-1The darkness was overwhelming, murky and thick. She fought for air but couldn't seem to inhale anything, couldn't feel anything no matter how hard she gulped. Like a fish out of water she floundered, twisting, clawing and stretching as far as her tall frame would allow. She was being restrained, encased slowly in a substance she couldn't touch or feel. Something was watching her struggle, revelling in her panic. She could feel the malevolence, the pure hatred surrounding her. It was coming closer. From which direction she couldn't tell, for once her senses were failing her. Instincts confused, her inability to pinpoint her tormentor, to distinguish how hard their breathing was, to analyse their movements resulted in vulnerability permeating her being. Never had she experienced such fear or awareness of the fragility of her body. All thoughts of her spectator were banished as pain ripped her awareness apart. She had never felt in her millennia of war such soul wrenching pain as this Her throat throbbed with stress and yet the force behind her screams produced no sound, echoing silence cocooned her in damned pain. All the while the formidable presence drew even closer and closer, hovering above the wracked body beneath. Close enough to touch yet indecisive, hanging centimetres above her ivory skin.
The glare of the morning sunlight stunned her sensitive eyes. The bed sheets clung to her twisted body, strangling any movement. Her muscles, seized in their panic, painstakingly loosened and relaxed with return to consciousness. Slowly she released her grip on the silk bedspread, freeing her palms of the uncomfortable pressure inflicted by her nails. Testing her fingers tentatively she straightened her slim body gradually. Peeling the sheets back the cool air caressed her damp limbs. Past memories, past fears and imaginings began to fade. Safe in the return of her senses as peace replaced terror she took comfort in the soft padding of the maids outside her door, the rumbling of the Bruinen waterfalls beyond her window, the song of the birds nearby in the forests of Imraldis.
It was early yet. Earendil, not yet finished his journey above his former homeland but nearly returned to his desired destination in the west, was fading in the newborn sunlight. Another day to be endured, tasks to be completed and an Istari to be met with. Smiling softly at the coming reunion she placed her feet on the floor, shivering slightly at its coolness. It would not do to keep Olorin waiting, his patience somewhat deficit in pressing matters and yet she would not unduly rush herself. It was by his request that she was here, his request that had once again obliged her to forsake solitude and walk among the peoples of Middle-Earth. It was rare for him to come looking for her since she usually took it upon herself to find him when the balance was disturbed. It had been so insignificant that she had not paid much heed to the tremor that had alerted her to a change in the fabric of Middle-Earth and the fact that it had occurred beyond the Misty Mountains, far into the depths of the quiet lands of Eriador which Olorin was much more familiar with that she had placed it to the back of her mind. The reawakening of Sauron had, she judged at the time, been of more importance and so had received her full attention.
In truth Olorin had found her while she was preparing to leave in search of him concerning Mordor and the increasing activity of its inhabitants but she could never let him know that. To be looked for by her powerful comrade rather than her rushing all over Middle-Earth to find him had been the cause of much mirth. Especially when he had met her in such a harried state, unusual for him and amusing for her. That was until he had revealed the forming of the Fellowship. She doubted its ability to function with so many different races involved but Olorin had asked that she join him in Rivendell for the benefit of her knowledge of Mordor and the workings of it and its allies. After all she had been there during the last war, infiltrated so far that she had almost been found out, had seen things that no individual should ever witness. No wonder there was little in this world that could disturb or alarm her, not even death.
It was experience that Olorin needed, to educate the Fellowship before their quest, to desensitise them, even those who had seen war and death before. Smirking at the thought she considered the different members. The hobbits by far were the most naïve and the ones she most regretted educating. This quest would end the innocent views they had and maybe it would end more than that. Sighing she stood and teased each muscle out, touching the floor and afterward stretching towards the ceiling. Discarding the soft slip she pulled on her dark shirt. Rubbing it between her slender fingers, she regretted its incomparable texture. The elf had seen battle but was still young by her standards, his fair thoughts on this life would be undeniably shaken and as for the dwarf. . . . . He would maintain a tough exterior but like the elf he too was emergent and compared to her inexperienced. Her dark green pants lay folded on the chair beside the closet, tugging them on she tucked the shirt in firmly and tightened her belt around her waist. A leather tunic of intricate design hugged her upper body closely, securely laced to her waist it also fell to shelter her upper thighs. The men, they were interesting. Aragorn she knew of old though he would not remember her since he was only a child when she had first seen him. She had followed him throughout his life as a favour to Gilraen. He was hardy by any standards and probably the one who would deal the best with the knowledge she would impart. Boromir is a different story. Favoured son of a slowly rotting father he has seen battle but not of the likes that Aragorn had fought. Too much glory, as the Stewards son he led the city's army but he was always protected whether he knew or not. She did not care if he did or not all she knew was that it had not given him the hardening experience that Aragorn had endured. He had never faced several enemies on his own, always surrounded by guards but then again his bravery could not be questioned. Sitting on the bed, covering her chilled feet in thick socks, she slipped them into the well worn leather boots, which moulded to her calves easily after years of service. Vambraces of a similar style to the leather tunic protected her forearms as she habitually placed daggers into the hidden sheathes beneath them. She would meet them all today, would they remain true? Perhaps. After securing a long dagger in her right boot she fastened her weathered, floor-length, ebony cloak at her throat.
Casting a glance at her quiver and bow standing in the corner she decided against bearing them, not wanting to appear too defensive in the Last Homely House. Silently she kneeled beside the bed and drew from underneath a long, pale, wooden box. It wasn't extraordinary in appearance except for its length, which when stood on the floor nearly reached her hip. Placing it on the bed she respectfully undid the bronze clasps on its side. Within a silken material lay nestled, bound by leather thongs around a thin shaft that ran the length of the box. Unbinding the leather the material fell away to reveal a shining sword of masterful craftsmanship. Its shape at first seemed normal but as she lifted it from its former resting place the width of the blade could be seen to be miniscule when compared to similar weapons. A double-edged blade, it rose gently on either side to its central line where a slight groove ran the length of the sword. At its base a resilient pommel of the same metal flared out either side wider than the blade itself but still craftily diminutive. The hilt, bound in leather, was strengthened at the pommel by a darker material presumably leather. Its length allowed for a double-handed grip if so desired making it versatile in design. Deep-set grooves indicated its wielders' frequent use. At the end of the hilt no jewel sat but a simple design of intertwining strands of silver. For all intensive purposes the weapon was, in basic structure, simple to look at it was the artwork that decorated the length of the blade that made it unique. Lines of a craft superior to that of the finest elfish smiths swirled over the blade creating breathtaking designs broken every so often into spirals and strange symbols. Along the central groove near to the hilt the words "Go Siorai Dilis Sa Dorchadas." were etched so finely that one would swear that they had been written their by a quill dipped in silver ink. As she raised the blade pulsing blue lines appeared to grow the length of the sword, enshrining its message for all to see. Holding it she carefully placed it in a sheath made of a harder, earthen-coloured material whose designs, reminiscent of the blades, were raised in an ivory-like material. The blue lines faded at the loss of her touch as she belted it to her waist. Resting comfortably at her hip, it felt as if it were an extension of her own being. It was reassuring to have it there, at her side. In some ways it was like its bearer, fragile to look at but upon closer inspection treacherously dangerous.
Taking a moment she stood in silence and soaked in the tranquillity that surrounded her. Earlier feelings dissipated as she stilled herself becoming aware firstly of herself, each strap, each weapon on her person, her breathing, the tingling feeling at her fingertips, her rapier pulsing at her side in time with her own steady heartbeat. Spreading her senses out she felt the auras of those surrounding her, elves, men, dwarves and the small bright auras of what she supposed were the hobbits. Bright they were, full of hope and energy except for one, the only one who had any idea of what lay ahead. She fervently hoped that they would survive the coming storm, it will ravage many . . . . . some worse than others. She grimaced in her meditation, if by her actions she could prevent any part of the devastation she would do all that she could. Pushing the sombre thoughts of what could be to the back of her mind she concentrated once more on the life force of the earth beneath her feet, on the Bruinen as it flowed past the city of Rivendell, the animals in the forests of Imraldis and beyond. Here she stopped. Sadness gleamed in her eyes for but a moment at the growing evil she felt beyond Gondor and Rohan. It was steadily beginning to encroach on those lands, if Olorin wishes to make it beyond the Golden Wood without much hindrance and in secrecy the Fellowship must leave sooner rather than later. They have been here long enough, after all a month is plenty of time to prepare. If they were not ready now they never would be. Pulling up her hood she covered her face and surveyed herself in the full-length mirror as her green eyes gradually faded from view. Time to meet an old friend smiling as she closed the door softly behind her.