The Saga of Vaenomar- Chapter 30 ~ Not Alone~

Chapter 30
~Not Alone~

  The welcoming chirps and rustling forest calm was all but lost on Vaenomar as she crashed through the underbrush like the same mother boar she’d so lately been pursued by. The feverish heat in her head obscured the other sensations of her body and mind. Her legs throbbed violently from an intense march of nearly five hours. Locked and firm, her jaw was set in an angry scowl, eyes straight ahead, only barely seeing what was there through the fiery haze fueled by one man: Dáin.
  Her small vocabulary of curses didn’t suffice to describe him so she left off trying. Branbur, the man she trusted most, was gone forever. Thorin had done next to nothing to stop Dáin’s abuse and Bridi even less. They actually were listening to him!!
She was disgusted.
 They took his word over months and months of her unfailing loyalty?! How could Thorin? If a guest at her pleasure had insulted one she professed to love, she knew, most definitely, she would never sit by and watch them so rankly offended!
   Dáin’s words rang through her ears like giant bells clanging overhead, making her unsteady.
A large bank into a brook sloped down, littered with rocks and loose soil. Carelessly Vaenomar jumped onto the slope and began to slide, losing her balance and tumbling down with a splash, feet first into the water. Without hesitation she got back up, tears of fury welling up in her eyes, and climbed up the other side. Teeth grinding fitfully, she thought to herself, “Perhaps I’ll just not go back for a long time. I’ll do my duty as flawlessly as ever and go back when I please. That should teach them.”
Just maybe Thorin would feel bad; heartless man!
   Dark clouds were high above the trees while smaller wisps floated just over the tallest branches. The air was chill but damp and in the forest dank and muggy. A warm spell in the middle of the winter had awoken a few Northern creatures, but still the woods were quiet. Quiet, but for the plodding footsteps that traversed the Western edge.

  The trees were less dense and the underbrush leafless and sleeping from the cool winds that penetrated the edge of the woods for about a half mile. Vaenomar’s aimless marching led her just out of the warmth of the inner woods and into the realm of winter. But she noticed it not. Nor did her clouded eyes perceive the broken branches and stirred leaves that under more normal circumstances would’ve been picked up immediately.

  A stronger anger she had never felt in her life, at least that she could remember. The Elves had taught by example to be patient, caring and above such base feelings. The Elves: why were the Dwarves so suspicious of them? Her past association with them was the main source of her problems and her own upbringing left her unable, or unwilling, to address such insults as Dáin’s.  Picturing Thorin’s grisly, rasping relative beside her, she lashed out with a wayward punch, her fist colliding with a rough tree trunk. That, of course, had a jarring effect on her knuckles and she recoiled her hand. Sucking the numbing scrapes, she looked up at what she’d struck. Dead leaves rustled as if unhappily disturbed and the dormant beech’s branches swayed in a breeze.
Vaenomar stepped back, muttering, “I’m sorry…” Then a clang echoed through the forest and searing pain shot up her leg as cruel, iron jaws sank into the flesh high above her ankle.
Her body collapsed in utter shock and she heard her throat utter a wailing cry. With grinding teeth and bated breath the trapped creature pulled her throbbing leg out from under her to find an iron contraption as long as her forearm and hand, piercing, with long, evil teeth, latched on either side of her leg.
  She gasped for breath, squeezing tight the blood flow on her calf and closed tight her eyes.
As she tried with trembling hands to pry off the clamped fangs, the blood left her face and raced to her leg. It wasn’t budging, despite all the strength she forced into it. Blackness hovered around her sight, replacing the haze of frustration, and it closed in.
“This is what I get for running off?” she muttered through clenched teeth, “I’m sorry Thorin…”
Her arms went limp and she keeled backwards, head landing on a soft bed of lichen, while the malicious row of metal spikes remained locked on its prey.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    The last several hours Thorin had spent chastising Dáin at the top of his lungs, and arguing and calling for Vaenomar in and on the outskirts of town.
 She had been seen leaving by the gate, confirmed by the half awake gate-guards, and, according to Bridi, had brought her fresh filled, supply bag along with her.
Bridi had assured him that the girl needed only to let off a lot of steam, and, being a well-mannered thing, preferred to do so without the company of others.

  “When have you ever seen her lose her temper?” she had encouraged, “And let met tell you- doubt not that she has one.”
 She’d simply returned to the woods, to her post; her duty. She’d return soon and make amends. It was her way. With a magma-filled glare at Dáin, “If there are amends to be made,” she said.

  Thorin’s throat was sore and his head ached. As he stared at the cracks and uneven shelves in the flagstone floor, his eyes saw only Vaenomar, abused and offended beyond measure. He should have done more. Not in his wildest dreams did he think his cousin would go that far.
Thorin bore no love for Elven-kind, but Dáin’s dislike seemed to have turned into an extreme hatred. Not only had he accused his cousin’s adopted lover of being a sympathizer, but had argued for that being as bad as a goblin-chief or such. Since when had Elves and goblins been simultaneous in a Dwarf mind?! Not in Thorin’s long life time.
Branbur had always a good opinion of most pointy-ears, Bridi was neutral, and both were, and had been, trusted opinions.
  Dáin and Thorin and all of Durin’s line from under Erebor had good reason to be at odds with the folk of the realm of the Greenwood, but all Elves?
Vaenomar would never truly understand, and she shouldn’t have to. As he told himself often: it wasn’t her burden to bear.
 Through shouting, threats, curses, and a bit of blood-drawing punches Thorin and his newfound ally, Bridi, had mostly successfully driven that point like a spike in Dáin’s thick, rocky skull. Not that he apologized- but he would have to.
 If she ever came back…
Bridi’s firm hand rested on his shoulder, as he hunched over in a chair.
“She’ll come back, my lord. If I know her at all, she’ll come back. Just give her time.”

   He glanced at Dáin, who was sitting sullenly in a corner, sharpening a few axe-blades to pass the time.
Thorin’s eyes turned back to the floor.
“I shouldn’t have made her come…”
“It’s not your fault.”
“It could’ve been avoided… My own failure to see things the way they are-“
“My lord, it’s not your fault. Believe me- I’d tell you if it was.”
He managed a chuckle, “Oh Bridi, you’re worth more gold than was ever in my father’s coffers.”
“I hope so,” she replied dryly. “You could never have anticipated such a row, so don’t blame yourself. There are more important things to deal with at hand.”
He nodded solemnly, but his mind still lingered on Vaenomar. Her sudden absence had struck him like a ballista bolt. He hadn’t even been able to-
 Startling Bridi and his cousin, he stood up. With Vaenomar not around his restless spirit awoke and tormented him. He had half a mind to follow her…
 If Darzûn hadn’t found her though, there wasn’t much of a chance he could. Especially if she didn’t want to be.

   Passing out of the postern door, he made his way in the clear air to the bulwark walls.
In the gloaming light of evening he peered into the dark mass of forest far below and hoped somewhere in their midst a young woman, wronged in her own home, lay at rest with a forgiving heart and peaceful mind. Comfortable on a pillow of soft leaves, enmeshed deep in her soft woolen blankets. Someday he would hold her in his arms, kiss the tender skin of her neck, and enjoy the peace and innocence of young life, as he had none.
Always, it was someday.
 Thorin realized then- if he’d actually been worried, or doubted her, he would’ve immediately given chase. But he didn’t. Now he must sit and rot with his accursed cousin, waiting for news from her or others to call him away.
 Bridi was always right, there was no reason to doubt her now. In matters of female emotions she was a good one to trust. If he’d been insulted in such a way he simply would’ve broken the insulter’s nose.
 So why hadn’t he…before Vaen got incensed and ran away? Back in a circle! Confound it all!
He slapped the stone and looked East, letting the cool wind whip his worn, stately face.
A small, black silhouette soared high above the base of the mountain against the remnants of an orange and violet sunset. He thought of Vaenomar’s friend, Grimsvodn the Young.
  “Take care of her… where ever you are… where ever she is.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   They had been tramping for two hours now, though probably only an hour in distance from camp, and had found nothing unusual. Not even the beasts were about, and the only tracks they found were very few by river banks in the barely thawed mud and silt.
  The two men that followed him kept a constant quiet babble, mostly coming from Rumil, as they endeavored to keep up with his vigorous pace. Though a large frame was less agile and maneuverable in tight branches, Eärón’s solid thighs provided him with all the stamina of a horse. Or a mûmak, as his friends called him.
   As usual, the day was uneventful. Not that he minded being sent into the woods on seeming pointless rounds. Anything to get out of camp. Captain Alcarín grew on his nerves daily; the more he saw Eärón the worse he liked him as well. Despite his rather fruitless returns from scouting, however, Eärón had retained his promotion to lieutenant. It didn’t really mean much, but that he got to ‘head’ the small groups of Glade-keepers that accompanied him. He didn’t even get to choose who went along.
  On the last few outings the timid, clingy Nurtalië had come. He always seemed so nervous, never looking in the eye and watching his back as if something pursued him, walking just at Eärón’s heels. He was too young, Eärón thought, and scared. It was infectious, making Eärón nervous too when he was around.
So thin and frail, like a little girl, almost. He made Eärón, in all his broad bulk, feel so big and clumsy.
But at least Nurtalië was quiet.
 He threw a stern glance behind him, as a signal for the lads to pipe down. Earlier he’d been more polite about it, but one too many times had exhausted that.
   Up ahead a brook rushed loudly, the ice melted as the day warmed considerably. He turned, walking backwards for a moment, and, with a nod to either side, he jogged off.
Morcion stood in his tracks, confused, but Rumil explained, “Split up!”

  Eärón gripped a thick branch and pulled himself up onto a massive fallen tree that spanned the width of the stream. They always crossed separately, if possible: scouting tactics.
The mud below looked particularly soft and so he decided to inspect, in hopes of finding signs of any sort of life. Plus, he didn’t mind having a moment of quiet to himself now and again. Ever since he left Tauremith the first time, he had, with much forcing of his willpower, tried to block Tairiel from his mind’s eye and rid his memory of her precious torment.
 However unsuccessful this had really resulted, at least now he had things to distract him, tedious though they be.
  As he inspected the river bank he felt the icy water with the tips of his fingers and shivered. The air was much more chill here than closer to Tauremith. Barely two months ago he’d been hot at night even without a shirt, now two blankets was just enough out in the woods. Last time they’d slept outside of camp while on a ranging party, the little Nurtalië had been so cold that he, in his sleep, had snuggled up to Eärón’s back for warmth. Out of pity, he didn’t complain, despite how awkward it had been, but the poor boy had apologized so profusely that Eärón chose to forget it all.
 “Who needs a fire with Mûmak around,” Tethrin had joked, tugging the big Elf’s long black braid.
   Eärón smiled to himself and looked into the ripples and courses of the clear brook flowing happily over smooth pebbles.
  His reflection was distorted as he watched it shimmer and fragment, but his face changed quickly from placid expression. The water was tinged red! Just slightly tinted in ribbons of colour, but there was no doubt. Blood in the stream.
He jumped up and listened. Only the hum of his companions a few metres off.
They could wait; not as if it was possible to lose them.
 With only the strength of his arms he hauled himself back up onto the natural bridge and moved upstream in the brush. Stopping to inspect further, he found no tracks, but a more dense stream of red liquid in the water. He was close.

 “Eärón?” his heart thumped hard on hearing Rumil’s hushed voice behind him.
So they could be quiet if they wanted.
“Have you found something,” the other whispered.
Eärón held his finger to his lips, “Spread out in silence. One eye on me and the other on the river,” he said as simply and quietly as he could.
Rumil leapt nimbly over a narrow opening of the brook, while Morcion moved away from the bank and disappeared in the forest.
 Their leader melted with the underbrush, his dark leather armour and black hair camoflauging well with the wintering woods.
  As he crept up the hill, slowly moving through the undergrowth along the gradual waterfalls, he heard one splash, followed by the rustling of dead leaves underfoot, and froze. Upstream about twenty feet.
   Silently he picked up his pace and came within five feet of where the movement have been. A quick glance showed him no less than a boot print on the opposite side of the bank of him. It was large enough for a small man, squared and light. A dark mass flashed ahead and he jumped to the pursuit.
  The other two had seen only the action of their leader and moved to keep up with him. He was obviously on the trail of something.
 The few broken twigs and boot prints left by his quarry made it clear that whatever he was after was a very clever woodsman. He didn’t move quickly, as one would if they knew they were being pursued, but it kept Eärón on his toes to stay apace. On Elven soil, outsiders were as uncommon as natural death and nearly as unwelcome, unless by invitation. He seemed to be oblivious to Eärón’s and the other’s presence, and so too, probably that these woods were in Elvish keeping.

  Eärón skidded to a halt. A dozen or so paces ahead stood a tall, broad, and darkly cloaked form, with a mask and large woolen hood that obscure the rest of the face. Eärón watched as the figure turned away and a white hand pulled down the mask a little to free the nose.
He sniffed the air, replaced the mask and shot a penetrating glance in Eärón’s direction before starting off into a lope.
 He did know they were there, though not precisely where they were. He couldn’t let him disappear now.
 Eärón kept up the chase, moving stealthily from one tree to the next, with both eyes on his quarry and ears on his companions. He couldn’t hear them and didn’t want to.
The outlander woodsman stopped again only briefly, to shift the pack on his shoulders and continued on. The pursuing Elf peeped out from behind the towering mallorn to see the draped figure pull his long, elegantly carved bow off his back in a calm, measured manner, more in defense than attack. He resumed his quick walk and pulled the cover off his quiver.
  Perhaps no mere woodsman, thought Eärón. A muffled whistle of a pine thrush broke the peaceful quiet, but didn’t seem to disturb the cloaked traveller. Eärón called back to Rumil in a similar call and was answered by the croak of a raven.
 That wasn’t Morcion’s call!
It came again and the quarry looked about and kept moving. The warble of a bullfinch came from Eärón’s right hand side and set him more at ease.
They were both there; not as incompetent as they seemed.
 Several paces more and the Elf lieutenant gave his thrush call again. The mysterious figure came into a long, narrow clearing and Eärón hid himself behind another giant mallorn. Taking in a deep breath, he readied a warning speech.
  But the crunching of leaves stopped and a low, but not at all masculine voice demanded:
“What do you want, Elf?”

  Thrown completely off his guard, Eärón started and peeped slowly around the white trunk.
She, for it definitely was no man, hadn’t turned to face him, though she seemed to know where he was.
 He left his hiding place and came into the clearing. With a frame like his, weapons were often unnecessary for intimidation effects. But his tone was mellow and resonant.
“I wish only to learn your business in the forest?”
  Curtly she replied, turning around to face him, “None of yours. Why are you following me?”
She was very tall and appeared strong and possessed a calm and cool that unsettled Eärón.
“I protect and patrol these woods. State your business and if it be peaceful I will gladly let you to it, friend.” He didn’t come any closer than seven long paces.
“Friend?” her masked voice scoffed, holding her bow limp at arm’s length. “Well, friend, you may as well call off your men…”
 After a tell tale pause he stammered, “My men?”
She didn’t miss a thing.
 “The one there,” she nodded to his right, “is so loud I could have hit him with a stone…blindfolded. He’s quiet enough,” she gestured to the other side, “In comparison. But you- I could’ve smelled you from miles off- with a cold.”
  Her tone was serious, but he caught the sarcasm and smiled: he could appreciate humour, even coming from a stranger who had completely foiled his stalking attempts. A word in Elvish from their lieutenant brought Rumil and Morcion out of their hiding places, albeit a bit timidly, and they fell into form behind him.

  The woman smirked aloud at her own exactitude and she turned and resumed her walk, to Eärón’s surprise. Her aura of confidence only intrigued him more. Cold and aloof, she was ready for anything: just as he would need to be in dealing with her.

  “Who are you?” he asked, keeping close behind her, though he knew not what he expected to learn.
“What’s it to you?”
 “I ask only for your purpose here. If you are a friend, then you may pass freely in these lands.” He hoped his voice was as convincing as his words.
 “These lands?”
By her accent, he couldn’t tell her race or homeland, but in size and bearing she suggested a very tall and noble culture.
“You are on Elvish soil,” he said, lengthening his strides to gain the space between them.
 “I am on soil. And you are an Elf.”
Eärón sighed; the masked intruder was a tough nut to crack.

 “Do you really think you own the soil?” she threw a glance over her shoulder, measuring her followers’ decreasing distance.
“Ah- no,” he mumbled. Such an unexpected situation was getting the better of him, “But,- we are charged with the safe keeping of these woods. You’ve crossed into our territory and you must declare your intentions.”
 She whirled around and glared at him from under hood and mask, “Oh must I?”
Behind Eärón, the two others, tense and skittish, glued their hands to their sheathed weapons and bow and arrow hand ready to nock.

  “A friend to these lands can go free. If you pose a threat, however, you will be taken captive.” There wasn’t a chance this would end nicely if she saw his uncertainty. He heard his father’s stern, warlike voice in his own.
 She cocked her head thoughtfully, “So, would taking a deer for food be posing a threat?”
He hesitated and then answered quickly, “No.”
 “Then you really wish to gauge how dangerous I am.”
Eärón cleared his throat, “I guess…”
 She was making him dance around like a fool in front of the others; he could feel their nervous fidgeting behind him, just waiting for any sudden movement.
 “Say- then,” she continued, not slackening her pace in the least, “I could slay all of you before the third could draw his sword.”
 Eärón put his hand on Morcion’s sword arm as Rumil soundlessly reached for an arrow.
  Again she whipped around, showering ice down on Rumil with her glare, “And you’ll be first!…But would I? No. Not unless you attacked me.”
 Calmly she turned back around and moved on.

  The terrain was more level and easy now. At Eärón’s bidding, hoping to avoid further incident, the two others hung back and he jogged to catch up.
“Are you a mercenary?”
 More patiently than expected, she shrugged, “Something like that. I live in the forest. Eat what I need to survive and nothing more. I leave no marks where I go and only kill those who make themselves my enemy. Dangerous? Yes. Trouble? No.”

  There was no doubt that she was a skilled combatant as well as a ranger, but the stony exterior aside, Eärón sensed something far deeper and infinitely more personable within.
 “Then you are free to roam as you will…”
Somehow, he believed her. Despite the looks from his companions suggesting their feelings to the contrary, in Elvish, true to his word, he sent them back to camp. “I’ll join you soon and make a report to the Captain.”
  As was evident by her familiarity with the woods and lifestyle she had dwelt her for some time.  To Eärón’s peaceful logic what harm was there in letting her be? His conscience spoke otherwise. “You can’t trust her,” Rumil’s wary eyes had said before he left.
“I can fend for myself,” the lieutenant assured him in muttered Quenya.
The other two Glade-keepers vanished into the brush and Eärón continued to follow her, unwelcomed.

   Hearing the large feet in soft boots crunching behind her and a little to the side, she sighed, “And yet you still follow me?”
Without the others tagging behind him Eärón felt his confidence returning. He wasn’t completely sure if he still pursued her for the sake of sating his curiosity or actually out of duty.
 “We’re going the same way.” He could almost hear her roll her eyes. “Nice try, Eärón,” he thought.
  “Ah, and you actually sent them off,” she observed, pretending not to have understood his Elvish. “Good,” she added in a purr that arrested Eärón’s pulse like a bolt of hoarfrost.

  The ground grew uneven as her path led them downhill towards a watery ravine. Thousands of questions chased each other through his mind and her every step, quickening with the descent, increased his wariness of her and made him doubt the soundness of his judgment to follow her alone. Not that he doubted his ability to match her in combat, only he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. His unease only grew the longer he followed her.
 The forest began to feel chill, despite there being no wind. His heartbeat raced and all his sensed tuned to their sharpest. The croak of a large bird sounded ominously again a ways off and the mercenary began to move faster and less casually. Cold instinct made Eärón silently unsheathe a long hunting knife. The clouds darkened overhead and he could see their fitful forms through the canopy. Amid her hasty footsteps he thought she gave a short, grim chuckle.
She slowed on coming to a steep incline and Eärón stopped a few paces behind her.
“What’s happening?” he demanded breathlessly, more from apprehension than exertion.
    She halted and turned slowly. Seeing his weapon at the ready she unflinchingly approached him. “You know… it’s dangerous threatening someone on their home ground.”
 Before he could step away she was there, and two sudden pricks in his throat and below the ribs arrested him.
  Her dual blades pressed harder against his skin and thin leather doublet, forcing his steps backwards until he was backed against a broad tree.
  Blue eyes flickered beneath the dark hood. His heart beat so loud he was sure even she could hear it. The cold steel moved up and down with his larynx with a gulp. As the sellsword gave no signs of letting him go, Eärón threw down his knife. “I’m sorry,” he said earnestly, his handsome features respectful and pleading. “I was jumpy, that’s all. Please- I mean you no harm. Forgive me.”
  Still the whetted blades hovered about his vitals and a fell blaze lingered in her icy glare. The mask covering her mouth and nose moved in and out with measured breath.
“Please,” he insisted in as suave and calm a tone as he could muster, ” I’ve disarmed, and apologized- What more do you want?”
 With a guttural rumble she rolled her eyes and released him, sheathing both her dagger and an arm’s length scimitar of unique fashion. The quick flash he saw it Eärón thought it looked familiar, but wasn’t sure. Rubbing his throat, he let her retrieve his knife and get a head start before resuming his shadowing.
 She was dangerous, that much was undoubted, but she was only as wary of him as he was of her. Perhaps he was being paranoid. After all, she was the first sign of two-legged, non-feathered life anyone had seen in this forest for a long while. He couldn’t leave her now. and she did nothing to deter him. The curiosity was on both sides.

 “‘On their own turf'”, she had said. And was right. The mallyrn were nowhere to be seen. They moving just along the border of Elven lands. “You are a much keener forester than I,” he called good-naturedly, as he caught up, “One could almost take you for an Elf.”
“Oh really,” he heard her grumble back, obviously not taking his well-meant words as much of a compliment.
 There was much more to this self-professed mercenary than she revealed. Something drew him to her, and it definitely wasn’t his tired, trudging feet. She was deeply suspicious, but more trusting than reason would dictate. Both pairs of eyes and ears kept close mark on each other.
A certain fate was engraved in the depths of her glacial eyes and their sad, knowing aura. She seemed lonely, yet peaceful enough with her life. How he could know so much from a look, feel so much from just being near her…he had no idea.
 As if she could read his prying thoughts, she broke the silence, “What is your name, Elf?”
 They waded through an icy stream, the ground uneven with rocks and fallen timber and he caught up close behind her.
He knew not why, but he answered her falsely, “I am called Eöl.”
 She snorted, “Oh? And I go by Beruthiel, Queen of Cats.”
Eärón, off his guard again, found himself unable to reply.
 “Just as well, then, Eöl Moriquen, as I wouldn’t have given you my name either.”

 There was nothing distinct about her garb: she was wrapped in a wide, slate, woolen cloak and hood, without adornment. Her boots of simple, worn leather. She walked with the steady, powerful gait of a noble, well-trained person. Until after they reached the top of the craggy hillock on the other side of the stream.

 Before his conscience could stop him, his tongue wagged, “Why are you walking like that?”
He wanted to slap himself.
“Like what?” snapped the defensive voice of one who knows they’re being observed.
It reminded him of Tairiel, only lower and more reserved.
“You’re walking different…” he tried to explain.
But she was. Her lower leg or foot seemed suddenly in great pain, despite her efforts to hide it.

  Ignoring him, she pushed on. As the water from the stream eventually dried from the tracks left by her boots there appeared another dark substance. Blood! More blood!
“You’re bleeding!” he caught up to her side, “What happened?”
“Nothing!” she hissed and pushed him away, charging ahead.
 The facade of ruthlessness and stern cool originally put on by the female forester ceased to play on Eärón’s honest personality. It didn’t make her any less formidable, though. “You’re wounded! Wait,” he placed a firm hand on her shoulder, but was violently shaken off.
“I don’t need help- especially from you! Leave me alone,” she said angrily and took off in a laboured lope.
 It was no trouble keeping up now, “Please! You must let people help you every now and then!”
     How could he possibly know that?
She shook her head and growled angrily, “No, no I don’t.”

  He brushed past something white and it drew his eyes upwards. Mallorn bark.

 “We’re on my ground now. Stop or I’ll shoot.” He held his bow at arm’s length and an arrow loosely nocked.
 She stopped in her tracks, but didn’t turn around. “You’re catching on, then. And it’s only been fifteen paces.”
“Go no further,” he ignored her sarcasm, “I order you on pain of death.”
 Exhaling through flared nostrils, “You won’t do it.” She took one step forward.
The wood of the bow now creaked under pressure.
“Disarm yourself. Quiver first.” Along the route of gaining her trust, this was probably one of the worst shortcuts he could’ve taken. Who knows what was going through her mind now. Again, he wanted badly to bang his head against a tree, but he couldn’t turn back.
 After a long stubborn pause, she actually obeyed.
Her quiver clattered to the ground a few feet away from her.
“Now the daggers and your sword.” All three clanged as they fell atop each other.
Arrow drawn to his ear, bowstring held firm in place by large, strong hands, he asked, “Anything else?”
 “Oh, of course not,” came her sarcastic tone.
“Throw it to the side,” he ordered sternly.
 With a defiant snort she drew a hatchet from beneath her cloak, and two boot knives and tossed them to the side. She unstrapped a hand blade from her thigh and pulled off another throwing axe from the small of her back.
 The growing heap of weapons made a slight shiver run down Eärón’s spine. Still feeling the prick of her dagger in his throat, he wanted badly to see the face of this mercenary.
“Now step away from them.”
 She acquiesced, leaving a larger print of blood where her right foot had been.
 “I know you’re not going to shoot me.”
“I will if you don’t do as I say,” he lied convincingly.
 She scoffed, “What are you going to have me do? Strip?”
“I could,” and then to himself, “Idiot!!
 “I’d rather be shot.”
“Sit down on the patch of moss over there.”
 “No.”
He steadied his voice, “Do it.”
 “I don’t want help.”
“I’m not going to hurt you. Just do as I say.”
 “You are threatening to shoot me. Are you suggesting that is painless?”
He growled, “This is your last warning. Do as I say.” Harsh as his threat sounded, he relaxed his bowstring.
It was all she needed.
 The captive ducked and whirled around, knocking the bow out of his hand with a wild blow. A quick reactor, Eärón seized her wrists and used his massive body to knock her onto the soft moss. She planted a knee in his gut, sending all air from his lungs, but he didn’t let go. Taking both her wrists in one hand and turning on her stomach, while anchoring the writhing body with his own weight, he bound her hands behind her back and lashed her to a tree.

  An Elf with that kind of brute strength was not what she expected. He stepped back and all colour drained from her cheeks as he stripped off his belt. He buckled it behind her, strapping her throat to the tree. She couldn’t move without hurting herself so she eventually quit struggling. Heart thumping wildly against her chest she ground her teeth in anticipation of his next move.
 “Get off me!” she hissed like a cornered snake.
“Relax,” he tried to calm her, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
 “Don’t touch me.”
After securing the buckle, he sat back on his heels, “Please. You’re hurt and bleeding. I saw the blood in the stream, too. I’m going to look at your leg.”
 “You will not!”
“I’m a healer-“
 “So am I. Get away from me!”
“Obviously.” His smile was so genuine and calming that she relaxed just a bit.
 “I can take care of myself,” she squirmed.
“But you’re not. Just hold still.”
 “Let me go, now!”
Patiently, he promised, “If it’s nothing, I give you my word I’ll leave it alone and let you go, alright?”
 The same bear-like gurgle issued from her throat and she banged her head against the birch she was bound to.
 Removing his kneeling leg from her lap, a rather compromising position to be sure, Eärón gently took her foot in his hand, staying clear of a kick in the face.
He slipped off the muddied boot and unwrapped the bloody stockings from her solid calves. On finding her cold, pale skin he began to wish he had Nurtalië’s gentle touch. He’d watched him handle a nasty gash on a fellow keeper’s arm recently without so much as a groan from the wounded party.
  She didn’t move as his sturdy fingers examined her wound. It was clean, but very deep and looked incredibly painful. He glanced up at her wan face, “Was it a boar?”
 In silence she watched him from beneath thick eyelashes.
“Was it?”
 “Why do you care?”
“Just tell me- please.”
 She sighed and leaned her head back, “No, it wasn’t.”
His brow furrowed on looking more closely. “What was it?” he asked almost to himself.
 “Some sort of trap. The one time I wasn’t paying attention, I stepped directly into it…”
He grimaced, “How long before you got it off?”
 Her head fell back again, “Too long.”
Realizing the pain that must have caused he shuddered, “How long ago?”
 “Why so many questions?” she demanded.
“I need to know if there’s rust in it.”
 There was a quiet pause of terse breathing and she answered, “Five days ago. I cleaned it well.”
 “That you did.” He hesitated briefly, “I’m going to have to sew it up.
 “What?” For the first time she jerked, “No!”
“It’s the only way it will heal,” he pleaded.
 The slightest tremble moved in her voice, “No.”
He placed his hand on her knee and used the intimate tone he might ask a very personal favour in, “Please?”
 Eyes shut tight, she refused to answer. There was only fear now. A male stranger, threatening to shoot her if she didn’t obey, forcing her to the ground, tying her up, now asking to stick a sharp object into her flesh… What else could he expect? He began to feel sick , realizing what she must be going through. He couldn’t just leave her though, and her wound needed tending to. Now, it was far, far too late to turn back.
 He dug into the pack at his side and produced a small satchel. At the sight of the long, curved needle she pulled back her legs, and groaned.
While readying the thread his voice was soft, and caressing, “Have you ever seen a wound sewn up?”
 “I’ve closed one before…but not on myself.”
“Well, you don’t need to watch. Here,” he rolled up a piece of bandage and offered it to her for between her teeth, which she refused. “It won’t be too bad. Just relax.”
From a small brook nearby, he scooped up the icy cold water and rubbed it onto her leg to numb and clean the wound. It ran off streaked red.
 The last thing she saw was him readying the needle.
She shut her eyes and looked away.
  For the best angle and least possible movement Eärón straddled her legs, backwards, putting the least amount of weight on them as possible. Her entire body stiffened and he heard her breath shorten. Pulling off his cloak, he bundled it up and placed it over her knees and between his legs. He didn’t want any…injuries.
 Without further hesitation he deftly pierced skin and flesh and began to close up the bloody gash.

 Why he was forcing help onto a complete stranger he couldn’t explain.
She seemed a woman with a strong heart and body, but Eru knows what she was thinking as he, virile and very male, tied her to a tree and straddled her.
 “Think before you act,” Vilenas had encouraged with endless patience, apparently to no avail. Eärón wasn’t used to thinking in such…country matters. Until his encounter with Belrien, at least.
He tied the knot and began to bandage her clammy leg.
With a long held exhalation, he relaxed his clenched stomach muscles. Lifting his weight off her legs, he knelt softly by her side.
 “I’ve finished,” his smooth, dark voice said softly.
 She didn’t stir.
“It’s over…” Her shaded eyelids took on a bluish hue beneath her hood and her chest didn’t appear to move.
 He hesitated then touched her arm, “Wake up…please.”
Still nothing.
 Acting, once again, before thinking, Eärón reached for her throat to feel her pulse.
The second she felt his fingers crawling on her chest trying to find her bare throat, she jerked out of the stupour. Eärón shrunk back with a hiccup-like breath and gave a nervous laugh, “Ah, there you are. I was afraid you’d-“
 “What have you done to me?”
He cleared his throat then smiled, “I put a clean bandage on. Left it a bit loose so when you stand it should fit perfectly. The salve will help it heal fast and keep it from bleeding.”
 Suspicion still hovered in her manner, but she inspected his work with a nod. “Well done. They taught you well.”
 Humbly he bowed his head again, “I can see why you had trouble with keeping it closed. It must have been a strange metal and-” He realized he was attempting to make conversation with a stranger belted to a tree.
 “Oh, let me-” he leaned forward to remove the strap from her neck, but she shied away from his hand and instead he took hold of the cloth and the belt and off came the mask.

  After a frozen moment of shock and surprise, the captive woman screeched, “No!! How could you?!”
Eärón shrunk back as if bitten by a snake, “No, no! I’m sorry! You- you don’t understand! I didn’t mean to- at all! Please!”
 Betrayal, fury and terror raged across her revealed, handsome features. Her savage aspect was like to a wounded wolf.
 “Lying, cheating son of a whore! Come here! You untie me and I’m going to rip off your manhood with my teeth!” She was hysterical.
Eärón didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t leave her, but had no intention of risking any part of his body to her teeth. Her features were unfamiliar to him, though very lovely even in their current savageness. He couldn’t imagine a reason for her to hide from him, save, perhaps, that she was a criminal or fugitive…
 “Please stop! You’re going to hurt yourself! Tairiel- uh-no- stop!”
Feverishly she writhed against the unforgiving bonds, while the towering, flustered Elf stood frantically by, begging her forgiveness.
“I’ll-get-out-of-here- if it’s the last thing I do!”
 Tears streamed down her impassioned face as she struggled to no avail and her throat muscles bulged and purpled against the tight belt.
 “Do your folk know what kind of Elf you are? Bet they like having one so pure around their women-” she spat, in desperate indignation.
 Looking down at his feet to gather presence of mind, he noticed, to his embarrassment, that his doublet had, unbelted, unlatched itself, revealing a bit of tunic and a lot of skin beneath. He shoved the clasps back together, threw the loose wisps of raven hair out of his face and knelt next to her. With powerful hands he ceased her head’s thrashing, holding her skull firmly in a soft, but steel grip.
  Their bodies were so close he could feel her heart throbbing. The tension between them crackled and hissed like fire on ice. She was lovely, he was handsome, both powerful and very opposite. Her body stiffened and trembled, and she stared straight ahead at his chest, panting through her teeth.
 His hands relaxed and left her head slowly, moving down her neck and onto the belt.
Closing her eyes, she felt her nose nudge into his partially bared chest as the belt was removed.
His calloused palms worked ever so tenderly on her smooth wrists and soon her hands were unbound.
 He squatted to the side and stared at the ground.
“My name is Eärón,” he said at long last.
 “I know,” came her reply a moment later. “Mine is Savone. I’m from Esgaroth.”
“Savone?” he tried to hide his surprise, “That’s- a beautiful name.”
   The storm passed as quickly as it had arisen. Out of the sparking mistrust from before had come a peaceful wariness of each other. What had doused the fire or calmed the waves, neither could tell, but Eärón offered her a hand and she took it. She steadied herself on her feet and he gathered up the panoply of weapons nearby. Handing her the excellently crafted pieces, he asked, “So…you speak Elvish?”
 “A very little.”
She strapped on her knives. “These are very beautiful,” he remarked, genuinely impressed as he handed her a long-shafted axe with a unique blade shaped like an angular rune.
 A grunt sufficed to answer the compliment.
“Are they Dwarf-make?” Eärón asked with piqued interest.
 Her cheeks drained and coloured just as quickly, but she answered without hesitation,  “Probably. Found some in an old riverbed and bought the others on the road. All that matters to me is that they’re good quality and won’t fail me in a tight spot. No dragon curses on them or anything.”
 Eärón agreed with a nod, but found himself unconvinced of her non-caring attitude towards these works of such artistry.

  Here they were, holding conversation as if they had shared the forest for months, when only moments ago escaping unscathed, sans violence, seemed a luxury on both parts. Whatever had transpired between them had happened so subtly that neither was sure of it.
  As she shifted the strap of her quiver more comfortably, Eärón took up her last weapon, hilt in one hand. Something about the grip was so familiar he almost didn’t think twice.
Before she reached for it, he glanced at the handle. It was wrapped in soft, black leather and decorated with a pair of onyx on the elegantly formed pommel.
Almost identical to his own sword- save his had sapphires!
 The scabbard was beautiful in it’s simple elegance, but the shape- there was no other pair of hilts so alike.
“Where did you get this?” he asked energetically.
 Taking it from him she hastily gird it on, “Why?”
In explanation, he drew his own, holding forward carefully by the blade for her to see.
Something in her bright eyes flashed a remembrance…or a realization?
“Similar, eh? Fancy that.” Her words were forced.
“My father gave me this sword, telling me that its twin lived in the hands of a friend, somewhere far away. That Dwarf forged my sword and my father its twin.”
He could see her hands tremble as they fingered her pommel. “I think you’re mistaken,” she said and took a step back.
 “And Savone was my mother’s name,” he added, his tone more grave and looks more in wonder every moment. “Who are you really?”
 “Believe me, sir, I do not know you. I got this sword from Dwarven merchants near Jarlich on their way to Esgaroth. As your build would suggest, you are not of purely Elven blood. Your mother, I might guess, was of Mankind. My name isn’t uncommon- and you are quite fortunate to have a father with good Dwarven relations. Too few of his kind left in the world…”
There seemed to be something else in her words, something that revealed too much, but nothing. Too many coincidences. And it wasn’t called Esgaroth anymore.
 She was greatly affected. Her eye lids were red and the corners of her eyes slightly moist.
 “Is there an inscription in Elvish?” he persisted.
She gave an exasperated sigh; he wasn’t giving up. “Yes.”
“Don’t you want to know the other half?”
She couldn’t hide it: yes, terribly.
It rang out into the trees as she pulled the twin from its sheath. As the two, shining, curved blades neared each other for the first time in over a hundred years, a pure, blue glow began to emanate from the etched inscription.
  Completely mesmerized, he read aloud in his smooth, musical tongue, “Alliances may be sundered,” and she finished, her own voice beautifying the earthy Dwarvish, “But Friends are fast as Steel.
 He raised his head slowly to meet her eyes. Both pairs, deep onyx and glowing sapphire, glistened in memory of the swords’ makers.

  A muffled croak sounded high above from the same watchful raven. The young woman glanced up. There were very few ways this could end.
 Eärón, enrapt in the moment, gazed at her now resolved features, highlighted by the moon-like glow of the enchanted weapons.
 Then he felt her hand on his bare chest, soft as a lover’s caress, and he melted. His sword fell to the ground as her face neared his and she pressed her warm, wet mouth onto his. The last thing he heard from her, was:
“Forgive me, Tairiel.”

   The two hundred pounds of solid Elf body slumped to the ground, back against the same tree.
Vaenomar dusted her fingers and replaced the powdered mushroom mixture in the herb satchel at her side.
Being the first time she’d used that concoction, she was quite relieved it worked. She made quick work of binding him to the tree, his beautiful Elven twine was effortless to tie. Was a shame he’d have to cut it, though.
  Despite what he had unwittingly put her through, she felt a strong affinity and warmth for this kind, slightly clumsy man. How could she not? Long before she was even born, dear Branbur had held this baby in his arms and shielded him from dragon fire, while his father searched in vain for the poor child’s mother.
 Not five days earlier she had cursed every one of the First-born in her anger. Then the name Tairiel had accidentally escaped his lips. And then Bran’s sword.
 Holding both scimitars side by side she admired them with a full heart. She sighed and stuck Branbur’s blade in the ground between Hallacar’s son’s legs, very near his armoured codpiece.
“Farewell, Khuzd-friend. Maybe some day we will meet as friends…”
 And after a nudge to ensure his unconscious state, she trotted off.

   “One Elf amid all those trees and he happens to be in love with Tairiel. What are the chances,” she murmured to Grimsvodn, who kept a watchful eye on her while hopping about on the branches above. He simply cocked an eye down in silence.
 In her heart she knew Elves and Dwarves would never truly get along,…but she wished ever so deeply to see such a phenomenon. Being away from the Eldar for so long had made her forget her love for them- getting away from the Dwarven family for a few days helped quench the anger. Now she saw things from a more calming, even perspective. She only wondered if Thorin could ever see in the same light…

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The Saga of Vaenomar- Chapter 27 ~Running Errands~

Chapter 27
~Running Errands~

  They had come for supplies, had lost an old friend and saved a town in the bargain. An extra cartload was the least the grateful populace of Old Estenna could do for their Dwarven protectors. The four, long haired ibex with long straight horns threw their heads impatiently as the people loaded their backs and shoulders with bags. Thorin’s gloomy mind was far elsewhere and the leading goat in vain tried to shake his mindless hand off its horn.
   He just had to come along, didn’t he. Damned Dwarven stubbornness! Vaenomar would never forgive him. And what was that…thing? Was it after him? Was it a sort of evil spirit? Was it human? Now he had questions for Tharkûn. Where was he when he was actually needed? Thorin growled to himself. His hope for solace lay in Bridi. She was a wealth of information of things non-Dwarven. But he wasn’t sure how she’d take Branbur’s death either.
‘You should never have let him go with you!’ he could hear from all sides.
   But who was he, really, to deny his oldest friend? He sighed, as finally the buck shook off his bothersome hand.

 “Lord Thorin.” Gorlath said in a respectfully low tone, “We’re ready.”
Thorin looked around him and nodded. “Let’s be off, then,” he commanded with strength and solemnity, and with a look bade farewell to Mairi and her daughter, Anya, who stood waving sadly in the tavern doorway. The rest of the village watched the even smaller Dwarf party leave in silence, all feeling the effects of last night’s battle.
  The sun was veiled by a thin layer of grey clouds, all pocked and splotchy underneath, and the north wind blew in irregular, cold gusts. Little flurries of snow came and went, never covering, but like little, wet diamonds melted on the top of the Dwarves’ heads. No one spoke. What a change from the journey there. As if Thorin had not suffered enough deaths of those near to him already and hadn’t enough troubles on his mind to deal with. Now another enemy?
Perhaps his axe throw had killed it, though. He doubted it, but couldn’t be sure.
 Despite the stiffness in his limbs and body he still felt the urge to push on faster. He needed to talk to Bridi. She was his hope for comfort in dark times like these; whether he needed it or not, he wanted her council. He wanted assurance that Vaenomar would be fine out there, that they had enough strength in arms and courage to last for more seasons, that he hadn’t made a bad decision to come North. That someday all his and his folk’s efforts and suffering would pay off.

  But ever his thoughts returned to poor Branbur. This would be a long journey. Squinting in the bright white clouds and watching his steaming breath puff out in front of him, Thorin began to hum. The others took up the dirge in droning voices and the crisp, guttural lament for their fallen brother soon calmed the travellers, two and four legged, and carried their trudging feet along the long North- South road.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Little did Thorin know, as the funeral march rung through the tussocked plains, that soon he would be mourning another lost life.
Barely two days since, while travelling through the same vast, enchanted woodland as Thorin’s young woman, was a trio of Elves. And the same silver-blonde one as Thorin had spared a few weeks earlier.
  The prince and his guard, while riding quietly through the underbrush, had, literally, stumbled upon a corpse. Another might have missed it, but the hawk-like eyes of the Prince of the Greenwood spotted the angular patterning on a dark brown, leather doublet just as his horse stumbled over it and regained its footing.
 With a calm word he stopped the steed and dismounted, and his two followers trotted up.
“My lord, what is it? asked one as the prince knelt near his find.
Naug.”
“In the forest?” “Alone?” The two murmured and watched him.
  The prince reverently closed the copper-haired Dwarf’s eyes and inspected the body. No blood, no wounds: no evidence of a skirmish. But on closer look he saw now purple-grey punctures and scratches around the throat. Claws, most likely, but not from a beast, thought he.  The swelling caused by residues on animal claws was not there, and discolouration around the wounds gave evidence to metal. Clawed gauntlets. The prince cringed and looked up and around. But he sensed no enemy near and the body was very cold. No tracks or broken twigs, but from the Dwarf’s small, heavy footprints. Evidently there were Dwarves around, and enemies of Dwarves. Even if the Naugrim and Elf-kind had their extreme differences, any enemy of a Dwarf was his enemy as well.
  As always they would be wary. He climbed back on his horse and cast a final glance at the dead Dwarf’s face. It was severely drawn and pained, and- much too thin for a Dwarf. It looked as if bereft of all blood before he died. Yet there was no blood to be seen around. The glint of orange peeped out from under his leather doublet. Scales of copper-plated steel armour lay beneath, but no weapon was in sight and he bore satchels of food and bedding. An unwary traveller…
  “I wonder what his name was,” murmured the prince thoughtfully, “And why he met such a death in these blessed woods.”
  The three Elves rode away from the scene, and, with another look behind, the Prince of the Greenwood wished safety and blessings on a the lovely Elf-woman he’d recently parted with and the man she’d set out to reclaim.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  “You there,” called the captain, beckoning to a tall, brawny Elf with jet black hair. “Come here for a moment.”
 Patiently Eärón set down his bowl of warm soup, giving a playful glare to the others not to finish it for him, and joined his captain at his personal campfire. He stood attentively awaiting the summons while Alcarín finished his bite. Wiping his mouth politely, the captain finally looked up, “Ah yes- Eö-…”
“Eärón, sir.”
“Yes, yes, Eärón.” He paused deliberately, with haughty brow raised. “Who was your sire?”
The younger Elf shifted his weight, “Hallacar, sir.”
The captain nodded, “Blacksmith?”
 Biting his tongue under the spiteful scrutiny, Eärón replied calmly, “Yes, sir.”
Alcarín nodded again and then seemed to recollect his reason for summoning the new lieutenant. “Well, Eärón, I have a very important letter here, that needs delivering to Taurëmith. You’d not be against a short visit home, now would you?”
 This really was not a request.
“You want me to run an errand for you?” Eärón replied blandly.
“If you must put it that way, then yes, I do. You won’t mind being an errand-boy just for a night.”
Colour rose swiftly to Eärón’s high cheeks, but he held his tongue.
“Good,” replied Alcarín, not deigning to wait for an answer and produced a small sealed noted from his garb. “The seal is not to be broken, no matter what, as it is a highly confidential and important letter. If it is-“
“Sir, it won’t be.” Eärón interrupted sternly.
The captain looked surprised and paused, “Well then…” He peered haughtily into Eärón’s fathomless black eyes and handed him the letter. “It is to be delivered to Lord Belegren’s sister, Lady Belrien; into her hands only. I want you there before the moon is up and back ere the sun is half-way. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Eärón answered, but sounded slightly unsure.
“I’m sure she’ll pay you for your trouble,” the captain turned back to his fire. Still Eärón hesitated. “What is it?”
 “Will Lady Belrien…will she see me?”
“If she knows who it is from she will undoubtedly.”
“I’ll be off then,” Eärón bowed stiffly and, tucking the note in his chest, marched off.
Passing his comrades with a stony face he nodded towards his cooling meal. “Enjoy it for me,” he muttered, his companions’ eyes following him inquisitively. Captain Alcarín ignored the questioning glances from the onlookers and appeared to pay no more thought to the matter.

  Hastily grabbing his leather water skin and throwing off his cape onto his furred bedroll, Eärón mused darkly to himself, “Errand-boy….errand-boy?” He sighed through grit teeth and checked the level of the sun. He had about four to five hours, at most, to reach Taurëmith. And that was if he ran fast most of the way and didn’t get lost. He was glad he hadn’t eaten much. With nothing but a deep breath he jogged away from the hidden camp into the dense, cool woods.

  As the others with whom Eärón had been supping got up and went about their duties, Captain Alcarín slipped, unnoticed, into his tent. The bulky Elf smith was taking care of some business for him in Taurëmith, and he had some of his own elsewhere.

~~~~~~~~~

  Four and a half hours later, when the moon was just peeping through some woolly clouds close to the western horizon, Eärón breathlessly plowed into the sleeping city of Elves. He glistened with sweat and his legs throbbed. Pushing on, but at a walking pace now, he made his way through the lower levels. He was glad it was late: less chance of running into anyone. When he had left, about a week earlier, he meant not to return for a good long while. But the captain’s orders were final. He kept his eye on the way ahead of him and closed off his mind to the painful thoughts and memories that arose at every turn. He wouldn’t think of her. She would be happy with the prince. Someday, perhaps, the Queen of the Greenwood. Nothing less befitted her. She was much too good for him. As much as he hated to think of it, he should have listened to Silfdas. Now all he could do was try to put her out of his mind, though she would never leave his heart.
  His bulging thighs protested angrily as he slowly climbed up the winding stairs to the higher levels. Soon Eärón reached the delicately carved porch of the Lady Belrien, sister of the Lord Captain of the Guard, and former Glade-keeper herself. Trying to control his panting, he tapped on a post outside, and hoped someone would be awake still. A few moments later a stiff, yawning Elf bustled onto the porch from the curtained interior of the house, looking not at all pleased to see the visitor, who shone with sweat and looked rather wild on the doorstep.
“What could you possibly want at this hour, young one?” he asked exhilarated, “And who are you anyways?”
  Still catching his breath, Eärón said respectfully, “I have a message for Lady Belrien…from Captain Alcarín.”
 The door-keeper stood up straight, “Indeed? Then I shall deliver it to her as soon as the hour is right,” and he held out his hand.
 With an apologetic bow Eärón replied, “I have orders to deliver it to her hands only, good sir, with all due respect.”
  The other feigned affrontery. “Is that so? Well, young sir, you may have to return tomorrow, because my lady is indisposed. It is very late,” he said sharply, with a disapproving look at the other’s wind-rustled, black hair and dust covered travel garb.
Eärón stifled a grunt, “Nobility,” then continued aloud, “I must return to my camp by sunrise. Please, sir, if it’s not too much trouble. I did just run four hours to deliver it to her…post haste.”
The servant set his jaw proudly and inclined his head. With a flourish he turned on his heel back into the quiet, beautiful flet. As he waited patiently, Eärón paced back and forth across the porch, trying to calm his aching legs. Only then did curiosity for the letter’s content strike him.
  Ever since he arrived he’d had only less than pleasant experiences with the captain. Strict was an understatement. To his surprise Alcarín had given him the title of lieutenant, only two days after his arrival. Why? He’d never seen him fight; Eärón hadn’t even had a chance to really prove himself worthwhile. It felt like the captain enjoyed treated his inferiors with as little respect as possible and Eärón seemed to be his favourite in this respect. Perhaps he was just testing their mettle. Eärón wouldn’t break; he could take anything, but not all the young Elves out there were made of the same steel. Whatever did the captain want with Lady Belrien? He wondered.   Perhaps that high-browed Elf could turn on the charm when he needed to…

   He gazed down onto the city. The silver blue of the moon that peeped through the clouds cast a sheen on his sleek hair. Dim lanterns illuminated the elegant dwellings made one with the trees they perched in. He could see his breath in little clouds before him and all was so silent he could even hear his receding heartbeat, finally beginning to calm from his long run.
He could see her, sleeping peacefully, her graceful form gently caressed by the…dark velvet blanket. Eärón was disturbed by a tap on his shoulder.
“Lady Belrien agrees to see you, briefly.”
 Pulling the curtain back across the door he issued Eärón into the house and up a short flight of stairs.
 “My lady,” he bowed, indicating Eärón was to enter the room, all freshly scented with warm flickering candles, and left. The lady’s back was to the newcomer as she leaned on a small writing desk. She turned around, revealing a very handsome woman; stern beauty with flowing white-golden tresses billowing around her noble figure.
Eärón bowed, “My lady.”
 She inclined her head and a slight smile curved her lips, “And you are?”
“Eärón, at your service,” he replied simply, his smooth baritone blending with the shadows around him. She circled him with the air of an inspector. “Who is your sire?”
There was that question again, though he knew that she knew the answer.
“Hallacar, my lady. A blacksmith.”
   Though he’d had no part of it, Eärón had suspected something between her and his late father some time ago; something that was transacted by Silfdas. But he made no assumptions. Yet.

 The lady smiled, though without warmth, “I see. Hence your…fine figure?”
He turned red and stared at the floor.
“Well then Eärón,” she continued, not hinting at any previous knowledge of him or anything to do with him, “What have you brought me?”
  Recovering his composure he produced the parchment, now rather damp and crumpled. Again embarrassed, he tried to wipe it off on his chest and straighten it. She looked at it blankly as he placed it in her and as if awaiting an explanation.
 “From Captain Alcarín, my lady.”
“Ah,” she raised her eyebrows and opened the letter.
  Eärón looked away respectfully and held his hands behind his back. The flickering shadows hid his furtive side glance that closely read her face. The seeming simple, uninformed blacksmith’s son was more observant and keen than his lumbering figure would lead one to think. He waited, patiently, to be dismissed like yesterday’s breakfast.
  Instead, Lady Belrien folded the letter up with a placid face, set it on the table and turned to him with the cool grace of a queen. “Thank you, Eärón, for your swift delivery.”
He bowed.
“Ilurë set up a cushion for you. Go, wash yourself and you can leave in the morning.”
“Thank you, my lady for your gracious hospitality, but my home is-“
“You will stay here tonight,” she repeated firmly.
  Arrested, he looked at her, silent for a moment. Then bowed, muttering softly, “Yes, my lady.” And he left the room, followed by her sharp gaze.
 The moment her curtain drifted airily back into place, her stiff, lordly air faded. Belrien’s immortal, ageless brow creased in consternation as she read the letter again. Though its contents were very informative, the writing and words held not their usual tenderness. Perhaps her lover was worried, or distracted by other matters. But he was a dear to write at all if he was thus occupied.
 She stared into the wall, deep in thought, emotions conjured by turbulent memories flashing across her mind like the coloured lights in the Grinding Ice. Then, as if struck by the perfect words, she seized a pen and began to write hastily.

  Eärón’s own mind raced as he stripped off his sweat streaked shirt and splashed his face and arms with cool water provided him by her servant. Why was she keeping him here?
The air was stuffy and he hadn’t yet cooled from his exercise. He splashed more refreshing water onto his sleek chest and smoothed it over his torso. Running his hands through the waves of his raven hair he looked up into the mirror. His pale skin shone almost blue in the light from the moonbeams that filtered into the room. Eärón rubbed his hand over his chin and upper lip, tinged darker than the rest of his face by black stubble.
  A faint gleam of light reflected in two eyes behind him caused him to whirl around.
“My lady!”
Scrambling around he groped for his thrown off shirt.
“Looking for this, dear?” the intruder asked coyly, dangling the loose cloth in the air. His hand shot out to take it back, but she snatched it away behind her. In a confused attempt at modesty, Eärón turned his back to her intrusive eyes.
“My lady,” he stammered, “Please give me back my-“
“Boy,” she whispered into his ear, suddenly just behind him. Her nailed fingers gently pressed into the back of his thick neck. He inhaled sharply, every muscle tightening as if in freezing water.
 “Quite a body you have,” she purred as she stroked his glistening back muscles. “I’m sure you put it to good use…”
 The young Elf’s breath was short and he closed his eyes. Then her nails brushed ever so lightly across his chest. Then again. His mouth began to water. Her hand ran down his rippling torso slowly, enough to drive the strongest man mad with passion. As her wandering fingers went lower he seized her hand and held it firmly, turning around to face her. Onyx eyes bored into hers with a smouldering, bridled passion. The things he could do if he let himself. A tense moment passed which she broke by pulling her hand out of his grasp. She turned her back to him and took a few steps away, with him watching her closely all the while.
“Your father was an Elf…and what an Elf. But your mother?” She turned around on receiving no answer and found his back to her again, but still his eyes followed her every move in the mirror. With one hand she rubbed his tightened bare shoulders and the other fondled his chin, “You know, boy, Elves don’t usually grow hair there.”
 Eärón, holding onto what little control of his body he had left, tilted his head back and swallowed hard. She prodded him further, her nails growing sharper and sharper.
“It makes for interesting sensations, I’m sure,” she whispered.
His body burned and tingled, and he exhaled through clenched teeth. “Does Alcarín have hair on his body?” he asked quietly, forcing a steady tone. Her nails dug into his shoulders. Eärón grunted, but didn’t move.
“Of course not,” she replied smoothly, “He’s a real Elf.” Finally she released him and walked to the other side of the room.
Eärón let out a sigh, and felt warm blood running down his back from his shoulders. Quickly he found his shirt and threw it over his head.
Belrien seated herself casually on a cushioned couch, her flowing night-gown a black and silver wave about her body. “The thing is,” she went on, speaking on his level, “You’ve been asking too many questions that perhaps hold my good name in the balance.”
And this affair didn’t??
 She held up the letter from Alcarín. “The first few lines concern yourself, believe it or not. He asked if I know you… Oh, but do I. But- why, pray tell, are you so keen on this Beruthiel. The human girl who ran off with a herd of Dwarves so long ago. What business could you possibly have with her?”
 “That story, my lady, is most assuredly not the one I first heard.”
“Do you call me a liar?”
“No,” he gulped.
“Then what is your point?”
He was silent for lack of the right words.
“Well, Eärón, I will tell you. I myself led an expedition and continued to search for her on my own. She positively vanished. Unless you doubt my skill-“
“Certainly not, my lady.”
“Then what other questions might you have?”
He paused for a moment, confused emotions, passions and thoughts racing through his brain.
“Dwarves took her?”
 She shrugged, “So I was told. And, yes, I have good reason to believe it is true, but there was no sign of their presence, despite what you may think.”
“On the contrary, my lady, I know Dwarves are much more clever and dangerous than we give them credit for.”
 His even speech earned him a glare. She broke the ensuing silence in a patronizing tone, “You’ve spoken with Tairiel?”
A dagger’s point played with his heartstrings. He flushed and his brow furrowed, “I-I…We trained together.”
She raised her chin knowingly, “And you’ve spoken often?”
He shook his head, the calm that was returning now completely shattered. “No, no, I’ve not seen her for quite a while.
“Ah, well, she’s off to the Greenwood with the prince, now, so you may never see her again.”
“So I’ve heard,” Eärón heard himself say, almost choking on his words.
“Well, she knew this Beruthiel, whom you’ve taken such an interest in. She’s the one who told me the story of her disappearance. But if you want my advice- No. Whether you want it or not, here it is: Let the past lie. It has nothing to do with you.” As she spoke she neared him, like a cat cornering its prey.
 He stiffened, towering above her, and held his face out of reach. The contact of her soft, caressing fingers on his skin hardened all his muscles. She slowly wrapped her arms around his shoulders, stroking the bleeding cuts on his back. The fiercest battle he had ever fought was now against his roaring masculine passions. Her warm breath on his chest made his body tingle.

  He closed his eyes, and focused every last drop of will-power into controlling his trembling body. Then wet lips just barely brushed the center of his chest.
Just as he felt himself breaking, Belrien drew away, as carelessly as if nothing had passed. She took a sealed, scented note out of her gown and placed it on the nearby table.
“Take this to your captain. He’ll be expecting it.” Placing a few coins near it she added, “And here’s for your trouble. Sleep well, and may the Valar guide your dreams.”
    As she disappeared from the room, as silently as she had entered, Eärón gasped and his shoulders fell forward. He sat heavily on the small bed, and tried to breath deeply to calm himself. He collapsed into a horizontal position and closed his eyes.
“Breathe,” he murmured, and counted to twelve. “Breathe…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Naturally, it took Eärón quite a while to get to sleep after such a testing episode like that. Though it pained him more to think of her, in his heart he thanked his beloved Tairiel over and over again for the aid she’d lent him in avoiding disaster. When the temptation had grown too strong, her encouraging face had smiled at him and he’d held against the storm.
After a troubled sleep, filled by dreams having nothing to do with the Valar, Eärón rose early, before the rest of the city and slipped out. Only the gate guards had seen him come and go.
Tairiel was gone, then. Nothing more bound him to Taurëmith now and he left the city behind in haste. The blood red and rosy pinks of the rising dawn filtered down through the trees of the outside forest and tinged the world in colour. Though a bit achy from the run yesterday, his thighs and calves complied with a steady lope, and he hoped, with no stops, that they would get him back in time for a good meal. Last night had left him very hungry and with sore shoulders.
  The sun rose higher and in the thermal warmth of the forest he drained the last drips of his water to keep up with the sweat that soaked his body. Still on the move, the bulwark of an Elf stripped off his leather and cloth jerkin and tied it loosely around his neck. About to take off his sleeveless under-tunic he was arrested on remembering Belrien’s awkward reminder of his…hairy body. None of the other Elves would undress like that, he thought to himself.
    But her words, ‘it gives an interesting sensation,’ turned over and over in his mind. Not for any sensual reasons though. Now he was sure Lady Belrien and his father had corresponded. Her manner toward him was strangely familiar. And though there was no scandal in her involvement with his captain, all details were lightly swept under the rug, as was usual among the high-dwellers. Lady Belrien, kind and vigilant an example as she may put on, was free of any sort of chaste innocence. Eärón was quite sure of that. He had read it in her eyes long before she had laid hands on him. She knew how to touch men. He shivered.
He had stumbled upon a veritable hornet’s nest.
Why did she obscure and change Tairiel’s story? And so many other questions now lay on his conscience. His interest in this Beruthiel had sprung solely from the desire to please his love. Now he found himself on a rolling wheel that gained momentum with each fateful question asked.

 “Who goes there?” a voice startled him and he nearly lost his footing.
A Elbereth Gilthoniel, cried the maid,” he called back to the invisible scout.
“Back early, Mûmak,” chuckled the voice, “How went the night?”
“Well enough…” but his tone belayed his words.
  As he neared the camp the sun hid its face behind some uneven clouds and little flakes of snow made their way down through the thick branches. They instantly melted on his warm face and body, and refreshed him more than sleep.

  On arriving in the camp he was greeted, not so refreshingly, by the captain. He blocked his path with folded arms, his face tired and haggard. “Well?” he demanded as Eärón, tried to catch his breath.
 Without a word he pulled the letter, again damp, out of his jerkin’s pocket and handed it to his superior.
“Wonderful. Now go wash yourself and eat. You smell like a Dwarf,” and with that he marched stiffly off to his own tent.
The snowflakes turned into a cold patter of rain. Eärón sighed as he trudged off to his tent for some rest.
  One of the Elves that shared it with him was the sentry he’d passed on arriving back. They liked to call him Mûmak, a friendly pun on his massive size and strength. As he neared the circle of sleeping tents Eärón was very surprised to hear four or five unfamiliar voices emanating from the spacious coverings around. He wasn’t particularly fond of new people, as they always looked at him funny. He glanced around to make sure no one was looking and pulled off his linen tunic and ducked into his tent, sure of its unoccupied status.
  Instead, he was greeted by four new sets of eyes and an extremely awkward pause of silence.
A deep red overtook his face and so embarrassed was he that his vision blurred and stayed thus until somehow he had clothed his naked torso.
  Everything had happened very quickly and next Eärón realized he was seated, out of the way, in a corner on some crates. When the hot blood had finally subsided from his face he took some offered lembas and sipped a wooden cup of cooled tea. The conversing voices hummed once again and he heard his name.
 “So, mellonen, this is Eärón, or Mûmak, as we call him. Eh, Mûmak, they just joined our camp this morning.” Turning to the others, “Once you’ve spent a week here you feel like a veteran.”
It was Tethrin speaking, a fellow of Eärón’s. One newcomer snickered at the nickname, but the other three bowed politely.
  Eärón returned their greetings with a nod and a mouthful.
“Where’d you get those scratches on your back?” asked Tethrin.
“Ah, a…thorn tree,” muttered Eärón lying.
  As the others returned to their chatting, Eärón began to survey their faces.
Morcion was the snickering one with a thin face and large deep-set eyes. Ionwë was a tall, fair-haired Elf, probably Eärón’s age but with a face that could be much older. Rumil was an outgoing, handsome youth who seemed to have read much more of than practiced sword play.  The last to introduce himself was a very small and slender lad who avoided all eye contact and, to Eärón, had rather feminine features. At least at first glance, he told himself. Cropped auburn hair just above the shoulders and round lips, made him look even more like a child.
“Nurtalië,” he introduced himself in a soft, mid range voice and reddened slightly as he acknowledged Eärón.
Trying to be friendly he asked the shy Elf, “Did we train together? I feel like we’ve met.?
Nurtalië shook his head, “I don’t believe so… I’m a healer,” he said quickly. “But then…I’m bad with faces.
Eärón smiled, “A healer? You’re most welcome. I’m sure you’ll like it out here.”
Nurtalië nodded thanks hastily and returned to whetting a shiny new sword.
 It was one of Eärón’s handiwork. The ones he’d finished for Vilenas, but never delivered. And the young Elf’s nose…terribly familiar, but he couldn’t tell from where. The eyes were quick and active and the face almost too petite and handsome. The poor boy would probably break in a week, Eärón thought to himself dryly. He already looked terrified, as well he should be, under the command of Captain Alcarín. Poor lad.

   The rain had ceased as the sun went down and those not on watch-duty laid their heads down for sleep.
Rumil and Nurtalië were assigned to share Eärón’s tent with him, Tethrin and Lomirë, the watcher he’d passed earlier. It wasn’t near as spacious now. As the night noises began to hoot and peep and howl Eärón half expected the little shy one to start crying. Even his name meant ‘hidden one’. Nurtalië curled himself up in a thick blanket and watched the others fall into sleep until finally closing his eyes.
Just before he drifted off, Eärón heard the soft whisper of Nurtalië praying, “Give me strength and hide me…

The Saga of Vaenomar- Chapter 24 ~Home Is Behind~

Chapter 24
~Home is Behind~

   “You can’t just…up and leave! No one does that! It’s- it’s- gah!”

 Tairiel collapsed on her bed exasperated. After closing her eyes for a moment and breathing deeply in an attempt to calm herself, she called out, “Lanya!”
  A few moments later her short, petite maid slipped quietly in the door, knowing full well by the tone of her young mistress that something was amiss. “My lady?” she piped softly, hoping not to startle the other, who was lying very flat in her cushions.
  Tairiel sat straight up, instead startling Lanya.
“Where is the prince?” she demanded. Something was clasped tight in her hand.
 “I believe he was walking about the city. Should I send for him as soon as he returns?
Tairiel stopped herself from saying, “No! Now!” and instead nodded, “As soon as he gets back… please.”
  As Lanya left the room, the heavy curtains swirling elegantly behind, Tairiel let out an immense sigh of disappointment and allowed her body to flop back onto the bed. She lay very still for almost a half hour, so still she seemed to be in a very deep sleep. But her mind was wide awake, every sense tuned into its utmost sharpness. The squeak of a wooden beam, rustle of a drape, a whisper of a male voice. She was so used to having her every whim fulfilled it was quite something to be hosting the Prince of the Greenwood, although there had been no whims of his to answer yet. She didn’t mind it at all, though. Well, until Vilenas’ note had arrived. She may have been a spoiled nobleman’s daughter, but she was always fiercely protective of and loyal to her own. The slightest breeze wafted over her form, a draft from air moving around the house.
She sat up and smoothed her comfortable day gown.
  The next moment soft, fluid voices hummed a level down and she stood up.
There was a knock on the lintel which hadn’t finished before she answered curtly, “Come in.”
 Lanya opened the door and showed the impeccable Woodland Prince in.
Smiling, as charming and polite as ever, he took Tairiel’s hand and kissed it, “My lady, I’m sorry I kept you waiting. If I’d known-“
  Tairiel stopped him, “It’s not your fault at all, my lord. Thank you for coming at all.”
“My pleasure,” he replied earnestly.
   There was a brief pause as Tairiel listened to the maid’s footsteps dying away down a few short flights of stairs. She then produced a sweaty, crumpled piece of parchment and held it out to him with a sort of feverish nervousness. “Why? Why is he gone?”
 The prince’s distinct, dark brows lowered and he searched the floor, “He?” he said confused after a moment. “I’m afraid I have no idea-“
 He halted as she handed him the note.
“Ëaròn,” she filled in the missing name hastily. “He’s gone. You must know why.” Her soft grey eyes searched his face for answers.
His expression grew rather sad, but he nodded.
  “I do not know why, my lady, but I may be able to offer something in terms of…speculation? However I hope I do not cause offense by asking why you’d like to know?”
Tairiel blushed profusely and gave a polite, little cough, “Well, I am a good friend…we’re good friends- or…having been. I don’t know why he’d leave without telling me-” Her face darkened and her tone lost confidence, “Unless…oh no. Oh dear…” she gulped. Her inner thoughts were keeping the prince waiting, though he showed no sign of impatience. She straightened up and regaining her calm, or what was left of it, assured him, “Please believe me, then, when I say I ask out of concern for a very dear friend.”
  “I never doubted that was the case, my lady-” said the prince sweetly as he led her to a seat nearby, “I just needed the excuse to disclose the secret.”
  “A secret?” Tairiel’s eyes widened girlishly.
The prince shrugged, “Sort of. I doubt he’d mind much if you knew, though. Unless I see more than exists…” he added under his breath.
  How uncharacteristic of a prince, thought Tairiel to herself as she watched her handsome guest’s every move, but then he seemed to have picked up on some deeper feeling than just friendly interest in Ëaròn.
  “As you may know Ëaròn Lorámie was the son of Halläcar Mórefalma. Halläcar- who resided in Taurëmith, I believe, for many decades until quite recently- was once a good friend of my father’s. They fought many battles together and were like brothers.”
  He knew the story very well, as Ëaròn was not many centuries younger than himself, but the prince feigned ignorance of the incidents of Halläcar’s departure from the Greenwood and the reason for the anger between the two. Those things were for Ëaròn to reveal on his own time.
  “As I didn’t know Ëaròn personally, I’m not sure who his mother was. His father was a well-traveled man, but I’m afraid she either died very early or maybe went West for neither ever spoke of her to my father. When Halläcar returned to make amends with my father, King Thranduil, it was a time of great merriment and celebration. I only wish his son could have been there. But now I see fate had willed it otherwise. Ever since I remember Mórefalma, he was as strong as an oak and formidable as the great tide of Ulmo. They rode out together, my father and he, far North of the Greenwood to ambush a slumbering tribe of orc-men, said to hail from Gundabad. None of the enemy survived…but at least three of our warriors were badly wounded and Halläcar Mórefalma had fought his last battle. All lamented his passing, but my father says…he chose to pass on. That he wanted to die.”

   A searing drop fell from Tairiel’s cheek to the soft wood floor. The prince lightly touched her cheek then whispered, “Some say it was to join his love…”
  Her heart thumped in a little burst of pain: Ëaròn! He had seen her with the prince, the same night he lost his father! Trying not to flatter herself too much, the distressed Elf-maiden weighed her possibilities. All their conversations, however few, the looks she’d caught him giving her, the open-hearted kindness he’d always shown her… There was no denying it. The lump in her throat grew. He was in love with her.

  The prince observed with good-natured interest as Tairiel’s face debated the same question from her own side.
  She sniffed and wiped her eyes quickly, then took a hard, decisive gulp. Apparently she’d made up her mind about something.
 Tairiel seized his hand in both of hers, “Thank you, my lord. So very much.” She got up and paced tensely across the room, her mind in a far away place.
  Sensing the brewing of a plan in the air the prince sat patiently and as Tairiel drummed her long fingers on the window frame. But the keenest bowman and hunter in Middle Earth had no trouble detecting the stealthy, silent approach of a figure outside the room. He waited and said nothing at first. Perhaps it was just an overly sensitive house servant passing by on the way to a different room. As a prince of a large, ancient court of long-lived noble houses, he was all too aware, however, of the possibility of intrigue and spying, even among friends. Taurëmith may be much smaller than his father’s kingdom, but Tairiel’s family was one with rank and thus his suspicions were aroused. Even more so as the person outside the room halted and didn’t move on. The prince’s perfect form was frozen and silent on the edge of his chair. One swift glance and he knew Tairiel sensed the other’s presence. Maybe he was blowing things out of proportion. He sighed and relaxed his shoulders. She was so beautiful, sharing many like features and characteristics with the woman he’d left at home a few weeks earlier. Even their names were incredibly similar. His father didn’t know about her, neither did he need to. He shifted a little on the seat; the stillness must seem a bit odd to the figure outside, he thought. Exhaling peacefully out of flared nostrils he mused on Tairiel’s silence. The young man, whose father’s death he had so recently announced to him, obviously meant more to her than just a friend. But she was loathe to admit it. Maybe because of her father. He flexed his jaw; he knew the feeling.
   She took in a quick breath and suddenly turned around. “My lord, Prince Le-” she stopped surprised as he cut her off with a raised hand.
“The forest does look incredible in this season, does it not?” he smiled widely, his thick brows meaningfully raised. Tairiel’s mouth opened in confusion, but he kept nodding as he rose and silently approached the doorway.
  “Either he’s mad or playing a prank on me,” she thought, but continued aloud slowly to humour him, “Yes…the trees are…lovely…as usual…?”
 Then to her shock the prince threw open the solid curtains and stood to his full, impressive height in the opening, his back to her.
 “My good sir, you should’ve knocked if you needed something. I’m sure Lady Tairiel wouldn’t mind if you came in for a moment,” he said in a lordly, patronizing tone.
  As the prince didn’t allow for refusal the subtle intruder was ushered in against his will, head bent severely low and hands trembling as they knit together. On beholding him, Tairiel’s face flushed a furious scarlet and her jaw dropped open to shout an angry rebuke, but nothing came out. No, not in front of the prince.
  “Silfdas!” her voice was menacingly soft and shook with calm anger, “I wonder what my father could possibly want to know from this conversation. I trust you need nothing further.”
   He couldn’t look at her, but he felt those eyes like a rain of barbed arrows covering his body and boring holes in his clothing. He shook his head back and forth and inched towards the doorway. Finally the prince released his grip on his shoulder and he slunk backwards out of the door, leaving his love and his shame behind him.

   Seeing her that angry, and at him, was unbearable, despite how lovely she looked when her colour rose. If only she knew his feelings. He could not tell her though, not yet. Lord Arendial would dispose of him immediately if ever he found out. She would marry the prince anyways and all his and Belrien’s work would be for naught. Although…look what happened to the bearded blacksmith, Ëaròn. Silfdas didn’t know if that was just fate or Belrien had actually managed it all. Well, there really was no more he could do. And anything was better than that big, oaf of an Elf having her. Almost anything.
 For all his misgivings he knew he had to trust Belrien, and she practically exuded confidence. Someday Tairiel would understand as he lovingly explained all the hardships he had endured in order to be with her. The reward was worth all the suffering, he thought as he pictured the woman he loved in all her radiant beauty.

~~~~~~~~~

   That same woman stood fuming, her temper ablaze and smooth cheeks flushed, in front of her father. “Spying on me?! With the prince? Father, how could you?!”

 “Tairiel- wait one moment!” Arendial ordered, as he set down his pen and rose majestically to face his daughter. “I’d very much like to know what you accuse me of, my dear!”
Indignantly Tairiel crossed her arms and huffed, “Oh father, spare me. I know Silfdas is your little pet spy and you like to keep an eye on me, yes, yes, but- why? Why then? In front of the prince of the Greenwood?”
  Arendial cleared his throat awkwardly, and looked down as he planned his next words.
She waited impatiently for his answer, her temper all but subsiding.

  “My dear,” he said at last, humbling his noble visage, “I see I have to admit…I do like to keep an eye on you, but only for your sake. Please- you must try to understand. Ever since your mother left… I’m not a good father, I know this, but I…I can’t let anything happen to you again…”
Tairiel’s heart melted like ice over a fire. “O atto,” she wrapped her arms around his neck, ” You’re a wonderful father!”
  He closed his eyes and pressed her to him in a rare embrace.
“But you don’t need to keep watch on me. Everything I do is by my own choice and I have no qualms with accepting the consequences of my own actions. Please- don’t spy on me anymore. You really don’t need to worry about me.”
  Arendial sighed and stroked his child’s long tresses, “I give you my word that I won’t. You are right, and I shall do my best not to worry. But I want you to know- I had no idea you were talking to the prince. Silfdas was definitely not obeying any order from me by intruding on you two and your privacy. If there’s anyone on this good earth besides myself that I would trust you alone with it would be the prince, and without hesitation. I have no reason, believe me, to want to interrupt or, even less, spy on you with him.”
  Tairiel breathed in slowly and nodded, “I believe you,” she gave a little half smile and he kissed her forehead.
  If Arendial was an adept schemer, his daughter was taking after him twofold.
“Well in that case, atto, I’m sure you won’t mind me traveling with only the prince and his escort. No need to send anyone else all the way to King Thranduil’s forest, hm?”
  Arendial opened his mouth to protest, but realized he’d fallen into his own net. He sighed again and sat down. “Is that your wish, then? To go alone to the Greenwood?”
 “Hardly alone, father.”
He shrugged, “Even if the prince is more protection than an entire battalion of warriors-“
 “Not that I need protection, father, but if saying it makes you feel better about it all…”
“It does, my love. I’m sure you’ll be fine. And I am very glad you agreed to go with him. I think you’ll enjoy yourself immensely.”
She smiled a bit distractedly, “Yes, me too.”

  He eyed her face, on which lay a wistful look; something was not quite right, but he was never sure when to ask. He knew spying on his own daughter wasn’t the right way to go about keeping an eye on her, but even when his wife had been there Tairiel had been left to do what she pleased. Arendial wasn’t faced with the duties of being a watchful father until somewhat recently, at least in proportion to his many years.
  “What is it my dear? Something is troubling you.”
She seemed miles away and looked up with consternation on her features. “Where did Ëaròn Halläcarion go?”
 Obviously thrown off by this turn of conversation Arendial hesitated to answer, “Well, dear, I heard he joined the woodland forces.”
“Why?” came her blunt response.
  Arendial stammered and finally shrugged, “I don’t know, dear. Perhaps- he wanted to.”
That seemed like the simplest and most obvious answer.
  After a brief moment of thoughtful silence Tairiel’s face brightened and her words evoked a sigh of relief from her father, “If it’s alright could I take some coin and acquire some new gowns when I arrive at the palace. I’d love to see the Greenwood fashion for the winter months.”
  “Oh yes! Of course,” Arendial got up, overjoyed at this kind of request, and immediately retrieved a couple of silken purses from a dresser. “Take anything you need and please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help you get ready.”
  “Thank you,” she said and kissed his cheek before leaving the room to ready herself for her adventure.

     For an adventure is what it would be. Now she just had to get the prince to go along with it all, and judging by his obliging and highly untraditional manner this would be the easiest part of the ordeal. And she would be rid of that snooping, meddling Silfdas! Never had she felt right about her father’s advisor, servant…whatever he was. He’d always given her the wrong feeling. Was it the way he looked at her? His lack of care for his garb? Or the weak, simpering manner that made her hair stand on end.
  Just the opposite of Ëaròn, she caught herself thinking. Now that wouldn’t do at all. She didn’t know the smith well enough, and even if she did find herself falling for that dashing, quiet Elf didn’t mean he would or ever did feel that way about her. That morning it had all seemed so clear, but she began to second guess herself as she thought constantly on the matter. She wrapped a long strand of wavy golden hair in between her fingers and her pace was uneven as she made for the training barracks.
   Taurëmith was lovely and peaceful, but she hadn’t left it since the ‘Dwarf-incident’ over a year ago. She was itching to get out and while in the company of the prince her father could rest  easy. Nearing the open doorway of the barracks, she heard the sound of quick footwork and the swoosh of a single blade sliced the air. She stepped lightly in the calm shade of the building, careful not to disturb the concentration of the lone swordsman. Peeking around the corner into the great, circular room of training she saw, sure enough, Vilenas. Lithe and agile as a cat, he whirled the long blade around his nimble body in combat with enemies only he could see. His eyes were closed and his breath steady. Long white locks of hair gracefully moved in his wake, mimicked by his flowing robe of silver-green.
   Tairiel loved her father, but she couldn’t help but think how different her life might’ve been if she’d had this seasoned warrior for a father instead.
Vilenas was ancient, though like all of his people didn’t look it, and was revered by all. None even knew how dangerous he was in real battle as everyone here was too young to ever have fought along side him. He was so old he even had a beard, a small one, the soft, white whiskers curled neatly under his chin and framed his long, proud features to perfection.
Ëaròn looked like he could grow a beard, despite his attempts to hide it; she wondered how. Ever her thoughts returned to him. She sighed, louder than she meant to. It wouldn’t do at all to wish for a different father and now she couldn’t get Ëaròn out of her mind.
  Poor Arendial, he wouldn’t understand now, but he’d have to some day.

 Vilenas laid his sword on a rack nearby and approached Tairiel with a kind smile. He’d known she was there, but sensed she wasn’t quite ready to talk- until she sighed.
Mellonen meldenya, you received my message?”

 She thanked him for his trouble, “I only hope he is happy there. You knew Alcarín, the captain? What was he like?”
 Vilenas stroked his chin and looked thoughtfully about the room, “He is a brilliant warrior and bowman. He is very clever, but also wise and knows well how to lead. Some may consider his leadership harsh, but our borders are safe. Just as safe as when Lady Belrien and Lady Ithil kept a watch, and that’s saying quite a lot.”
  “Is it dangerous, then?” Tairiel asked, “The forest.”
“It can be, of course, anywhere can be dangerous. But that danger is lessened by skill and knowledge. So you shouldn’t have much to worry about.”
 His hand slipped off her shoulders, leaving her blushing and trembling, and walked over to a weapons chest with a broad grin.
 Did he know? Could he read her mind? What would he say? Her worries were cut short as he beckoned for her to join him. She held her breath, her stomach muscles clenched nervously.
  “Of course you can choose anything from my armory, my lady, but I thought I might suggest two of the finest blades.” He held out a pair of sharpened swords, both with newly-wrapped grips, one bearing a shorter hilt and blade and the other with a curved cross-guard and a long hilt.
  “You might recognize the craftsmanship; there is no finer make around.”
 “Thank you, Vilenas. It’s an honour,” she said almost trancelike as she scrutinized them delicately. She chose the long, narrow blade, swift and manoeuverable, to fit her combat style.      Gripping it firmly, excitement for her near future tingled in her fingers, then her arms, and down her spine.
   The two Elves’ eyes met and locked for a moment. The young and the old, the eager and the wise.
  “Where ever fate takes you, Tairiel, may the Valar be at your side and Eru guide your feet and hands. I give you my blessing. Now go and be safe. Find love and life and keep the shadow ever beneath your feet.”
Words could not suffice and so the tearfully grateful Tairiel fell into his arms and rest her head on her mentor’s chest. “Don’t let my father worry for me,” she whispered, stifling the lump in her throat.
 “He loves you; we all do. But you need to make your own life and choices. Many love you in other ways as well. That also is your decision.” He held her a short length from his chest, “Now go with my blessing. Alámenë!
 Tairiel nodded, took the scabbard he handed her, and, after kissing the beloved, old master on the cheek, ran out of the barracks.

   The dull thump of footsteps on wood neared the prince’s hideout on a secluded porch outside Arendial’s house-flet. A breeze stirred the silk drapery as he waited in silent solitude for his co-conspirator. The rustling trees whispered to each other and gilt and scarlet leaves spiraled down around him, some resting on the balcony, others plummeting many feet below to their final earthen bed.
  Despite the melancholy purpose which had brought him to Taurëmith, the time spent here had been quite pleasant. He was glad to be going back now; lately it was hard leaving the Greenwood for very long- matters of the heart playing a strong hand in this reasoning. And as a prince he had his duties, to his father and his kingdom. But his rank didn’t keep him from keenly feeling Tairiel’s situation, which was why it was his idea to meet somewhere quiet and undisturbed.

  He turned to see a perky face jut in between the curtains. A glittering row of diamond cut teeth flashed excitedly as Tairiel slipped out onto the porch. “No one’s around, finally,” she whispered. The prince greeted her warmly as she slipped in, the flowing folds in her gauzy, lavender dress playing around her delightful form.
  “I can’t thank you enough for being so kind…and understanding. I hope, my lord, that I don’t presume too much by asking such a favour of you. I just…don’t know anyone else who would help me.”
  With all the charm of a gallant prince, he took her hand and kissed it. Looking into the depths of her eyes he promised, “I will do what ever I can and whatever you want of me, Lady Tairiel. You have but to command it.” And he meant it; those illumined orbs of pure sapphire crowned by his straight, dark brow were as earnest as time itself.

   A floor and a half down, Lord Arendial reclined contentedly on a lounge couch in his study. He saw his daughter’s shadow slip over the window the same way the prince’s had a quarter hour past. He sipped his wine slowly and smiled to himself.
 Those two had bonded like silver and hot steel. It was perfection. And now she was getting ready to accompany him to his father’s palace in Greenwood the Great, meet King Thranduil and enchant, with her beauty and winning personality, the entire court. The prince had obviously been smitten by her as first they met and could only fall more deeply in love as they spent more time together. And she would be out of his meddling reach and that of the blundering Silfdas, who was due for a severe tongue-lashing after what happened this morning. Perhaps he meant well, but it was in poor taste and timing, and for some time Arendial had suspected he had ulterior motives for ‘spying’.
  But all that paled in light of the current event. He swallowed the last of the red liquor and got up. Pulling closed his elegantly embroidered robe, he shut his eyes for a moment to offer a prayer to his wife to watch over their daughter. Time to aid his child prepare for her departure.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     As the white midday sun tried to burn through the rolling clouds and the thinly-leafed treetops swayed, the city below was untouched by the coursing winter winds and a few of its inhabitants said farewell to their royal guest and a dear young woman. Four long-legged, agile forest steeds of Túro Lenwë’s stables were to escort them to the edges of the Greenwood as the underbrush of that forest was much too dense for them. Tairiel perched excitedly atop her roan mount as it kept apace competitively with the dark bay mare of the prince. His escort, two well-mannered, solemn warriors of his father’s guard, rode just behind. Tairiel looked behind her once more and could still see her father’s billowing sleeve as he waved to her. She grinned from ear to ear, exhilarated by the change of scene though they were barely out of Taurëmith. As she resumed her forward position in her saddle a dim, sullen shape caught her eye, leaning against a tree in the frosted shade. At first she felt an angry surge of heat rise to her cheeks, but forced her temper to cool. Instead of turning away in distaste she smiled radiantly and waved farewell. This threw Silfdas off-guard, and all he could do was bow and not raise his eyes till she’d passed. Was that false hope beckoning to him out of the darkness? False hope was better than none, some times.

  “Have you ridden much?” the prince asked with a glinting sparkle in his eye.
“Enough,” Tairiel raised her brow and her cheeks dimpled with a grin.
 The prince shrugged nonchalantly, “Then…shall we?”
The next instant the two younger Elves took off in a gallop, throwing dead leaves and twigs up in their wake and leaving the grumbling escort to catch up at their leisure.

 

 

Quenya and Sindarin phrases/words/names: atto: daddy. Mellonen meldenya: greetings my friend (f). Alámenë: go with a blessing. Túro: ruling lord. Mórefalma (Surtitle of Halläcar): Dark Wave. Lorámie (Surtitle of Ëaròn): Winged Night

 ~an old doodle of Taurëmith dwellings~

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