Chapter Two

This is Death

It continued like this for two more days. The earth grew more silent with each silvery moon and Dagored became unnerved and edgy as his eyes never stopped roaming the forests, but nothing extremely out of the ordinary had occurred their first evening upon the shore, nor their second, nor their third and they would be departing in the morning as the shipmasters, with the help of several sailors and smiths, had fitted the mast's replacement upon the deck and secured it anew with rope and iron.

"One more night," prayed Anariel, "Just one more night is all we need and we can be rid of this haunting countryside. Dagored will rest easy below deck tomorrow and we will be on our way to the wonders of the blessed realm. Just one more night…"

Her eyes glazed over into a peaceful, yet tense, reverie as Dearthos followed in like pursuit. Dagored would have none of their comfort. He was too much attuned to the ways of the earth and the silences of the trees shook him with a fear that could not be expressed.

The night's moist air seeped slowly into Anariel's lungs as her mind began to wander in and out of dreams.

A light emerged from the doorway and Anariel turned her head to greet her visitor with a childish glee emerging from her full smile. It was Elladan, her best friend, but something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. Though they were only elflings and had not yet even come of age they were so close in friendship that one would have thought they had known each other for centuries. Anariel knew, indubitably, that something was wrong. His normally cheerful demeanor had drawn pale and silent. He could not smile and his face lowered to face the ground as hot tears poured from the smooth planes of his youthful cheeks. Her hands reached for him in a gesture of comfort but he suddenly straightened and pushed her away from him in anger.

"Your presence is requested in my father's study within the hour." he growled.

The words resounded in Anariel's head as if she were trying to figure out their meaning. What in the world could Lord Elrond want with her? Hundreds of possibilities flew through her child-like mind haphazardly like a swarm of bats in a cloud of mosquitoes. After several minutes she looked unblinkingly at him.

"Whatever for?" she asked, her voice lowered to an almost pitiful whisper.

"How should I know!" Elladan shouted back and stormed from the room.

The next thing she knew she had sunken onto a couch behind Elrond's desk with her two brothers. Mother had been returning from Lothlorien. Her party had been attacked. She could no longer survive upon the shores of Middle-Earth and so father felt compelled to accompany her westward. Their children were to remain.

Anariel wiped a tear from Dearthos' cheek and squeezed his forearm. Their parents had not even said goodbye. They were already gone.

A few short weeks later the three siblings had packed their belongings and had mounted their steeds; only Dagored was tall enough to ride a real horse while his younger siblings sat upon gilded ponies. They were to accompany their uncle, Eredhin, to his home in the western region of Eregion near the sloping roots of the Misty Mountains. The settlement, Stelgaladh, was rapidly growing and expanding as wandering elves passed through its welcoming borders. It sounded pleasant enough and Anariel knew that she should be grateful for her uncle's inviting embrace but she would never forget the sights of Rivendell, her home, and its hold upon her heart. Elrond was the only one to see them off as sorrow still gripped the hearts of Rivendell's inhabitants at the loss of two such fine elves. As the silver gates closed shut with a sound of finality the three siblings turned their childish faces away in fear that they could never go back though Dearthos stole one last glance. His good friend Elrohir stood with tears in his eyes gripping the iron bars of the gate in his small hands.

They had never seen the beautiful falls of Rivendell again, nor its surrounding woodlands. The sounds of merrymakings within the Hall of Fire never reached their ears and the laughter of their childhood friends faded into a dismay so black and shadowed that all communication with their former home in Rivendell had been lost.

Still sleeping, a small tear rolled off of Anariel's pale, lovely cheek and fell silently into the grass to mingle with the dirt and dried blood.

She was walking through a gnarled wood, its trees and underbrush wildly growing and thriving. She could hear a stream in the distance and trod down a gentle slope to its bubbling shore. Anariel gazed at her reflection in the water. Her pale, creamy skin blended with her cedar-colored curls and glinted in the sun. Her hands, though rough and calloused from her weapons looked soft and rather pure in flowing stream. The slender form of her body wavered and twisted in impossible shapes through the ripples.

Anariel bent down beside the brook and dipped her hands into its clear and refreshing depths, bringing the liquid up to her face with a splash. She sighed in contentment at the coolness it brought her. A small smile caressing her face.

A twig upon the opposite bank snapped and she brought her head up sharply as her sinewy muscles tensed. Anariel immediately relaxed however as recognition took hold. Dearthos, his always jovial grin smeared across his features, began to walk towards her through the water holding out his hand. Dagored, his face stern, motioned with a gesture of impatience towards her as he began his retreat to the village. Anariel grasped Dearthos' hand and they silently followed the older brother home. Wherever home may be.

The night was full of chaos and confusion. Elves ran every which way and Anariel's slumbering form was rudely awakened by Dagored's frantic shaking. Snapping into reality, if one could believe it to be reality, Anariel reached out to grasp the weapons beside her and leapt into battle without so much as a backward glance.

Her left foot hooked under the orc's right arm and twisted his face downward as Anariel brought her right scimitar in a side sweep upwards, catching his deformed face with the sharp edge of the steel blade in a spatter of gore and crushed bone. Her left foot followed through and stepped upon the fallen dead orc's back as she used the leverage to launch herself, scimitars raised in anticipation, at another of the disgusting creatures positioned slightly to her right. This time she swung her right blade in a wide arc from left to right across her chest to spread open the orc's clumsy block. As her body followed her right arm she used the momentum to bring the left scimitar around and through the orc's black heart with such a force that she ripped clear through the abomination.

Glancing up for a moment Anariel saw Dagored fighting four of the creatures with his crisp, cutting movements and above her to the right was Dearthos, leaping through the darkened trees, bow in hand and quiver three-quarters empty. Their fellow kin lay strewn upon the ground, blood soaking the welcoming earth, shouts and screams wavering, ghostlike, through the beach as the scent of exposed entrails rose into the air to choke the cowardly and enliven the primal senses of the orcs. She wrenched her blade from the sickening hunk of flesh below her and turned to face her next quarry.

A quick upper cut to an orc's left arm, right foot behind it's left ankle, and a stab with the right scimitar. Anariel left another one of the foul things bleeding beneath her. Nightmares began to creep out of the forests drawn by the intensity of the battle and the scent of bloody flesh. Wargs, or what looked like wargs, ancient and bloodthirsty joined the fray, engulfing limbs in their fanged maws. Trolls and giants fought elf and orc alike for the taste of the sweet meat that could never satisfy them. Demons and wraiths cooled the air and their gleeful wails could be heard resounding off of the rocks and cliff walls of the bay. Tears flowed freely from every remaining elf as the slaughter continued.

Dearthos looked down upon his kin with horror and realization. No one would survive this battle. Just then a troll spotted where the arrows were coming from and ran towards the tree on which he was perched. Cursing wildly in Sindarin Dearthos leapt out of the branches just in time and landed on the creature's head. With a cry cold enough to freeze the blood below him Dearthos drew his knife and sliced the troll's slow-working brain in half. Pieces of gray matter speckled his face as he rolled onto the ground, his quiver out of arrows. A pure animalistic grace suddenly engulfed Dearthos and he jumped into the fray with the smooth deadliness of a panther. Orcs fell under his blade, his hands, his teeth. Yet it was not enough. It wasn't enough to save them all.

It was a hopeless cause.

The orcs kept streamed continuously into the clearing from the woods; each one replacing another before it. The screams of the few children along on the voyage had long since faded and the breathing of labored warriors steadily increased with each passing minute. They wouldn't make it much longer.

Dagored seemed to sense this as he quickly surveyed the situation. Dearthos was covered in blood, strangled, angry yells erupted from his throat as he tore out the hearts of his adversaries. Anariel, slowed from exhaustion, breathed heavily, her feet still dancing and carrying her through the overwhelming destruction and despair. Sense finally came over Dagored as he shouted, like the captain he had been, suddenly to his siblings and the dozen or so remaining elves to retreat to the water, the only possible way out. As they made their way down to the bank, tripping over blood-smeared golden hair and familiar, pale faces, four more were lost in the constant hum of the crude, black arrows cutting through the starless sky.

Dearthos, grabbing one of his arrows from the center of an orcs forhead leapt into the air as he ran towards his brother. He drew the arrow back swiftly, his fingers savoring what would be his last shot as they stroked the blue fletching. Then he released whist still amid the air, the arrow plunging into the heart of the orc closest to his sister. Hitting the earth with a roll he straightened and sprinted down to the bank meeting Dagored who had also drawn his bow and was allowing the survivors to begin their swim to the rocky cliffs across the bay. Dagored assured them that he would follow after he held them off long enough.

Anariel and Dearthos knew better, however, and read the look etched upon Dagored's face as plain as day. He knew not how to swim and was afraid of the murky depths. He would remain as long as was necessary for his kin to reach safety and then he would attempt to do what he had never done before. Perhaps in this moment of desperation he would be successful.

"Please, Ulmo, hear my prayer," whispered Anariel, "keep him safe. Do not let him drown."

Grasping his brother's arm in farewell, Dearthos gave him a reassuring nod and Anariel took his hand and brought it to her lips in farewell. Then, securing their weapons, Anariel and Dearthos dove into the frigid water. Its blackness enveloped them in an icy torture as it grabbed their weapons and clothing, soaking through everything in its attempt to pull them down to rest forever within the sifting sands.

About a quarter of the way across the water, Anariel, out of breath, raised her head above the surface and glanced back to the shore. Dagored's bow lay snapped and bloodied atop his contorted form and the orcs paraded around the coast drawing their weapons and beating them crudely across their shields to taunt the sinking elves. Arrows began to stream through the water. Thousands of arrows. Diving back under the cover of the river's water, Anariel began to swim past the bodies of her kin, the blackened arrows driven through their spines and skulls as they sank to the bottom of the cruel water.

'Curse Ulmo and his oceans!' thought Anariel with a snarl.

Blood began to churn with the lapping waters along with her tears and drove after drove of crooked arrows.

'We'll never make it out alive,' thought Anariel, 'So this is my destiny; to drown in a sea of black arrows…'

The water, sluggish and red from her sinking comrades, dragged Anariel below its surface, wrapping its now warm liquid around her exhausted form.

'This is it. This is death. So be it.'

"Hush, my child, do not speak so." murmured a soft voice.

Anariel sighed, she felt at home.