Hello, guys! There was a large overlap in my post. Hope you like this one. References and meaning of Sindarin names in the end. Please tell me if there is a mistake in the grammar.

Many were the young Elves that were silent. A great silence hovered in the House of Galadriel. Never before had they witnessed a creature, a Moriquendi utter the name of Gorthaur without a trace of fear. Here there was a Years of the Trees' elf that had seen Sauron Gorthaur and Morgoth…Yet she had no fear in pronouncing and mentioning names and epochs that were painful for the Free People.

« What will you do now, O last of the flâd-ahuin? » Celeborn asked in a grave, enigmatic tone.

« Nothing binds me to these woods…I will say this: Ankranrach has been searching for allies. We will not permit any of those eggs to reach the Dark Lord's hands! And Ki-Yong is as unpredictable as Smaug! A demon he may be, but he is ancient for a Man. I will depart to the dark West. »

« Brassenyl, what kind of allies does the Golden Arrow have in mind? »

« He has some in mind. In Eriador, he seeks a Bard and a healer. How was the name of those two? Hithuên and Morhuiel. »

« Fog-Child and Dark Jewel? Those names are quite recent indeed. I do hope Ankranrach does not mean to bring inexperienced travellers. This is the fate of Middle-Earth – possibly, of this very world – we are speaking. »

« Morhuiel is a black-sheep among the herd of white, but he is a kind soul. Half-Elf from a Ùmaen father and human in his mother's side, Morhuiel has an unique but rather unfortunate manner which he sees any female creature. There has been a time when I have scolded him for not behaving properly. Aulë has blessed him with the cunning of smith arts, but he is far too loud for an elf. He has travelled for the good seventy years of his life, but nowadays, I have heard he has established within Eriador, not daring to cross the woods to Rivendell Houses. Hithuên, or Hîthuihên, as I enjoy calling her by the more formal name, has a deep love for all things Yavanna has created. She has healed many men since she the moment of her one hundredth birthday, but she is…How is it they say? Oh, yes, wet on the ears. She is quite spritely, the favourite pastime is drawing and sketching the many creatures the Valar have sung into existing. Ankranrach is…well, despite these two' brashness and childlike manners, he sees in them the material to battle the many creatures and henchmen Sauron would throw at them. Lady Galadriel, for all my millennia, I cannot reason with the old dragon and persuade him otherwise. They are naïve, and for all their efforts, every now and then they are much as children to me as if they were yet to reach their first twenty and fifth anniversary. »

« Brassenyl…How old was Lúthien when she battled against the forces of darkness to retrieve her love from Angband's dungeons?»

« I-»

« Four, five hundred years… There is enough time for them to understand the world. »

« I hardly doubt it. » Brassenyl raised her eyebrows sceptically.


In Eriador, a few miles to the Northeast borders, a six feet and two inches tall woman rose, the short-bow tightly held by the hands. A cascade of dark hair fell neatly on the back, hold by an intricate butterfly shaped hairpiece.

She had been ambushed by a group of twelve Men, each tanned or of a dark colour of skin. Four of them had their raven hair was tied into messy topknots. The others had shaven to a point a small locks rested to ear length. She could see the mark of the Evil Eye near their ears, despite the hoods. Although they were not as tall as her, each held a blackened scimitar, a crossbow tied in each of their backs and four short daggers hidden by the velvet and dark cloaks. Easterling brigands, and by their weapons, they were hired by a darker, and wealthier entity. One of them was wearing a set of plate armour. He swung a sickle tied into a thirteen feet long whip-like weapon made of chains. One single black and piercing eye gazed at her, since the other was a copper-like aberration. How come were they so far from their homeland?

« Hand over that letter, Elf-girl! » The leader snarled in heavy-accented Westron. The threat was hanging silently in the air. The half Noldor elleth glanced at the men. These were not brutish, idiotic Orcs. The Necromancer had sent Humans from the East to catch her? He certainly was fearful of "Golden Arrow", if he was careful enough to send Men, with their lust for Power and temperamental hearts.

« Oh…Has your Master tired of seeing incompetent Orcs doing the job greedy Men could accomplish? » Hîthuen hissed, one arrow carefully pulled into the bow. « Leave these woods alone, foul creatures. As long as I am here, no one of you shall pass towards Eriador! »

An arrow loosened from one of the men's oak-like and iron-reinforced crossbows. Hîthuen saw the arrow before it was shot towards her leg. One small gesture like jumping and deflecting the arrow with one of her own was hard. The Easterling Men were faster than the common and dim-witted Orcs.

« All right, you're fast. »

She was a healer. The dagger and arrow were not as fast as the However, if the men found her an easy prey, they were mistaken. Focusing only a small minute in the nature around herself was not as difficult as holding weapons. A small colourful pile of mass appeared tucked into the pocket. It was nothing, a mere mixture her "sworn" brother had made while wandering the northwestern lands. A rain of arrows began to shower upon the unprepared men. However, most of the arrows' tips were blunt: a mere distraction. Avoiding scimitar's blades and arrow's poisoned tips, the elleth focused into the small mix, placing a tip of volcanic element from the North-east into the colourful and explosive mix. Fixing the mix of colourful pigments into a wooden, hollow container, she muttered a weak Song of fire. The fire lit a fuse.

« Beautiful blades …allow me to see them shimmer! »

Throwing the exploding ball of colour into the Easterlings, she hoped this would buy enough time. A flower-shaped explosion echoed, making the woods lit with many colours. Hîthuen would laugh if the black mercenaries were painted in many colours, as her brother have warned her. One of tip of a throwing dagger stroke the tip of a branch, slicing it in half, making it drip in a black and burning liquid, the splinter making a shrill-like noise echo from the tree… What sort of sorcery was that? Those swords moved faster than she expected.

« Men that move like wraiths but are not. As if the North-east was lacking in disgusting creatures. »

The leader's sickle unchained and bolted towards her, the movement similar to that of an attacking snake. It hissed in a metallic and rattling sound – unknown and eerie to the elleth's ears.

« You are truly persistent! »

She truly hoped she did not need to beg to Yavanna to release the Vala wrath upon those Men.

One of the men released one choking and leathered noose, aiming to Hîthuen. Orcs only used nets, spears and poisoned blades, but these Easterlings used other tactics. Her dagger made contact with one of the men's dagger, as a metallic clink pierced her hearing. She drew a small piece of blood from the Easterling's face.

Swiftly passing to a counter-attack, she called upon Yavanna Herself, summoning a subtle, graceful Song. A few branches of trees began to uplift and shot towards the men. As the choking noose lessened its pressure on a tree's branch and a gasp of a man's feeling his neck being torn from the ground made the elleth flinch. The tree's branch tightened around the man's neck so much a few drops of blood streamed and fell on the ground.

Hîthuen felt a few pearls of sweat dropping from her chin. They were gaining on the elleth's steps, even if she sprang from one tree to another. Yavanna's raw power could not always protect her. The branches swayed and groped the men, but they were faster and ripped them into pieces.

Pinpointing the direction where the sickle and the chain came became a lethal task for Hîthuen, when she was concentrated in narrowing spells and fighting with her arrows the other Easterlings.

She slung off another arrow towards one of the Men's necks. A small splutter, a gagging noise and the crash of a body hitting the floor, bones cracking filtered in the elleth's ears. The rattling and hissing of the sickle alongside two crossbow bolts alerted her. The sickle was coming from a blind point, whereas the bolts were coming from her left and right.

Deflecting the bolts with a century-old tree's acidic leaves, she focused on the jumping, hooded Easterling.

A thirteenth, curved blade appeared, blocking effectively the sickle and the heavy iron ball.

Morhuiel appeared, a song echoing from the lips. The quality of the song filtered vibrantly throughout the woods. A single arrow attempted to silence him. However, the elf's legs carried him as Hîthuen made a protecting spell around the sworn "brother".

However, in a split of second, there was an odd and wicked glint in the leader's copper and glass eye. He was smiling.

« What's the matter, old narrow eye-sore?! » Morhuiel snapped while defending one swinging from the metallic and rattling chain. « Thou were born with a grinning Orc's face? »

A small and painful hiss came from the hooded man. But he kept smiling nonetheless.

An arrow whistled. Hîthuen defended her brother with one pommel of the sword, knocking the archer unconscious.

One moment without looking and she noticed the garrotte-shaped, coiling iron chain, reading to attack her neck. A few words in shimmering Tengwar script were written in the chains. Even with the speed of her people, it had been too fast.

She gagged, the neck suddenly locked by the infernal, bewitched weapon.

« Morgoth take ye-»

« You know nothing of darkness, little elleth! » The leader chuckled in a chilling tone. The black and leathered hands placed one firm hold in the chain while the sickle was narrowed towards the young elf. « Now that I have your attention, elfling, I suggest you lay down whatever instrument you carry and that sword. I would hate to bring your little sister's corpse to my Master's fortress. He wants you both alive. »

Hîthuen hissed something at the man, but she could not say anything less. Despite the seemingly safe distance, he could choke her to death.

Morhuiel's fear was overcome with hatred as he spat at the man, the rapier still held firmly between both hands.

« A'thêlnín-Release her, thou jail-crow of Mandos! »

The copper eye flashed a sudden flame-like light, and the man's voice echoed as though it was not his own.

« Your ancient lore of the Middle-Earth will serve no one here, elf-boy! Put that weapon and the instrument down. I promise you will be received well in my Master's temporary abode. »

Something occurred to the ellon's mind. Although his fëa was filled with an immense fear, hatred threatening to overcloud the judgement, he managed to share the thoughts with his thêl. The eyes snapped to the copper eye and then to the chain.

« If I can manage to break that chain-»

« You cannot, Morhuiel! He'll kill me! »

« No, A'thêlnín! I'll find a manner to set you free! »

Hîthuen's memory traced back to a time when she had lost her family. She belonged to the sole elf clan who had decided to stay in the South. Her father, the proud southern light Elf-King, had been murdered by a wraith-like being, who was yet a man. It was not one of the Ring-Wraiths. She was only twenty years old. No one knew back then. It was a mystery – where the Ring-Wraiths had fled. Unfortunately, that thing murdered both her father and family within the clan's stronghold. It burned every living elf to the ground…Except for Morhuiel and her. The blood streaming from her Ada's face, a scream of a woman penetrating in the palace grounds, a demonic, hissing cackle echoing in the polluted and stifling air...The awful and horrifying scream of grief when her aunt took both Morhuiel and her to a safe tunnel - She remembered it all. The crackling of fire seemed to threaten her currently. She felt dizzy from wandering through these thoughts. Yet there was no fire among them, only a horrifying and ravenous presence, suffocating her in its darkness. As a small bubble of blood began to form in her tongue, gloom fell on those bright, brown eyes. The shackles were oppressing. If that Man told her they had been forged by Sauron himself, she would have believed it.

« Something…something in that man's living eye…Morhuiel, I think I can defeat him. »

All those memories from struggling against a man returned to her. She would never surrender to one of those Easterlings, even if she had to give her life!

The elleth's eyes were filled with rage as that common will to survive, the very same relentless will to live that characterised Maedhros and Fëanor thousands of years ago resurfaced. With the rest of Songs she possessed, a small dagger floated from the elvish belt and threw itself to the man's copper eye. It was a hopeful chance. She would either miss that eye and die or – Valar help her – she would free herself. With her teeth clenched and the sight blurred with the darkened mist that hovered around her, she struggled against those chains.

Suddenly a wave of bright, blinding flames shot from the sky, making the Easterlings scream in pain. Miraculously enough, it did not hinder Morhuiel nor Hîthuen. The flames had only swallowed the sickle captain's Men.

Hîthuen's mind focused solely on the man's eye. The blade, scorched and heated by the powerful dragon-fire flew directly to the man's copper eye, breaking it. A hiss of some kind of material whistled. A foul and reeking wind blew from the man's ears and mouth as he fell, leaving no eye and no corpse to rot: only a pile of dust. Morhuiel and Hîthuen gasped, coughing from both the dark smoke the dragon had unleashed and from the foul and blueish wisps coming from the corpse. A couple of screaming and hissing echoed, but the dragon muffled it with roars. Shrilling and whistling-like sounds filled the dark wood. It was unbearable. The air was thick with a strange aura.

Her eyes were exhausted. She sought Morhuiel in vain, the eyelids feeling too heavy to open. How she hated it! When Hîthuen and her "blood brother" fell down from what seemed to be a thirty feet tall tree, the last thing they felt was a leather-texture supporting them.


A'thêlnín - my sister. Although they are not direct relatives, Hîthuen and Morhuiel consider each other brother and sister.

Fëa - soul, spirit

Fëanor - High-King of the Noldor in the Years of the Trees (read Silmarillion), the one who sworn animosity against anyone who dared conquer the Silmarils from Mórgoth and not retrieve them to the Fëanor's children.

Maedhros - One of the Princes of the Noldor and the eldest of Fëanor's seven sons.

Moriquendi - Quenya word for the "Dark Elves". The only example in canon we have is Eöl.