Imladris, T.A. 3431
"You do not have to fight. There is none who can tell how this battle may end."
Metime met her eyes solemnly. "We have our oaths of loyalty to fulfill, and no warrior is exempt from fighting the evil darkness."
"Many have lost much," Tundion murmured. "Yet neither will I stand by and let others fight the shadow when I may do some good. We have made our choice."
Envandiel sighed but nodded. "Then may the Valar smile upon our quest and bring victory over this evil darkness at last."
She stepped out of the room, shouldering her shield.
_______
Dagorlad, a few weeks of travel later
The battle was fierce and bloody.
Swinging her blade over and over, hewing, blocking, slicing.
Métime cried out to her left, and Envandiel whirled to look at her, in time to see her fall, pierced through with a cruel orc-blade. Tundion screamed and charged, crying out in Quenya as he hewed down the orc who had taken their friend’s life, the life of his child’s mother. He cut down two more, Envandiel close on his heels. She spun, hacking off the head of yet another goblin, only to see Tundion’s body twisted in agony as an orc spear drove through his chest.
"No!" She screamed, but her scream too was cut short as a spear struck her, and her vision went dark.
I am sorry, my friends, I have failed you.
I am sorry, my brother, I have failed my oath.
————
‘Nay, you have not failed.’
She looks up. A familiar face. Long-lost. ‘Tarannon?’
‘Thy time in the wide world is not ended.’
‘I wish it were.’
‘You have an oath.’ His face darkens, twists into a grotesque mask of anger. ‘Or hast thou forgotten me? Turned thy back even on thy own blood?’
The vision turns from her, begins to fade into a light in the distance. ‘Thou hast another chance. Do not waste it.’
———
A nightmare or a vision, she does not know. But she opens her eyes to a worse nightmare. Bodies surround her, twisted and mutilated, orc and Elf and Man.
Next to her are their bodies. Her friends. The last of those she held dear.
Her vision blurs. All the dead wear Tarannon’s face. She stumbles to her feet but the world turns dark again.
When she wakes again, the face of a healer leans over her. The walls of Tham Send close in around her. She stumbles to her feet, flees.
The golden-haired healer calls something after her but she does not hear him.
She gathers apron and tools, moving as if in a dream.
Or is it a nightmare?
The forges are known.
Safe.
A hammer strikes metal.
A delicate chisel splits a gem.
Fire crackles.
Perhaps here will be loud enough to drown out the cries that echo in her mind.
