Of The Line Of Estelondo: Percival's Tale.

Chapter 2: Orónëminya's Path

Author's Note: This is occurring simultaneously to Chapter One.

Orónëminya's heart was racing in her chest, as she, holding young Metimafoa in front of her on the horse, rode to the South-west.

Metimafoa stared up at her, his blue eyes scanning every inch of her face. "When are we going home, Orónënya." He was slowly picking up the language, but he was only four human years old. Still, Metimafoa had learned much of the tongues of men and elves, in his last four years of life, because he had the mental capacities of the elves, which were highly advanced.

"I do not know, Arimeldaminë." Orónëminya replied, calling her brother dearest one, to keep him calm. "We may not go back at all." She glanced around in anticipation, nervousness setting into her very bones, as she scanned the horizon for hostile individuals.

She slowly directed the horse off of the road, looking back to the still visible towers of her childhood home, and a feeling of loss set over her heart. A tear rolled down her cheek, as Orónëminya accepted the fact that she would probably never see her homeland again.

She did not give up hope entirely however. Inside of her, a battle raged, her strength and hope barely holding back her thoughts of depravity and depression.

"Orónëminya, issënar toronnya, ar orónënya?" Metimafoa asked, observing the tears running down her face, but unsure on how to respond to them. "Nar cuina?"

Orónëminya wiped her tears from her eyes, and cleared her throat. "They are alive, Metimafoa, or at least they were 20 minutes ago." She said, in response to his question. "As to where they are, and where they are going, I do not know. We decided not to tell each other, in case one of us got captured, and was..." She was about to say tortured, but she reconsidered when she saw how scared, and confused Metimafoa was. "...interrogated. The Line Of Estelondo, must go on, at all costs, Arimeldaminë."

Metimafoa gulped, trying, and failing miserably, to cover up his fear. "Where are we going then, Orónënya? What destination do you have in mind?"

"There is a city, or rather, a watch, to the South, known as Moinatarminas. It is a old abandoned watch tower, where we should be safe and secure, at least for a time. It was actually left to ruin during the war of our Grandfather, when our Aunt's namesake rebelled against the Oligarchy of the Council, but that is a story for another time." Orónëminya smiled at her brother, who seemed to be hanging onto ever word she said. "I was unaware that history entertained you so, Metimafoa. Perhaps, we should find you a school tutor to teach you."

Metimafoa shook his head, his eyes certain in their memory. "It is not that I like history, it is that I like his story. Grandfather used to tell the best stories, before he..." Metimafoa's voice trailed off, realising how painful his words were for his sister. "Sorry, Orónëminya. I did not wish to cause emotional harm. Please forgive me."

Orónëminya turned around on the horse, and smiled at him. "There is nothing to forgive, Metimafoa. He was your grandfather as well. You have a right to talk about him."

Metimafoa nodded, his youthful, hopeful eyes taking in the surrounding terrain, with a natural curiosity that made the very woods seem more alive. "I now comprehend why our mother and sister loved the woods so much, Orónëminya. They are chaotic, and that is their beauty. They cannot be controlled, Orónëminya, and they are truly free. That is what the woods gave our mother and sister. Freedom, and therefore peace."

Orónëminya glanced at her brother curiously, before leading the horse on through the woods.

. . .

Metimafoa awoke a short time later, laying on the ground, on the banks of a frigid stream in the woods, with the horse grazing nearby. Orónëminya was nowhere to be seen, so Metimafoa, looking to be all of four, drew his rapier, and began to investigate.