Airerūthiel knew that the memories of Orcs were long and bitter; they did not like to leave a job unfinished, and she knew what she was to them. No doubt the 'defeat' at the house of the White Horse - when looked at in the fact that one was left alive when the order was to slay all within - had been branded onto the minds of these creatures, in the manner of something a child unwittingly does and is threatened with punishment should it happen again. She would not escape them a second time, unless...unless she stood beside the older members of the company and fought along with them.
With a roar that echoed off every surface in the vicinity and surprised even the wargs momentarily, she drew Minyacirith and dived into the fray. For someone so young, her blade skills were excellent; several Orcs fell with one single sweep straight through their necks, their heads rolling away like rather large and quite frankly ugly-looking stones. She then turned back to the company, feeling fairly pleased with herself. They were nowhere to be seen.
And now the Gondorian shieldmaiden tasted fear. She was dimly aware of something creeping up behind her, ready to strike at a moment's notice, and only turned in the last second to see a wild warg approaching her. Foaming spittle dripped from the creature's knife-like dirty yellow fangs as it stared straight at her, its eyes blazing with intent to kill. On its back was an Orc archer, his bow ready to fire an arrow directly into her heart.
Airerūthiel's blood pounded in her ears like carmine waves in a stone, seeming to drown out everything else she ever heard. She knew this face. The Orc facing her was all too familiar to her. He had killed her family, and she had sworn to make him pay for his crime. But now he would finish the job he had set out to complete five years before.
Running would be useless. She had left herself no choice. It was either stand and fight, or stand and die. Her sword raised before her face and dancing in the sparse light like a marriage of fire and ice, she prepared to face her fate...
~*~*~*~*~
Meanwhile, the rest of the battle had progressed further ahead of the half-Elf without much more of a hitch. The grass ran with rivers of red, sickening to the eye, as few were left alive. Those that escaped a fate too good for them at the hand of one of the travellers rode off back east, determined never to lay eyes on these vengeful comrades until they passed through the gates of hell.
"Are we all here?" Khōrbar asked the world in general. After running a quick head count, he mentally calculated that against the number who he had originally met. Minus Min and the three children, that left...
"One of us is missing," he said in a grave voice, scanning the group to check who had vanished. Seeing the riderless Sérė walking a little way behind the other horses, he asked no-one in particular, "Where is Airerūthiel?"
The silence could have drowned out a great battle of the Third Age as it lay heavy on the hearts of the friends. Elentari was particularly unsettled by this news. The maiden had been kind to her and did not desert her when everyone else seemed to have abandoned her. She was worried about her young friend, who had seen so much tragedy and sadness although she had not seen a score of winters in Middle-earth.
"At least she died fighting," said Lorin eventually. "I think she wanted to go that way. She can finally be with her family; I know how important they were to her." She sighed heavily. "But 'tis not right that one so young should give her life so that we might live."
"We shall take Sérė with us," said Elentari. "If we cannot bury the dead and honour them while doing so, the least we can do is care for her only legacy to us."
The company set off, their hearts saddened by the loss of a brave warrior and loyal friend. Even Khōrbar's mood was slightly dampened, as he tried to unravel the mysteries of his past and the memories of that young yet haunted face...
~*~*~*~*~
Night fell like a midnight velvet cloak buttoned down with pinpricks of starlight. Beneath her dark cloak, which she feebly pulled around her for warmth, Airerūthiel lay as still as the ice on the river in midwinter. Her face was the colour of the first blanket of unblemished snow; the warg attack and subsequent fight had caused her to lose a lot of blood, which spurted briskly from an open wound. She hoped that either death's sweet kiss would visit her before the dawn covered the world, or that someone with a true heart and an honourable nature would help her.
[ January 20, 2003: Message edited by: Airerūthiel ]
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