He had failed.
What is one supposed to do when everything they have made themselves out to be is untrue in the most cruelly ironic sense? Amathlan had failed. He was no warrior, no guard, not one with honor; he was no saint, no master, no savior. He was a child playing at war, that had survived purely by the luck that came from the way he shifted his hip when a blade struck out at him.
His gaze met hers even through the shadows; he remembered the way she was like lightning on the battlefield. The way the hooves of her horse beat on the ground like rolling thunder and how her blade struck out like the flash of light in the sky. She was made for war, and she understood more than he, the sacrifice that came from that. He should have apologised when he had the chance.
She reached out once more towards him and he let her; or he would have had the cell door not swung open violently. He turned to face his fate and she watched with terrified eyes as the jailor - one of the Uruk-hai - thrust a dark cloak identical to hers in his hands.
With a sneer the orc says, “Put it on, elf-scum. You're leaving.”
Amathlan froze, holding the cloak for a moment before slowly doing as he was told. The orc took notice of her behind him, and it was clear - they both were leaving.
