Wildest Storms | Love of Royals: Book III

X: Wide World

I open my eyes. The world around me is bleak, but the storm has passed. And I... I'm untouched. Dry despite the rain, unruffled by the wind. Whatever magic I threw up around me has held, held even against Saruman's vast power. I endured against him, and now... now he's given up. Moved on. Let me be.

The rain has begun to thin, trailing back the way it came.  That seems odd for a storm, but this is no regular storm. The wizard's distant voice is still bellowing commands across the sky, while the scuffling army of clouds is retreating back up to the mountaintops, as though returning to its original course from a simple detour.  A detour which, I soon come to realise, has left my company scattered.

I scan the rain-soaked plain for signs of my companions and their horses.  I saw the horses bolt, so I doubt any of them will still be nearby.  In the wake of the storm, a deadly mist has settled over the land, seemingly intent on tricking even my Elven eyesight into thinking I've found my companions, when in reality, I'm about as lost as I could get.

'Tel?  Lëa?  Glorfindel?'

My cries gain me no response. 

'Fírion?  Tauriel?  Fíria?'

Silence.  I wander on, feeling the strange bubble of magic around me fade to nothing as the rain finally ceases.  I try hard to focus on the squelching of my boots into the sodden earth, the only sound other than my own breathing that pierces the unnatural, unfaltering quiet.

'It's me, Erainiel,' I call out after another minute. 'I'm alright.  Is anybody out there?'

A noise behind me, and I whip around, my hands poised to ignite—only to be faced with Glorfindel emerging from the mist, soaked to the skin, with his golden hair plastered to his head.  His sword is drawn, and upon seeing me, he lowers it in relief. His magic reaches out to mine in greeting, but if he's wondering why I'm still completely dry, he certainly doesn't show it.

'Thank Ilúvatar, you're alive,' he breathes. 'Have you had any sign of the others?'

'No, nothing. I'm guessing you haven't, either.'

He shakes his head, then cranes his neck towards the jagged peaks in the distance. 'The winds have changed. The storm heads northwest, back along the mountains.'

I step closer to his side, my nostrils filling with the scent of fresh rain that clings to his skin and clothes. 'You and I both know that storm isn't being controlled by winds,' I say quietly.

He meets my eyes for a moment. 'Indeed. Do you know what is controlling it?'

'Magic.'

'Whose magic?'

I hold his gaze, unblinking while our powers mingle tauntingly in the small space between us. 'You know exactly whose magic. You heard him just as well as I did.'

'I wanted to be sure,' Glorfindel says gravely, 'I was hoping I might have imagined it.  But if you heard him too, well... that can only mean one thing.  The wizard Saruman is after the Fellowship.  They must be trying to cross the Misty Mountains.'

'Why did his storm come after us, though?  Did he think we were them?'

He bites his lower lip, and something warm coils in my chest. 'I don't know,' he says. 'Perhaps.  Or perhaps he knew exactly who we were, but still thought us worthy targets.  We are part of the threat to him, after all.  Especially considering six out of our original seven have very powerful magic.'

I look him in the eyes again.  Yes, six of us do have very powerful magic, but we both know mine is something beyond that.  He can feel it.  He's trying to pretend like he can't, but he's been able to feel it since the moment we met.