs, preparing for slaughter.
And we were running.
The smart choice. The necessary choice.
But it felt like failure anyway.
I pulled out the acorn—golden Light pulsing within it, steady as a heartbeat. Ilvëa's Light, mixed now with traces of my own silver from how often I touched it.
I'm sorry, I thought. I'm sorry I couldn't keep this place safe.
But Cuiviénen wasn't what I'd promised to protect.
The Avari were.
My people. Two thousand souls who'd chosen freedom over safety, who'd followed me into uncertainty, who trusted me to lead them through whatever came next.
I won't fail them, I swore. I won't.
Behind me, the settlement buzzed with activity even at this late hour. Preparations beginning. Families packing. Smiths working through the night, hammers ringing in a steady rhythm. Carpenters racing to finish wagons. Leatherworkers cutting and stitching boots and bags and straps. Weavers producing fabric for tents and clothing.
Record-keepers copying the most essential texts, preparing portable archives.
Everyone working. Everyone contributing.
Home.
For three more months.
Then we would walk into the unknown.
And whatever waited there—we would face it together.
I looked back one last time at the lake where all elves had awakened.
The birthplace of the Quendi.
We'll return, I promised the stars reflected in dark water. We'll come back stronger. We'll reclaim what's ours.
The lake offered no answer.
It never did.
But somewhere in my chest, beneath all the fear and uncertainty, a small spark of determination burned bright.
We were Avari.
The Unwilling.
And we would survive.
And the darkness had finally learned our name.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[End of Chapter 4]
GLOSSARY
For those who wish to delve deeper. This glossary covers new terms introduced in this chapter.
Orcs – Corrupted creatures created by Morgoth (the first Dark Lord) in his fortress of Utumno. First appear near Cuiviénen around Year 1135 of the Trees (Year 30 of the Avari Calendar). These early generations are crude and disorganized compared to later breeds, but numerous and aggressive. They reproduce naturally and can sustain losses that would devastate the Avari.
Utumno – "The Underworld" or "Hell." Morgoth's original fortress in the far north of Middle-earth, where he breeds corrupted creatures. The source of the orc threat facing the Avari.
Beleriand – A vast region in western Middle-earth, far from Cuiviénen. Selas plans to lead the Avari there to escape the growing orc threat and potentially find allies or trading partners.
Four-field rotation – An agricultural technique where fields are divided into four sections, rotating crops to maintain soil fertility. One field grows wheat, one grows root vegetables, one grows legumes, one lies fallow. One of many innovations Selas introduces from his human memories.
The Dueling Circle – A formal combat arena where Avari test their skills one-on-one or settle disputes through non-lethal combat. Helps develop individual fighting ability and provides a controlled outlet for aggression.
The Wall – A formation training exercise where groups of Avari practice shield-wall tactics, learning to fight as a coordinated unit. Develops teamwork and battlefield discipline. Also serves as a competitive sport and entertainment.
Bog iron – Iron ore found in wetlands near Cuiviénen. Limited in quantity and quality, contributing to the Avari's resource scarcity and need to eventually relocate. Can be smelted into crude iron, but deposits are nearly exhausted after thirty years of intensive use.
Avari Calendar – Time-keeping system dating from the Sundering (Year 1 = Year 1105 of the Trees). Currently Year 30, corresponding to Year 1135 of the Trees.