The battle in the caverns of Tith-Maudhûl has been fought and won. Seregrían and the Iron Garrison rout the merrevail, bolts of energy flying from the tip of her staff, nipping at their retreating heels, pursuing them through the halls, the Elf-scholar fast outrunning her allies.
The passages wind higher and higher until the chase opens on the heights of the Misty Mountains, a dizzying arena beneath the ice-rimed peak of Silvertine. Here the merrevail turn at bay, laughing at the solitary Elf-woman who has pursued them – unaware of their approaching doom.
Seregrían wields her staff and sword, screaming Words of Command with her cracking voice, fire and lightning raining down upon her foes, scattering them like the snows that swirl around them. At last, only two remain: Seregrían, exhausted and covered in gashes from the talons of the she-bats, and the Queen Herself, She Who Must Be Obeyed. And her voice is venom dipped in honey…
“I give thee audience at last, Heart-sister. Thou hast proven thyself, with the defeat of my guard. Canst thou not see the irony, thy name betrays the truth of our kinship: Seregrían, the Blood-Queen – and I, Bogrian, the Tyrant-Queen!”
“Names are but words,” Seregrían rasps in answer, “and behold, my words have proven mightier than yours. What words could you possibly offer that would change this day’s end, and yours?”
“Why, the words thou hast longed to hear: the why. Why art thou consumed with anger, equally to thy thirst for lore? Thou dost thirst for blood, as all Elves crave it! Thy kind are kinslayers ever, thrice putting thine own kin to the sword. And the wretched Orcs, thine ancient cousins, molded by the Dark into the conquerors they are destined to be – even thine own mother, whom thou didst leave to die – thy history is dripping, gushing with blood, and thine own name damns thee to my service!”
Seregrían knows her strength is ebbing, but still stands in defiance of Bogrian. The queen of the merrevail, enjoying the sport but wearied by her own wounds, chooses to end the game.
“Thou hast the victory for a day. But a Power rises in the East that thy child’s tools cannot hope to fight. Therefore I leave thee, Blood-Queen, in thy denial – but the greatest denial shalt come from the snows behind thee. Stand against the truth, if thou wouldst dare!” And with a coughing laugh Bogrian leaves, walking and weakly flying, a trail of wounds in the ice. Seregrían watches, summoning the will to pursue and finish off the wounded morroval, when a voice stops her.
“Seregrían… Stay your hand, for not by yours shall She fall…” And Seregrían turns to see Gwathwethil, lying in the snow, charred but still alive, beckoning her to her side. As the Elf-scholar stands over her, the look on the morroval’s face is not of hate or anger, but compassion.
“I am free of Her will for a moment, and I must speak. You were right, we are assuredly not sisters, though we are so much more. I have waited for this day, since our last parting at the cliff by the Sea in the lands that are now under the waves…”
“Your wounds have addled you,” Seregrían says, “for we have never met before this day. You speak with the eyes of death, and the Dark awaits you; and all your lies cannot halt its approach.”
“Nay, I do not lie, and this is my token of truth: you were not born the Blood-Queen, for that is not your name, the name your mother gave you: you are Nauthira, the Heart’s Desire, for she loved you beyond her end.”
A moment of stricken silence then, “You lie. You LIE! That name has no meaning, you are guessing in the Dark that is reaching out to take you!”
The morroval’s face softens further, and Seregrían sees the eyes of Elven-kind staring back at her. “Just as your name is not as you once were, neither am I. For on that day when we parted, I was Thandwen. Ai Nauthira, im Thandwen, naneth lin, a meleth pan-orthron (Yes, Heart’s Desire, I am True-maiden, your mother, and love shall conquer all).
And for the first time in more than six thousand years, bitter tears flow from pitiless eyes and soften the snow…
