The Thieves of Tharbad by AliceNWonder000137  

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Downfall

The battle in the Temple of Sauron rages as the forces of good fight the demons of Morgoth.  We look at the POV of three women involved in the fight, Morelen, who is a main character in the Court of Ardor, Alquanesse and Nirnadel.  

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

Morelen

It took just over a week for Morelen to reach the vale after the messenger told her that Alquanessë was in danger and needed help. The message came as a complete surprise. She was actually in Pelargir, trading supplies and arms from the Guild of Elements in the south when a swan landed in the water and swam up to the dock where her ship, the Bregolaph, was berthed.  She had received only one previous correspondence from Alquanessë since her friend took up residence at Lord Rhudainor’s manor and Morelen was stunned that her friend was alive.  The last that she knew, the Blood-Wights were eradicated in the vale by tribesmen who turned on them and then laid to rest by Elrond at the end of the War of Elves and Sauron.  It had been about twenty-seven hundred years ago.  Needless to say, that when a swan flew up to her and delivered that first message in Alquanessë’s voice, she was shocked.

She signed the bill of lading for the Pelargir dock master and then bent down as the swan waddled up to her.  She had to give it to her friend for her unique and humorous message service.  The swan extended its neck and opened its beak, speaking in Quenya.  “Morelen, please come to the vale.  Our need is dire.  My siblings have awoken, and they intend to raise the vampire, Thuringwethil. All of the north is imperiled. Princess Nirnadel has launched an expedition to destroy them, but I fear that we are all just going to our deaths. I beg of you to come with all haste. You were Sercë’s best friend.  I pray that you can bring her to her senses to defeat this threat.  I bid you safe travels, my friend.”

This changed everything and her mouth fell open.  She turned to the ship captain.  “Captain Ferui, change of plans.  We need to unload the cargo quickly and then sail to Tharbad.  There is a threat that could engulf the entire north,” she told the Sindarin sea lord that had been her friend since the Elder Days.  He was a commander of part of the fleet under Lord Círdan and had supported the Guild since the fall of Brithombar and Eglarest after the Dagor Bragollach when they met on the Isle of Balar.

“Aye Morelen.  It’ll be done straightaway,” he said and turned to the sailors, Sindarin and human.  “Lively lads, lively!  Get a move on!  We sail for Tharbad after, and I want to cast off in thirty minutes!” he called as they both jumped in and carried boxes and crates off of the swan ship to the stevedores on the dock.  Ferui grabbed the sacks of Gondorian gold sovereigns and scrambled back on board.

As the Bregolaph cast off lines and was tugged away from the dock by rowboats, she thought about a demon of Morgoth returning to Middle Earth. This was a dire event indeed even with Sauron formless and the Ring lost forever.  Even in this Third Age, the darkness of her father would arise from time to time.  Her early life was in seclusion with The Three in the complex of Ty-Ar-Rana, away from the cares of the world, believing in justice and fairness and good.  Then, she went north to serve Prince and later High King Fingon as a rider in his company, becoming one of the strongest archers and leaders through training and battle.  It was there that she met and fought with so many good elves, including her husband and Sercë, who disappeared without a trace after the Bragollach, taken by Thuringwethil.

She thought about her husband, Notaldo, for a moment and a tear fell into the ocean…then to the Fall of Nargothrond and Gondolin and she gripped the railing of the ship so tightly that it might snap.  So many failures.  And then a time under endless torment in Angband when she thought she would break and join her father in evil.  It was millennia ago but, to her, it were as if it were yesterday.  News about Thuringwethil brought her right back to the time of the Noldor.  So much had been lost, including her belief in justice, fairness and good.  Life was all about survival and tending to your small corner of the world.

The gray ship unfurled sails and the vessel lurched ahead. She took it as a good omen that a swan had delivered the message to the swan ship from the Swan Maiden. Alquanessë always had a sense of irony and a sharp, edgy wit where her words and actions often had a deeper meaning. Ferui raised his hands to the air and called for a blessing from Ulmo, and the wind filled the sails, blowing and snapping as the Bregolaph accelerated.  Ferui held his yellow, floppy sea cap down as the wind lifted it from his head.  Dolphins began leaping out of the water, ahead of the prow as sailors hurled fish for them to eat.  This part never got old for Morelen, and the call of the sea became stronger every year. She held onto one of the lines to the mast and closed her eyes, letting the sea breeze whip through her raven hair.

The journey to Tharbad was swift under the blessings of Ulmo and the swan ship was soon within sight of the ancient city, the smell of briny water and fish blowing over them.  The harbor master and the stevedores stood on the docks, mouths agape as the Bregolaph slowed and cast off lines to them.  Morelen stood on the prow with her hands cupping beside her mouth.  “We are here to assist the crown on an important matter to the realm!” she called.  “We request permission to dock!”

The harbor master blinked hard and then closed his mouth, his red, curly hair whipping in the wind beneath a red sea cap.  “Yes, yes, you men, grab the lines!  Secure the ship!” he ordered and the swan ship was berthed.

In her cobalt blue and silver robes, Morelen came down the gangplank with the swan.  “Captain Ferui, please feel free to conduct any business here on behalf of the Guild and then you may sail to Lindon.  I will…find my own way home,” she said and then she and the swan approached the harbor master.  “Good sir, the kingdom is imperiled, and I have come to help your Princess.”

He looked her up and down and then raised his head to make eye contact as she was a full head taller.  “Umm, I’m Carandolon, the ‘arbor master ‘ere in Tharbad.  I don’ mean to question your word or anythin’ bu’ do you have any…ummm documents to back you up?  It’s no’ offen that we ge’ elven ships in, if you get me meaning.”

She gestured down to the swan that she named Alquendë. “Go ahead and tell him,” she said and the swan delivered the message, this time in Westron.  The harbor master and the dock workers stopped, stunned, listening to the talking swan.  “Well, ummm, when you pu’ it that way, I suppose we should let you enter, miss.”

She nodded thanks with a smile as Ferui brought her bags down, full of her armor and weapons.  They embraced and he boarded the ship again with Alquendë, yelling, “We must have something to trade here!  Get below and find me something!”

“Could you kindly point me to the stables,” she asked and he put his hand out, facing north across the Iant Formen Bridge up the Menetar, the main road through the city.

Carandolon pointed to a wagon.  “Oi miss, we provide ground transportation too, iffn you need it. The wagon’ll take you up to the stables, it will.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she said pleasantly, giving him a gold sovereign for docking fees which was far in excess of the actual cost. Then, she loaded her bags in the back and then climbed onto the wooden seat next to the driver, a stout, middle aged man who stared at her, eyes wide.  As the wagon drove away, Carandolon raised an eyebrow.

“Well, cor blimey and fill me stomach wi ale.  I can’t say as that’s ever ‘appened ‘ere before. Been a lo’ of elves traipsing through ‘ere lately making consort with the good Princess.  Bu’ river traffic is up, and the gold is flowing in, so she must be doin’ somefing right.”

At the stables, Morelen tipped the driver with five gold crowns and bought a swift horse from the master.  The driver stared at the gold, thanking her profusely.  “You elves are a good lot,” he said, his hands together. “I ‘ear a lo’ of bad about you, snotty and superior, bu’ I’ll be sure to tell em the truth.”

She smiled back as she saddled the horse and slung her bags over the saddle.  “Thank you, good driver.  Unfortunately, some of what you heard is true.  We can be that.  But you will never experience that from me.  May I have your name, good sir, so that I may call upon you when I return?”

“Fastdan, me lady.  I will be at your beck and call when you ge’ back.  Thank you again and me family thanks you too!  This ‘ere’s ‘alf a year’s wages, it is.”

She nodded and then put heels to mount and sped off north. Her horse was a speedy palfrey, bred for swiftness and she fed him some of the elven supplement for strength and stamina and they pounded up the road, past Fennas Drúinen into Rhudaur.  She made only a brief stop in the town to rent a room and change into her armor and then set off again to murmurs from the townspeople about ‘strange folk’ these days.  It was another day of hard riding to get to the Tirthon where she got an update from Lord Oswy that two parties ventured into the Yfelwood, the second with Lord Elrond, the wizard Gandalf and Princess Nirnadel.  The crack of thunder caught their attention.  She would need to ride again quickly.

He gestured to the crumbling Tirthon.  “This used to be our home until the last war.  Lots of memories,” he said, walking with her to the stables.  “You’ll need a fresh horse, Lady Morelen.”  He snapped his fingers and stable boys rushed out with a new mount, saddling it up for her and moving her bags.  “I consider Alquanessë and Finculion to be close friends and my Lord Dagar is there too, so I wish you success.  They left a few hours ago so you are not too far behind.”

She nodded warmly.  “Thank you, Lord Oswy,” she said as she put her blue laen recurve bow, Luinë, into a sheath and attached three quivers of arrows to her saddle.

The cook, Maelil, came out and handed her a sack of biscuits and muffins.  “Oi love, please take this for the road, if you would.  Just a bi’ o freshness from ole Maelil’s bakery.”

Morelen opened the sack and took a bite from one of the biscuits and nodded with a smile.  It had a hint of sugar with cinnamon, spice and raisins.  “Thank you for your kindness, dear Maelil.  I’ve been riding hard for two days, and I haven’t eaten at all. This is much needed.”

The cook took her hand for a moment.  “You bring ‘er ‘ighness back safe, now.  We’re counting on you, lady elf.”

She swung into the saddle and put her hand over her armored heart.  “I will do my absolute best, I swear.  Please, Morelen is fine.  And I won’t forget your kindness, Lord Oswy, dear Maelil.  I will see you soon.”  She wondered for a moment if their confidence in her was misplaced.  So many had died under her protection.  A memory flashed in her head of High King Fingon, crushed under the attacks of Gothmog and Lungorthin, the balrogs of Angband.

Oswy rode with her to the trail north.  “I will start sending out patrols in the early morning. We’ll be on the lookout for all of you,” he said with a salute, his weapon hand empty and raised to his forehead. “I am guarding the route of retreat should you need it, but I will admit to not being upset by it, having been in Blogath’s Sanctuary once too many times.  My wife demanded that I…guard here.  I applaud you and the others for your courage.”

Morelen nodded back to him and then spurred her mount, speeding towards the vale in the dark as a drizzle turned into a steady downpour. She could smell the wet pines now and hear the birds settling in for the night, seeking shelter from the rain, squawking out loud.  She took out her bow, keeping it at the ready, her elven eyes seeing easily at night in spite of the stream of water that dribbled down her helm.  There was an oppressive darkness over the Yfelwood, like the darkness that settled over Ost-in-Edhil when Sauron laid siege to the city or when Thangorodrim erupted before the Bragollach.  She had a flash of memory, chained and helpless to a black altar, her real mother holding a black dagger over her under a sunless sky during a total eclipse.  She shuddered and shook her head.  She knew what it was like to be victimized, especially by one’s own family.  She blew out a long breath, pushing the images out of her mind.  She would need to focus now, and the past was the past.  At least that’s what she told herself.  For an elf, that was often a comforting lie.

She tapped her horse’s flank harder, urging him to move faster.  No mount had ever measured up to Lindarion, her mare through much of the First Age.  Another loss.  She grunted and rose in the saddle, firing an arrow into a tree as she rode by, the shaft sinking into the trunk up to the fletchings.  It was a meaningless gesture, but it made her feel better.

As she entered the vale and looked down the path, she saw Cardolani Royal Guardsmen with some young men, gathered under the eaves of the entryway to stay out of the rain.  She rode carefully down the winding path to keep her horse from slipping in the mud, expertly pushing her calves into it to guide him around pools and obstacles.  Nearly five thousand years of riding experience made this automatic.  She could feel what her mount was thinking and experiencing, knowing dangers and fears before even the horse knew.  As she approached, she raised an empty hand and called out, “Well met, Arequain of the Tirrim Aran!  I have ridden up from the Tirthon to assist the Princess and her party,” she said as she dismounted, sheathing her bow and removing the quivers. “I am Morelen of the Guild of Elements,” she declared proudly.

The Guard were arrayed in their full plate armor, polished silver but for the drops of rain that beaded and flowed down.  “I am Sergeant Riston of the Tirrim Aran.  Our Captain Baranor has gone in with Her Highness. We’re here to guard the entrance. They went down maybe twenty minutes ago.”

She removed her helm and shook out her hair of the rain and the men gasped.  One young man with now damp ringlets of brown hair, bowed his head.  “We have seen more elves this day than we have ever seen and another one of the High Elves too.  You are…breathtaking, my lady, much like Lady Alquanessë.  My name is Mindolinor, son of Haedorial…and my friends Angion and Ethirdir.”

“Alquanessë is my friend from an age ago,” she said with a faraway look.  “It was she who sent me a message to come with haste and I have come with all the speed that wind and hoof could give me.  My name is Morelen, daughter of…Fëatur and Yavëkamba.  I am pleased to make all of your acquaintances.  I must take my leave though as I fear that time is short.  Have faith and remain alert.”  She gave them all a curt smile and proceeded down the stairs, putting her helm back on.

She navigated through the Sanctuary, seeing the signs of passage, feeling the portents.  The pallor of evil was thick in the complex, like breathing soup.  She thought about how she had scoured Beleriand for Sercë, after she went missing, even penetrating the horror of Tol-in-Gaurhoth alone in her attempt to find her friend.  A number of werewolves perished that night to her dagger and her arrows, but Sercë was long gone, dead or removed.  Only Morelen’s incredible strength, speed and power, derived from her father Morgoth, gave her the ability to survive that foul lair.  It wasn’t until the four siblings came to Ost-in-Edhil did she know that they did not perish.

Down a set of stairs and a long hallway she jogged, past the body of a dead man, drained by a vampire.  Then, there were sounds up ahead, music at first, the Ainulindalë she thought, coming from a flute.  Then the sounds of conflict and she rushed into a dining room to see Sercë, partially in the form of a falcon, circling Alquanessë, talons and fangs bared. Finculion and Tindómeno stood, frozen in time and space along with an old man in gray robes, holding a wooden staff. Morelen nocked an arrow.

Sercë shrieked and took an aggressive step towards her sister and Morelen let fly, the arrow streaking into Sercë’s chest up to the fletchings.  She had shot the woman who had once been her closest friend.

Alquanessë

From the dining room, they ran to the nearby Temple of Sauron, where Alquanessë waited behind Gandalf and Morelen, willing herself to move, to fight, but she was still afraid.  Thuringwethil and Blogath performed a chant, a dark ritual of power, fueling their undead minions.  Attacking either one of them would be suicide.  She made a furtive movement and stopped, just like she did when flying over the fall of Ost-in-Edhil.  She let out a wailing moan.  Why couldn’t she move?  She wanted to huddle in a corner and mourn her brothers.  Manipulate and seduce had always been her way as a succubus.  But even Nirnadel fought, standing beside Baranor, hacking at the undead.  Her lover, Gildor, stood with Glorfindel, pushing towards the altar and Neldis stood behind Mercatur, stabbing at the monsters.  All the while a black, inky cloud floated above poor Silmarien, waiting to take control of her body and be reborn.  They were breeding and forming an army of demons and undead to conquer. She dug her nails into her arm, wanting to cause herself pain.  To feel alive.  To not feel like a frightened child.   

Then, Alquanessë saw her sister about to unleash some sorcery on Mercatur.  She couldn’t let someone else die for her cowardice.  She just couldn’t.  There was no turning back now.  With a feral howl, she unfurled her swan wings and darted over the melee to slam into Blogath, the two tumbling back from the altar, crashing to the black marble floor. It had flashed in her mind that she couldn’t win this.  Blogath could pluck her wings and limbs off of her as if she were an insect.  But it didn’t matter.  She had hidden in fear of her sister for so long.  Even when she finally confronted Blogath at the end of the War of Elves and Sauron, she planned to flee with Finculion and hide, not stand up to them.  For once in her sorry life, she would fight for what she believed in.

On top of Blogath she raked down with her claws, but her hand was caught and her sister rolled over on top of her.  Blogath pulled hard on her wrist, almost snapping it but Alquanessë kicked her in the face with a taloned foot, knocking her off. Her hand screamed at her in pain, but she slammed her shoulder into her sister and they both fell over again, crashing down with feathers flying.  The younger sister bit Blogath on the cheek, tearing with her fangs.  The older sister cried out, snarling as she grabbed one of Alquanessë’s wings and snapped the bone like a twig.

Alquanessë arched her back in agony, shrieking and fell backwards, rolling as Blogath leapt on top of her.  It all came down to how much pain could she inflict before her sister ripped her to pieces.  Blogath’s hand grasped her jaw and squeezed hard like Thuringwethil had done to her as blood dripped down the older sister’s cheek.  “I will take your eyes and your tongue too, you filthy whore!” Blogath screamed, her eyes red, her face twisted in absolute madness.  “We’ll leave you alive as a worm!”

The younger sister fought furiously, trying to move her head, to bite her sister’s wrist but the grip was too strong.  This was the end.  It was inevitable.  This was an insect trying to defeat a bird of prey.  All she had left was to try and convince Blogath to kill her.

“Wait, wait!” she shouted.  “Kill me!  We killed your beloved Balisimur and I was overjoyed!  Yes, I wanted Annatar!  I stole him from you!  Kill me!”

Blogath howled in rage, her face shifting back and forth between that of a woman and a falcon and even into a horrific demon, multiple eyes, and a skeletal visage that filled with sharklike teeth.  Alquanessë recoiled and closed her eyes.  “Killing is too good for you, you mewling sheep!” Blogath screeched and pulled her hand back, two talons pointed at her sister’s eyes. “I’ll rip your tongue out next! What’s between what’s left of your legs will be all that you have!”  The younger sister screamed in terror as a mithril longsword lopped Blogath’s hand off.

Blogath’s face went blank as she looked back to see Nirnadel and Baranor thrusting forward with their swords, driving them into the Blood-Wight’s chest.  A gull-feathered arrow from Morelen then pierced Blogath’s other cheek, knocking her back.  The wounded demon howled in pain and anger, pulling the swords from her body.  As she stretched her arms out to heal, Alquanessë brought her leg around her sister’s neck and slammed her head into the floor and rolled on top of her again.

Blogath’s eyes blinked weakly in surprise and fear and Alquanessë found that she enjoyed it.  She wanted to do the same to her as was threatened, have her dear sister survive and live as a worm for her own entertainment.  She drew her talons back but then realized that she would be as evil as her.  She had hoped and prayed that Sercë could be redeemed but she was too far gone.  It broke her heart.  “You are lucky that I am not you, my sister, so I will grant you this mercy,” she said, her eyes watering, her voice wavering.  Then she sank her fangs into Blogath’s neck, drinking of the blood and power, feeling them flood into her own body.

Blogath whimpered, struggling more and more weakly until Alquanessë pulled back, blood dripping down her mouth and her body.  The older sister reached out with her left hand, grasping the younger sister’s arm, her eyes watery and dreamy.  “Alqua…my…my sister,” she said in a raspy whisper.  “I…our family.  I know…they’re gone.  You will…be the last,” she said, her breathing rapid and shallow.  “We are…no more…my arrogance.”  She raised her hand, and a spirit seemed to float over her body, tethered to the altar, Thuringwethil and the dark cloud that groaned in a demonic voice, hungry for a new form, a young, healthy and beautiful form.

She saw Jaabran and Dagar carrying Firiel to safety as Mercatur dashed by Thuringwethil and cut the bindings on Silmarien’s left side while Nirnadel got the right.  The mage rolled off and grabbed her staff, not even bothering to dress.  Mercatur ordered her away, but she was filled with fury, just having been freed from being fused with some demonic spirit.  “We end this now!” she cried, coating her staff with the silver substance.  The vampire saw what was happening and reached out to seize the mage and was shot by three arrows from Morelen and the sons of Elrond.

The black cloud howled, denied its new vessel and moved towards the mage as the mercenary sank his axe into Thuringwethil’s head.  The vampire barely blinked and pulled Mercatur’s neck to her fangs and sank them into his flesh, devouring the blood.  Alquanessë stood, unable to move.  What was Blogath doing?  But a friend of hers would die if she didn’t move.  She had to act.

“Stand back!” Silmarien yelled, raising her staff above the altar, her long blonde hair flying behind her as Glorfindel and Gildor cut their way through the undead to rush Thuringwethil.  Blogath shrieked, unleashing what little power she had left, and the tether snapped with a thunderclap as Silmarien smote the altar with her Silima coated staff and a flash and shockwave ripped through the temple, knocking nearly everyone to the ground.  The inky cloud was torn asunder, blown away by the blast, no longer kept in this earthly realm by the magical tether.  

When the flash cleared, Alquanessë shook her head and staggered back up.  She looked down to see Blogath, barely conscious, her hand lying next to her. They had done it.  They had defeated Blogath.  But now, her entire family would be gone.  Her sister had done one good thing, powered by her actual love of her family.  It would never be enough to undo the horrors that she had perpetrated but it was something at their most dire moment.  

Nearby though, there was still one more battle being fought…the greatest battle of this war.

Nirnadel

Nirnadel and the Guard rushed from the bedroom down the hall towards the temple where she ordered Kaile and Haedorial to remain outside with the cats.  “It will be a bloodbath in there.  Await us here,” she commanded and then ran into the temple with the Tirrim Aran and Galadel.

The Princess felt a strange feeling of power which she sensed came from the apple that she was fed.  There was a tingling sensation throughout her body and along her skin and things seemed to be in clear focus, her mind sharp.  There was no time to worry about that now as the room was consumed by battle, Baranor and Guard surrounding her.

In seemingly slow motion, she saw Alquanessë slam into Blogath and tumble away from the altar as a black cloud hovered above Silmarien’s prostrate body.  The poor mage bucked and struggled to get free and away from the demonic essence that only saw her as a vessel.  Whatever this was, they had to stop it.  Thuringwethil and Blogath had been chanting, fueling their undead minions, calling out in the Black Speech, something she knew enough of to know that it was the verse of the One Ring.  But the ring was gone forever and Sauron destroyed.  With a battle cry, she and her guardsmen fought their way forward, her mithril anket alongside the captain’s blue laen weapon from lost Númenor.

The undead tribesmen were mere rabble, but energized by the chant, they fought with crazed fury, oblivious of their wounds or even their own lives.  Limbs and even heads lay on the floor with surprisingly little blood for they had all been drained to within an ounce of life to feed the vampires and fill the great black bowls with blood.

The fight between the two Blood-Wights was intensifying, claws and fangs flying along with feathers.  Alquanessë bit her sister on the face but had her wing snapped. She collapsed backwards with a scream, Blogath leaping onto her and seizing her jaw.  The two shouted at each other for a moment before the older sister howled in rage.  Nirnadel had to do something.  “Get me to her, Baranor!” she ordered and the Guard cut a path forward.  The Princess dodged under a spiked mace and cut her attacker through the side as Blogath pulled her hand back, two taloned fingers aimed at Alquanessë’s eyes.

With a war cry, Nirnadel sliced right through the Blood-Wight’s wrist with her mithril sword.  Blogath turned, her face full of shock and surprise.  She was so intent on maiming her sister that she never saw the Princess coming.  Baranor joined her and they thrust their swords through her chest and blood burst from her mouth.  Morelen shot an arrow into Blogath’s cheek and the demon’s head snapped back, her grip on Alquanessë gone.  The younger sister swung her leg around Blogath’s neck and slammed her head into the floor with cracking sound, rolling on top of her older sister with a feral cry.

Nirnadel knew that she couldn’t dwell on this now.  It looked as if Alquanessë had defeated her older sister, so she turned towards the altar to see Valandil smash the chains that held Firiel bound to the side of the black marble and then Jaabran and Dagar carried her to safety as the knight fought on.  Mercatur was at the altar now, slicing the leather bindings on the left side that held Silmarien and Nirnadel pushed to the right side, slicing those.  Freed, the mage rolled off of the black stone as the inky cloud howled in frustration, a demonic form writhing inside, snarling.  It wanted a new form.  It wanted a soul.  What horrid spirit could this be?

Silmarien coated her staff in Silima and raised it to strike the altar and Thuringwethil clawed at her but was struck with three arrows, knocking her back a couple of steps.  Defending his cousin, Mercatur sank his axe blade into the vampire’s head, but she barely flinched.  It all seemed to flow in slow motion as she seized his head and sank her fangs into his neck.  “No!” the Princess yelled, leading the way up the steps to the altar with the Guard right behind.  She was too slow.  She couldn’t let her mercenary captain and her friend fall to that monster.

Then, there was a loud snapping sound and the tendril of power that connected Blogath, Thuringwethil, the altar and the dark cloud was blown apart. Fear on her face, the vampire tossed Mercatur’s body aside as Silmarien cried, “Stand back!” and smote the altar with her staff.  A blinding flash of light and a shockwave rippled through the room, knocking nearly everyone to the floor and spilling the bowls of blood, the source of the vampires’ power.  

Nirnadel winced as she pulled herself back to her feet, blinking her eyes to clear the white spots.  She shook her head to see Glorfindel and Gildor swinging at the vampire, but her wings were deflecting the attacks.  Thuringwethil appeared weakened though, blood streaming down her nose and from her eyes.  This was a battle of titans, a war of the gods, two of the Eldar engaged with a demon of Morgoth.  The tide had turned though.  Elrond and Gandalf moved swiftly to flank the vampire as Morelen drew another arrow to her cheek.

Without thinking twice, the Princess rushed past the altar.  She needed some tiny form of vengeance and whatever that apple was gave her strength, power and courage.  Glorfindel saw her moving up and grabbed one of the vampire’s wings as Gildor seized the other and they pulled them apart as Nirnadel plunged her sword into the demon’s chest, driving it up to the hilt and then twisted the blade as she was taught. “Back to the void, demon!” she said with a snarl as an arrow sank into the vampire’s neck, the tip going all the way through and out the back.  Thuringwethil shrieked as blood flew from her mouth and then swatted them all away, Gildor crashing into the altar.  The vampire staggered, holding her chest and tried to heal herself as Elrond raised his hand and Gandalf his staff.

A golden beam of energy came from Elrond’s ring and the staff, encasing Thuringwethil and raising her off of the ground.  “Quickly Silmarien!” the wizard called, “use the Silima!  It will rob her of her powers for a time!  Quickly!”

The mage rapidly coated the tip of her staff with the silver goo and then, with a cry of fury, shoved it into the demon’s mouth. The substance burst from her lips and flowed down her throat.  Held in the magical binding, Thuringwethil thrashed and writhed in agony, her skin shifting to silver, then black and back again, her eyes glowing silver.  “Back to the void, you fiend!” Silmarien screamed in rage at the monster who had nearly turned her into another demon.

Thuringwethil struggled, trying to tear at the magical force that held her and the wizard lowered her just a little.  “Young lady, finish it!” he called to the Princess.

The vampire began shifting forms, Queen Lossien, Silmarien, even Nirnadel, finally settling on a young Dúnadan woman with dark hair and a lovely face, her eyes pleading.  “No, please. My name is Faeleth.  I’m a prisoner in Cameth Brin.  Please don’t hurt me!”

Nirnadel paused, her mouth falling open.  The woman was a prisoner too, used by the demon. She lowered the tip of her sword.

“Faeleth is dead, Nirnadel!  Finish it!” Gandalf called again, his voice full of urgency, straining from the use of magic that was draining him.

She glanced back to see Neldis kneeling over Mercatur, holding his pale face and shrieking.  Gildor was unconscious at the altar, Alquanessë wept over her sister and nearly everyone in the party was wounded.  Silmarien stepped up.  “Do it or I will!” she said with a sneer and Nirnadel realized that this was the hard heart of Rhudaur.  So many had paid the price.  So much pain and death.  The poor maiden, Faeleth, was gone and no one was bringing her back.

“Rot in the void, demon of Morgoth,” she said and swept the tip of her sword through Thuringwethil’s throat.  Blood poured down the front of her body as she gasped, trying to breathe and speak.  There was no mercy here.  There was no compassion, only ridding the world of this monstrous evil.  In a few seconds, the light in the vampire’s eyes went out and her head slumped forward as she gurgled blood for the final time. 

The magical bindings evaporated and Elrond rushed over, spreading another cannister of Silima onto the bloody body of Faeleth, the poor maiden who served as the vessel for the demon.  The Lord of Rivendell placed his hand on the corpse and the ring glowed. The body arched and twitched but an inky cloud emerged and rose up to where Elrond cried, “Begone and haunt this world no more!” and the ring flashed, its light consuming the demon’s spirit as one final horrid shriek filled the temple.

The undead collapsed, falling to ground like marionettes with their strings cut.  And then all went quiet but for groans of the wounded and sighs of relief.  Eyes darted around, still searching for enemies or threats but just an eerie silence in the Temple of Sauron.  The Princess huffed out a few deep breaths and raised her visor. The wizard approached her, a smile with a nod and put his hand on her shoulder.  “She is gone back to the void, young lady,” he said, leaning heavily on his staff, his eyes tired.

They turned to Silmarien, who stood there, eyes still wide, stunned, her mouth open as if in a trance.  Nirnadel put her elven cloak over the mage’s bare body and Gandalf touched her, imparting some of his fading power.  Silmarien blinked, wrapping the cloak around herself.  She made eye contact, half laughing, half crying. “I…I was trying to emulate Alquanessë’s fashion trend,” she said, forcing a joke.  “Mithrandir…it’s you.  You came.”

“You couldn’t keep me away from this party,” he said, narrowing an eye and then a wink and they chuckled in voices full of fatigue. He raised his finger into the air, feeling the residue of power.  “We were fortunate.  Thuringwethil was about to fuse a demon named Agrat into you.  She was a monster that plagued the ancient world in the east for Morgoth, a vampire and a succubus.  If they had succeeded, you would have been lost forever, trapped in your own body.”

“That doesn’t sound healthy at all,” Silmarien added, snickering and stifling a sob, still shaking from the horror.  She looked down to see Neldis trying to cover Mercatur’s neck, his eyes open and unblinking.  “Oh, no…cousin, is he…?”  He had numerous other wounds and blood coated his thick chainmail.

Neldis shook her head, never taking her eyes off of the mercenary.  “There’s a pulse and he’s breathing, but nothing I do will wake him.”

Silmarien and Nirnadel knelt down as Kaile and Galadel ran up.  Lady Tinarë’s eket was coated in gore and she wiped it quickly before sheathing it.  The Princess gave them both an appreciative nod, noticing Galadel’s limp and a wound on her leg.  Mercatur’s eyes were open and his breathing unsteady, two puncture marks on his neck.  His face was almost as white as paper, framed by his curly dark brown hair and beard.  Neldis touched Nirnadel’s hand.  “I can’t wake him, Your Highness, I can’t wake him,” she said, desperately trying to control her breathing.

Nirnadel thought she saw love in the nurse’s eyes beyond the fear.  She gave her a forced smile.  “Let me take over, dear Neldis.  I am a nurse too in case you forgot.  You need a short rest, please,” she said as she slid her gauntlets off and under the nurse’s hands, applying pressure as she was taught.  “Come on, dear captain, we need you.  Please fight.”  This was a man who had become dear to her.  Someone she looked up to and considered a friend.

There was a clap behind them, and they looked up to see Elanoriel.  “You did well, young nurse, young Princess.  I will take over from here.  Nirnadel, in one, two, three,” she said and they switched places.  “Good Neldis, attend me,” she said as the nurse took Elanoriel’s pack from her belt and opened it, setting out healing supplies in a well-practiced rhythm.  The elf tilted her head at Firiel.  “Good daughter, see to the other wounded, if you please.  There is no time to waste.  Nirnadel, you can make yourself useful elsewhere.  I shall call upon you if needed.”

If anyone could help Mercatur, it was Elanoriel.  Her presence in Tharbad was a blessing and she had healing skills like no one else in the city.  Nirnadel checked in on her Guard and the cohort as they tended to wounds and bruises, helped by Firiel, Jonu and Kaile.  The armor that the Tirrim Aran wore was first rate and it showed. All of them were still standing.  Even Jaabran was back to complaining to Dagar as they watched Elanorial work on their friend.

Alquanessë knelt beside Gildor, who had just come around. She smiled down at him, cradling his cheek.  “You’ll be fine, you big dumb ranger,” she said and then kissed him on the forehead and went to her sister were Elrond and Gandalf stood.  Nirnadel joined them, removing her sallet helm and handing it to Galadel, who put it and her own helm in a sack.  Wearing armor was just as hard as wearing a royal gown with a kirtle, placket, foresleeves, a long train and a hood.  Both were weapons and defenses.

Blogath lay, rolling weakly, her skin almost translucent and pale, her neck punctured and her blood drained.  Alquanessë knelt down, her wing still broken and her body coated in blood.  “You saved me again, Your Highness,” she said, her voice laden with sadness.  “Thank you.  I never truly lost hope that my family could be saved b…but it was a false hope.”  She looked up to Elrond and Gandalf.  “I know what has to be done.  May you grant me a moment with my sister?”

Elrond nodded.  He knew what it was like to lose family.  He stepped back, holding the last container of Silima that Silmarien gave him.

Alquanessë held her sister’s good hand.  “I don’t know why I’m sorry, Sercë.  I cannot forgive you for what you have done but you are my sister, and you did one good thing at the end.”

Sercë’s eyes searched and focused on her sister.  Her breathing was raspy and shallow, almost gulping for air.  “Alqua…my sister,” she said, gurgling blood.  “I…why did I do this?” she said, her face twisting into a sob, real tears flowing down her cheeks.  “Every…thing that I did…I was lost…consumed by evil.  What…happened to me?”

The younger sister cupped Sercë’s cheek and wiped her tears.  “Remember…remember Tirith Aeluin?  When we teased Finculion about his wife and daughter?  And mother…so proud of him and all of us?”  Her own face twisted in sorrow, and she shook as Nirnadel held her from behind.

Sercë chuckled weakly, nodding.  “And when mother…gave us…the mithril brooches…one bird for each of us.”  She coughed up some blood.  “Do you…still have yours?”

Alquanessë shook her head.  “No, but I made another.  I would love to show you.”

Sercë smiled, her long, angular face relaxing as Morelen knelt down and placed her hand on the top of the Blood-Wight’s head.  “Ah, my…my dear friend.  We fought so many battles together for our people.  You…you showed me how to ride and shoot.  I am…sorry…sorry for my evil.  None of you…deserved that.”  She looked back at Alquanessë.  “I know what…you have to do, Little Swan.  You are the fairest of Irimë’s children.  Please…please find mother.  Tell her…tell her,” she began and then coughed again.

“I will…I will find her and tell her,” the younger sister said softly.

Morelen stroked Sercë’s hair.  “You were my sister in the company, the only other woman who rode and fought.  We were…unique, you and I,” she said, wiping her nose.  “I will carry your memory, and I wish to tell you that your mother is in the south.  I have worked with her on occasion, and she is healthy and well, fighting against the Court of Ardor.”

Both sisters’ eyes widened.  “That…is…a blessing,” Sercë croaked out.  “Please take…Alquanessë there.  She…needs family.  Now, my dear sister, my friend, it is time.  You must…do it.”

Elrond knelt and spread a quantity of the Silima onto Sercë’s chest and touched his ring to her face.  She grimaced and arched her back as Nirnadel gently pulled Alquanessë away.  “Don’t get too close,” the Princess whispered.  “It will harm you.”  An inky cloud rose above the Blood-Wight’s body, trying to get back to its host, groaning in an inhuman voice.  Light emitted from the ring and the cloud evaporated, leaving an empty body on the floor, mouth and eyes frozen open.  Elrond stepped back and Alquanessë dove back in, holding her sister’s face with both hands.  Then, she grabbed Nirnadel’s hand and slumped over the corpse.

The Princess’ mind was filled with visions, Sercë’s spirit streaking west and coming to rest in the vast Halls of Mandos, beyond the confines of the world.  Her spirit rose as a High Elf, staring up at a great seat, where sat a being clad in black robes with a hood, eyes shimmering.  It was Námo, known as Mandos, the Doomsman of the Valar.  With a grim expression, he pointed a pale finger at the elf and shook his head and her spirit screamed, vanishing into nothing, cast into the utter void.

Alquanessë screamed too, hugging her sister’s body as if it would spring back to life.  She sobbed, beating her fists on the lifeless chest.  “I knew this!  I knew it, but I had hoped…beyond hope that she would be forgiven.  I am so sorry, Sercë, I am so sorry.”  Then, she let out a pitiful moan, rocking back and forth. “What have I done?  What will happen to my brothers?  What will happen to me?”

Nirnadel shook from the vision.  This was where the Fëa of elves went to be judged, perhaps reincarnated as Glorfindel.  To see it happen through Alquanessë’s mind was incomprehensible.

Elrond raised them up.  “I am sorry, my kinswoman.  We are not done yet.  Your brothers still remain.”  The Blood-Wight resisted, shaking her head, her nose and eyes red but Nirnadel put her arm around her waist and guided her to the entrance of the temple.

“Come, I will be with you,” she said with compassion.  “You won’t be alone, and neither will your brothers. I could not be with my family when they passed, and it will haunt me all of my days.  You will be with them and give them comfort.  They will pass, knowing of your love.”  She pulled her friend along behind Elrond, his sons and the wizard. It felt as if she were going to see her family’s death.  The elf had seen so much of it that Nirnadel feared that her friend would break.  The raw grief that she showed with Sercë was almost too much to bear.

They went back to the dining room where Tindómeno was covered in the web and Finculion lay there, moving weakly.  They went to the older brother first, Gandalf breaking the spell and the web dissipated.  He rolled over, his face impassive, making eye contact with his sister.  “Is she…is she gone?” he asked weakly.

“She is,” Alquanessë said, her voice full of pain. “Mandos has…has judged her.”

He nodded.  “As it should be.  I am ready. Finish it,” he said without emotion.

She pushed him and he winced in pain.  “Say something.  Anything!  Thousands of years of agony and that’s all you have to say…finish it?”

He shrugged as she placed a blanket over him for warmth and dignity.  “What else is there to say?  It is time. Goodbye my sister.”

She held his hand as Elrond pulled the blanket up for a moment and applied the Silima.  “I want you to know,” she began, “that Morelen works with mother.  I will tell her of your passing.”

Tindómeno choked up.  “Mother?  What? What will you tell her of me?” he asked, sniffling.  “Will you tell her…what will you tell her?”

She touched his face lovingly.  “I will tell her of your strength and your courage.  That is all that she needs to know.”

He let out a sigh, his eyes softening.  “Thank you.  It would break her heart…it would break her heart if she knew,” he said, grasping her arm and biting his lip.  “Live in peace, my little swan.  Live your life in peace.”  He nodded to Elrond, wiping his nose.  “I am ready, my lord.  Do what you have to.”

The process repeated and Tindómeno’s spirit was whisked to the Halls of Mandos to be cast into the void.  Alquanessë clung to Nirnadel like a wet rag, beating on her friend’s back, shaking like a leaf, her face twisted in grief.  They stood, the elf’s knees wobbling, her walk unsteady as the Princess led her to Finculion.  He looked at them with a soft smile.

“Welcome back, sister.  I knew you’d be back.  And with our friend, Morelen too,” he said weakly, his breathing labored.  “Thank you for the time that we had together.  We did some good things,” he said with a faraway look.  “Remember flying and giving information to the armies of Gil-Galad?  We helped, didn’t we?”

She nodded and put her hand on his chest.  “I remember.  We did help and you were…you were my rock.  I…couldn’t have done this without you.”  She bit the back of her hand.  “Please, please, brother, will you not reconsider?  You are all that I have left.”

He shook his head with a sad smile.  “It is my time.  Let me be with my wife and daughter.  Even if Mandos obliterates me, maybe I can see them again one last time. Little Lónissë is just a toddler. I want to hold her again.”

Alquanessë shook with a sorrowful grunt.  “Please!  I…I can’t let you go,” she wailed.

Nirnadel tightened her grip as Gildor and Silmarien, now in her shredded violet robes, rushed in.  “You are with him,” the Princess cooed soothingly.  “He will go as he desires, in strength and dignity.  He will go with love and care.”  Gildor and Morelen sat and wrapped their arms around them both.

Finculion held his sister’s hand tightly.  “Nirnadel is right.  Just having you here is a blessing to me.  Whatever happens to me, I had your love.  We shook things up, didn’t we?”

Alquanessë nodded, letting out a slow moan. “Yes…yes we did,” she said, looking at him and then away.  “Finculion…we found mother…well Morelen did.  I will…I will tell her…I will tell her,” she tried to say and broke down. “Please don’t go,” she begged.

He held her hand but looked up at Elrond and nodded. “I am ready.”  He looked back at his sister.  “You are free, little swan.  You are free.  Live your life.  Give mother my best.  I hope one day to meet you and mother in the Blessed Realm.”

Elrond knelt and applied almost the last of the Silima onto Finculion.  “You were brave, my kinsman.  Our people will mourn you and know that your sister will have a place in Rivendell and that she will be cared for and protected.”

Finculion nodded.  “That is most kind, thank you,” he said and Elrond placed the ring on his chest where light engulfed them and his spirit was gone.

Again, Nirnadel could see his energy whisked to the West, settling in the vast Halls of Mandos.  He coalesced into a translucent form, kneeling down before the massive seat of the Doomsman.  Námo pushed his hood back, revealing a stern, pale face, raising his finger at the elf. “Finculion,” he said, his voice filling and reverberating through the corridors and pillars.  “Of your siblings, your life warrants mercy.”  Finculion’s mouth fell open, stunned at the forgiveness he received.  Mandos stood and guided the him to a massive tapestry where a female elf was weaving next to a woman of inhuman beauty, whose face was sad but focused. Tapestries lined the walls as far as the eye could see.

The woman looked to him as he approached.  “I am Vairë,” she said in a reverberating voice that filled his whole being.  “I am the Weaver of the story of Arda.  This is Míriel Sirindë, the first wife of High King Finwë, your grandfather.  You will meet him soon along with many of your relatives whom you have missed.  Míriel weaves the tale of your family in particular,” the Valier added and then went back to her work.

Míriel stopped and smiled at him, gesturing to the tapestry. He saw weavings of his entire life and the lives of his siblings.  “May I call you grandson?” she asked, touching his face.  He nodded, unable to speak.  The latest image of him was with a smile, surrounded by friends and family. Two women stood before him in the weaving, joy on their faces.

He put his hands over his heart.  “I…I am home,” he said, shaking before the majesty, power and mercy of Mandos.

The Valar nodded.  “Come Míriel, let us introduce him to his kin.  They will be glad to meet him.”

They walked a short way before elves, reimbodied in the Halls, walked quickly up to him, smiles on all faces.  His uncle, Fingolfin, his cousins, Fingon and Turgon and his grandfather, Finwë.  They embraced him, even his spirit having substance.  They laughed and welcomed him and then, he saw them, Ectelissë and his daughter, Lónissë, who was no more than a toddler when he last saw her, now a grown woman.  He fell to his knees, sobbing joyful tears.  “Thank you!  Thank you, merciful Námo!  I cannot…This is…,” he stammered until his wife pulled him up into an embrace.  After more than four-thousand seven hundred long years, they were together as family again.

The vision faded and Alquanessë wept, this time in joy. She grabbed Nirnadel and Gildor tightly. “They’re gone, they’re gone, but my brother will live.  Blessed, merciful Mandos, he will live.  I am torn apart but I am hopeful.”

The Princess held her friend’s face, a bittersweet smile on her lips.  “You have been an inspiration for me, helped to teach me who I am, what I am.  I idolize you and I am ever so glad…so proud that I can give back even a tiny amount of what you have given me.  Whatever I can do to help you heal, I am here for you as you were for them.”

Alquanessë snorted out a chuckle, wiping the snot from her nose.  “I am nearly forty-eight hundred years old, and you are not yet eighteen and I live in the shadow of your wisdom and inner strength.  I am…I am…forever…forever in your debt, my dear princess,” she said and then bit her knuckle hard as they rocked with her.

Nirnadel’s heart was full.  Something good had come from all of this evil.  “I was going to say that it would be impossible for me to outshine your wisdom and strength, but I will accept the compliment with grace and thank you.”  Her heart also cried out for all who were lost, even the tribesmen who were enticed and deceived into fighting for Thuringwethil.

Elrond turned to them.  “I grieve with you, and we will honor them and those who sacrificed to end this evil.  But there is one final matter, my ladies.  Alquanessë, there is enough Silima for one final dose.  Do you wish the cure?”

The Blood-Wight blew out a long breath, thinking.  “I…I wish to wait, Lord Elrond.  I feel that I still may do good as I am…a demon of Morgoth, able to fight the demons of Morgoth.”

He nodded.  “I believe…I believe that is a good decision.  Your powers made a difference today as did those of this young princess. The elves will not forget what happened here nor everyone who fought to end this darkness.”

They placed Finculion’s arms over his chest as Gandalf started to recite an incantation to cleanse the temple once and for all.  Nirnadel was exhausted as the adrenaline wore off but she went back to Galadel.  “Lady Tinarë, you are hurt,” she said, pointing to the gash on her leg below the mithril chain shirt.

Galadel smiled with a chuckle.  “I could dance right now.  I cannot believe that we survived this.”

They all moved back to the temple where Elanoriel and Firiel continued to work furiously on Mercatur, frustration on their faces.  Kaile came right over.  “That was…I don’t think that I’ll eat or sleep for a year after that,” she said and pointed Galadel over to a place on the floor as Gandalf continued the incantation.  Galadel hesitated, waving the other lady off until Nirnadel grabbed her by the arms and guided her to the spot.

“Eh eh ehhh, you are going to be looked at by good Lady Kaile.  You dragged me into treatment, so I am returning the favor,” the Princess said sternly and then leaned in to whisper into her ear.  “Otherwise, I will have to reveal your secret,” she said mischievously.

Galadel’s face went wide with horror, her mouth open. “Wha…?  What are you talking about?  What secret?” she asked as Kaile applied a numbing agent to the cut.

Nirnadel made a little rubbing motion between her legs. “We hear you, you know.”

Lady Tinarë’s face went red, her hands over her mouth. “Oh…I…oh…!”

Kaile snickered as she stitched up the wound and applied a poultice over it.  “Don’t worry, only Her Highness and I know…ummm and Lady Éanfled…and the cats.”

“What?” Galadel said in horror, covering her face.

Nirnadel put on a motherly expression, nodding with mock wisdom.  “Ah, don’t be embarrassed, my good lady, everyone does it.  You know, I caught Kaile-”

Kaile’s face twisted in shock and betrayal.  “What, you fiend!  I caught you!  And I told you that!”

The Princess let out a belly laugh.  “Details, details.  Fine, I cannot lie.  She caught me and told me what I told you.  That was when were giggling and woke you and Éanfled up.”

“And Anariel came in and scolded us,” Kaile added with a sour, skeptical expression.  “See how much trouble Her Highness gets us in?”

Galadel rolled her eyes.  “Yes, fine, fine, yes.  I will endeavor to be quieter.”

Nirnadel patted Galadel on the shoulder as Haedorial came up with the cats and handed them to her, little Gîliel climbing up onto her armored shoulder.  She looked around the room to see what was happening.  The Guard had already dressed their injuries and were ready.  Elrond was instructing Glorfindel to ride to the Tirthon and check on the people there, letting them know that the evil had been defeated and that they would stay here for the night and join him in the morning.

She then saw Mercatur, still comatose, his eyes wide open. She walked over to see how they were progressing.  Neldis’ worried expression had deepened.  She squatted down on the other side of his body next to Firiel.  “How may I be of help, Lady Elanoriel?”

The elf shook her head.  “I have him stabilized,” she said with a sigh, “but this is not a wound that is common or that many survive.  We will need to treat him in Imladris.  Even then, it’s fifty-fifty.”  She looked up.  “But you have my word that he will receive the best care that I have to offer.”  She gave the Princess a tired smile.  “And besides, it is time for me to return home. I will grudgingly admit that my time in your city was…exciting and…fulfilling.  Your mannish music is quite interesting, full of life.”

She was disappointed, but it was something to be expected.  “I will be sad to see you go, Lady Elanoriel.  You brought so much to our lives, and I will always honor that.  I do hope to see you again though.”

The elf scoffed.  “Oh, but of course, young lady.  I will have to see our fine mercenary home once he is healed,” she said hopefully.  “And I do expect an invitation to your grand wedding where my daughter will wed her brave knight and good nurse Kaile will wed as well to that fine young man.  I have many…suggestions for the décor and you will need them.”

“But of course,” the Princess answered.  “And you will have my support to enact them.”

Neldis moved over to Elanoriel, her expression defeated. “Please do what you can for him,” she said hopefully.  Then, she looked at the healers and Nirnadel.  “And…and Coru is dead.  Thuringwethil killed her.”

Shocked, the Princess shot up, looking around for the nurse as did Firiel, her face twisted in horror.  “Oh no!  Coru? What happened?”

Neldis bit her thumb at first, looking away.  “I was…was tempted by the demon.  She…offered me…nevermind.  I defied her and she said she would kill me.  Coru pushed me away and it…it killed her.  It should have-”

Firiel let out a low moan, her face showing deep anguish and then wrapped Neldis and Nirnadel up in a hug.  Elanoriel joined them.  “No, Neldis, no,” Firiel said.  “Dear Coru was brave.  She gave you gift.  Honor it. We will mourn her, but I am so glad that you are alive.  You are all like my children.”

“The cost has been high today,” Nirnadel said.  “Madron died because of my decision and my dear knight, Sergeant Cedhron as well.  Coru was under my care as I am the royal member of this expedition and I, too, worked beside her in the Houses.  The safety of each and every one of you is my responsibility.  It is…the weight of the crown,” she said solemnly.

Neldis tried to smile and Nirnadel saw an odd look about her as if she were holding something back.  Maybe she was just tired.  Elanoriel hugged the two tightly.  “Coru was a valued member of our team.  I know that my exterior may be a little…abrasive, but I cherish every one of you.  I know when you wake, what you like to eat, who likes whom, your friends and relatives. As with Firiel, you are my children too. I will be sure to add the names of the fallen to our memorial in Imladris.  They will be remembered, this I swear.”  She gestured to the mercenary.  “We will move him tomorrow.  For now, we should rest.”

Nirnadel was having trouble keeping her eyes open at this point.  She couldn’t recall the last time she had slept or eaten.  “That is an excellent idea,” she said as she tried to remove the leather straps holding her pauldron in place.  Galadel limped up with Kaile, and they began removing the Princess’ armor and laying it on the floor along with the gauntlets and helm.  The padded gambeson and breeches came off last, leaving her in just a linen chemise.  Baranor came up and laid blankets on the ground for them and Nirnadel plopped down. “I couldn’t wait to get out of that. It was getting a little tight up top,” she said, noticing that her chest was a little more filled out.  She raised an eyebrow but was too tired to say anything. Galadel and Kaile lay down beside her and she gestured to Neldis and Alquanessë.  “Please join us.  It will be warmer and more comfortable here,” she said and they came over and lay down in a pile, fast asleep in minutes.

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.

nêl-i-fingel – a wide bladed dagger, akin to the Spanish Cinquedea.

Pauldron – plate armor that covers the shoulder.

Barbute – a conical helmet with a T shaped opening for vision and breathing.

Fëa – spirit

Hröa – body

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Chapter End Notes

I'm doing a little flashbacking to bring the characters to the present and explain how Morelen arrived.  There's some overlap, looking at the different character POVs.