Lost Tales from Middle-earth

Alcariniel and Rhaweth

Rhaweth woke up. Instinctively, her hand reached to the scar that crossed her left eye. It always had been to her a reminder of the day she should have died. A reminder of her strength and her weakness. A reminder of the reason why she had, for her whole life, fought the monsters of Shadow, whilst everyone rejoiced at the fall of Morgoth. She had never believed that it was over, warning the People of Middle-earth that she felt a darkness ahead, but not one paid heed to her words, as she was mistrusted among the Free People.

When she had returned to the Elves from what seemed to her kin as death, after a hundred years of training the beast inside of her, she was welcomed, as she was loved, especially by a few that included her cousin and the elves of Beleriand, and she had told none of her Curse, as she knew that none would then accept her.

Although it had many disadvantages, Rhaweth loved to be a Wolf. She could smell and hear far better than any living thing and could outrun the swiftest of the Maearas. In that form, she was free. She tried not to take it a much as possible, for every time she changed it became harder to become once again an Elf. It was not that she was weak and that the Wolf in her took over, but it was that sometimes she felt like she could stay a Wolf for ever. But she couldn't. She had duties. Duties to protect the people of Middle-earth.

She was much aggrieved when, as she had foreseen, Gorthaur rose once again. Artanis, more commonly known as Galadriel had then hid her against her wishes, to protect her from harm, but Alcariniel, as her birth name was, had escaped and fought the ruthless armies of the Dark Lord. She had killed many a Valarauko, countless Orcs, many other fell beasts, and helped the dwarves and the men in their fight against him.

So many battles had she fought. Dagor-nuin-Giliath. Dagor Aglareb. Dagor Bragollach, after which Fingolfin her uncle had been slain in a combat against Morgoth.

Yet the worst was Nirnaeth Arnoediad, though, where she had thought that all was lost.

When the War of Wrath had ended, and her seven brothers had died or were, for one, said to be ghosts, she had felt relieved, believing that all was over and that no more Elven lives would be lost, so she died to the eyes of the world, until only six people knew that she was still alive.

She wanted peace.

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Rhaweth was skilled in the art of killing monsters, whether it be by arrow, by blade, by spear or, if she had nothing else, by bite, far more than most Elves that walked upon the soil of Middle-earth, for every day of her life she had trained with the best masters of her time: Fairetyelpë son of Finwë, Fingolfin son of Finwë, Elvëander son of Olwë, Glorfindel and Ecthelion, who she had grown up with and taught with, before they died or disappeared.

Fingolfin, though hated by her father, had always been nice to her, yet had died.

Fairetyelpë had been her uncle, the twin brother of Fëanor, and he had perished during the Fall of Gondolin.

Elvëander had been Fairetyelpë's best friend, and they would spend days together, yet he had perished alongside Fairetyelpë.

Glorfindel and Ecthelion had been friends to her, even if they had been closer to her uncle, yet they too had died, though Glorfindel had come back, and was one of the only ones aware of her true identity.

Nowadays, she was with Glorfindel one of the only one of her friends, a group of the mightiest elves to ever live, left, so one of the two greatest warriors alive of Middle-earth.

She had become, as the second Dark Lord had foretold, a deadly weapon, but turned against him as he had feared.

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In the end, the last battle she had fought was the one of Dagorlad, where she had stayed far from Oropher, King of Greenwood, a luxuriant and beautiful forest which she dearly loved, and of Thranduil, his son, for she did not wish for the two elves to see her.

She had survived it, as very few had, and fought during the battles that came after, of the Last Alliance, and to her dismay, seen Gil-galad and Elendil, her friends, fall. She was with Isildur when he took the One Ring for himself and rejected her and Elrond's counsel to cast the Ring into the fire of Amon Amarth.

Elrond had restrained her from just taking the Ring from him by force to throw it herself in the red-glowing pit.

For a few centuries after the fall of Sauron she had lived with her cousin in Lothlórien until, but for the second time, the first shall come later, she was called by the Wild and left, roaming Middle-earth, sometimes as an Elf, sometimes as a Wolf, until she knew the tongue of every beast, until she knew every bush, every thorn, every cliff and tree more than she knew herself.

She never long stayed in one place, no more than a month, for her predicament refrained her from it.

All had heard of her, but under the name she had taken after the battle in which Gorthaur was defeated by Isildur: Rhaweth the Wild. She no longer felt worthy of the name that was given to her by her mother: Alcariniel the Glorious. She could bear the weight of it no longer. Her second name was Ruivewen, the Wildfire, which her father had given her.

Alcariniel Ruivewen had been loved and revered. Rhaweth was hated and feared.