Year 2518 of Third Age, autumn
Clear voices rose and fell in the starlit air. One rose above the others. It was singing in the fair elven-tongue.
In gwidh ristennin, i fae narchannen
I Calar Ithil ed ardhon gwannen
Calad veleg, ethuiannen.
Everything ends.
Urwendi Naur-Loth, "Flame-Flower", watched the line of silver clad mourners ascending Evendim’s tallest hill. The candles they held seemed to float smoothly upward, winding through the deeply shadowed forest like a string of glowing fireflies. A cold wind blew in from the dark lake, scattering autumn leaves. Evendim. This is where they were born. This is where her brother's body will rest in the barrow.
Everything ends. Urwendi knew this full well. In her long, long life, she had seen kingdoms rise and fall, mighty cities crumble into ruin, heroes die and fade into legend. She would survive this, as well. She felt a tug on the sleeve of her grey mourning robe and looked down into the face of an elven maiden. Elleth offered her a candle. Twilight mist clung to the flame in a softly glowing sphere. Through Urwendi’s double veil of thin silk and unshed tears, it seemed a once-bright spirit, not yet willing to depart.
“It is time, hiril,” whispered one of the elven lords.
The elleth accepted the candle and lifted her gaze to the white face of the Moon. Her brother, Ithilion… He was strong, gentle. He could make a harp sing as could no other. Ithilion was named in pale Moon honor, he always loved moonlight.
Much good had it ever done to him.
Bitterness rose in Urwendi throat like bile. She swallowed hard and moved forward to join the silent grey procession. Except for a handful of veiled guards, she was the last - the last of many who came to honor her brother.
Ithilion, Ithilion!
An gîl dîn na-dúath di-dhant!
Ú-reniathach i amar galen
I reniad lín ne môr, nuithannen!
The mourning song of the elves were full of sadness. The sweet lament of flute and harp drifted as the mourners encircled the top of the hill with candlelight. When all had gathered, they raised hands high and bowed heads in silent prayer to the Valar. At this signal the procession began anew. The elves walked past the foot of the casket, each pausing briefly to extinguish his candle before returned to his place in the circle. Urwendi stood at the casket’s head, her pale face as stoic as a soldier’s, her blue eyes dry. It was her duty to hold the last candle, to be a living reminder that no life was ever truly extinguished. She’d neglected to place her candle in one of the silver holders that elves provided. If she noticed the melted wax dripping onto her hands, she gave no sign.
Finally the only light came from the single candle stub in the hands of a mourning sister. The flute’s last, lingering note floated off into the gathering night, and the mourners left that place as quietly as they had entered. Three elven warriors kept vigil over the casket. Urwendi raised her veil, revealing a narrow face framed by cloud of red-gold hair, the rare hair of Mahtan's kin.
“I would see my brother one last time,” Urwendi requested.
One of the guardians made a small sound of distress. “My lady, I must warn you. His wounds were terrible…”
“Open the casket.” Urwendi spoke softly, but her words carried the authority of a warrior.
The guards responded instinctively, hurrying forward to unclasp and swing back the lid. For a long moment Urwendi stood with her hands fisted at her side, steeling herself with memories of battles she had seen and fought. She could do this. Hadn’t she pulled an Orc's dagger from her father’s heart, and with her own hands prepared his body for the funeral? She had lost people dear to her before, and she had survived. She could do this.
Urwendi stepped closer. Her brother's body, once so beautiful and strong, and now so mutilated.
Bitter memories came to her. Where was she when the news pierced her heart like a goblin's javelin from the very Iron Hell?
She and her brother were a friends of Rangers, the sons of Dúnedain, and often they went a hunting with them. They did not hunt wild beasts, but they pursued the Orcs wherever they might find them; forgetting never Ithilion's wife torment in the dens of the orcs. But one day Ithilion learned of the evil that preyed on the innocent in the North. He sent a message to Rivendell. Three years passed and then another, and no word came to Urwendi from Ithilion. After the summer, autumn came, and she still had no word from her brother, yet he was a skilled warrior and would not take undue chances. Even so, this was the longest that she had gone without word.
Until that night in Imladris where the nightmare came, full of pain and despair. And through eyes not her own, she saw the face of what appeared to be a Man, a narrow, pale, wolfish face with dark gaze, laughing madly, the face of a fiend. A drawn-out cry of her brother flared silently in her mind: Aglarân! And then no more. The pain gone. The horror remaining. And the hatred and fury. Urwendi wept and raged and cried out in anguish and desolation.
Ithilion had been murdered.
By Black Numenorean.
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