I own nothing. I am simply someone who loves Tolkien's work. I am terrified of making anything public as I have never done this before but not only welcome but beg for feedback. My use of the language is weak, I know. All I ask is that you be gentle as this is my first time. There are so many great writers on here, you inspire me. Any assistance with the Quenya and Sindarin is MORE than welcome!

~oOo~

He paused briefly as he followed Thannor into the clearing. His men were finishing off the last of the orcs that they had been tracking when he saw her. She stood (barely) at the center of the clearing, sword held out in front of her, pointed towards the three of his men that stood staring at her curiously, like some feral animal that they had finally cornered and were now at a loss on what to do next. She was covered in blood, not all hers, and was losing color by the second. She would not be standing much longer. In truth, he could not figure out how she was still standing now. Anytime anyone made any kind of motion towards her the sword was quickly thrust in that direction.

"She brought down the warg and its rider herself," said Thannor, "and wounded another before we arrived. But now she will not let any of us near her."

He glanced at her again. Her hair was matted and wet and stuck to her face and neck. And her eyes. Even as she struggled to keep them focused he could see the blind rage that burned in them. Rage and adrenaline is what kept her up now and that was quickly failing. He felt himself grow impatient and made the decision to simply walk up and take the sword out of her hand when he saw it. As he moved, she whipped the blade in his direction and placed her wild eyed stare on him. It was in that one quick movement that he caught a quick glimpse of why she was still alive. Just a flash really, of dark hair and wide eyes that did not even meet her waist yet. Small and frail and for her invaluable, a child of, perhaps two, maybe three. He turned back to Thannor.

"I know" said Thannor. "We found the body of another young boy, barely to manhood further back. He had fought but was run through and died of his wounds."

He nodded and waved his hand. He knew what orcs did to those they caught. He did not need to hear more. He turned back to the woman in front of him and felt a slight twinge in his chest. It still happened to him from time to time. Empathy. He could see and feel her pain even more clearly now. He knew of loss. Inwardly he sighed.

"Get back" he ordered.

The three soldiers who had been pondering their next move immediately moved back to the tree line to assist their brothers in the cleanup, happy to hand over the situation. She jerked at the movement of the other soldiers, unsure where to point and settled back on him since he still stared at her. As their eyes locked again, she wobbled slightly but still held the sword between them. Inwardly, he sighed again.

As he began to approach her a few of his men stopped to watch. While they were curious about this woman who had managed on her own to bring down a warg and the rider and possibly wounded another, they would continue to be at the ready for their lord. For them it meant that she was not to be underestimated. When he came to a few feet between them, he lowered his sword slowly to the ground in front of her and raised his empty left hand in to the air, his right arm he extended out but remained draped under is cloak. She swayed back and forth, eyes struggling to stay focused. Pain and anguish came off of her in waves, but it was kept in check by a rage that seemed to burn everything else away. Pain, anguish, rage. Yes, yes he thought dismissively, it comes to us all. Her journey is no different. She will accept it or she will die. He gestured to her and spoke.

"Lyé ná mala", he said. She froze.

"Ní vanda uimala nalye." She blinked at him in confusion. Although he knew she would not understand, he spoke in Quenya, for he knew the language of his people was sometimes like music to the second born and may be soothing to her ear.

"Mapa camba-nya" he said softly, reaching his hand out to her.

With each word he spoke, he saw her strength began to slowly ebb away. Her eyes never left his, and therefore he saw the exact moment when she went from the edge of madness, to a sort of hopelessness, and finally surrender. With a loud exhale of breath, her arms fell to her side and her shoulders slumped, sword dangling limp from her hand. He caught her before she ever had the chance to fall to her knees. Seems there is more than one person who can use their voice he thought, quite satisfied with himself. In one fluid movement he scooped her up and carried her over to Thannor. While Thannor bundled her up and prepared to ride, he turned his gaze back to the clearing and looked at the tiny figure that was staring back at him. If he had not known that the child was back there he could have been missed among the dead carcasses that had been piled up to burn. The child did not move, only stared wide eyed from behind a tear streaked face, obviously in shock. He did not expect any form of resistance, but still he did not want to distress the lapsë anymore.

Lapsë? You are becoming as soft as your brother.

The little pile of tears and dirt with the saucer eyes stared at him, waiting.

Another child, he thought wryly, Macalaurë will be so pleased.

He turned his mind back to the task at hand and went to the nearest horse and pulled a spare cloak from a saddle bag. He then walked over to the child and knelt down before him. Wrapping him up in the blanket and gently lifting him up, he cradled in his arm and studied the little face with the large eyes that stared up at him. Young, so young. There did not seem to be any major physical harm done. Aside from some minor scratches and bruising, he felt that physically, the child would be fine. Again he thought about shock and handed to child over to one of his men and ordered Thannor to personally see that the babe and his mother were taken care of. He did not know if the mother would live but would do what he could. In these dark times there was not much more he could do. And regardless of what was said, he was not so far gone that he would not help those in need. After Thannor had ridden off he turned back to the clearing and retrieved his sword. His men were dragging the last of the filth to the center and prepared to light the fires. There was a time when he had thought that he would burn them all. He had truly believed that a long time ago. Those days were gone now but he would never stop hunting the beasts and the fire is the least of what they deserved. No, he would never stop hunting them. They had tracked this party of orcs almost all the way to the river Gelion. They were growing bold to come so close to his camp at Amon Ereb. He made the mental note to increase the watch all the way past the river if necessary. He walked over to the orc that the woman had killed. Or at least what was left of the orc, for its head had been cleaved in repeatedly. It was nothing more than a pile of mush and bone and stench and black blood now. Thannor had reported that she had still been hacking away at it when his men rode up. A mother's rage. The second orc made some sort of gurgling noise and he gave it a sideways glance. Ah, still alive are we, he thought. He grabbed the orc by the leg and dragged it over to the rest of the pile of filth before them. He turned to the men that were now standing by with torches.

"Dosta hain pân."

The fire lit up the night as it began its work. Yes, burn them all.

"My lord Maedhros."

A voice from behind pulled him from his thoughts and he turned to see one of his men emerging from the dark carrying a smaller, carefully wrapped figure. A mother's loss. He stood and looked at the figure that his man held gently in his arms.

"He fought hard, my lord. I regret that we could not get there sooner."

Maedhros's mouth tightened oh so slightly when the elf said regret. How he loathed that word.

"We shall return him to his mother. He will receive a burial in accordance to his people's customs."

With that, he mounted his horse, and with the rest of his company, disappeared into the dark.

Macalaurë - Maglor

Lapsë - babe

Dosta hain pân - Burn them all

Lyé ná mala - you are hurt

Ní vanda uimala nalye - I promise no harm to you

Mapa camba-nya - take my hand