Faikar - LotR

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"You must wake up!"

Glorfindel!

She jolted back into awareness, an echo fading and falling around her as she lie waiting, caught in the vertigo of the in-between.

She recalled his last rushed words, conveyed with such conviction – concern – she immediately set herself on edge. To be, essentially dragged, out of a waking dream was unheard of. One always retained their sense of self while away. She should have woken at the very moment her instincts sensed something was amiss. Yet it took Glorfindel to realize not all was well.

If he had not been watching, looking so closely, would he too have not noticed?

"Your lips are blue."

Stark white against bold copper.

Frost on her braid.

Eyelids finally snapped open, scanning across pine needles and crowded branches, thankfully still in the same seated position as when she first drifted away.

Though not everything remained just as she left it.

A thin layer of crystallized ice coated all within her sight, transcending the chilled autumn environment into an early winter's playground. Surrounded by white, untouched and pristine, Nárhína stared at the sudden plunge into the frozen ethereal landscape.

Unnatural.

Even as the stray thought left as swift as it came, she knew it to be true. This foray into much colder weather was to be expected – winter did follow autumn – but this quickly and so unexpectedly? No. Something else was at work here.

Sharp crackles pierced the otherwise silent wood as she finally moved, disrupting the protesting sheet of frost that blanketed her body. Twisting, white broken granules puffed gently into the air before floating down, trailing after her muffled trek to the forest floor.

She dropped noiselessly to the ground before sprinting sharply to the left, racing and weaving through tree trunks on her way to Aragorn and camp, all the while watching and listening for something, anything, to make sense of this drastic change.

There were few beings that could invoke such power, none of which should be able to affect them currently. Saruman had both reach and might with his newfound allegiance but they were still too far for anything of major consequence to occur by his hand.

Confused and not usually without answers, she ran faster, disregarding the slight effort it took to remain silent in favor of reaching the rest of the fellowship as soon as possible.

Though what awaited her was something she had not prepared for.

The entire encampment and surrounding area was white – not surprising, given how she had found herself.

It was the many hunched figures draped in black that left her blood scorching through her veins.

The inhuman pace she set never faltered, the ugly crack of breaking limbs at their limit followed as she burst from the tree line, metal ringing in the stagnant space as she drew her swords up over her shoulders. Nárhína spared a quick, single glance to identify Aragorn, sprawled unforgivingly facedown near the outer edge before finally engaging.

Slicing, blades scissoring, an unholy scream cut off halfway as the body careened toward her, its hooded head falling behind.

Skeletal arms and ivory claws reached out as she side-stepped away. Monotone muttering morphed, growing into an aching hum. Shrouded faces turned her way, golden orbs shining too bright, unblinkingly.