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Naiore
Naiore re-entered the vale of Imladris from the north, following the same hidden pathway that she had made use of before. She moved quickly along the narrow path, her figure a mere shadow flitting between the gray tree trucks as she made her way back toward her place of concealment. She had tarried too long in the night, taking too much time over the serendipitous reunion with Barrold Ferny, which, in turn, had made her late in returning from her scouting run across the river. Now, as dawn’s first pale fingers of light traced across the valley, she raced to reach her vantage point in the trees before the elves of Imladris awoke and began to stir about in any true numbers.
Today. A soft smile of anticipation touched the corners of the Ravenner’s shapely lips. Something deep within her told her that today would be the day that she exacted her revenge. This gentle dawn that made the morning dew shimmer silver against the pale greens and deep browns of the forest floor, would end in a dark cast of red. She touched the hilt of her Noldorin dagger. Today, Vanwe would bring her Menecin. The waiting would be at an end.
Smiling to herself, she skirted the edge of a thick patch of undergrowth. She had only to cross the narrow rill that lay ahead. Beyond that, only a hundred more paces or so would deliver her to the vantage point she had occupied since her arrival. She would be there in no time, but she must hurry. As she broke from the cover of the underbrush, she stopped abruptly. An elven male knelt before her on the path, barring her way, his dark head bent toward the ground studying the faint mark of a single footprint. Hers? Naiore’s clear eyes narrowed, her hand closing around the hilt of her dagger. He must not be allowed to live and raise the alarm.
She drew her dagger and, moving soundlessly, slid toward him. With luck, she could cut his throat before he even became aware of her presence. She must be silent and sure.
Naiore was almost upon him when suddenly he looked up, his piercing blue eyes meeting hers. Naiore froze. For a fleeting instant, she was paralyzed by a rush of conflicting emotion... shock, disbelief... triumph. She should have known him at once. A single glance should have confirmed the line of his shoulders, the long-fingered hands, even the wave of his hair. She knew him that well, as she was sure he knew her. Deftly concealing her drawn dagger, Naiore held her ground. A falsely loving smile played across her face.
“Menecin!” she purred. “at last I have found you...” Vanwe had not failed her.
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