The Thieves of Tharbad by AliceNWonder000137  

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The Realm of Thuringwethil

Mercatur leads his force into the bowels of Blogath's Sanctuary to destroy the ancient vampires.  A second force comes in behind them, but Thuringwethil's illusions and deceptions take their toll.  Alquanesse finds solace in the past but is she being deceived.  

Warning for a scene of torment.

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52) Blogath’s Sanctuary - Ivanneth (September) 16^th, 1410

Mercatur

The air was definitely growing colder and the rain harder as they neared the entrance to the sanctuary.  There was an old, uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu as he stepped up on the landing that would lead down into the depths.  There was an old wooden walkway down that had long since rotted out, replaced by newer repairs done by Ethacali’s crew back in 1407. The last time he, Jaabran and Dagar came this way, they almost didn’t make it out alive.  While he had Valandil, Silmarien and her Silima with him, it would have been nice to have the friendly Blood-Wights to back them up.  At least they could feel when Blogath and Balisimur were near.  No one could tell when Thuringwethil would attack.  Having the sons of Elrond with them was a definite boon.  He wiped his face with an already damp rag and got a chill down his spine as he took the first step.

Silmarien was right beside him, shining the light from her staff down the stairs.  She recoated the weapons of the group with the silver substance after they wiped blood off of them.  “That’s one whole container down.  From this point on, use what you need because it won’t get any safer.”

At the bottom of the stairs, they entered a foyer that was crafted of black marble with silver veins that reflected Silmarien’s light. Hirgrim bent down and scanned the floor. “The dust was disturbed recently. We may have a reception waiting for us ahead.  I’m sure glad I didn’t come with you the last time.”

“Well, you’re here now so that makes us all idiots,” Mercatur quipped.

Dagar tapped the floor with the tip of his mithril eket. “It’s twice now for good Mercatur, Jaabran and I so we’re all double idiots.”

“Let’s just make sure that we’re living idiots when we’re done,” Silmarien added, her breath now steaming in the chill.  She rubbed her weapon arm with the other to ward off the cold.  “We’re going to be alright.  We’ll be alright,” she said with very little confidence.  She walked over to a set of black double doors with red flecks, bloodstone. “There was a ward here, placed by an Easterling mage, but it was defeated recently.”

“That would have been Ethacali,” Dagar told her.  “He died in the temple when he brought the roof down on himself, Blogath and Balisimur.  I don’t know who could have defeated the ward though.”

She pushed it open with Mercatur covering ahead with his crossbow and then stuck a wooden doorstop to keep the doors from closing behind them.  She then drew a rune on the stone with her staff.  This led to a central hall with high ceilings where the walls and floor were also a mix of black marble and bloodstone.  Everything of value here had long ago rotted into dust or been looted. The captain aimed his weapon to the right.  “This way. There’ll be a stairway going down to the temple,” he said, the memory of this place crashing into him.

They began to turn that way when shimmering shapes emerged from the left wall.  They appeared ghastly, ghosts with rotting flesh, eyes and noses missing, skeletal frames shambling towards them with rusted or broken weapons.  Mercatur fired a bolt, but it went right through one with just a whiff.  Valandil sliced at another with his Silima coated longsword and it burst into dust. Dagar and Jaabran followed by stabbing two others and they, too, burst dramatically.

“Get to the stairs!” Mercatur commanded as he chopped one with his axe.  Silmarien swept her staff around, shattering four more, bone dust gathering on the ground. Covered by the captain and the sons of Elrond, they retreated as more of these specters floated from the walls, pushing them to the stairway down.  There were just too many to fight hand to hand.  When they crossed the room, the ghosts ceased their attacks and faded back into the marble.  “We’re being herded,” the captain said with a sour grunt.

Elladan nodded.  “Indeed.  There are forces here, most foul.  I feel a power so immense that I cannot comprehend it.”

“They have been feeding, growing in strength,” Elrohir added. “If we cannot stop them here, there may be no stopping them but for all of might in Imladris.”

On the wall to the stairs golden runes appeared in the Tengwar script.  Mercatur couldn’t read it, so he looked at Silmarien.  “It’s in Quenya,” she said.  “She’s…she’s welcoming us as family.”  A shiver spread through the group.

“Well, the bitch better have a roast turkey ready because that’s how you greet family,” Mercatur said sarcastically.

“And all of the fixings,” Dagar added.  “I’m accepting nothing less than cranberry sauce and stuffing. That’s how I greet family.”

“But you simply must have Gariig pie, coated with Cashdir flower glaze,” Jaabran stated proudly, kissing his fingers.  “A delicacy in Greater Harad.”  There was a brief chuckle in the group before the feeling of darkness returned.

They began to creep down a long hallway as it grew more chill with every step.  Even Silmarien’s light and those of any lanterns seemed to gradually dim.  They could feel Blogath’s power growing with every foot, tendrils of mental energy searching for them, probing for weaknesses. It was like a mental fog.  Mercatur tried to play the music in his mind but was finding focusing difficult.  He shook his head vigorously and then looked back at the group, the men of the cohort now bringing up the rear.  “Corporal Parven, do a head count,” he said gruffly.

The corporal looked back, counting on his fingers.  “Uhh, we’re missing one, sir.  Only six.”

The captain grunted sourly.  “Dammit, you need to keep an eye on everyone!  Assign partners.  Nobody is left alone.  I don’t care if you need to hold someone’s dick when they pee.”

“Aye captain.  Sorry sir.”

The man was gone and there was no use agonizing about it now.  He knew that Blogath was distracting them, wearing them down.  “Don’t let it happen again.  Hey, Valandil, how are your guard holding up?”

The knight nodded slowly.  “Itching for revenge.  We have your back.”

That gave him comfort.  He wanted to leave the cohort outside.  They did well in the field on open ground, but they would probably be less than useless here, mere fodder for the vampires.  Still, once he started splitting up the force, the demon would just wipe them out, one smaller group at a time.  They were all alone.  No one was coming to the rescue.  There were no good answers here.  “Elladan, Elrohir, can you bring up the rear.  Keep them off of us.”  They nodded. Then, he pulled Neldis and Coru closer to him.  “You do not let me out of your sight.”

Neldis carried a steel eket and Coru, a dagger.  Neldis held hers in a death grip.  “A year ago, I would have sold this for drugs.  Today, it…it may be the only thing standing between me and fangs,” she said, shivering in fear and cold.  Mercatur paused for a moment to pull out two ratty cloaks from his sack and put them around the women.

“They’re going to have to get through me first,” he said, continuing down the hall with Silmarien and Hirgrim.  They approached an entryway to the right.  “Hey Dagar, wasn’t this the kitchen?”

“It was indeed.  You smell that?  It’s like we never left,” Lord Rhudainor said, his eyes darting around, searching for any threat in the gloom.

Mercatur and the others nodded.  “Yeah…roast chicken with herbs and garlic.”  The clinking of pots and pans sounded in the dark room where only an ancient, rusted oven and stove sat amid dust and debris.  The dust swirled in a tiny vortex and then vanished in a puff.  “The sanctuary is up ahead.  Silmarien, whatever you have to do, we’ll get you to the altar.  I don’t care what it takes.”  He turned to the nurses.  “I really want to leave you two here, but that’s what she wants.  So, stay close by.”

They inched up, step by step, to the threshold of Blogath’s Sanctuary.  Not only was the air cold here, but it was heavy, like breathing soup.  The door here was also crafted of bloodstone, black with red flecks.  Golden Tengwar runes flashed into existence on the door.  Silmarien read them carefully and then they faded and she blinked hard, shaking her head.  “She…she says…  Wait, did you all hear that?  It’s…my mother?  How are you here?  Why?  What are you saying?” she said to no one.

Mercatur was told by Alquanessë that she and Blogath could sound like anyone, make you think that they were anyone.  He shook his cousin.  “Hey, hey, no one is there.  She’s getting inside your head.  Hear the music.”  He tried, but it was like dark tendrils shooting into his mind.  It was like waves pounding onto rocks, powerful, unstoppable.

Silmarien blinked hard.  “I…didn’t you see her?  Your aunt.  Gandalf helped us escape from Cameth Brin.  She…she gave me to Gandalf and…and I was raised in Tharbad.  I was just a girl.  How?  You…?” She looked around and her face relaxed as realization spread through her.  “It was a trick of the mind, yes.”  She chuckled and breathed out a sigh of relief just as spectral hands reached out through the door and pulled her into an inky blackness.

How did that happen?  Mercatur stood, gawking at the door.  “Dammit, she’s the only one who can destroy the altar, and she has all of the Silima!”  He reached out and pushed onto the door, but his hand went right through into a dark void. He gritted his teeth and looked back. “An illusion!  I’m going in!  We have to get her back!”  He grabbed Neldis by the hand.  “Stay with me!  Let’s go!” he growled and stepped into the blackness.

Nirnadel

As they gathered behind the wizard at the entrance, Elrond beckoned to the Blood-Wights.  “We must be quick, but you are my kin, and I must let you know that I have discovered the cure to your…condition,” he said, speaking rapidly. “I consulted with Mithrandir and read the tome that you gave me, amongst my other research.  You are of two fëa or spirits, one elf and one vampiric, one in the physical realm and one beyond.  If we draw the vampiric spirt from your hröa or body and cast it into the void, you will be free.”

Others gathered under the eaves of the sanctuary entrance to escape the rain while they continued to speak.  “This is…unexpected, Lord Elrond,” Finculion responded.  “We had not thought of a cure since Ethacali.”

“And with Annatar before that, three thousand years before,” Alquanessë added darkly.  “He fooled us then, a ploy to enslave us.”

Elrond nodded in agreement.  “I am sorry for that, but I can tell that this will work. Mithrandir says that it will require some of the substance that Silmarien and her husband have concocted. If you so wish, I can remove this affliction from you when we are able.”

Alquanessë took on a pensive expression, her thumb to her lips. “It’s really possible.  I could be just an elf again, just a woman.  I…I will have to think about this.  I know no other way now.”

Finculion put his arm around her waist and pulled her close, embracing her.  He blew out a long breath.  “Thank you, Lord Elrond.  This gives us much to consider.  Please, let us continue.  Our friends are in danger.”

Gandalf took a step into the sanctuary and paused, his mouth opening slightly.  “This is a dark evil that lies before us.  We must be cautious.”  His staff hit the wooden step with an unnaturally loud thunk.  Voices seemed muffled while other sounds rang out. The light at the top of his staff also seemed to dim.  Glorfindel, Elrond and Gildor followed behind him.  Baranor detailed eight of the Tirrim Aran to post at the top.  “You keep anyone from getting to us, Sergeant Riston.”

“Understood, captain,” he replied, fist on his chest.  They took up positions under the eaves of the roof over the stairs to keep out of the rain.

Haedorial stopped the stewards from following.  “My son, Angion and Ethirdir, you have come far enough.  Please, please, should I not return, you will record what happened here.”  He handed the sack that contained his journal and the sketch books to Mindolinor.  It was an old leather container, given to him by his father, who still ran the Nightsingers’ Guild.  It was treated against the weather and showed signs of years of use, but it still had that new leather smell.  “You will take these and copy them and bring them to the Royal House.  You need to let people know what we did, all of us.  And tell…and tell your mother and Idhrendiel that I love them.”

They were reluctant, protesting, wanting to stay with the group.  The Princess approached them.  “My friends…good Mindolinor, please, please listen to your father.  He wishes for what is best for you.  I beg of you to please carry out his instructions.”

Ethirdir stood before her, his hands clasped together. “Your Highness, please, please let me accompany you.  I have much to atone for and I swore my sword to you.”  He knelt and held her hand.  She could see how much he had changed, from a callow boy to a devoted young man.

She thought for a moment and then shook her head.  It was not easy to deny him.  “My dear steward.  Your safety is also of great importance to me.  You have come this far and showed me your courage and your heart. This was no small thing.  We will all laugh and drink on this upon our return.” She raised him up and then embraced each one of them.  “Go with the grace of the Valar and obey Sergeant Riston.  I honor each of you.”

Nirnadel then passed by the Tirrim Aran who would guard their rear, touching each guardsman on the hand.  “Stay safe, my dear Guard.  We will…we will see you soon.”

Sergeant Riston squeezed her gauntleted hand.  “Thank you, Your Highness.  We will keep you safe at this end.  No one will get through to harm you.  Your courage gives us strength.”

His words and the human touch made her feel better, stronger. Even with Gandalf’s calming influence, the terror was beginning to build.  Nothing that she had ever faced came even close.  A creeping feeling stole into her heart.  Would they all perish here?  Would she be enslaved to become Thuringwethil’s plaything? Visions of what happened to Alquanessë played in her mind.  She imagined herself bound, the vampire toying with her body, her friends slowly going mad nearby.  Then, her slaughtering innocents to sacrifice to the Dark Lord for his pleasure and his power.  Finally, the Dark Lord giving her to tribesmen to sate their lust and join his cause.  She fought to keep from shaking and shut her eyes tight to hold in tears.

Alquanessë grasped her shoulder.  “Nirnadel, you let your mind wander.  None of that now, please.  What you imagined was my story not yours.  Your story is brighter and full of hope.  I will get you out of this.  This is a fight for Finculion and I.”

Nirnadel shuddered.  “I…I…thank you.  Though you all, with all of your power, surround me, I am terrified,” she said, her mouth dry.

The elf gave her a sad smile.  “As am I.”

They reached the bottom of the stairs and Gildor put his fingers on the black marble floor.  “Mercatur’s group passed through here not half an hour ago.  We must keep the pace without becoming reckless.”  The bloodstone double doors were already open, propped that way with wooden doorstops.

As they approached, Gandalf placed his staff on the door and drew a rune that began to glow silver.  “No one will close this but me.”  He examined another rune inscribed on the stone.  “Oh good.  Silmarien is here.  She left a message for us that they’ve proceeded further in.”

In the next chamber, they stopped for a moment to examine the black marble and bloodstone.  Specters emerged from the wall, grasping and brandishing ancient, tarnished weapons.  The wizard smote his staff on the floor.  “Begone! Spirits of darkness, begone!” he shouted, his voice like a crack of thunder.  A shockwave burst from his staff and ancient bones burst into dust, adding to the piles on the floor.  He poked his staff in the bone shards, digging around, examining.  “Silmarien has the substance with her.  Other than her magic, it is all that they have to fight the undead.”  He pointed his staff to the right.  “Come! Down the stairs!” he commanded and strode quickly to the steps.

Firiel touched the Princess on the pauldron covering her shoulder.  “Nirnadel, do you think?  Is he?” she asked in a shaky voice, full of worry as they descended the stairs, asking about Valandil.

“He is alive, good healer.  I know this in my heart,” she said as she slid her hand into her saddle pouch, feeling the soft fur of the cats who squirmed in the bag. Carvion was still at her feet, seemingly unperturbed.  “At least that makes one of us,” she told him.

“Bad not here…not here,” he meowed back at her.

At the base of the stairs there was another set of double doors, propped open.  They passed through and saw the body of one of the cohort soldiers.  His throat was torn open and his face frozen in terror, the skin white as paper.  Gildor moved him to the side and closed his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest as Gandalf placed another rune on the doors.

They looked at the body as they passed, eyes wide. Kaile grasped Nirnadel’s arm, her hand shaking.  “I’m so…I’m so afraid.  Not even…Annúminas was like this.  You…you shouldn’t be here, Nirnadel.  We can’t lose you.  Please go back.”

The Princess touched Kaile’s hand with her own.  “I am so afraid too.  But…but if we lose today, all of the north will fall.  We must fight.  While it is our Blood-Wights’ battle, it is our kingdom at stake.”  She raised her visor and looked at the nurse. “Just having you here gives me strength.”  Jonu stood behind them, clinging to Kaile.

The landing flowed into a long hall where they continued to move with determination.  On the right was an opening that led to an ancient kitchen.  Elrond poked his head in.  “I remember this.  The kitchen was still working when we were here.  We were told where the temple to Sauron was by our scouts, which included Finculion and Alquanessë.”  He looked back at them.  “You and your siblings were already dead when we arrived.  I had you laid to rest in the other room, and we sealed the temple with glyphs.”

Alquanessë nodded.  “I saw you when I was a spirit.  You treated us with respect, and I will not forget that.”  Gildor took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze that warmed Nirnadel’s heart.  Her friend seemed to have found love.

They continued down the hall past other openings to empty rooms and up to a black door made of bloodstone.  Gandalf scoffed.  “Hrmph…a clever illusion.”  He waved his hand in front of it, and it vanished to show a waiting room with tracks through the dust.  There were signs of an ancient battle here, gouges on the marble walls, rotted armor and rusted weapons with a smattering of bone fragments.  There was an opening to the left and light seemed to come from it, a warm, magical light along with the sound of laughter and dining.  The hall continued on straight and there was another opening to the right, but all was dark on both of those paths.  The group peered into the lit chamber and saw a lively dining room, four elves seated at an elegant table, talking and drinking from crystal goblets.  They were dressed in luxurious silver and sky-blue robes, smiles on all of their faces.

The illusory Alquanessë stood, turned and looked in their direction as if she saw or heard someone at the door.  She wore a silver brooch shaped like a swan on her chest and each of the siblings had a similar brooch or pin, a raven, a falcon and an eagle. The illusion narrowed her eyes, still searching.  She was radiant, elegant and noble in bearing, a true princess of the Noldor, her black hair styled in a refined waterfall braid.  Nirnadel was stunned at her ethereal beauty.

“This was before Annatar broke me,” the real woman said in a voice heavy with sorrow and she involuntarily covered herself with her hands.  “This was a time when we were all happy, having broken free of Thuringwethil, living out our own lives beyond the world.”  She took a step inside and pointed at the table, her face brightening. “Look, there’s my flute, Finculion. After all of these years.  It was a gift from mother.”  She walked to the instrument, followed by her brother.  Gildor tried to reach out to her, but he seemed to slow, caught in an unseen web.  Finculion sat on his illusion, and they merged into one, talking and laughing with his brother and sisters.  Alquanessë picked up the flute and played a few notes and her illusion smiled back at her. Each held out a hand and then grasped in the middle, the two identical but for one being clothed and one not.  In a flash, they became one and she looked at the group, smiling as if she were in a pleasant dream, and began playing her flute.

Gandalf pounded his staff on the floor, sending out a wave of energy and then he walked quickly towards the siblings.  Time and space seemed to warp here now, things moving in slow motion.  There was a loud pop, and the entire scene vanished along with the siblings and the wizard, leaving a dark room with rotted wood and scattered, tarnished utensils.  Everyone’s mouth fell open, and Elrond took a step in. He held up his hand with the Elven Ring and focused his power.  He looked back, stunned.  “I don’t know where they went.  They’re gone…they’re just gone.”  He drew his curved elven sword, scanning the room.  “We must continue on.  This demon that we face is a Maia of fearsome power.  We must be ready.”

Gildor’s face twisted in fear and horror, and he searched the dining room, turning over every scrap of wood.  He marched back into the hall, sword in hand.  “We’re going to get them back.”

Nirnadel trembled.  It was beginning to fall apart.  Confusion, chaos and fear took over and some of their most powerful members were gone…just gone.  Seeing Lord Elrond’s face, full of doubt and concern shook her to the core.  Her breath trembled and she gripped Kaile’s hand tight.  She looked back to her ladies and Jonu.  “If…if we…it has been an honor,” she huffed out.

Kaile squeezed back.  “Don’t talk like that, please don’t.”  Her voice was higher, terrified.

Carvion hissed.  “Bad…warn…bad!”

Firiel strode forward ahead of the group.  “No, no, he’s gone, isn’t he?  No.”  She held her mithril eket out.  “Valandil!” she called.  “Please, please answer me!”

They all heard it, a voice that sounded like his. Firiel looked back, her face brighter. “It’s him!  Valandil, I’m coming!”  She charged straight down the corridor into the dark and vanished.  Her voice continued to echo down the hall along with the voices of the Blood-Wights and Alquanessë’s flute, now eerie and distant.

Nirnadel summoned all of her courage and ran after Firiel with Baranor and Carvion right behind her.  “Stop, Your Highness!  Stop!” the captain yelled.

She got to the point where Firiel had vanished and she felt as if she were held in a spider’s web, stuck, everything moving in slow motion. Baranor was reaching out to her, his motions merely creeping along.  Voices sounded slow and distorted.  Kaile and Galadel were right behind him, their faces twisted in fear and horror, unmoving as if frozen in place.  There was a flash of light, and then she stood in a study lit by warm magical lanterns. There was a desk carved of rich dark wood and polished to a shine which was surrounded by bookshelves full of tomes and novels.  There was another door at the far end, opened.  She gasped and then looked around frantically, but she was alone.  She could still hear Baranor’s voice though, calling out to her desperately.  Someone flitted behind the desk, and she thought it was Kaile by the dress.  She rushed over there but it was no one. There seemed to be movement everywhere, just at the edge of her vision.

There was a giggle, a titter, like a girl’s laugh.  “Come play with me,” she heard just behind her and she spun, brandishing her sword but she was still alone.  Her skin crawled and she began to tremble, her breath coming in rapid gulps.  If she could take back what she did, she would.  It was stupid, so stupid.  “Please blessed Valar, please.  Please watch over me,” she begged, terrified.

The voice whispered again, an older girl now.  “No one is watching over you.  You are mine now.  I’ve waited patiently for my toy and now I want it.”

Nirnadel spun again.  “C…come…come out!  L…Let me…let me see you!”

“That would be too easy, my dear,” the voice said, now an early teen.  It was her voice, and a chill ran down her spine.  “There’s no fun in that.  Now, you’re going to put your sack of cats down and tie the opening.  I don’t want anything to interrupt our fun.”

It was like a fist punching through her mind, fingers spreading and seizing the strings that moved her body.  She groaned, fighting it, trying to imagine the music but it was like a ballista bolt had gone through her head.  Her hand shook as she set the sack down and tied the cover tight, the cats meowing in protest.  “No…bad…warn…bad!”  Calarmë began scratching and clawing at the flap.

“Ah, much better,” the voice said, now her age, now her own.  “You’ve admired my child, Skrykalian, for some time now…wanted to emulate her, be her. I will give you that opportunity, Lindarë.  That is your new name.  That is who you are now.  I will give you more power than you can imagine, my daughter.”  A figure glided around the open door of the far opening.  It was her. Everything about her was an exact match. The face, the hair, the eyes, everything except that she was nude with a sinister grin.  She was staring at herself.  The simulacrum beckoned her with a finger pull and she staggered forward, her resistance futile.  “You were embarrassed by your childlike body,” the demon said and then held her arms out, its breasts and hips growing.  “I can give this to you.  I will give you many things.  And you will have love…my love, and I will find you a suitable mate.  You, Blogath and Skrykalian will help me lead an army of vampires, wights and werewolves and we will destroy your old enemy, the Witch-King,” she said, her grin changing to a snarl with fangs.  “And then we will conquer Eriador and you will rule your own kingdom, wise and powerful…immortal.”

Nirnadel walked around the corner, fighting every step of the way, her body like a marionette in those children’s plays that she loved so much.  She grunted and groaned, trying to take control of her body back.  “Let me free!  Release me!” she cried and then looked up.  “Please, blessed Manwë, blessed Varda, save me!”

The demon chuckled, looking up and placing her index finger on her cheek.  “My dear Princess, We have been trying to get you alone for some time now, difficult as it was,” she said, using the exact mannerisms and inflection that Nirnadel would use.  “I praythee, please sit with us and let us talk as girls are wont to do,” she added, sitting on the bed and patting the comforter beside her.

Nirnadel sat next to her double.  “What…what do you want.  Please.”  Terror consumed her now, her own body becoming her enemy.

“Why, good Lindarë, We want to be friends.  We want to be family.  After all, we are now one and the same, are we not?”  Thuringwethil loved to rename her victims as she turned them, to break them, to erase their identities.  Sercë became Blogath, Tindómeno became Balisimur, Finculion became Naranantur and Alquanessë became Skrykalian.  She held out her hand and an apple appeared.  She took a bite and then held it in front of the Princess’ face. “Open wide now.  You will love it, I daresay.”

The Princess opened her mouth, and her double gave her a bite through the visor of her helm.  It tasted like blood.  She tried to spit it out but could not control her own face.  She felt dizzy, the world spinning slowly.  A sensation of power began to flow into her veins. “What…what did you give me?” she asked, her voice wavering.  “What did you give me?”

The demon giggled.  “Merely a taste, my dear.  Merely a taste.  No, you’re not a vampire yet.  Not until I wish it to be.  I will have to drink your blood and feed it to you.  Then, and only then, will we truly be family.”  She patted the top of her thighs and leaned forward.  “Oh, isn’t your King Araphor dreamy?  So strong.  So handsome.  I could make him your husband if you wish.  You two would rule the north under me, the royal vampire couple.  How romantic.”  Then her face shifted, perplexed.  “But then…then there’s Mercatur.  Rough, powerful, dark.  You want him, don’t you?  He wants you.”

The Princess struggled, unable to move, unable to even twitch.

The double put her finger to her chin.  “How would it be…to have him inside you?  Savage…barbaric…intense.  You would squirm and cry out, a real woman then.  I can give you all of that.”  She patted Nirnadel on her armored chest.  “Oh, I do so love spending time with you like this.  I feel so young again.  Just like two girls.”  She stood and beckoned the Princess to rise.  “Now it is time.”

Nirnadel stood, tears streaming down her face.  She felt so helpless.  What would happen?  “W…what will you do to me?”

The double wiped the tears away with her fingers.  “I am going to give you my gift.  Come, let us hold hands,” she said and they did. They both began to glow.

There was a snapping sound and the Princess winced, closing her eyes.  Then, her vision cleared and she saw herself…no, the demon, wearing her armor.  She looked down to see her bare body…they had switched somehow.  Was she still Nirnadel?  Her mind reeled.  “What did you do?  What did you do?” she shrieked.  She could move now and tried to strike her double, but her arm was easily caught.

The demon smiled.  “Ah, there we go.  One step closer.  I will need to go and rally my forces shortly, my dear.  They are so lost and scattered…so afraid that their dear Princess has fallen.  What will they do?  They will be ever so glad to find you, and you will lead them to victory.”  She turned to go but then stopped.  “Oh, forgive me, my dear.  I almost forgot in all of my excitement.  You have for so long now wished to be Skrykalian…be like her. You even contemplated what it would be like to be a vampire.”  She held up her hand and dark tendrils of energy appeared and began to wrap around Nirnadel, pulling her arms behind her and then around her legs.  “Ah, so helpless…just like my Skrykalian was so long ago.”  She pushed Nirnadel to her knees.

“Please, please let me go!  Please!” she begged.

The demon snickered and shook her head.  “Oh, my dear, the fun is just beginning.  And Skrykalian begged just like you do now. You two are peas in a pod,” she said as she grasped her victim’s face.  “Now, Skrykalian was disloyal.  I will have to retrain her for a while, and you shall take her place.  Hmmm, and I tire of Blogath’s questioning me.  She only wants our tiny family.  So small minded.  My family will be huge.  If you’re a good girl, I will bring your friends into my family.  Defy me and they will be rotting corpses, drained of blood for my power.  If you’re a good girl, I will make you my right hand.  Now, I will enjoy hearing you sing for me, singing in pain and ecstasy.”

The Princess shrieked and felt warm fluid flow down her legs, she was so terrified.  “No! Please don’t do this!” she wailed and began to sob, falling over on her side.

“Oh my,” the demon said in mock sadness.  “You’ve gone and made a mess.  Well, I will help you.”  She raised her hand and the fluid evaporated into nothing.  “What do you say when someone helps you?”

Nirnadel whimpered and struggled against the bindings. “Th…th…thank you.”

“Ah, I think we are getting somewhere,” Thuringwethil said in a singsong voice.  “And you are very good at begging too.  The beggar princess.”  She walked over to a sink and dipped a sponge in it.  “Well, we still have to clean you up.  I very much want to hear you sing.”  She came back with a bowl of water and began to wash Nirnadel’s body with the sponge, wiping her face and then her thighs and her belly.  She moved the sponge lower and Nirnadel bucked her hips up with a shriek.  “Oh, just like Skrykalian.  I know you want to feel it, my virgin princess.  Now, don’t fight.  Just enjoy.”

Alquanessë

The moment was bliss.  She played her flute for her family, a lively, jaunty tune that raised spirits.  Gone was the darkness of Thuringwethil, now an age ago.  They had hidden in the vale for more than fifteen hundred years into what was now the Second Age.  A great city had been built close to them by the Noldor, Ost-in-Edhil, led by Celebrimbor, the grandson of mighty Fëanor.  Her eldest sister, Sercë, would occasionally venture into the city to trade but never stayed long lest they discover that the siblings were vampires. For short periods, their brethren would just see them as one of their own for they had once been Noldorin royalty. They could count aunts with names like Findis, uncles with names like Fingolfin and Finarfin and cousins with names like Fingon, Turgon, Finrod Felagund, Galadriel and Orodreth.

Finculion ate a chicken leg, dipping it in a garlic sauce with rosemary.  “Play the Twilight Kingdom,” he said with a mouth full of food, waving the half-eaten chicken leg at her.

She looked at the wooden flute, a gift from her mother, Irimë, when she came of age in Tirith Aeluin in lost Beleriand.  It was beautifully crafted by her mother’s hands with etchings of elven life in Ard Galen, Lothlann and Hithlum and painted in bright, blending colors.  This simple item would be priceless now.  Then, she rolled her eyes at her brother.  “Manners, please,” she chided and he put the food down.  “And that garlic does wonders for your breath, dear brother.”

He splayed his hands.  “Well, you cooked it.  You’re the only one here with any talent at that.”

Their older brother, Tindómeno, laughed.  “Yes, your roast chicken with rosemary is divine.  I vote that she does all of the cooking,” he said in his deep bass.

The brothers and Sercë raised their hands.  “Well, it’s decided then,” the eldest sister said.  “We fight, you cook and sing.”

“No fair,” Alquanessë pouted.  “And you haven’t fought anyone in almost fifteen hundred years!”

“Well, we could,” Finculion countered.  “And you’re so much better at cooking than we are.”

She rolled her eyes again and smiled.  “Fine…fine, but that means no cleaning.  I am going to kick my feet up and read after dinner.” This was a magical time, the siblings all working together and enjoyed being with each other.  Still, she longed for love.  She longed to be with someone.  Her life thus far had been abuse by the demon and isolation with her family.  No one had heard from their mother since they parted ways at Tol-in-Gaurhoth.  She took a bite from a slice of chicken breast, chewing it, savoring the strong taste of the garlic sauce and the texture of the carrots and peas.  She washed it down with wine that her sister had procured in Ost-in-Edhil, a smooth, slightly fruity white.

Alquanessë began to play the Twilight Kingdom, a slower, more heartfelt melody.  She looked towards the entrance of the dining room, seeing a shimmer of light.  She thought that she saw an old human in gray robes with a strange gray hat, moving ever so slowly, pointing at her.  How strange.  She stopped, musing on the odd vision.  “I think that I shall play the Ainulindalë,” she said of the mystical song about the forming of the world.  “It better fits the mood.”  She blinked but the old man was still there.

The bard shook it off and took a deep breath before blowing into the flute, letting her music and soul flow through the instrument.  Only through their mother’s eyes had any of them seen Aman, the Blessed Realm.  But the visions were clear.  Powerful notes sounded, some sharp, some long and magical.  Golden tendrils floated from the flute, dancing with her melody.

The old man made eye contact with her and she sensed a reservoir of power in him along with compassion and wisdom.  She looked away.  This wasn’t real.  Could it be a trick of Thuringwethil’s?  The vampire was a master of illusion and deception.

Sercë clapped to get everyone’s attention.  “I think I have good news,” she said cheerfully.  “I just met with a messenger from the Lord of Gifts.  He offers us a cure.”

Finculion looked at her sideways, his lips pursed with concern.  “Sister, no disrespect, but how did this messenger find us?  No one has bothered us in over a thousand years.”

“I’ve been putting out feelers about a cure.  I sent messages to the Gwaith-i-Mírdain and their masters of lore and they brought it to the attention of Annatar, the Lord of Gifts.”

Alquanessë narrowed her eyes.  “You did this without consulting the family?”  The mood shifted, more tense.

Sercë splayed her hands out and flared her nostrils as if irritated. “Yes.  I am the leader of this family, and I would like to know if there is a cure for us.”

The younger sister sighed, unconvinced.  “I would like to know too, but we should have all known what you had planned.”  A cure?  It was something that passed through her mind, but she never held out any hope.  She could barely remember being “only” an elf.  And the strength, speed and ability to fly was addictive…as was the blood.

Tindómeno waved his hands to get their attention.  “Listen to our older sister.  She actually has a plan.  It’s better than sitting here in this cave for centuries.”

Finculion shook his head.  “Didn't we make a pact to remain secluded from the world?”

Sercë put her palms on the table and leaned forward, eyes intense.  “But we already trade with the elves and the dwarves.  Look at the fine things that we have.  Are you not ready to enjoy life again after so long?  Have we not earned a place back with our people?  Are you not lonely?”

Finculion put his head down and trembled for a moment.  “Yes. I miss my family. The one Thuringwethil destroyed.”

Alquanessë put her hand on her brother’s shoulder.  She understood.  A deep loneliness ate away at her heart, and she longed to feel someone’s touch other than her own.  It was a hunger that Thuringwethil had planted within her.  She nodded.  “Yes, I am lonely.  I would like to search for mother.  I know that she is alive somewhere and did not go into the West.  And I would like to have a family of my own someday.”

Sercë smiled again.  “While we can pass as normal elves for a short time, anyone with any insight will know that we are vampires.  And if we are as we are now, would our people not kill us?  Would we kill our own mother?  That monster, Thuringwethil, implanted that thought in our minds.”  She pointed at each of the siblings, her face full of confidence.  “I propose a new pact.  We find the cure.  We find our mother.  Annatar, the Lord of Gifts, offers this to us.  He has access to ancient lore from the time of Morgoth.  It was Morgoth’s creature that did this to us.  It will be Morgoth's knowledge that sets us free.”

Alquanessë now liked what she was hearing and nodded her consent.  “As always, you are our leader, my sister. I will follow you.”

“Wonderful!  I have already invited Annatar to meet with us here.  He works tirelessly within the halls of the Mírdaithrond, teaching the Noldor his craft.  He plans to forge rings of power for the betterment of all people.”

“Uhh, so when is this meeting?” asked Finculion.

Sercë gave an embarrassed expression, one eye narrowed and her lip curled up. “Umm, now.  He’s on his way here already.”

Finculion blew out a long breath and shook his head.  There was still an air of skepticism around him.  “Just who is this…this Lord of Gifts?  Do we know anything about Annatar?”

“According to my contacts in the Mírdaithrond, Annatar is a Maia who studied under Aulë.  He now brings his knowledge and his gifts to the world.  You have to trust me on this one.  He will bring us everything that we want.”

Alquanessë found a rare bit a fight against her sister. “This sounds too good to be true.”  Then, she put her head down as the sibling hierarchy took hold again. “But I trust you, sister.  We will see what Annatar offers us.”  She played her flute again to lighten the mood, the notes of the Ainur flowed again and she looked at the old man.  Her mind felt fuzzy, distracted but the man pointed at her, his mouth moving in slow motion, his words distorted.  She pulled the flute from her lips.  “What?” she asked him.

“Alquanessë,” he said so slowly that it took more than ten seconds for him to say.  “It’s…not real.  Wake! Focus!” he shouted.  Time seemed to speed up and the lights in the dining room blinked off and on.  Something was fighting the old man.  Who was he? Why was he trying to speak to her? Could this be Annatar?  Then, the room grew dimmer and Sercë and Tindómeno were frozen in place, only Finculion moving slowly.

“It is real, Skrykalian,” a voice whispered into her ear. “You are home.  We will be a family again.”  There was a soft giggle.  “Play for me.  Sing for me like you used to.  You will be glad to hear that you will have a new sister soon.  Lindarë is her name.”

“Wha…?  Skrykalian? Yes…yes, that’s me.  That’s my name,” she said softly and began to play her flute, ignoring the old man.

CODEX

Poleaxe – a pole weapon that is topped by a spear at the tip and an axeblade and a spike just below.

Falchion – a thick sword with a blade more like a machete. Also makes for a good tool.

Anket – a longsword.

Eket – a shortsword akin to a Roman Gladius, mostly used for stabbing.

Pauldron – plate armor that covers the shoulder.

Fëa – spirit

Hröa – body

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Chapter End Notes

I'm trying to find balance in writing for powerful characters.  I really want to play up the horror and illusion angle here.  Picture of the Yfelwood, courtesy of the RPG module.