His Queen

Chapter 36 - Alana

Alana's feet pounded against the rough, blood-stained ground as she sprinted across the battlefield. Her heart thumped in her chest, a steady rhythm keeping her grounded amidst the chaos surrounding her. The pungent stench of sweat, blood, and fear filled her nostrils, nearly suffocating her, but she forced herself to push forward.

Her sword glinted in the sunlight as she swung it with precision, cutting down any orc foolish enough to come within striking distance. Despite the violence raging around her, Alana kept her focus sharp, scanning for any sign of her cousin, Kitra. She had caught a glimpse of the Warg carrying Aragorn and Kitra towards the cliffs, but lost sight of them in the frenzy of battle. A gnawing worry consumed her, but she pushed it aside, knowing that she must stay vigilant.

As the battle slowly died down and the remaining Wargs retreated or lay dead on the ground, Alana finally caught sight of Aragorn standing alone at the edge of the cliff. His chest heaved with exertion, his hair tangled and matted from the fight. But it wasn't weariness that caused a knot to form in Alana's stomach - it was the look of despair etched on his face as he stared down into the abyss below.

With urgency propelling her forward, Alana hastened towards him, calling out his name. "Aragorn! Where is Kitra?"

He didn't respond immediately, his hand tightly clenched around something as his gaze remained fixed on the edge of the cliff where the Warg had disappeared. Fear gripped Alana's heart as she quickened her pace until she was standing beside him, breathless with anxiety.

"Aragorn!" she repeated urgently, desperation creeping into her voice. "Where is she?"

Aragorn slowly turned away from the edge of the cliff, his face etched with deep sorrow and grief. He opened his hand, revealing two bloodied, orc-slaying blades that had been gifted to Kitra by Galadriel. Alana's breath caught in her throat as she took in the sight. The blades lay motionless in Aragorn's palm, stained with the blood of their enemies.

"She... she fell," Aragorn's voice was heavy with emotion. "She freed my hand, but we couldn't stop the Warg. It went over the cliff... and she with it."

Alana felt as if the world had frozen around her. Her eyes shifted between Aragorn's stricken face and the bloodied blades he held. Kitra was gone? The words didn't seem real, they couldn't be true. Her cousin, her closest companion on this treacherous journey, had fallen. The weight of the truth pressed down on her, but a small part of her refused to accept it.

"Are you sure?" Alana's voice was barely more than a whisper, her breath shaky.

Aragorn's jaw tightened, his own grief evident. "I looked for her. But all I found were these." He gestured to the blades now resting in Alana's hands. "She saved me... but I couldn't save her."

Her trembling hand reached out and Aragorn gently placed the blades in her palm. The cold metal felt foreign and out of place without Kitra's warmth behind it. Alana swallowed hard, her throat dry as she looked out over the edge of the cliff, as if hoping against hope that Kitra would suddenly appear, bruised but alive.

Alana's vision blurred for a moment as she blinked back tears, forcing herself to stay composed, though every part of her wanted to scream, to demand that this wasn't real. She clenched her jaw and forced herself to look down at the blades. They were covered in blood—Kitra's last stand against the orcs.

Alana drew in a shaky breath, forcing herself to speak past the lump in her throat. "We have to find her," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "We can't just leave her... leave her body..."

She couldn't bring herself to say the words 'down there'. As if voicing it aloud would make it irreversibly true.

Aragorn met her gaze, his eyes filled with a sorrow that reached into Alana's soul. "Alana," he began gently, "the chances of her surviving that fall..."