A\N. Many thanks to Ardhoniel Marvelite for inspiring this. This is very A\U. You are warned.
Arwen sat in silent thought, her grey palfrey going at a smooth canter beneath her. The summer sun was hot around her, and she welcomed the cooler breeze that swept around, stirring the leaves and lifting her black hair from her damp neck. But it also brought the threat of storm, it seemed. There was a scent darker than that of rain in its wind, and uneasiness folded her in a shadowy embrace.
Clouds began to gather, and she glanced at her mother. Celebrían 's blue eyes were narrowed. "Celegion." she murmured to the Elf by her by side.
He leaned over. "My Lady?"
"There is more than storm that rides on the wind."
He glanced up, grey eyes wary. "Indeed."
"Nana? What is it?" asked Arwen, drawing her horse nearer. She was not defenseless, and she derived some measure of comfort in the dagger she grasped beneath her cloak. A stone fell from the Redhorn Pass, bouncing down from the narrow pass and into the abyss below.
A single rain drop fell.
Celegion's sharp commands were muffled as the air grew thicker, hazy.
Celebrían swallowed, she too casting aside the traveling cloak. Twin swords were strapped to her back. "Take this, daughter. A dagger will not be much use."
Arwen took the ivory handle. She knew how to use it. Her brothers had taught her.
"Nana, you have not yet answered me. You fear something more than the yrch." she said.
"In the time of your ancestor, there was a great evil that no man could withstand." replied Celebrían , staring ahead.
"I mean no disrespect, but now is no time for learning ancient history, I fear. What is it?"
"I do not know, but I have a guess."
"Which is?" asked Arwen, an impatient laugh forcing its way to her lips. She had begun to braid her hair. Should a battle come, loose tresses would mean nothing good.
"Bear me out, iell. In the time of Luthien, there was an evil that was perhaps nearly equal to the Dark Lord. She was thought to be destroyed, but I greatly doubt it. We have heard rumors of a fearful creature. A beautiful woman, clad in white, the wings of a bat, blood staining her face. Only rumors, mind you, because most of the people were dead. And the others...had the curse of Thuringwethil."
Arwen stiffened, a sickening fear throbbing through her body. "Thuringwethil?" was the only thing she said, her voice weak in the dark air.
"She desires vengeance against the child of Luthien. And what could go better than to waylay us when we are alone in the mountains?" Celebrían sighed, bitterness overflowing her voice.
"And the Curse of Thuringwethil?" said Arwen quickly. "Can it be passed on? Will I have to slay my comrades."
"Pray to the Belain it does not come to that." her mother returned. They had been moving ahead slowly. The clouds had darkened now. The breeze had stopped, leaving them with sickening heat, as if the Fires of Angband roared beneath them. Arwen grasped the hilt of her sword till her hand grew white.
And then all warmth was gone, as if it had been sucked from the very earth. A frigid cold was upon them, an icy fear. Their hearts quailed. A terror grew upon them till it seemed beyond measure. And still they went forward. Silence prevailed over the world, a nameless fear.
"Halt." A voice spoke from the clouds, filled with darkness, shrouded in blood and evil, and it gave to Arwen such horror, such fear she shrieked.
Vailë stood still, such was the faithfulness of Elven-steeds. A laugh out in the night, a laugh that mocked, a laugh of beauty twisted into hatred, and from the mist stepped a figure. She was tall, very tall and slender, pale as the moonlight and as evil as Hell's depths.
Her face was beautiful, cold and proud, wrought with evil but not born with it. Her skin held a deathly pallor, but her mouth was crimson with blood. She was clad in a pale gown, but black bat wings draped about her as a cloak of wickedness.
Thuringwethil stood there. Her eyes pierced Arwen, eyes as green as the cats of Queen Beruthiel, and far more venomous. Hair that held the blackness of the Void flowed over her pale shoulders.
Arwen gazed back. It made her weak, weak like she had never dreamed she could be. Her hands trembled, her grips on the reins loose as fatigue overwhelmed her.
Celebrían 's voice broke sharp and ringingly clear in the darkness. "Why are you here, Thuringwethil, Evil of Ancient Times?"
The vampire stepped forward, her tread as soft as Elven-kind, and about her hung the sickly-sweet odor of decay, as if she was fresh flown from the meadows of Minas Morgul. But under that was the smell of blood, coppery and bitter. "I am here for your daughter, O Celebrían , daughter of the rebel Noldo."
"Do not bother to insult my heritage, Thuringwethil. If you come for my daughter, go back to the darkness and save yourself time. She will never be in your claws."
Thuringwethil arched an elegant eyebrow. "You speak with such confidence, Elf." she hissed. "But it took all the powers of a half-Maia mongrel to defeat me. You have no such advantage."
Celebrían nodded. "Aye, tis so. I am not descended from one of the Maiar. But I hold something far more powerful in my hands. Stay away from me and my kind, Thuringwethil, or you will burn with all the Fires of Morgoth."
Slowly she bared her head, and amidst the silver cascade glittered a silver circlet. Celebrían took it from her head and held it up.
The vampire flinched almost imperceptibly, and then she laughed, a cruel, piercing sound. "Do you always carry silver with you for your namesake, Silver Queen? Or did you think you would meet me?"
"A old tradition. Now let me by." returned Celebrían .
Thuringwethil bowed, her black wings unfolding. "Ah, I will. But Orcs do not fear silver. Only steel."
With a great cry that smote all courage and left only darkness, her wings spread out and she launched into the storm.
Shouts rang, the screams of yrch. Celebrían turned to her daughter, pushing the silver crown into Arwen's hands. "Do not lose this!" she said sharply. She looked up to the dark heavens. "Elbereth, give us your light. Nienna, I pray you will not have to weep for us. Oromë, ride swift and protect us. Manwë, keep us safe.
Ilúvatar, Lord of All, your will be done." She bowed her head, and then looked up, drawing her sword. The Elves that were their escort had made a formation around them, spears and swords on the outside, and Celebrían joined them. Arwen moved Vailë forward, but Celegion stopped her. "No. Stay in the middle." He handed her a bow, and pushed three quivers into her hands. "Never stop until all the arrows are gone."
Arwen nodded, drawing Vailë back, and dismounted. The chill had not gone from the air, and her hands were numb and shivering as she notched an arrow to the string, the slender crown clenched between her teeth. From the shadows of all evil burst misshapen figures, snarling, shrieking, driving upon the Elven host.
Arwen did not pause. The arrows never stopped, and their mark was true. Slowly the formation moved forward, a iron ringed circle that drove the Orcs forward mercilessly, sending them shrieking over the cliffs or were trampled underfoot.
Arwen gave a little scream as a black-shafted arrow hissed through the air and struck the Elf before her . Why had the Orcs not shot before? was her half-conscious thought. But all was silent no. No more of the yrch pressed forward. Had they defeated them?
At a high price, even at the cost of one of the Firstborn. Arwen kissed the forehead of the elleth. "Namo, send her to the Blessed Realm soon." was her soft prayer. A murmur rang around the little ring, and Arwen stood up, remounting Vailë. Once again Thuringwethil came, a bow in her slender hands, a quiver before her feet. "If you think you have won, you are sorely deceived. All the Orcs of the Mountains swarm around you, though the darkness silences them. There is no hope...nay, there is one hope. Give to me the one that walks in the likeness of Luthien, and you all will go free."
Celebrían stared at the vampire in disdain. "If you think I will give my daughter into your clutches, you wretched creature, you know nothing of love."
Thuringwethil tilted her head, almost curiously, and Arwen's breath caught in her throat. "No. I remember nothing of love. It's a strange thing. It causes so many deaths. If you but give me one, you can save a score. Would that not be the noble thing, Celebrían ?" she asked, her voice fluid, persuading. "The daughter of Tinúviel might not even die."
"Nay." mocked Celebrían . "She might even be cursed with your fate. Is that not death enough?"
Thuringwethil flinched. "I vowed vengeance on Luthien's descendants. Give her to me, or you all will all die!"
"If you want her, come and claim her!" cried Celebrían .
"That can be done!" snarled Thuringwethil. She leapt into the air, her ghastly cries echoing, and with a piercing shriek she dove into the midst of the Elves.
Vailë gave a great shriek as the vampire landed beside her, pointed teeth bared, and bucked wildly. Arwen slid off, landing on her feet, the sword clutched in one hand, the silver crown in the other.
"Ah Helcaraxë, and you look like Luthien herself. My vengeance will be sweet." hissed Thuringwethil.
Celebrían wheeled her horse around, sword gripped so tight her hand was white. "Get away from my daughter."
Thuringwethil smiled. "You said to come and claim her." was the taunting reply. "Take her from me, Noldo."
The vampire turned then, and lunged, feline grace and litheness combined into a creature of utter evil.
Arwen held up the crown, holding as her only salvation. And in truth, it might be.
A shriek rang, and Thuringwethil staggered back, clutching her hand. Celebrían vaulted from her horse, thrusting at the vampire.
Thuringwethil rolled backwards, and the horses reared as she spread her wings, once again seeking refuge in the dark heavens, and from the clouds her fell voice rang in a foul tongue, and the Elves heard the sound of many marching, the grate of steel.
Doom had come.
"Get on Vailë." ordered Celebrían , her voice sharp. Arwen swung on the shivering horse, trembling just as violently. She put the circlet on her head, praying it would not fall off, but she would need both hands.
The Elven host pressed bravely forward, but hope was gone with the wind in Thuringwethil's wings. Orcs encircled them. Arwen's kinsfolk fell one by one.
Her arrows gone long ago, Arwen had moved besides her mother, her sword dripped with black blood. There were only two left besides themselves, Celegion and Arelim, a warrior elleth.
The Orcs charged them once more, horde upon horde, urged by the fear of what flew above.
Arwen felt the cut of steel and blood poured down her leg. She ran the Orc through.
Celegion gave a groan, and Arwen turned, scything down the Orc that had stabbed him. "Celegion! Celegion!" The ellon slumped forward, blood staining his tunic. With a little sob, she turned to see that she and her mother were alone. Arelim's horse followed them, but his rider was gone, trampled down among the countless corpses.
Celebrían grabbed her arm. "There!" A furlong off was a steep path, cut by melting ice. It seemed death to go down, and the Orcs shied far away from it, but it was their only hope. Arwen urged Vailë to a gallop. The swift-footed filly cut through the Orcs, Celebrían 's mare close behind, and began their way down. Stones slid before the trembling hooves, but Elf-horses are sure-footed. The Orcs roared, pouring arrows upon them, but dared not go down themselves.
Vailë reached the bottom first, but did not stop, galloping along the mountain path. A shadow flew above them, a white wisp among the darkling clouds. The filly stumbled in exhaustion and Arwen tumbled down, the silver crown flying from her head. And in that instance Thuringwethil struck.