Prescient

Chapter Sixteen: Battle

Blood filled her mouth, coppery and thick, and she spat out the dislodged tooth with a scowl. Her luck was ridiculous. Rithrien shook her head. She wasn't about to jinx it. The last thing she needed was to discover yet another one. Her situation was bad enough as it was – she had separated from her group in the middle of orc-infested tunnels. Meaning it was very much like going from the frying pan and into the fire. Even if she managed to make it past the balrog, there were no guarantees she wouldn't end up being caught between a rock and a hard place.

Her gaze flickered down, staring at her blade as it lay on the ground where it had slipped from her grip. Legs tensed, she glanced between the silvery sword gleaming in the dim lighting of the room and her enemy. Silence reigned for a few moments, the only audible sound her ragged breathing as she tried to find some semblance of calm.

She hated fire. She didn't want to be anywhere near those flames. But there wasn't a choice. There was no other exit to the curious room she had found herself inside. It was time to stop being a damned scaredy-cat. Glorfindel didn't hate her. It had all just been inside her head. Everything was just inside her head.

What was the worst the fire would do? Oh yeah, just burn her to death again somewhat. Rithrien set her feet in place, eyes locked on those ones which seemed to flicker between a burnished amber and a dull crimson. Move, she told herself, fighting to keep the tears back as she clung to the false bravado. Her legs wanted to shake the longer she just stood there, staring at the terrible creature placed snuggly between her and the slim possibility of freedom – baring any interference from orcs, of course.

Glorfindel would kill her himself if she got out and told him what she'd done. A snort escaped her then, giddiness filling her at the thought of seeing her beau again. The one she loved. Who would happily give her an earful about why it was a terrible idea to ditch your squad in the middle of the orc tunnels. Somehow she doubted she would be able to lie and say she had accidentally gotten lost. His eyes always managed to cut the truth from her, what with their solemn, concerned stare which made her feel like a terrible person should she utter an untruth.

It was now or never, Rithrien told herself in the stillness of her mind, and her feet dug into the ground then – a tiny sound. One which shattered the stillness between her and her enemy. They leapt into action almost simultaneously, Rithrien swearing, uncaring of how very edain she sounded as she rolled under the first swing of that fiery whip. Heat scorched the air above her, fingers scrabbling for the hilt of her weapon before she found herself battered away. Why couldn't it use a damned sword? She was a close-range fighter first and foremost.

Hissing in pain, she dived out of the way of the next strike, thanking her lucky stars that there was a weapon nearby. It was undoubtedly old but made of elvish metal which didn't rust or otherwise degrade despite years passing, meaning it was in useable condition. Thereabouts.

Hands closed around the grip of the grime-covered blade, eyes widening as she adjusted her stance, skidding backwards as she fended off the next strike of the whip. Had it been cleaned, Rithrien knew exactly what the blade would look like. After all, it was undoubtedly her old sword. No other had been so heavy.

She had a weapon. Now she just needed to get close enough to use it. She needed to run towards the fire, when every cell in her body screamed at her to do the exact opposite. "Courage, Rithrien," she whispered, as though it would give her the strength needed to plough onwards. Into the fire.

Because if she didn't, she never would. Because she would die without fail if she didn't.

Desperation drove her forwards, heart in her throat as she dived into a roll underneath the whip as it struck overhead with a calculated precision. A snap of the flaming, blackened wrist was all which was needed to send the fiery weapon careening back towards her, proving its mastery of the weapon as she was forced to lean out of the way even as she continued her flat out sprint. Blood welled up in the slight cut which grazed her face, the flames of the weapon having swiftly sealed the worst of it shut with burn tissue, leaving only a trickle of quickly drying blood behind to roll down her cheek.