Heart of Flame: A Tale Of Sauron

Iestiel of Doriath

Halfway down the path, Iestiel sensed something shift high above in the autumn trees. Amid the fiery colors of the changing season, a presence lurked in the canopy. She now wished she had taken her father's advice and brought along a guard when she'd left camp to relieve herself. 

At the time, she hadn't thought it necessary. After all, she was nearly three hundred years old. She had lived her whole life in this land, a Sinda born and raised under the starry eaves of Doriath. A pupil of the great Lady herself, the maia incarnate. Melian, their beloved queen. 

But times were changing. The stinking mists slinking at dawn and choking the ground fallow was proof enough. The enemy was growing in confidence. Just because they did not feel the inky touch of Morgoth safe behind the protective mantle of Melian, didn't mean it wasn't poisoning the rest of Endor. 

Resting her hand on the sword at her side, she casually ambled back to her people on the eastern edge of Lake Mithrim. The blade, of course, was only a precaution if all else failed. She could wield it, but she wasn't strong enough to be truly proficient.

No, Iestial's true strength was in the arts that she'd learned from the Queen herself.

A damp breeze stirred the rich brown waves from her shoulders. Wetting her bow shaped lips, Iestial paused and listened. Whoever it was following her in the trees above had stopped as well. 

If she ran, she might make it to camp in time to raise the alarm. If she wasn't killed or captured first. Perhaps she had a better chance if she sent up a warning that her father would understand. She turned slowly. 

Closing her dark blue eyes against the dying light of day, she drew a swift breath. Dipping deep into her fëa like drawing fresh water from a well, Iestial clasped her hands together and spoke the words. Melian had always said her best element was command of the air. The queen had said Iestial's handling of the winds would make even Manwe proud. 

Cupping her hands around her mouth, she blew a low whistle. The sound echoed through the thick wood. A great wind built up behind her, sending papery leaves into a swirling frenzy. The branches shook as Iestial sent the wind up into the eaves of the forest, pulling back the foliage and exposing whoever might be lurking overhead.

A figure leaped to the ground as his hiding place was exposed. Slowly he rose to his feet, a bow clutched in his hand. Iestial let her hands fall to her sides, the wind dying down around her. A shower of golden leaves fell over her, catching in her tangled hair. She eyed the ellon inquisitively.

"You do not strike me as a servant of the enemy," she stated succinctly. "But some of Morgoth's lackeys have the ability to appear fair."

The ellon stuck out his lower lip and nodded sagely, storm cloud eyes appraising her from under white brows. "So you think me fair?"

She blinked back at him, unsure how to respond. "Who are you and why are you following me? What do you want?"

The white haired ellon gave a ghost of a smile, his gaze darting over her shoulder. She turned to find her father shaking his head at the elf.

"Vantaro," her father, Lalvon the master stonemason, groused. "I should have known."

"My lord," the elf dipped into a bow, the arrogant smirk still on his mouth.

Vantaro. A Quenyan name. Iestiel cocked her head to the side and studied him. He was young, perhaps a year or so from reaching full adulthood at fifty years of age. The smirk disappeared from his face as Lalvon swiveled to call to their panicked companions close behind. Vantaro sensed Iestiel's silent assessment and glanced back at her. Straight faced, he gave her a quick wink.