Chapter 10

Ghâshnazg snarled at the scene around him. Whereas before, the Orcs had had a doubtless victory, now, the forces of Dol Guldur and the elves were evenly matched. More elves had come than they had counted on, and there had not been enough slain in the trees as they had planned. And still, he searched for the Mirkwood prince. There was no possible way that he could be in battle after the injuries he had inflicted upon him, but he had to be somewhere.

The Orc's beady eyes fixed upon the trees of Lórien, and something clicked in his malicious brain. Of course, all the injured and the ones unable to fight must be taking shelter behind those trees, and somewhere there, the little prince was hiding. He smiled, thinking of his promotion if he could present the head of the Prince of Mirkwood to the Darkness.

Without another thought, he hewed his way towards line of trees.

* * * *

Legolas was hurt. She knew it in her heart. He was grievously injured, and it was her fault, and she had to get to him. Melian swung her blade blindly, hitting whatever was in front of her, not caring if it was friend or foe. All she knew was that she had to get the trees of Lórien. There, they would help her find him.

He could not die.

Not without her saying good-bye.

Her vision was blurred, not by tears, but by hate. She could not feel anything else for these things around her. In the dimming of her sight, elves, Orcs, trees, blood… all seemed the same to her. The blade in her hand was just another killing tool.

All around her, Death happened. Death flourished. Death was in glee.

But it would not take her until she was with him. Then, whatever Fate had in store for her, she was ready.

She had to find him.

She had to find her heart.

* * * *

The girl and elf, after the awkward gap between them before, now stood in front of the path, unseen by the enemy in the trees, and holding tightly onto each other's hand. Darkness surrounded them, the night seeming to grow vaster and vaster as they stared down the seemingly endless path.

Ranien felt the girl's palm grow sweaty and heard her breathing quicken as she eyed the arrows in the ground. He gave her a nod, but she hung back. "Rae," she whispered, and he saw a bead of glistening sweat roll from her temple. "Whatever happens…" She would not look at the elf. "Whatever happens, we're in this together, right?"

The elf cursed himself once more for not saying anything. He had wanted to, and he had had the chance to do so before, but he could not find the courage. It was too late now, but he already knew his answer to her question, no matter what waited for them at the end of that path. "Of course," he told her.

They gave each other a look, both of their eyes filled with fear but an iron determination to do what they must. Then, they turned back to the path, as if one, and despite everything, made their choice.

Screaming in fear and excitement, adrenaline running through their veins, they ran forward, even as the Orcs cried out, "Elves!" Arrows rained down around them in an endless downpour, but guided by Ranien, Laine avoided the poisonous shafts. She could not see a thing, the cool air rushing through and tearing her lungs, but charged forward, the arrows thicker than the leaves in the forest.

Their weapons gripped tightly in their hands, they burst through the trees, facing the battlegrounds before Mirkwood. Ranien broke their grasp and fell into step behind the girl, and she realized, her heart surging, that he was protecting her from the thinning line of attack from the woods.

Still holding onto her sword with her left arm, she did not run, charge, or even jump, but fell into battle, for any other word would have fallen short of how the sea of elves and Orcs somehow swept under her feet and nearly devoured her in its mass. She hacked clumsily with her left, and less deft, arm, not nearly getting enough power into her trusts and blows, and thus getting scratched, bruised, and jostled in return. Running a marathon that day had exhausted her, and even the remnant of the adrenaline from dodging death was wearing off.

Within five minutes, she was swept into the very center of the fighting, breathing hard, with more bruises from shields and other people's armor than she could count.

A small Orc with a snout, picked her as its next victim, and circled from its position, a scimitar gripped in both arms. Laine did not know what else to do except eliminate her potential killer before it could kill her, and stepped forward, sword tiredly dragging on the ground, and took a wild swing that the Orc easily ducked.

Fatigue set in, and she swayed on her feet, oblivious to the armies around her. Her head spun, and she struggled to hold onto her weapon and squinted at the Orc, not at all ready to parry. The Orc thrust its sword forward for a killing blow, but she swept her blade in an arc in front of her to block it. She did not know whether she was glad or not to not have armor, as the two continued their fight. However, her hold on her sword was slicked with sweat, and her right arm was too stiff and numb to do anything but dangle.

She was caught off guard, and it hit her on the side of the head with the hilt of its weapon. She staggered, stars blooming in front of her eyes. Gasping, she felt as if lightning had struck her right temple and the course of blood to her head faltered at this sudden attack, and all sense left her. Sucking in air, she waited for the killing blow, and looked up, her legs taking a mind of their own as she wobbled about. Her sight cleared a little, and the sounds, smells, and tastes of battle returned so fast, she thought that she would pass out from sensory overload.

* * * *

Ghâshnazg snarled at his new prey and watched as the human bobbed helplessly on jellied legs. This human was nothing compared to the elven princeling, but killing it was no trouble at all. He could even practice a few swings in its dead body after killing it.

Grinning with cruelty, he raised his weapon once again, ready to bring it down over the human's head and kill it instantly. But before he could, a strange pain flowered in his back, and he felt warmth stain his armor.

Giving one last roar, Ghâshnazg's vision blurred and he fell, dead.

* * * *

A firm hand gripped her shoulder, but she had no strength left to fight off her assailant, and closed her eyes, the sword slipping from her grasp, submitting. "Laine!" a clear voice called, and she was in the arms of someone familiar. Her eyes opened tiredly, and she looked up into Ranien's eyes. Their gaze locked, and the expression that she saw before, when he had held her before they took the deadly path pass the Orc archers, flickered over his pale blue orbs. She opened her mouth, but suddenly, the elf's attention shifted, pass her face, behind her.

Taking one last stand, and forcing her twitching muscles to work, the girl put her weight on her feet and turned, looking back the way they had come, at the dark vastness of Mirkwood. Battle and fire on the plains raged about them, but one figure stood, drawing all attention and awe to itself. Ranien and Laine stood together, staring in wonder and terror at the crazed shadow, whose blond hair was illuminated by torches and whose skin glowed feverishly. Next to this figure, the body of the small Orc lay, inert and defunct.

The elf gripped the girl's hand, but Laine could not stop her feet, which were already moving towards the figure. She held out an empty hand, mouth open in shock and sadness, not caring that Orcs moved all about them. The figure looked up, blood dripping through its hair, down its face, and fell from its chin in regular intervals. The plain, brown dress was soaked in crimson and the hand that had a full-weight, warrior's sword in it, was recognizable beneath a layer of crusted dirt and dried blood. The long, thin blade was dark, up to the hilt in the same, syrupy, sticky liquid.

"Melian?" Laine whispered, trying to bring back the elf-maid. But the ruthless killer in front of her was not the same elf that had laughed and joked with her in Mirkwood. This was not the same elf that had cooked and cleaned upon another's command. This was not the same elf that had sacrificed her own heart to save that of her lover's.

"Melian," the girl tried desperately to call to her friend, but knew that her please were futile. Melian was gone. This, standing in front of her, wearing the elf-maid's shell, was an angel of death.

She raised her eyes and fixed Laine with a stare that sent the girl reeling back into Ranien. The laughter and joy were gone from her eyes. If these orbs were the windows to the soul, the Melian's soul must have been icy, emotionless, and filled with a hot, unmoving hate.

She raised the elven blade with surprising ease, but her stare did not move from the girl's face. Laine scrabbled for Ranien's arm, but could not find it, and could only look helplessly into the deep pools of darkness in this monster's blood-ravaged face.

"Move," the cracking and drying lips parted, issuing forth a single word of command. Though it was barely a whisper, it could not have been more imposing if she had screamed it. The two in front of her were immobile, glued to their positions by fear, shock, and pity. Laine watched as Melian curved the blade down, then up so quickly that her eye could not catch it. She only realized the blade was at her throat when she felt metal, warmed by the bodies it had stolen life from, and thick liquid dripping down the sword, on her neck. Frigid lips kissed her back and her hair stood on end, a pounding starting in her abdomen and head.

"You are in my way," the same emotionless voice explained. "Move." Laine did not, but only stared, horrified at this change in her friend.

"Laine," Ranien had come back to his sense, and put an arm on her shoulder, but never looking away from Melian. "She will kill you. Move out of her way." But when the girl planted her feet, he did not step away either.

"No," the girl refused, though the bale was dancing tantalizingly close to her carotid.

"I need to go to Lórien," the monotonous, glacial voice came again. "Move out of my way." Her blade did as much talking as she did, but the girl was gripped by intuition that she could not let Melian continue. This madness had gone far enough, and Laine did not know how many more, Orcs or elves, would die under this sword.

"No," she answered, her voice louder, though still shaking with apprehension. "I can't let you near anymore people. Wake up, Melian."

"Laine," the elf behind her pleaded, but she ignored him.

In the midst of the macabre and gory hurricane, they were in the eye of the storm, away from immediate danger. The girl no longer saw the rivers of blood flowing around her or heard the dirge of the clashing of weapons, possibly the only burial rights these warriors would have. She had eyes only for Melian and heard only the slow dripping of the ruby liquid, more precious than any gemstone, off of the sword and onto her tunic. "If you oppose me, then you will die," the elf-maid said, her cold glare boring into the girl's face.

"Then kill me if you can," Laine had no idea where her courage was coming from or why she was playing chance with her life. Despite the stand she was taking, her heart was pounding in her throat and ears, and her breath was coming in short, shallow gasps.

The elf-maid did not make a move, but hesitated, and the girl thought she saw something humane in her eyes, and rushed to take hold of it before it was gone. "You can't," she whispered, "because you still have a part of you left in there, buried somewhere." The sword at her throat shuddered, and more blood splashed onto the girl's face and neck. "I don't know what happened, Melian, but dig her out. You're good, Melian! You're good!"

But it was too little, too late, and the shadows again took Melian's soul. "I will kill you," she intoned, and moved her sword right, readying for the strike.

"Then you will have to kill me too," Ranien suddenly spoke up. He drew his dagger, the only short-distanced weapon he had, and stepped out from behind the girl. Standing to her left, he held his weapon, ready and unrelenting, though the sword was nearly in his face. Laine had not expected this, and looked up at the elf's fair features, her mind suddenly flashing warning signs.

She whipped her head around and found Melian, and at that moment, she knew. Perhaps her spiraling mind rendered everything in slow motion, but she found that she could not move and that the images before her eyes slowed, so only the elf-maid seemed to be able to progress. Whether it was because Melian had finally found herself and could not hurt Laine, or because evil had finally held firm power and she knew where to stab the girl where it hurt the most, Laine did not know. But at that moment, Melian drew back her blade, faster than any elf or human eye could see and lunged forward.

The girl had not time to react and it was seconds before she realized what had happened. She stared, horrified, and numb with shock, from the hilt of the blade to the end of the sword.

She could not see it, for nearly half the weapon was buried deep in Ranien's abdomen.

The elf made no sound as Melian withdrew the sword, but Laine had grabbed him by the shoulders, and both fell, one from a gaping wound in his stomach, and the other because of another wound that none could see. The numbness fell away, and the girl clutched at her torso as if someone was tearing her apart, piece by piece. She screamed the only word that came to mind, as she stared, on her knees, in front of the elf.

"Ranien!"

She left the two on the fields, both drenched in the elf's blood, and walked back into the frenzy of battle. A part of her still untouched by the darkness told her that she ought to have felt something… but she did not know what that feeling should have been. The words, "remorse," "guilt," "pain," and "sorrow," made themselves in her mind, but she could not feel any of these, for she no longer knew what they were.

She was hollow.

* * * *

Melian felt nothing as she made her way toward Lórien, killing as she went. She slew Orcs only, for that was one feeling she could still grasp: hate. She could not kill her kinsmen… unnecessarily. And nothing could withstand her blade and her will as she hewed herself a path of death and destruction towards the Golden Woods.

Then, nothing stood between her and the trees in the last hundred feet, and she surged forward in the darkness, her sword trailing behind her. Under the eaves, she kept running, for all was still dark, and she did not know what else to do.

Melian burst into a camp, and gasped as light from a hundred lamps hit her full in the face. For in Lothlórien, the Dream Flower, no shadows or darkness could exist. The evil in her heart quailed, in such a dwelling of the Light Elves, and fought to hold on as the power of Elbereth Gilthoniel bore down on this darkness.

She screamed and fell to the ground, scratching at her chest, as fire and ice enveloped her at the same time. Her sight dimmed, and all light was blocked from her. Good and evil battled within her heart, and she did not care which won, as long as the pain stopped!

"But you do care," a voice filled her head. It was androgynous, possibly a low female or a high male, but in pain, Melian did not have time to ponder this. "Tell me," it said, filling her head with its power, "what do you want the most?"

The answer was easy.

For Legolas to live, she thought. For him to be happy, even if it is not with me…

The worming and writhing evil in her heart gave a last cry of anguish and withered away. Elbereth smiled upon her once more, and the voice answered, "You want that because you love him, and love cannot come from hate. Darkness took you because you hated, but love has brought you back to the light once more."

Sight returned, and Melian looked up from where she was lying. Elf-eyes looked back at her, curious but kind. All around her, elf-maids had emerged from tents to see what was happening. Self-consciously, though she thought it foolish at a time like this, Melian touched her hair, and found it was caked with something hard, that smelled of metal. She touched her face, and found her hands rough.

Gasping, she stared at her hands, so strange that they should have been another's. They were not white, but stained with rust and covered in some hard, crusty substance.

Blood…

Horrified, she sat up and looked down at herself. Her dress was soaked and everything had the flavor of iron. Her mind whirled, and suddenly, she remembered her anger, her hate, the battlefield, the Orcs, and Laine and Ranien. "Oh Elbereth," she murmured in panic. She was covered in blood. Her hair, face, hands, clothes… All drenched in others' blood.

Trembling, she looked to her side and saw the sword.

It was much too heavy for her, and yet, she knew that she had used it. It was blanketed to the hilt in the same liquid she was bathed in.

She had killed.

Laine. Ranien.

"Oh, Elbereth," she gasped, her voice quaking even before it left her throat. She brought her hands to her face, and tears mingled with the foul substances on her face. "Oh, Elbereth. What have I done?"