The storm of the previous night had been fierce, almost as if foreshadowing a mighty clash of arms. Rain had struck the roofs of the fortress and the surrounding ground like the arrows of an attacking army; trees as strong as any senchenal were battered, their limbs ripped from them, some even fell under the continued assault. In my room in the tower I had felt like hiding away under the bed, I had wanted to hide, but it just would not do. Not even when the lightning began, tossing forks of brilliant white down from the heavens. It just would not do. Wrapping my long night robe around me, I descended the stairs to the lower level.
My mother had been sitting by the spluttering fireside, her latest work of art on her lap, a small portrait of my tutor’s young son. She turned to look at me, her face calm and in control. “Istarwen, we are Noldor. Fear is natural to some when dealing with the unknown, but we know what this is. We understand. It disturbs us not.” She put down the paper and paints, and held out a hand. “Come, sit with me awhile.We shall speak of the sky-fire.”
And so I did. But my fear had not been for me alone. My heart went out to the nearby villages and forts, especially to those who would see their hard work of the early year come to naught, crops battered and smashed, orchards uprooted, stock fled, panicking in their distress. I liked not the storm, but it was those inadvertently caught up in its path that I feared for. My mind was resolved then that, come the morning, I would set out to see if there was anywhere I could give aid.
And so I had. The battle of the elements faded as Anar rose. The rain ceased, the wind died down to small gusts, and a strange sensation of ‘peace’ fell upon us. My mother rose very early and, donning thick work clothing, said she and Quentaro’s wife were going to help in the gardens. There was much beauty to be restored.
I waited until she had left, then put on rarely used clothing of my own. Green and brown leathers, and I took up a thick green woolen cloak, plain without any decoration or insignia. I tucked my hair under the raised hood, and set out to aid the nearest farms.
The air outside still tingled slightly, but the sky above was blue, and Anar was already full above the mountain heights, as I waded through places of thick mud, and over to the main road that led south, down the valley towards the Lake. Others were out and about as well, many with baskets and sacks and saws and rakes. Some others from the Fortress were giving help further afield.
The farms began some distance along the shores of Helevorn, and I was somewhat tired by the time I arrived. Riding one of my horses would have given me away as nobility, so I did not take that risk. And soon enough I came across a family trying to restore the damage to their orchard. They had a few herding dogs out after sheep, and others helping repair their roof, which had partly blown away. It was to the trees I turned.
“Ask for Yavannas blessings, and give thanks for those trees spared,” one of the farmer’s full-grown children told me, handing me a sharp saw. “Any broken or badly splintered branches must be removed. Any trees down will need chopping into smaller pieces to be removed. Perhaps leave that for someone stronger?”
“I shall do my best,” I replied. In truth, that was all I could do. But I was galled she thought me too weak. I, a great-granddaughter of Mahtan the Smith, too weak? So I set to my task. It took a long time. My arms ached, and my hands were sore, even with gloves. I continued, though my mood was lowered. The opposition was too much. No single tree was a problem in itself, it was simply that there were so many that bore damage. As the day turned into afternoon, a hot and humid one at that, I began to hear murmurings from others nearby. Some put down their tools and looked to the end of the valley.
“What, now?”
“That’s what others are saying.”
“We don’t need that now..”
“An opportune moment to attack…”
I lowered my saw and drew my dagger with my free hand. Had I heard right?
Orcs?
A couple of neri ran towards the road, calling for news.
“An orc attack on one of the Western Hill-forts” came the unwanted answer.
And then there was a sound I will never, ever forget. Though I heard it many times in my many years, that day struck me with sudden realisation.
It was the sound of our war horns.
Both high gates to the city swung open, and out rode a large cavalry unit. (It was led by your father, as I recall.)
Their horses trod proudly, their banners flew defiantly in the gusts of wind.
And folk cheered, then returned confidently to their work. We were Noldor. We were strong, no matter what sort of enemy came against us. We heard the echo of the warhorns until the riders with their shining armour, sharp spears in their gauntlet encased hands, turned out onto the plains, heading north.
Some of the farm hands came round with tall glasses of juice, and a selection of baked goods from the Fortress. I joined them in celebrating. We were still working as the stars came out, and the cavalry unit returned. A little blooded, and two fewer in number than those who rode out. But it was obvious they had a resounding victory. Three riders approached them from the city.
I walked to the road to cheer them, though was hardly able to lift my arms, so tired was I. They rode past in a wave of glory, it seemed to me.
As the last rider passed by I was aware of one soldier sitting astride a tall charger, who remained still. He had been watching them pass, now he was looking at me. Who was he to break rank?
As my thoughts collected, I understood. I bowed deeply. I could not risk making a mistake here.
“My Prince.”
He pushed back the visor of his helm, and stared at me.
“Think you I would not recognise my own blood among these workers?”
I pushed back my hood to let my red hair fall in cascades down my back. I could hear some gasps of surprise, as those nearby also bowed.
“Istarwen, come speak with me early tomorrow morn,” he said. “I do not object to you giving aid where needed, but you must learn to choose the battles you fight from those you should leave to others. We each have our part to play.”
I can still see him in my memories, eyes dark as the thunderous skies, expression dour and fixed. Yet he was not displeased with me. And there was this: he who ever called me ‘Carnifindë’, like unto his own name, for in Quenya he was Carnistir, addressed me then as Istarwen, my Amilessë.
Estarfin…
...I dare not try to reach you after this, there is darkness and deception about me.
The Sorceress uses sanwe-latya (a) Not as we do, but in a way she has been taught by our Enemy. I dare not open my thoughts again, nor lead her in any way to you…
Thankful am I that you have shut yourself away…..this is the work of a mind that would possess…
I will not permit her to touch you, if need be I perish in the effort to resist.
So it was that we were taken to the concealed ‘house’ of Zairaphel, High Priestess of Sauron. House I say, though it is but a plain wooden building on the outside, hidden behind a wall of illusions, and furnished with illusions reminiscent of her home. She holds Parnard and I as her prisoners, though I have not seen him since the meal she had served us after our arrival. He was taken away by her Dwarf servant, one Duzir by name, an ill-favoured creature if ever I saw one, with little of the honour usually seen in his race. I heard Parnard shouting at one point last night, but slept…or fell into a swoon shortly after.
I am certain now that it is our immortality she seeks, at least to prolong her own life as much as possible. I fear for Parnard that, Valar forbid, she seeks him as a mate. To that end what little I have witnessed shows her being concerned for his needs. From the first she set eyes on him she giggled like a young girl, and fawned over him as someone precious to her. Or as a new play thing? It was not any form of love I recognise, but it was flirtatious all the same.
As for me, she had me taken to a bath of her concoctions, and I am now garbed in clothing of her style. She tried to drug me, and to some extent succeeded, so that I grew faint, and then she strapped me to a heavy chair, where my life’s blood was collected in several philes. The more blood she takes, the more she tries to break through the veils I put about my mind. There have been many potions she has tried to force down my throat. Much of it I spat out.
I do not feel connected, my mind, body and spirit seem to float independently in a cloud of nothingness. I need your warmth, I need your strength, yet I would have you be as far as possible away from this threat. Stay away, meldanya!
I can sense her circling round the edges of my thoughts singing a sweet and lovely song, yet buried in its cadences is a dark intent. I am her trial subject. She uses me to develop weapons to break Parnard’s mind and will. I cannot let that happen.
And there is another woman, another Sorceress, though seemingly younger and less powerful. Her hatred for me radiates from her like a flame. I know not what I have done to cause such ire, unless she has reason to hate all elves. She has no subtlety, throwing at me images of being bound and set aflame. She does not know the Noldor. Neither of these two women know that Parnard is not a High Lord of the Noldor, for despite all of their arts, they cannot easily pierce our minds: therein is both Sorceresses’ weakness.
Now I lie in a darkened basement. Earlier I could hear footsteps above on the wooden floorboards, but now there is no sound save a soft crackling. My hands and feet are tightly bound, but the coldness of the stone floor is a blessing. It grows hot. Beside me, also bound and I fear, unconscious, lies the Hobbit, Gaisarix. Thankfully, Balkumagan insisted Henepa be left by the roadside, to die before we reached this place. I have a suspicion his intent was to save her rather, hoping you would pass by? I am glad she never arrived here.
I am too weak to stand. Zairaphel says I will be taken when Naraal arrives, where I know not. I know not if I shall endure that long. My head is in a thick mist, my breathing becomes shallower…the air seems to be growing thin - I reach out to Parnard, to sense his thoughts, his presence, but his mind is closed to me. Has he been taken elsewhere? South, did she say?
And though I hear little, I see someone walking through the mist and looking down at me. I focus, though it cannot be, I know his face. I know that ruddy complexion and thundersky eyes.
“Istarnis,” said dark Caranthir. “Stand! This is your fight.”
- Sanwe-latya - Thought transference, telepathy.
