(After Of Fire and Ice | The Laurelin Archives and 'Wasted Treasures' Edited and originally posted in A Haughty Spirit Falls | The Laurelin Archives )
‘Focus your anger. Do not give way to rage,’I told myself sternly.
“But how could I not?’
He lay there in the bloodstained snow, barely able to move his broken body, even to writhe in his agony; barely able to draw breath. And that warg dare have hold of him, crushing his leg as if he were a deer it had brought down for lunch, while its rider cackled and prodded at his neck and chest, through the rend in his armour, with its spear. I could have screamed out my rage to the stars above, but no! I held both our lives in my hands. I would not fail him.
~ ~ ~
I had been momentarily stunned by the silence of the goblins. Even more had I frozen at the sudden loss of any sense of Estarfin’s presence. He was slain? The following howls and squeals of delight from his foes confirmed, to my mind, they celebrated their ‘brave’ victory over him. How could it be otherwise?
I was too late.
Slinking back into the shadows of a large rock and a couple of nearby fir trees, I was like a fatally wounded animal crawling away to die.
Too late by mere moments.
The pain of losing him took my breath away. It felt as if my beating heart had been torn from my chest. He had been willing to walk into Dol Guldur at my side. I could not even find him in his time of need. I reached out in thought across the bleak landscape for any hint, any thought in return that may tell me he yet lived. But there was no image or thought. Not as close were we as I would have wished.
What a fool I had been in delaying my departure from Imladris. The hour I had spent trying to speak with someone of what I knew, when to most there would be no rational explanation, my hastily written letter to Aearlinn, asking her to inform Ambassador Parnard and require his aid, that could have made a difference. But I could not call forth the ‘Hammers’ or ‘Arrow’ with ‘Estarfin is in trouble. I just know it.’ And I had known the moment he had put on the ring, just how fey his mood was.
“What are you doing?” I had called to him in thought, even though I had no experience of such. ‘Protecting you and the other gentle folk of Rivendell,’ came a reply of sorts. Then he was gone. No mistress of osanwe (1) I. Nor even a toddler on first hesitant steps. I wasted time questioning my thoughts. But I knew he was in danger. I begged Tintalle that he did not take off that ring.
But what to do now? It was more than the biting cold, which had hitherto gone unnoticed, that caused me to shiver violently.
It had never been my thought I could make a great impact on goblin numbers. I was an able enough swordswoman against a reasonable number of enemies, but I was not…Estarfin. To move ahead, into the open of the camp would serve little purpose, save to avenge him on any I could. A good enough motive, perhaps? My plan had simply been to find him, to try and persuade him that whatever pain or failing he felt, he should come ‘home’ again with me. And I mentally criticised myself for not spending time with him of late. ‘Busy’ was no excuse. He had been oft on my mind. I should have made it happen, rather than made it a soon hoped for matter. Many there were in the Vale who cared deeply for him, whether he understood that or not. There was still much that life could offer him, if only he would see it. But now…..if he could not return, then I had already chosen to die out there with him. Tears froze on my eyelashes, as I realised I may well have contributed to his actions. I certainly hadn’t been there to help him.
I pondered my next action for a few moments. The yells of the goblins lessened, and several ran down the slope quite near to where I hid. Then there were calls, and a few more rushed by mounted on wargs. Pressing back into the darkness of the trees, and downwind of them I waited them out. If they found his body below, they would doubtlessly defile it, hack him to pieces, place his head on a pike. My blood fired at the notion. I could follow the goblins down into the heavy snow, and do what I could to find him, like a true daughter of the Noldor, or I could descend and try and find my mare, and lose all honour and self respect. I could lose whatever was left of him.
Crouching down, still out of sight of those milling about above, I tested Sarphir in my hand and made ready in body and spirit for a fight.
Even as I was about to move out of hiding, the clamering from above ceased. There was some faint mumbling and complaining, but the snow muffled most sound and any movement. After a few minutes it went silent. I strained to hear any intonation above the winds. There was nothing. Perhaps the goblins had crawled back to their dark holes, to further celebrate and mock the fallen Elf warrior. I lay back in the deepening snow, as heavy clouds sped across the night sky. I held Sarphir ready, expecting hunters to descend at any moment. I would make short work of them if they did. But none came. The storm passed overhead, leaving an additional layer of soft snow, that it was time to move or freeze. I thought of the ruby ring he had worn. My mind reached out over the bitter landscape a final time to see if I could sense anything of Estarfin. Nothing. There was nothing. I sighed. Then there was a faint flicker, the smallest of lights and a rasping breath. The clouds overhead were gone, and a few bright stars shone down upon me. “Tintalle…help me…help us.” I silently cried. “I have to find him.”
Then it was a warg rider passed close by, taking me by surprise. He was moving so swiftly down the incline, he did not notice me half buried in the snow drift. I would follow him down, thought I, albeit at a slower pace. Another passed by before I reached my feet, then three more. All the riders were silent, even their mounts refraining from their usual menacing howls. I remained hidden, covering my silver-gold blade with my cloak. Within seconds, several more mounted goblins hurried down the slope at a faster speed. The newly fallen snow scattered and sparkled as they spoke to each other in their hideous tongue, each trying to jostle the others for the lead position. Two had several wounds.
Hunters?
If so, what or who needed so many pursuers? I almost laughed aloud. He had escaped them. They knew he yet lived, and this time they would not underestimate him. None would be out hunting on a night like this unless it was needful. I silently laughed at my folly. Of course he was alive. He had escaped them, and they were giving pursuit.
Was it relief that brought warmth back to me? If so, it was a measured relief. I knew Estarfin could be most resourceful, but how had he escaped? He certainly had not run past me. There was only one possibility. Reluctantly I waited a few moments more, less any more riders arrived. Then I scrambled out of the drift, to the shear edge of the incline.
He must have gone over the edge, either pushed or thrown, or lost his footing in the snow, his ‘escape’ could only be through that long fall. I looked at that drop and thought none could survive. I had been about to give up all hope. This time I would set eyes on him before I despaired.
I turned around to make my way down the mountain side as swiftly as I could. If any riders followed or hindered my progress then woe upon them. I would be with him.
So deep had the latest snow fallen that some would have difficulty traversing it. But I was light of foot, and not weighed down by heavy armour. I could move more effectively than those other trackers, and leave no sign of my passing. Nonetheless, I offered silent prayers to Tintalle to keep the stars visible, to guide me.
It was not easy, that desperate search to be the first to find him while avoiding the goblin pack. They, like I, were looking among the drifts at the base of the towering rock face. He could not have fallen far from such a spot. Though perhaps he had been sufficiently……ai..no one would simply walk away from such a fall. I tried to keep under cover as much as I could. Thankfully there were rocks, and small outcrops of blue-green firs to break up the field of white upon white. Several times I had to move back into the cover of the trees as a rider moved close by. They knew not that I existed. They were not hunting me and that, too, was to my advantage.
There came a moment when they broke their silent pursuit. A long howl ripped through the night, to be answered by another, some distance away.
Had they found him?
Hurriedly I searched a little further away from the line of the cliff face, heading south towards the sound of the first howl until I came upon a low snarling, the warg, his rider and their prey.
“Filth!” I could not help but utter the word aloud, as I broke the rider’s spear with a downward cut of Sarphir.
Both warg and rider turned on me in an instant, leaving Estarfin like a child’s broken toy in the snow. With a fast and low slicing movement, I hamstrung the warg. There would be no running circles around me. Dodging the gaping maw of the injured creature, I reached up for the rider, dragging him from his mount and casting him to the ground, where he would be easier to dispatch.
A sudden cry of agony escaped Estarfin’s lips, almost costing me my arm as I barely escaped the wargs snapping teeth. I needs must finish my enemy swiftly. A forward thrust saw Sarphir pierce the neck of the hapless creature, bringing its twisting body to its knees. The goblin was on its feet, as I drove my weapon through the fallen wargs skull with both hands. Screaming with rage, the rider jumped on my back before I could turn, one hand seeking to drive its wicked dagger into my neck, the other to hold on and choke me.
“Die, you goblin filth.”
Reaching over with my free hand, I broke the goblin’s wrist. The dagger fell from his limp grasp. Then I swiftly crouched low, pulling him over my head to lie on his back in the snow. I cut his throat.
Of an instant I was kneeling beside Estarfin. My face must have shown my grief at what I beheld.
I leant forward to assess his wounds, and offer him what warmth I had. As I carefully moved some of his broken armour, he winced. I could see a knife cut on his upper arm. A small enough wound, but I doubted not there was poison on the blade that inflicted it. His right leg was a series of open wounds from the wargs bite. I believed it was broken. I dare not touch his chest, though his breathing was shallow. The hideous shaft of an arrow protruded from the leather of a side strap. There was little blood around it, but it was deep. My eyes caught sight of some blood frozen at the corners of his mouth. He is bleeding internally, I thought. Perhaps from more than one wound. As I removed my cloak to wrap over him, he opened his eyes, but closed them swiftly in pain. I saw his left arm was broken. It looked as if his hand was crushed. May it be that he saw me, and knew he was no longer alone.
As I moved to gently brush away the sodden mass of tangled hair stuck to his face. I could see he was mercifully unconscious again.
I could not move him, I knew that. This was likely his last resting place. It did not take a healer to see he had grievous injuries. I could not take him back to the Vale, even had my mare been to hand. To move him was death; to leave him here was death.
Tears of understanding flowed freely down my face. I would do all I could. I would make him as comfortable as possible, and I would wait with him. The other warg riders were still nearby. I would defend him with all my might. But any hope for aid was vain. We would die, as I had expected.
“Be at peace, my Lord,” I whispered in his ear. “Soon we shall go home together, you and I. “
1) Quenya. Interchange of thought.
