Brightest Stars | Love of Royals: Book I

XXXIII: Ends of Arda

Reckless.  That is the only word that can describe this whole endeavour, and in particular what Thranduil decides we are to do now. He knew we would be outnumbered.  He knew that the orcs were expecting a rescue attempt.  Of course, he ordered us to arm ourselves, and the moment we walk out of the room, my fingers sweating around the hilt of my sword, all hell breaks loose.

The orcs engulf us in a wave of shrieking, clattering chaos, the cacophony of iron on iron ringing down the halls like a death toll.  I know how to fight now, I know the movements and patterns of a standard swordsman, I know how to send the orcs crashing to the floor with black blood erupting from gashes across their chest.  I soon learn how to block out their incessant roars and growls, which become merely part of the background clamour of battle.

The fear doesn't break me.  It makes me stronger.

I do not know if Thranduil knows it, but it was him who made me into the fighter I am now.  It was him who turned a Star into an elf.  Today, I am proud to be fighting alongside them as one of their own.  I would feel entirely so if their Prince accepted me.

As a shaft of light falls upon Elidir, I notice a headband, wrought from thin strips of green-tinged metal and woven intricately into a pattern of leaves, strapped alongside his many weapons.  I have seen this before, gleaming in glory upon Eirwen's little head.  He is fighting for her, fighting his way through the unrelenting torrent of orcs to find the source of her feeble cries for her ada.

We soon break the wall of angular swords and crude axes, stumbling and clambering over the ever-growing piles of carcasses to reach the next room.  This one is darker and tighter than the others, and chained to the far wall amid another rabble of orcs is Eirwen.  Her clothes are ripped to shreds and her small body bruised, while her once immaculate gold-brown hair is a tangled mess.  The fear in those eyes identical to her father's, the quivering lip, the dirt staining her face, the bleeding cut on the side of her head...

'Ada!  Ada, natha!' she cries, appearing too weak to struggle against her bonds, or to go to the trouble of speaking in Westron, which would be immense for someone so young. 

Elidir rushes to free her, leaving the rest of us to slaughter the remaining orcs while he frantically examines the chains.  'They're too strong!'  He grits his teeth, still battling adamantly against them while Eirwen sobs quietly.

Memories of a time thousands of years past comes to mind: a time when I watched Maedhros, the eldest son of Fëanor, sacrifice his right hand to be freed from chains like these.  The notion of cutting off little Eirwen's hands is enough to freeze my blood, far more than the screaming orc whose mottled neck was just sliced open by my blade.  There has to be some way to release her, a way that doesn't cause her any more pain—

'Elena?  What are you doing?' blurts Elidir as I throw myself over a bloody carcass to reach him and wrap my fingers around the metal cuffs at Eirwen's wrists.

The little elfling sniffles, and I grip tighter.  'I'm going to save her.'

And I am.  I put aside everything else, every doubt and hindrance and danger, every ounce of insecurity about my powers, and I focus.  I am Elena, a Star of the host of Varda, honed purely from the light and essence of the sky, and gifted with powers too great for the hearts of Middle Earth to comprehend.  Whatever they may be, I will use them to free this innocent elfling, even if it drains me of my life.  I have had enough of not understanding, of following an unclear course, so I will make my powers limitless.  If no one tells me what they are, then they are everything.  If I am defying the laws of the Stars, then Varda can materialise down here and stop me herself.