Sulrochil
The path is clear.
Like a tunnel, it weaves into Shadowland. Between tents it circles; its every twist and turn is stored in her limbs.
High on a pine branch, she sits and already sees herself crawling along the path she has memorized while sitting on the mountain slope. Towards the rugged storage tent in the middle of everything, it leads. The moon eerily lightens the view. A few nightguards stand here and there, but they would not be a problem. All trees bordering Shadowland have promised to watch her, to shield her, to alarm her if needed. All twinkling stars of the dark sky would guide her.
All of nature shall aid her tonight, but what matters most is underground.
The orcs could cut down all of the trees within their territory. They could axe down all of the trunks, splinter every branch, and even sever every stump, but never could they take away the essence of aspens.
Aspen - the King of trees.
Below the surface, the vast tangle of aspen roots lie. Miles and miles of roots, thin and thick, old and new, straight and curly. All waiting to assist the elf. The trees want nothing more than for this elf to succeed. Tonight shall be the starting point of an avalanche that shall demolish all evil of this world.
The aspens - the true spirit of aspens - keenly await the elf and shall welcome her as a part of them. As an aspen root, she shall crawl into the middle of this monstrosity to take what she needs.
Eleven arrows and a sword. No more, no less.
It is the law of nature that the stronger wins. Her soul is overflowing with love, making her invincible.
You cannot destroy love. No. It bubbles. It grows. Always, it expands; if it is true love.
If we love, we wish to keep our loved ones safe. If we love, we love the goodness of the world and want to keep all innocents safe. To do that, we must destroy evil. There is no other choice.
It is a good deed to wipe out evil. Because if you don't kill them, they will kill you.
I am sent here to be the spark. I cannot defeat all these hordes of wicked spirits, but I can change the direction in which the river flows.
Mellegolasdaer, I have promised I never would attempt anything that I am not capable of. And I will not. What I have planned is within my skills.
I am the first snowflake of this avalanche.
"Mother Pine, please shield me. Call for your squirrels to climb on your branches. Whistle to the birds of the sky to guard me. Let the Plough shine through your needles to guide my way. Father Aspen, please make me one of your roots. Give me your resilience, your persistence. Your trunk is smashed up, but your spirit prevails. Beneath the ground, your root crown lies. Aid me tonight."
Sulrochil puts her cheek on the pine bark, closes her eyes and lets its strength flow into her heart. Silently, she inhales the last time before beginning her long slither.
This corner of Shadowland was once thick with aspens and when Sulrochil lays down, the roots whisper the right way to her. With their guidance, she could do this.
Unruly aspen shoots sprout everywhere, and it is easy to wriggle between them. The aspen forest could be in ruins, but the true spirit remains.
There is nothing that could go wrong.
All of the bordering trees are watching her way; myriads of needles on sentry duty; a multitude of leaves soughing in the wind to distract the cretins. A little twinkle of the stars informs Sulrochil to stop and let a group of passing orcs go further. Squirrels rustle in the trees, just enough to grab the attention of the villains when Sulrochil has to go over an open sandy spot - the most dangerous place in her entire route.
As long as Sulrochil is safe, Legolas is safe. If something happens to her, it could be the end of his endurance.
As long as he is safe, she is safe, because it would destroy her if she caused harm to him by getting into trouble.
Soon she is close to the storage tent, and she stops to listen to the sounds around her - a lot of snoring. Some guards shuffle around, but no one even glances in her direction. The centre of their attention is a mysterious night fly of the owls in the distance. The owls' hooting echoes everywhere as Sulrochil lifts the hem of the tent slightly and crawls into it.
It is a mess. Helter-skelter, there are dozens of arrows and all sorts of weapons. No one would notice if some of them went missing. Carefully, she looks at each of them. Curly shafts, frayed feathers, cracked arrowheads - no wonder they cannot hit accurately with those. It takes a while until she finds eleven decent arrows. Why do they not throw away the broken ones?
All of the swords are too large for her, but she needs one. Some of them are too dull, some of them are broken, but she manages to find one that is good enough. She might not have the time to sharpen it - but for her purposes, it did not need to pass the sharpness tests of the Keen One. If it was not completely wrecked, it would suit her tonight.
After tucking the arrows into her quiver, she grabs the sword and fastens it on her chest. Then she lifts the hem of the tent again and she is off. As simple as that.
The way back would be more straightforward now that her limbs already know the way.
All of nature guides her so that all she needs to do is to be a root. It is no effort for her to be a thin pliable root on the ground. Thousands of eyes of the woods aid her. The forest sees the enemies and Sulrochil sees herself through their eyes.
There is a night patrol coming closer, and she has to stop.
There is nothing that could go wrong, except for everything, because suddenly, out of nowhere, she feels an intense rush of power in her veins. Mellegolasdaer, what are you doing? In a flash, she absorbs his strength. In a flash, she is him. For an instant, she is him, possesses all his forces as he sees an enemy - wherever he is - and grabs an arrow to kill the foe.
But the invincibility vanishes.
A massive hurricane is storming in the forest of her soul and viciously throwing trees here and there. The thunder is raging through her heart, severing the connection to the aspen roots and leaving the land barren. The darkness of the night pierces her soul and seeps into her core, forcing all beauty to vanish.
The world is black. She is being suffocated with black cloth. Is this magic? Has Lokowid come from the north and discovered her? Is the wicked witch here now and hit her with his blackness?
The racking pain tramples her, and she cannot concentrate. Her core is mangled by the tides of torment; her hiding dissipates. The orcs could come and slice her. A little whimper makes the orcs lift their heads, trying to decide from which direction the yelp came. As they turn their black eyes exactly in her direction, she realizes it was her own sound.
By the moment, the steps of the two orcs come closer and closer; the agony petrifies her.
Mellegolasdaer, I am dying, and death is not the worst. I am dying and seeing my own destruction by your eyes. The despair glistening in your eyes is what kills me. You try to reach me but cannot save me. You fail, and it kills you.
Your palms fumble out to pull me back, but you lose me. Your hands try to reach my soul, but it is already gone. So is the light in your eyes, as well as the smile. All wisdom and joy - gone; leaving only emptiness left.
I fall. From a cliff, I plunge down, and, on this mountain of misery, there is no last straw on which I could hang. My arms flail as I go down. You try to grab the edge of my cloak, but the cloth slips out of your reach. Onto your knees, you fall. It wrenches my heart to see the failure in your eyes.
Once again, you failed to save me.
The way down is long, and all your changing emotions flit across your eyes. The sorrow; the mockery of not succeeding, the regret; but the worst is the defeat. Never have I seen it in you, and it sucks the life out of me. I am forced to watch as you have to face the degradation of your failure. I watch as you fight the urge to jump after me. It would be so easy to let your foot slip and fall into nothingness.
But you do not do it. On edge, you kneel watching my fall all the way until I hit the rocks in the valley. You do not turn your gaze away and see me smash onto the spiky grey stones. Blood streams are making my face red, my limbs are displaced, and here I lay looking at your shattered eyes when you realize you cannot do anything to save me. The desperation in your eyes stabs my heart more than anything.
Forever, I shall see the defeat in your eyes. Never were you supposed to face it; always, it was meant for your powers and skills to be enough to save me. And perhaps they would have been enough if I had not done this to you - came into this wicked place deliberately after everyone had forbidden me from doing it.
Here I am. Tonight, I die - and I watch my own death from your defeated eyes. Again and again, you are forced to relive my death.
This is an endless loop of failure. I fail to keep myself safe. You fail to secure me because I did not stay out of harm's way.
The orcs march closer with raised swords, and the only thing I can do is try to cope with the pain. I cannot flee, I cannot hide. I cannot fight, I cannot do anything with this pain. Please, Mellegolasdaer, forgive me for dying right here tonight.
Legolas
"Gwennor and Hwinnor," the King says, "run with Legolas to Lake-town tonight."
"Would riding not be wiser?"
"No. You must make him run like his very life depends on it."
"Alright, we shall go through the woods. Not by road."
"And we shall make him run the whole night..."
Three elves sneak out of the castle through a backdoor - of which only a few know - and begin their long run towards Lake-town. Across the Forest River, they run; the magnificent river which holds thousands of memories - of which today, Legolas can remember only the most unpleasant. Into the woods, they dash. The dark spruces brush their arms, and the distant memory of a faint smile hangs in the air. The smile fades and dissolves into spikes.
The black soil on the ground is full of sticking spikes piercing his soul.
Only blackness. The howling scream. The ever-present howling. He could endure anything but her scream. For three days, he has listened to it, and all the time forced himself to remember it is not real. It is not real. Not real.
Real.
Not real, he repeats over and over again. Not real. It takes a rhythm when he runs. Not, the left foot. Real, the right. Not. Real. Sulrochil's agonized wails go through his bones. Not real.
Not, the left. Real, the right. Not.
Real. A cracking sound. Abruptly, the whole forest is swarming with spiders.
An arrow flies past his head and when it hits a spider twenty feet from him, he feels an intense rush of power in his veins and grabs his bow.
All his attention is directed now towards the creatures approaching from every direction. All emotions vanish; the crushing pain is gone to make way for the might flooding in his limbs. An astonishing greenness of the fresh foliage fills his senses, and he sends the first arrow on its way.
The vermin falls down dead, and no sounds are hammering in his head anymore. The infernal shrieks have stopped, and there is sweet silence in his mind. The whole forest opens to him; Gwennor is seven feet behind him, Hwinnor ten feet on the left. Arrows begin to fly from all three bows killing dozens of spiders coming from all directions.
It is a short but fierce battle, and when the last spider falls on the ground, Legolas stops. He turns his head slowly, and when the two other elves look at him, they see the determination in his eyes crumbling. He turns his head to the other direction, and the strength in his shoulders vanishes.
All of a sudden, black tar burns his heart again, and in the middle of it is Sulrochil. If listening to her screams had been wicked beforehand - now her diabolical shrieks are full of the fear of death. "Please, forgive me for dying right here tonight," he hears over and over again. And the fear is real. If a moment ago, he was able to assure himself that the echoes of her screams were fake, he cannot do it anymore. This is real. He has failed.
Sulrochil
Sulrochil lies on the ground between a few rocks. The orcs are coming closer, but she cannot hide because the monstrous pain prevents her from disappearing out of their sight. The only thing she can do is to hope it is too dark for the orcs to see her even though she is not in her hiding posture.
Suddenly, she ceases to feel the pain anymore. It goes away as quickly as it came and she can hide again. Think of being a rock. Think of being a part of the ground. Think not of anything else until you are back in the safety of the forest.
"I smell an elf!"
"They've been here for days!"
"I'm sure I heard something here," one orc says, lifting his foot on a rock next to Sulrochil.
"I heard it too, but there is nothing," another orc replied, kicking a rock next to Sulrochil. "Only stones!"
The only thing she can do is to lie on the ground in her hiding position and hope they do not kick the stone which is made of elf, because even though she now looks like a rock in their eyes, she does not feel like one. Not daring to breathe, she waits for the orcs to leave, and not until she can no longer hear a sound of them, can she clamber into the forest.
Continuing her crawl in the forest for an unnecessarily long time, she goes further from the wicked Shadowland and climbs a pine.
On a branch, she allows herself to think. The witch is not here, never was. The horrors were conjured by no magical trick. Legolas was in a battle, she reasoned, a short but fierce battle. He did what he had to do - and all the pain flung to Sulrochil. It is all over now, though, and both of their torment is now with Legolas again.
Mellegolasdaer, how do you survive that? I had it for a few moments, you have had it for three days. Did you know this in advance? Of course you did. Why did you not tell me? We could have made another plan.
But there was no other plan, and this is why she is here with eleven wonky arrows and a disgusting black sword which she cannot smoothly use. There is no need for elegance tonight, though. The only thing she needs is rage, and that is not hard to find. Realizing how much Legolas has been suffering - is suffering - makes her blood boil.
Not being able to find the cruelty in herself to complete the last part of her mission, had beforehand scared her the most. Now she knows that would not be a problem at all. Her soul is as black as the ugliest of demons now.
She is the demon, waiting for its prize.
It is still dark, so she must go at once before the sky begins to lighten, to kill Gworf. Gworf and all his guards. And make it look like it is caused by orcs. It would be easy because she is full of brutality now.
Fiendish vengefulness flows in her veins now. She would make them suffer because they made her betrothed suffer.
She tucks her own arrows into a hole in a tree and dashes with her quiver full of black arrows, toward the north-west corner of Shadowland, Gworf's corner. The sword is swinging in her hand uncontrollably, but tonight there would be no need for finesse.
Today she is an orc. Black from the inside out; cruelty is in her fingertips; her murderous eyes glisten in the starlight.
Once she reaches Gworf's camp, she forces herself to press her face against an alder trunk to calm down a bit. The sight of these filthy creatures makes her furious, but she has to finish what she has started. Should she quit now, all would be in vain.
The evil spirits wish to kill all living things. Sulrochil is the last stronghold between the death and the dawn of peace. If she does not proceed, the evil will surge forward and spread his hand over all the earth, and the good people will be forced to withdraw into foxholes again.
If she does not do this, there shall be no future for mankind.
Patiently, she waits and scans the whole area - there are ten watchmen close to Gworf's tent, like always.
The view opens; like pieces of a game, the orcs move. Each of them has distinct breathing, and it is easy for her to determine their locations even if not every one of them is visible from this vantage point. Under her feet, she feels the aspen roots; they offer her advice.
Eleven black arrows are tucked into her quiver - her own safely hidden in the forest. The sword lays on the ground. She will not need it until everyone is dead.
Diligently, she waits for the perfect moment. This is her world. She knows how to wait; all thoughts vanish, all feelings dissipate. She knows that when the perfect moment arrives, there is no time to think, only act.
Someone hisses and three watchmen walk a bit further to relieve themselves. In a neat row, they place themselves and turn their backs to the others.
Now.
Sulrochil takes the first arrow and kills the watchman furthest from the row of waterworks. Before the dead one hits the ground, her arrows find the two other watchmen closest to the first.
Swiftly, she shoots the four orcs standing on the different corners of the tent. Finally, her arrows reach the three standing in a line taking a leak.
Not one of them even had time to realize what had hit them, and Sulrochil waits for a moment to see if anyone else heard what happened. The only thing she hears is the snoring from Gworf's tent. She grabs the sword from the ground, and with caution creeps closer.
Leaving the sword outside, she sneaks into the tent.
In one instant she sees every detail. Only Gworf is there, sleeping like a baby. On his left are the remnants of his dinner: a half-eaten rabbit. Beside the plate is his knife - it is decorated with a strange marking. She assumes it is Gworf's mark, but never before has she seen it. Three flies are humming against the cloth of the tent, trying to find their way out. Every rock, every shrub is now imprinted in her memory. She could draw every little detail of Gworf's armour afterwards if she wanted.
But the only thing she wants now is to see this vicious creature dead. She takes the last of the black arrows and shoots him in his neck.
Good riddance, Gworf.
She is not ready yet, though. Sulrochil waits again for a moment, and when she hears nothing, she can proceed with her plan. Out she goes; now it is the time for the sword.
By the nearest dead orc, she crouches and pulls the arrows out of it and tucks it back into her quiver. With the sword she slashes the now arrowless corpse, to make it seem it was killed by a sword and not an arrow. One by one, she does this to seven bodies; three of them she leaves intact with the black arrows sticking from their chests.
Here and there, she drags the bodies to make it look like there has been a severe fight, and when she feels satisfied with her achievements, she grabs a spear and thrusts it into the ground.
Now it is the time for the last of her movements. With the sword, she goes back into the tent, pulls the arrow out of Gworf's neck and with one forceful slash she decapitates the monstrous creature and watches as the head rolls on the side.
The head feels strangely heavy in her hands when she carries it outside and shoves it on the spear. For a while, she stares at the crimson blood dripping onto the ground, lets her eyes scan through the whole scene so that nothing is too out of place before dashing away.
Then she begins her run back to Lake-town dropping the sword under aspen and for the tiniest moment she allows herself to smile inwardly at the image of Legolas laughing at her when she has tried so hard to make the slaughter seem it was made by orcs. He would see in an instant what really had happened, and that no orc was even close to the place, except the victims, but Sulrochil knew these low creatures were stupid and would fall for the trick. All they would see was the head of Gworf humiliatingly on a spear - and that would make them mad.
Her smile fades when another image fills her mind - a picture of Legolas suffering the most excruciating pain for three days. But she has no time to think of that now, only begin her long run back to Lake-town.
Each step further from the ugly scenery, makes her realize what she has done. It would have been the same if she had shot those eleven arrows at Legolas and finished the slaughter with the sword.
Will there be a place for her anymore in his soul after this?
Legolas
Stepping on the limb of a spider, he lunges after the two running elves, who darted away just a moment ago. There might be more spiders coming - and he would not fight again, for he could not let this pain go back to her again. He would rather die. "I need to go to Shadowland."
"What happened?" Gwennor asks.
"I felt-" Legolas begins. "I felt her imminent death."
"Is she dead?" Hwinnor whispers.
"I need to get her back."
"But is she dead!?" Gwennor shouts, grabbing Legolas's shoulders.
"No," Legolas finally admits. "She is alive, but during our fight, she felt all the pain. All of it. She was never supposed to be touched by that. I must go now."
"We might not need to go at all," Gwennor sighs with relief. "She has been sent horses, and we are far east. It will take several hours for us to reach Lake-town. She will be there before us."
"If they find her," Legolas states.
"They will not, but she shall spot the horses."
"Aye," Legolas admits, "she shall see the beasts, but that does not mean she is willing to return. I have to go."
"Then let us run," Hwinnor says, and resumes their journey.
Not real. Real. Real. This time it is real. The scream in his head is real, he knows it. He feels it. The only thing that keeps him together is the unstopping feeling of her being alive.
Real. Real, for the left foot. Real, for the right. He has failed in what was his only task for the past three days. He has failed in protecting her. "Please, forgive me for dying right here tonight," she screams over and over again.
Sultithen, I promised to keep you safe, but I failed. My words are in vain. I believed I could do this. I was a fool and thought I was strong enough, but I wasn't.
I am an empty helmet, an abandoned shield. The helmet full of holes and the shield pierced in half - tossed carelessly into a swamp to rot.
Deserted because they were not fit for use anymore.
Sulrochil
The ugly greyness began to seep into her soul. She had expected to meet the suffocating spike of pain again, but this was not it. No, this was more like mist above the mire. The grey fog was shrouding her soul when she ran towards Lake-town. The churning fog made her uneasy. The pain was simple - it just went right through your heart like a spear, but not this.
This was water flowing through your fingers when you tried to carry a stream in your hands. She scooped the water but could not hold it - everything fell down from her. Everything flowed away; she was losing everything.
Suddenly, thunderous sounds of galloping horses hammered in her ears. Friend or foe? There were four of them coming right towards her, and she had no choice but to move into the forest until she could recognize the familiar army coats - a Captain with three Archers. Swiftly, she stepped into their vision. At once the Captain signalled 'all stop', and soon there was a neat row of four grey horses standing in front of Sulrochil. The Captain jumped down.
"I need one of your horses," Sulrochil said, as soon as the Captain's feet reached the moss.
"Aye, my Lady," the Captain said bowing. "We also have horses for Dinalagosson's group. Did you not meet them?"
"Dinalagosson's group?" she wondered, blinking at the title he had used. She had never been anyone's leader and to suddenly be one made her feel like a stranger within herself.
Something in his reply made Sulrochil very uneasy - something other than the title. They had been sent here by the King to bring the horses - he needed her back as soon as possible. "What do you mean?" Sulrochil continued. "I am alone."
"My Lady Sulrochil," the Captain replied, "they are here on the King's orders. To safeguard you."
"Safeguard me?" she asked back. "And how exactly are they supposed to do that when they cannot see me?"
"They are ordered to scan Shadowland for any unusual matters," the Captain said. His eyes turned for a moment to Sulrochil's quiver, but quickly he looked back at her eyes. "If they saw anything peculiar, they would interfere."
"I see," she only replied, trying to gather confidence and cope with the creeping oddness in her ears. How was she supposed to act in a situation like this? She was not at all trained to give commands and giving solid explanations was never her forte.
"We believed you were only supposed to observe Shadowland," he continued. "May I inquire why your quiver is full of bloody orc arrows?"
"No, you may not," Sulrochil said, when it flashed in her mind. She had no obligation to explain herself. "I have no time to explain; I must hurry to Lake-town at once."
"We will accompany you, my Lady."
"No, you will not."
"We have strict orders from the King to not to leave you alone - it is either with Dinalagosson or with us."
"You are getting new orders from me now." Sulrochil straightened her back, lifted her eyes directly to the Captain and finally figured out how she has to do this - like she does everything - doing what her heart says.
"What do you expect us to do?" Nothing in his posture even hinted about the possibility of disregarding her orders which made Sulrochil wonder how highly these people must think of Legolas when they accept her authority so self-evidently.
"I need you to go and meet Dinalagosson's group and exchange all the information with them," she said in a fresh feeling of self-assurance. "Something peculiar indeed happened tonight. There is an opposing group there. Their leader has been killed by the leader of Shadowland - that is what they believe." Now that she was confident she had it in her to give orders, she could explain some things. Not because she had to, but because the Captain needed to know.
"I see," was the only thing he said aloud, but Sulrochil knew he understood what had taken place in Shadowland.
"I need to know if the opposing groups begin slaughtering each other," Sulrochil said. "It would give us a much-needed advantage."
"Aye, my Lady."
"Dinalagosson's group will return to Lake-town today," she commanded. "They will ride to Lake-town with these horses. You stay here to observe Shadowland for the whole night and come back to Lake-town at dawn. Any questions?"
"My Lady Sulrochil," the Captain said, grabbing his arrows from his quiver and handing them to her. "You do not wish to arrive in Lake-town with your quiver full of bloody orc arrows. Would you accept these?"
"Aye," Sulrochil said, emptying her quiver and handing him the black arrows sticky with blood, "Dispose of these."
"Aye, my Lady." The Captain bowed.
"What is your name?" Sulrochil asked, taking the reins of her horse and mounted the grey mare.
"Rhovanor, my Lady," he said, bowing again.
"Thank you, Rhovanor," she said and spurred her horse to gallop towards Lake-town.
The mist in her soul condensed; after not too long, the sky was full of swollen clouds. She berated herself for thanking Rhovanor. It was not customary to thank someone on that kind of occasion, but she could not think what she should have said instead of 'thank you'. Probably nothing, but that felt wrong too. She was not used to being terse. She could be rude. Aye, she could be immeasurably rude if needed, but when that happened, it was usually with an overflow of her words. She sighed, thinking she should learn - until it hit her, she should do this her way. They should learn. They should learn her way of doing this, and if it meant saying thank you on the wrong occasions, it was their problem, not hers.
Clouds burst, and soon it was teeming in her soul, making everything seem vague. Warm water dropped on her hands which were holding the reins on her lap - and it was not water, but her own tears. If only she could feel her share of the agony now, but only an ugly void occupied her soul.
I want my share of the pain! I want a sword in my flesh, an arrow through my head and a spear into my heart - not this dull nothingness!
Through the foliage, the gates of Lake-town came into her vision. She should stop crying until everyone sees it. A lovely tug twitched in the corner of her mind - Legolas was coming closer to the town as well. Towards the Market Square, he was proceeding. It would not do to cry now, but there was no way to stop as he was so close. She would do this her way - and if her style was to cry because Legolas had been suffering the three most agonizing days of his life - then she would cry, and let anyone see it and feel her pain too.
Two elven soldiers were on the gate. When they saw a grey horse with an elf approaching they made the guards open the gate so the rider would not need to slow down at all. Through her tears, Sulrochil recognized the soldiers, two elves who had entered the army the same year as she had. With them she had crawled in the mud, with them she had cried after the war - yet she failed to recall their names.
Everyone gave her way. It was as if everyone in this town knew who she was and why she galloped through the town like a blast, and she was not surprised anymore when there was someone to take her horse when she jumped off. Nor was she surprised when the doors were opened in front of her, with not a question asked. Fear filled her soul when she realized she still could not feel Legolas. Sulrochil sensed his location clearly - he was inside this building now - but she did not feel him like she should. There was only a void in the place where he should be.
A void which soon was filled with the dizzying smell of meadowsweets. Where are you?
"You will find him in the room over there on the left, my Lady," an elven soldier said, bowing for Sulrochil in the hall.
Sulrochil blinked - had she asked the question aloud? She knew, of course, in which room Legolas was, but she had no idea why she did not feel his soul like she should. "I know where he is," she snapped and marched towards the door.
Not slowing her pace in even the slightest, she swung her quiver off and thrust all her weaponry to the soldier, "Hide these." A quiverful of Captain's arrows would raise questions she was not ready to answer yet.
Legolas stood in the middle of the room speaking with the King, the wizard and the Chief Marchwardens. As soon as Sulrochil entered the room, Legolas turned around and shouted at her, "You broke the rules!"
"You lied!" she yelled at the same time, and slammed the door shut behind her.
He took a couple of strides closer to her. "You never listen to anyone!"
"And you are the Prince Almighty," she exclaimed and prodded her forefinger on his chest, "and it is way below you to ask for any help! You have suffered horribly!"
Swiftly pushing her hand away, he shouted, "You almost died!"
"Almost does not count! I am here, so what is your problem?"
"My problem?!" Legolas thundered. "My problem is that you never-"
"Your problem is that you are in pain!" Sulrochil interrupted him and continued her tirade. "Three days, you have endured that! You need time to heal."
"I am fine."
"Your soul is a wreck! You need to rest!"
"Exactly what I have been missing!" he sneered. "As soon as you get in, you begin telling me what to do."
"Because you refuse to see it yourself! You are too stubborn!"
"I have learnt from the best!"
"You lied! You knew beforehand what would happen but lied all the same. You should have told me!"
"My Lady I-Know-Everything-Better-Than-Thou," he said and politely bowed. "May I inform you that you are doing it again?"
"We could have made another plan," Sulrochil sighed.
"There was no other way," he stated. "You needed to go. I needed to stay away and carry all the pain to give you the chance to do whatever foolhardy and reckless actions you took."
After a short silence, she had to admit, "I know." The sword of her soul lowered, and she begged for a break in their duel.
Legolas welcomed her plea even though he knew he should not. Definitely, she had done something she should not have, but he could not help hoping to settle all matters, and his voice softened, "What happened to you?"
"During the few short moments, when I had to endure the pain,someone almost noticed me, but right after the agony was gone, I could resume my hiding. Nothing happened to me," she said, counting the floor tiles until she slowly turned to look at him, "but what were you doing then?"
"Spiders," he shrugged. "A tedious encounter, but, alas, the end result was undesired. All is well, though, as long as you brought us something to win the war? Did you?"
"Aye, I did," she said and finally glanced at the other people in the room. "I have something important to tell you-"
"Please, wait, Sulrochil," Mithrandir interfered in the discussion. "The dwarves have finally crawled out of their cave and will smash this building to splinters if they hear the elves once again have shared information within themselves before sharing with others. If you two have stopped fighting, we may gather a meeting where everyone is present."
"We have not stopped," Sulrochil said, wrinkling her nose at Legolas.
"Agreed," Legolas concurred. He tapped her shoulder, lacking the usual sight of her quiver, "Where are your weapons?"
"I left them in the hall to be cleaned."
"That is a lie," he remarked. She never gave them willingly to anyone, so there was something more to this. Thousands of questions and possibilities circled in his head as he let his gaze scan her up and down, mostly up. She was covered with dust and needles, as always, but nothing had happened to her, except the suspicious abandoning of her weapons. He was certain, though, that they were inside this building. Were they elsewhere, she would be more anxious about the whereabouts of her most essential possessions. Soon, he realized he had been staring at her body for a horribly long time, contemplating the baffling lack of the strap of her quiver that usually divided her chest like a river between two hills. Abruptly, tearing his eyes off her body and lifting them safely to Sulrochil's face, he declared, "You are unharmed, and Mithrandir is right - it is better to tell everyone at the same time. We can have a ceasefire for now."
"Agreed," Sulrochil said, and could not help a smile from creeping on her lips when she felt his gaze on her body. Soon she had to confess everything, but she hoped to feel a hint of happiness in his heart before the chastisement.
No matter what she had done - or not done - Legolas knew that he could not stay away from her forever. Where her quiver was, was an intriguing question, but all the answers could wait until after the meeting - and until they could get rid of these bothersome spectators. A charming smile softened his face as he leaned his lips close to hers, "Are you alright?" Softly, he brushed her neck.
Sulrochil tilted her head to bask in his closeness. In her soul, she felt his touch as if he had finished his question with 'Sultithen'. Tucking the sweet memory of it into her heart, she could try to endure what was to come.
When Legolas let his heart touch Sulrochil, his soul opened a crack. All his barricades crumbled, the curtains shadowing his eyes moved away, and the frightful ruins were exposed to Sulrochil. One glimpse was enough to convince her of the brutal annihilation of his soul. For three days, he had been tortured, and now she understood why she had not felt his soul like she should, during her journey here.
His soul was not as it should be.
And the cause was Sulrochil herself. All the tortures were endurable for him, until she had deceived him and almost died.
Abruptly, her mind filled with an image of herself grabbing an arrow from her quiver. She had promised not to shoot, but she could not help it. Intentionally, she aimed. Purposely, she shot; the arrow hit Legolas. The real arrow may have hit an orc, but in her heart, it was him who was in the line of her fire. Sulrochil had promised only to observe. She had promised not to intervene. Deliberately, she rebelled.
Will there be a place for her anymore in his soul after this?
Sulrochil tried to shake the nightmarish vision out of her soul, but failed; she tried to stop her actions, but her limbs were forced to continue. One by one, he was being hit by the arrows from her bow. She could not do anything but shoot - and watch him suffer as she slaughtered him.
Can there be life anymore in his soul after this?
Finally, she grabbed the sword and thrust it into Legolas' heart until he fell down dead. All because of Sulrochil.
Your soul is in ashes. It was I who lit the fire; I thrust the torch to your body. It was I who burned you. And I do not recognize you anymore. A handful of ash, I scoop and am forced to ask: is it you? Is it really you? You cannot answer - how could a pile of ash talk? - yet you refuse to surrender. You never give up, even if your soul is slain.
You need to rest, but you resist, because if you fell asleep now you could fall into the abyss of your pain. Should you sleep now, you could be dragged into the depths of your agony - and it would be me who would have to persuade you to come out of it. You must sleep, but you refuse.
Therefore, it is I who must be the one to give up - because you shall not.
The smell of the meadowsweets. The luring smell of the meadowsweets. It is beautiful, it is enchanting, comforting, a sweet delight. A bearskin rug lies in front of a fireplace, and it is fluffy. I stagger towards it. Oh, how heavenly soft it is.
"No, Sulrochil, no!" Legolas shouted, grabbing her shoulders when her eyes were about to close. "You cannot sleep now!"
A delightful meadow is full of fluttery white flowers. The dizzying scent invites me to lay down because you shall not. You need rest, but it is I who shall fall asleep - because you refuse. It is I who needs to succumb to the slumber - because you shall not.
I must surrender so that you shall be the one to save me - not the other way around.
"Sulrochil, come back!"
Mellegolasdaer, you are made to fight, to beat, to win. The only way to save you is to let you be you. When you fight, you live. When you win, you are you. I will lose this battle for your sake, to make everything right, because when you win, the world is as it should be.
The scenery full of meadowsweets was free from pain; there was no pain; not his, nor hers. The sedating smell filled her with calmness; the torturous pain dissipated; she drifted off - bliss.
The wizard pushed Legolas further from Sulrochil and shook her shoulders forcefully, "Wake up, Sulrochil!" The eyes did not open as she lay on the soft rug. "You must not sleep! Do not fall!"
Sulrochil was drowning. The wizard tried to pull her out, but his arm did not reach far enough to yank her out of the water. The light in her eyes diminished, as horrors shadowed her face.
With ancient spells, the wizard mumbled to Sulrochil. Reciting the incantations over and over again, Mithrandir tried to pull the elf back, but she was falling somewhere a wizard could not go. Soon his mind was filled with images of black arrows hitting Legolas - and he did not have to look at the archer to know who she was. The nightmarish sword rose. The last ray of sun shimmered in the blade as Sulrochil thrust it into Legolas' heart.
"Legolas," Mithrandir whispered, shocked by the vision, "go and find her. She is disappearing out of my reach. Into the impenetrable waves, she is falling - into an abyss under murky waters, so deep I cannot enter. You are the only one who can save her now! Follow her into the dream!"
Cautiously, Legolas laid down beside Sulrochil. From a cliff, she fell, as he tried to reach her. Into the depths of a dark lake, she sunk. Down, down, into the unknown she plunged. Down, down, out of his reach, she disappeared.
Her hair twirled slowly and beautifully all around her as she descended into the depths.
