CHAPTER XXXVII

I remember my first kill—when I was nine. It was at the time that the Noldor made camp around Lake Mithrim awaiting a response from Angband of Ñolofinwë's challenge. Finno and I had gone hunting around the lake, searching for things to eat. A little time before, he had taught me to shoot a bow, and prior to the hunting trip he gave me a short dagger with a cerulean-jeweled hilt.

"Lest anything happens," he had told me with a slight wink.

Nervously, I had let him strap the blade onto my belt. "There you go," Finno said, straightening and admiring it. "You look like a warrior princess."

I smiled shyly and stood up straighter, making him laugh.

"Come on then, let's go," he said, slinging his quiver upon his back.

We had walked a few leagues or so around Lake Mithrim before I finally spotted a rabbit along the brush, but when Finno pulled taut his bowstring, I whispered frantically, "You're going to shoot at her?"

Finno glanced at the rabbit then lowered his bow. "There are many things in the world that you do not yet understand. We have barely any other source of food at the moment, and until we begin to build our fortresses and found our kingdoms we will have to rely on this." He thought we would stay here, and rule this land freely.

"I've never eaten another animal before," I said, crinkling up my nose. "Ammë always told me that we were all connected, and should not eat nor kill each other." The Kinslayings, oh the Kinslayings.

"Unless in dire need, titta nettë," Finno reminded me. "We must survive."

"So do they," I objected. "No one eats us."

"Oh, but they might begin to," he said, likely thinking of Morgoth. "Or we will wrought our own doom upon ourselves." The rabbit had vanished by now, and he slid the arrow back into the quiver. "Come on now. It is time we find another one."

My ears twitched as they heard the slight rustle of movement in the undergrowth and I crept towards it cautiously, quiet as a cat. The susurration of the leaves came again, and I stayed motionless, suddenly feeling as if something was amiss; the sounds came from all different directions, whispering and sighing like the wind, yet not. A shadow of a brier shrub was cast upon the ground, and I had barely glanced at it until it moved, forming a head and arms and a body—

I stumbled back, calling out in fear as an orc towered over me. Immediately Finno was there, and I heard the echoing ring as he unsheathed his sword, descending upon the patrol of three orcs around me. For a moment that was longer than a moment, I was rooted to the ground in terror as he battled the orcs.

"Your dagger, Hith!" Finno called, motioning as best he could with the little time he had to my belt.

I retreated backwards as the orcs drew nigh to me, their black steel flashing like obsidian and my fingers fumbled for the short knife at my belt, but I could barely turn my gaze from the snarling orcs and the clashing blades. There was a shout in the havoc; Finno had successfully taken out one of them, yet it only caused them to press forward harder. At last I had untangled the knife from my belt, and clutching onto the hilt desperately until my knuckles were white, I stepped forward uncertainly, my legs shaking so violently that I could barely walk unswerving.

Finno gave a sharp cry as one of the orcs' blades grazed his arm, the blood welling out of the wound and staining the ground. My fingers had numbed from gripping my dagger, but I did not know what to do; the blade was too short to charge and they were too close for me to throw, I might have hit Finno if I did. He lashed out at them, catching one in the stomach and sending it sprawling, then sprang at the fallen orc, piercing it through the chest; yet even as he did so, the last orc wrestled him to the ground and knocked the sword out of his hand, pressing a jagged knife to his throat.

Somehow I stood my ground and kept my grasp on the dagger he had given me, even as the orc turned its gaze to me.

"Come here, little one," the orc cooed as the knife upon Finno's neck drew blood.

Slowly I stepped forward, fearing what he would do if I did not. I was close enough to stab him now, and as if sensing this, he laughed.

"You won't use that on me," he simpered. "It'll hurt. You don't want that, do you?" Again he laughed at my terrified expression, my breath coming in short gasps. "What is your name, little one?"

My lips barely moved. "Híthriel."

"That's a pretty name," the orc leered at me. "Is this one a brother of yours?"

I nodded ever so slightly.

"Good," he drawled. "Then look at his face, and feel his pain."

The orc slammed a knee into Finno's stomach and he doubled over, sucking a breath in, closing his eyes so I would not see his pain. It happened again and again and again until the orc missed a beat and Finno struggled out of his grasp, lashing out with his fists, but the orc hissed and seized my arm, dragging me backwards and instead pressing the dagger against my throat.

The cerulean-jeweled dagger was still in my hand, but the orc hardly seemed to notice, or perhaps he thought I was too frightened to use it. Finno had retrieved his sword, his form taut with tension. The roots of my hair hurt as the orc gripped it, shaking my head roughly.

"Unhand the sword," the orc growled.

Finno froze for a moment then let the blade fall. Hith, he told me, using sanwë-latya. Use the dagger. This is our only chance.

The orc was speaking too although I barely heard it. He grabbed me by the hair and hauled me over, then in a sudden, unanticipated movement, he seized Finno by the neck, strangling him—

I thrust my dagger into the orc's stomach, but it didn't seem to do enough damage so I stabbed him again and again and again in unquenchable, wild fury until he fell to the ground, dead, the last of his blood pooling out of his body; yet even then I could not stop. I thought of my mother, and the kind elleth in the village she used to take me to, then what the orc had done to Finno. What they had all done to me.

At last the fever of rage passed, and I fell to my knees in horror at what I had done. Tears escaped out of my eyes and Finno enveloped me in his arms, holding me close. I almost felt safe.

"It's all right now," he murmured. "It's all right."

When we halted to rest, I went to look after Eärendil in place of Hendor, who had gone to wash the blood off his body. Hendor was a House-carle of Itarillë, and had carried Eärendil to safety in the Fall. Although we did not speak at first as I tended to things about, he finally murmured, "Thank you for saving nana and I."

"It was the only thing I could do," I said quietly.

He sighed. "Where is Lord Ecthelion?"

I stiffened suddenly and the memory of him falling into the water with his arms ruined came flooding back to me. . .And little Eärendil didn't know, how could he bear the news, he was only a little child. . .

"I wish he were here, to play to me on his flute or to make me willow whistles," Eärendil said softly. "His songs are so beautiful." Were. Were.

Hastily I wiped the tears away. "You should be getting to sleep."

I helped him get comfortable and stayed there until the embers of the fire died out. I went away then and stood gazing at the remnants of the burning city beyond. It was a starless night, as the smoke of the burning city shrouded the lights in the sky; the darkness felt yawning and deep, befouled and empty in the abyss of death. Upon feeling a light hand on my arm, I looked up to find Glorfindel.

"I know," he whispered. "I know. But we've gotten out. There are still survivors. There is hope for our people."

I squeezed my eyes shut and nodded. My fingers curled and loosened again, but I did not speak. There was nothing to say.

Dawn was nearly upon us; the grey clouds were now lined with shimmering silver. Perhaps now we could find peace, but how could we after it all. . .how could we find peace again with so much terrible injustice in the world? The camp was quiet—quiet after the haunting destruction of our city, our friends, our kin; the memory of this bitter loss would prey on us for many long years yet.

Then over the hills there was sudden fire, a bitter crimson fire that burned as the naked flames of Anar herself and launched onto the plateau—a Balrog had somehow flown unseen and rammed itself into the survivors. I growled, a menacing challenge to the last flight, and sprinted toward it, unsheathing my sword. Springing up, I drove the blade into its thigh, and the Balrog reeled backwards, toppling over the slope. Keeping a firm grip on my sword, I unfurled my wings beyond the sight of the Gondolindrim, and yanked it out roughly, barely having the time to steady myself before tumbling onto the rock. The Balrog thudded onto its back on a small ledge, a little away from me.

Yet it rose up faster than I had anticipated and whipped its fiery thong at me. I was thrown back but I beat my wings in a wide arc, creating a storm of wind in order to wheel away from the rock. The whip lashed again and again, and I struggled to avoid it.

Suddenly it was all around me, and as soon as I went right it was there and when I turned left it was there too. It seemed as if I was trapped in a cage with bars that moved with every one of my movement so I could not struggle, I could not even try to get out—

I lurched away from it but it had entwined itself along my ankle and I was knocked to the ground. The whip engirdled me in its piercing fire and I cried aloud as it hurled me into the ridge. The Balrog snarled and thrashed its whip menacingly. I hung over the side of the rock, pretending to be defeated, but prepared the muscles in my back for flight.

As it took just one step too close, I granted myself a few preparing steps and launched myself into the air, piercing the Balrog in the shoulder. Again it lost its balance and tumbled over the side of the cliff, but the fall was too short and I had no time to wrench myself out before the impact of it flung me to the side. I furrowed my brows exasperatedly at my sword that was still in its shoulder. Most would have been in horror, but I knew of that no more.

There was no time to evade the attack before it fell upon me. Again and again the Balrog threw me against the rocks, too quickly for me to fight back. I smiled grimly as it all grew numb and senseless, at last now physically, for I had been that mentally and emotionally for too long. Perhaps I really had become a warrior like how I wanted to be as a child. Warriors die valiant deaths, Finno had told me, and that was what I had sought: a valiant way to end my existence here in Endórë.

Yet then a figure sprang down from the rock and landed between the Balrog and I. Between my split lashes I peered up at the figure and saw the bright golden hair flowing.

"How—how did you scale that fucking rock?" I muttered, and let my head fall back at last. I could have sworn I saw him smile humorlessly at me before I fell into darkness.

It seemed as if a few hours had gone by for the sun had risen higher when I regained consciousness once more. Jolts of movement startled me awake and I saw Glorfindel and the Balrog at the summit of a steep ledge; the Balrog beginning to move sluggishly as he sprang from rock to rock, stabbing it at a speed in which it could not block. Although they were both tiring, the former was evidently more than the latter.

The Balrog's fire was gone; it had blackened into ash, and rocks tumbled off the cliff and disintegrated in the abyss below as they fought. He leaped up suddenly and drove his blade into the Balrog's arm, pushing until the arm came hewed off. As the Balrog was roaring in agony, he jumped and plunged his sword into its shoulder, then rearing, it clawed at him but he kept his grip and they swayed dangerously upon the precipice.

Clinging onto the hilt still embedded in its shoulder, he seized a dagger from his belt and thrust it into the Balrog's belly. It shrieked and fell off the ridge as he collapsed off onto land. At last I breathed again and sighed, lolling my head backwards. But the Balrog falling grasped his hair and them both fell into the yawning abyss beyond.

No scream in the entirety of Arda could have relieved the pain—the utter loss that engulfed me into darkness.

I didn't care what the Gondolindrim would see—I merely mounted into the air and nearly collapsed to the ridge where he had fallen. I rushed to his body, broken on the unrelenting, merciless rocks. Although his eyes were closed, as if he was merely sleeping, his neck was broken at a terribly wrong angle and scarlet dribbled out of a deep gash on his face. The blood on his body seeped onto my hands, my arms, my own body. No, this wasn't possible. This could not be possible. Didn't he just tell me everything would be all right? Didn't that just happen? Didn't he just say that there was still hope for us all. . .Didn't he? Didn't he?

I don't know how long I cradled his broken body in my arms, but after long there was a soft swishing sound behind me. It was Thorondor. Gently I lifted him onto his back and climbed on myself. Thorondor rose into the air and glided with the wind until we came to a green hill at the top of somewhere. There we buried him with a mound of stones in the pass.

I drew out the small golden flower that Artanis had given me from Valinor. It was crushed; the petals were broken and chalked with grime and dust, but it was all I had. I rested it on the mound lightly. . .

Then softly I began to sing, a murmured hymn that had been made once long ago—the poem I had promised he would hear someday. The diction was simple but the words had a elegant, nostalgic lilt to it; as I sang the blurred memories of the past faded into my mind then vanished. Once I had been a child living in isolation with her mother, upon the shores of a tranquil sea, but no more.

The song ended as quietly as it had begun.

"Namárië, meldonya melda," I whispered.

Eldarin References:

Titta nettë. (Q) Little sister.

Námarië, meldonya melda. (Q) Farewell, beloved friend.