[Ealasaide]

Naiore

A cold smile of satisfaction touched Naiore's fair lips as she felt the tremor of a familiar emotion flicker across Léspheria's consciousness before another wall fell into place, hiding her cousin’s fear. Fear. Yes, Naiore had sensed its presence even as Léspheria fought to conceal it. She was afraid. Fear in one of the Eldar sounded to many like discord in the Music of the Ainur, a false chord, strident and misplaced amongst the deep strata of overlapping harmonies, but to Naiore it carried an echo of beauty. From whence did those notes spring? Withdrawing her mind from that of her cousin, Naiore’s beautiful smile faded as the question that had haunted her for nearly the whole of her long existence, rose again in her thoughts. Where does fear spawn? Someday, the answer to that question would lie within her grasp. Perhaps soon.

Hearing the distant voices of her pursuers growing ever closer, Naiore turned her attention to matters of more immediate concern. She would come back to Léspheria later, when the time was right. But now, two of her own erstwhile traveling companions approached the very tree in which Naiore had concealed herself. She removed the gray arrow from her bowstring, and slid silently down from her vantage point in the tree to a place of concealment on the ground.

“...help each other out if things go wrong,” said Avanill softly to Vanwe, as the two of them rode slowly along the wooded path. “That is, if you yourself choose to stay with me.”

Naiore’s gaze flicked coolly over the two, assessing their weapons, their state of readiness. She saw instantly that while the young merchant was armed with both bow and sword, he foolishly carried neither at the ready. The bow was carried loosely in his hand, with no arrow nocked to the string. Vanwe wore only a small knife tucked safely into her belt. It took but an instant for Naiore to cast her mind outward, to determine that the others were far enough distant not to present a threat to her. Menecin, the closest one to her location, was moving away, in the direction of the river, following the trail left by her abandoned horse. These two were alone. As Vanwe murmured her response to Avanill, the merchant suddenly dismounted and walked to the base of the tree in which Naiore had so recently been hiding. He gazed upward. Vanwe grew suddenly stiff and silent as Naiore’s voice pierced her consciousness. Be very still, my daughter, my dear, purred Naiore. And no harm shall come to you. Say not a word and no harm shall come to you...

Unaware, Avanill turned toward Vanwe. “As we rode up, I thought...” his voice trailed off as he caught sight of the stricken expression on the young elf’s face. “What is it?” he asked, reaching over his shoulder for an arrow to put to the bow in his hand. He stopped in mid-motion as Naiore stepped out from her place of concealment, her bow now slung and one of her curved swords ready in her hand. She watched as he blanched at the sight of her, the blood draining tellingly from his face. He regained his composure quickly, but the damage had already been done. Naiore could feel his fear rise. His arm still raised over his shoulder, he twisted the nock of one arrow thoughtfully between his fingertips then slowly, very slowly, drew it from the quiver. His dark blue eyes met hers in a plucky attempt at fearlessness.

“My lady!” he exclaimed. “You gave a me fierce start. I didn’t expect to find you here.” He nodded toward Vanwe. “See what I have brought you? I got her back. The others suspect nothing.”

Vanwe’s blue eyes widened in surprise at the young merchant’s treacherous words. Her mouth dropped open to cry out, to object, to accuse, but no sound escaped other than a soft, wordless moan, like the coo of a dove.

Naiore smiled. “For me? How kind.” Still holding her curved sword at the ready, she stepped between Avanill and his horse, effectively separating him from a chance at flight. To Vanwe, she said, “Dismount, my dear. It is so good that my loyal friend, Avanill, has seen fit to re-unite us.” As Vanwe silently slid from her saddle, Naiore turned once again to Avanill. “You are loyal are you not?” she asked smoothly. “Or is it something else you have brought for me? Tell me. Tell me everything.” She stepped nearer.

Nervously, the young man licked his lips. As his eyes flicked to the arrow in his hand and back to Naiore, the Ravenner suddenly knew all. His words meant nothing. The arrow was what he had brought for her. A sudden flare of anger rose in her breast as the full extent of this young man’s hubris became clear. He meant to lie to her, to deceive her as he might some poor, backcountry farmer. Then he meant to kill her, not openly in battle, but by deceit and treachery, by mere sleight of hand and the use of a poisoned arrow. Naiore would simply not allow it. This no one, this pretender, would not be the one to destroy the dire Ravenner of Mordor. Subduing her sense of outrage, Naiore also felt a spark of excitement as she studied the young man’s handsome face. It would be a pleasure to kill him, to bathe in his fear as the realization struck him that he had failed.

Avanill smiled. His expression was ingratiating and confident. “I had planned to break from the others as soon as I could separate Vanwe from the group. Now that I have her, it is fortunate that you have found us. It had been troubling me as to how I would be able to find you, that I might deliver your daughter into your hands once more.”

“Troubling, indeed,” said Naiore mildly. Her eyes lit on the bow he still held loosely at his side. “I know that weapon,” she said. Abruptly, she held out the gloved hand that did not hold her sword. “May I see it?”

Avanill hesitated, then handed over the Bard’s heavy bow. His other hand tightened around the haft of the arrow.

“A beautiful thing,” said Naiore softly, as her graceful fingers closed around the carved wood. “And so deadly in the right hands.”

“I would think that is part of its beauty,” said Avanill suavely. His voice still sounded calm and pleasantly ingratiating, but Naiore could feel the current of tension and fear that rushed like a rain-swollen river beneath his cool exterior. Her sharp eyes caught the ghost of a tremor in his hands, as he suddenly proffered the arrow. “See... see even the artistry of the arrow maker. The arrow, too is a thing of beauty.”

Artless, thought Naiore. His effort to get near her with the point of the arrow was clumsy and sadly transparent. She smiled and put aside the Bard’s beautiful bow, so similar in design to her own, leaning it against a nearby tree trunk. Then, she sheathed her sword.

“The arrow is indeed a thing of beauty,” said Naiore. “Even more so when it is in flight.” She reached out to take the arrow. As her hand moved toward the shaft, Avanill suddenly lunged forward, flicking the point toward her face with a viper’s quickness. Expecting the move, Naiore fell to a crouch, the arrow’s point missing her by a safe margin. As she dropped, she struck out with one of her legs, sweeping the young man’s unsuspecting feet from under him. He landed in a heap on the forest floor. Naiore sprang and, before he knew what had happened, she had him pinned with her knee on his chest, one hand holding her Noldorin dagger to his throat. With surprising strength, her other hand forced Avanill’s arm and the hand that held the arrow to the ground. Behind her, Vanwe released a sharp cry of horror and surprise.

“Quiet!” snapped Naiore, her clear eyes never leaving Avanill’s terrified face. Instantly Vanwe fell silent, but Naiore knew she had to dispatch the merchant quickly. Sadly, there would be no time to explore the depths of his fear. Watching Vanwe from the corner of her eyes, Naiore saw the young elf hovering just beyond the Ravenner’s left shoulder, trapped in hesitation between flight and coming to her companion’s aid. Suddenly, Vanwe came to a decision.

“No!” she cried and sprang forward. Forgetting the knife in her belt, she picked up the heavy elven bow that belonged to her father and, wielding it with both hands like a club, swung it wildly at her mother’s head. Deftly, Naiore ducked the blow and with a face serene as that of a marble statue, plunged her dagger home. The blade entered Avanill’s throat just above his Adam’s apple and cut upwards toward the place where his spine joined his skull. As a warm gush of crimson spurted out to stain Naiore’s inky leathers anew with blood, Avanill’s body shuddered once and was still, his face frozen in a mask of horror and disbelief. The hand holding the poisoned arrow fell impotently open.

Vanwe struggled to regain her balance, having been thrown off by the momentum of her swing. Snatching the poisoned arrow from Avanill’s dead hand, Naiore rose to face her daughter. Knowing that she could not defeat Naiore hand to hand and that her companion could no longer help her, Vanwe lowered the bow and fell back a step toward her horse. Still holding her blood-stained dagger at the ready, Naiore added Avanill’s arrow to the quiver on her back, knowing that she could identify it by the touch, the fletchings being oddly notched and different from her own. Smiling again, but with eyes as cold as starlight, Naiore moved toward her retreating daughter.

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Hilde Bracegirdle's Post - Menecin


The elf reined in his horse. The sound of something stirring at the water's edge had reached his ears, now still as the mountains behind him he listened, a darker silhouette in the night. And though the breeze bore with it no additional warning, chariness prevented Menecin from moving further along the river. Dagger in hand he slid from his mount, drawn to the water's edge.

There under the clear sky, he came across a sleek mare that had dared slake its thirst by a dark pool and was unable to free itself. Though neither tethered nor tied, Naiore's weary mount was held fast, its tangled reins dripping with stagnant water. The discarded creature bowed its head, sadly watching the slow moving Gladden with resignation.

Nowhere could Menecin see Naiore, or the least sign of her passing. Had she then chosen to wait and watch hidden among the reeds? Or perhaps enshrouded by the night, she still continued this hurried journey? And as he searched the terrain for her, his eyes fell upon the dimly glinting Anduin, flowing ever south in the distance, and with sadness he recalled Lórinand of old, like a reflection of light from the west, a jewel concealed beside the Great River. But beyond that once fair realm, he knew lay dusty Dagorlad; bordered by the treacherous marshes where so many of Lord Gil-galad's forces had become lost. And others, returning, whispered tales of a beautiful elf maid who had ridden at the forefront, captain of a host of Mordor. Naiore's appearance had inspired fear, as The Dark Lord sought to drive a wedge of mistrust deep into the alliance. Would she then seek to retreat behind the stonewalls of Ered Lithui as had her master, awaiting a siege, or plan reprisal as she roamed blighted Gorgoroth, remembering?

The horse blew in excited greeting as the elf waded into the water to free it. Quickly sheathing his knife, he deftly unwound the strips of sodden leather, speaking in low tones to the creature as he listened for the least crackling among the weeds. All was deceptively peaceful. If Naiore had fled, crossing the water, she would not long be idle. And in his heart Menecin with dread knew she would not flee. Not without ensuring that they would no longer pursue her. She would cripple them if she could, and they had played into her hands. "Vanwe," he whispered. How blind he had been, following this false trail away from her!

With great noise and haste Menecin led the mare to where his own horse waited. And still grasping its lead, he swung into the saddle pulling the dun's nose back in the direction he had come. Naiore's mare might be required to bear her yet a little while longer. Gripping its reins in his left hand, he kicked his mount sharply and set off, threading his way rapidly though the fen.

When the moon had climbed high and Menecin had almost reached the spot where he thought to leave the water's edge, he heard a cry far upstream. Brief and troubled, it was Léspheria he recognized, calling out to Vanwe and Avanill. But where then was Amandur? Immediately Menecin let go the spare horse, sending it galloping forward along a deer's path that led away from the bank, while he followed a short distance behind. But he had only gone a few yards when a clear whistling bird called out, as though disturbed. It was a signal such as he had heard before in Ithilien, a warning from Amandur. And he knew then the danger was not to be found with them, but with the others.

His heart became stone as he veered off the path, and his horse's hooves churned the earth, galloping with all speed over the soft ground at the river's edge. Menecin did not slow, not until he heard to his right, his daughter's voice and Naiore rebuking her. Only then did he allow the beast to rest as he suddenly stopped, closing the last stretch on foot.

Silently approaching with weapon readied, he saw Naiore standing with her back to him, effortlessly slipping an arrow into the slender quiver poised between her shoulders. It was the heavier arrow Avanill had prepared, his own arrow that she placed beside her own, so finely fletched. And at her foot lay the merchant, unblinking and unseeing. Menecin was staring down at the young man with regret, when he felt a familiar intrusive presence slip like a shade through his mind, searching. Even as Naiore stepped over the body to stop in front of her daughter, Menecin felt he had been expected. The bard looked up to see Vanwe's surreptitious glance, her eyes quickly darting to her mother at the sight of the gleaming blade in his hand.

Barely distinguishable from his own at first, a persistent thought broke through catching hold of his reluctance, So this is love, Menecin? What is it that you have come to do? But Menecin stilling his mind, stood mutely behind the Ravennor, looking slowly from the bloodied dagger held firmly in Naiore's hand to his daughter who stood just an arm's length before her, a mirrored image of Naiore in her youth. What stays your hand? the Ravennor taunted him in silence. Is this ignominious ending, not to your taste? You know it is in your power, Menecin, to choose another, but do you have the strength? You can avert this bloodshed, if you so wish. The coils tightened for a moment, stirring old and pleasant memories before vanishing altogether as Naiore quickly slipped her free arm around Vanwe, walking her away from Avanill's body to more sheltered ground. Then gently spinning her around, side by side they both faced Menecin. "There is a strong resemblance, is there not?" she asked smoothly.

A grim smile rose to the bard's lips, as he followed them. "Sadly there is little resemblance, Naiore. For you have ripened to cruelty having had every advantage, and she, though born to cruelty has grown to possess great strength of heart and a noble spirit." He shook his head, a piercing glance still fixed on Naiore, "But such traits are of no account to you, though I would that it was otherwise."

"You too have strength of heart, Menecin. But did you not at first show me this path I have set my foot on? And now there is so very little time left to prove yourself. Your fledgling family will soon be scattered once more, beyond all reconciliation. Yet perhaps not all is irretrievable, there remain a few moments still. You must choose quickly."

Then Vanwe spoke softly, seeing her father's quandary. "Father, Amandur is a honorable man, he does not seek my mother's death."

Menecin addressed her earnestly, "Yes, he is a good man. But I cannot speak of the others she would encounter, even were the King and Queen themselves to moderate their judgment. And your mother prefers her own methods of defense. I see no good thing would come of the path." Then hearing the dull pounding of horses approaching he turned quickly to Naiore, "I will go with you, if you so wish."

With a smile, the Ravennor nodded directing Vanwe to recover Menecin's bow and arrows. But the elf stopped his daughter, announcing in a commanding voice, "No Naiore, we will go into the east alone and unarmed. Vanwe has served her purpose for you."

With the horses almost upon them, the Ravennor's smile broadened, and grabbing Vanwe she placed the red smeared dagger against her fair throat. "No, Menecin, she has one last function to perform, and you, one last chance to save her. Kill the ranger, Menecin. Kill Amandur and I will go with you as you said, alone and unarmed."