Author's note:
I hope you are well and safe! My summer was lovely - a sweet mix of swimming, ice cream and love. And I needed every second of it to recuperate after a horribly busy winter/spring. Now I've been writing again, and I have the following four chapters almost ready. I plan to post chapters 38-41 relatively quickly, hopefully one chapter in 2-3 weeks. Let's keep fingers crossed that I succeed. All comments help me in this extremely long process.
Kind words make me smile, but all sorts of comments are welcome. Also, critical ones, if they're making a point, but whenever someone says they like detail x or would like to see more xyz, these comments literally explode my mind. "Oh, they like *that*. How cool! I've never considered it at all! Wow!"
You see, I just write whatever pops into my mind, but other people's feedback makes the tangle inside my brain twist and turn in ways I would never have figured out by myself.
Chapter 41 won't be the last of the whole story, but it wraps up the final battles. After it, there will be at least three chapters focusing on the main couple and their relationship (read: fluff, more or less) (does fighting like cat and dog count as fluff?)
But before all that - the war.
Chapter 38, The Lure
All night, the forest had been forced to listen to the horrendous noise of orcs slaughtering each other in Shadowland. The uproar made the woods ache and yearn for relief. For three millennia, it had been in despair. A sparkle of hope had shimmered a moment ago, but now it was all gone. Impenetrable darkness was throttling all good.
Along with the noise, darkness had trickled from the north to these plains. The seeds of degradation had been in Shadowland when the monstrous creatures invaded there, but it was nothing compared to what the woods had witnessed last night.
It feared for its children, especially for the tiny elf hiding in its shelter.
The whole forest is shivering, and I sit under a willow thicket. "Shargu, Shargu," myriads of orcs shout, and my head aches. The noise is a long needle jabbed into my ear, and I cannot think properly. "Shargu, Shargu."
The alder branches are drooping, and it troubles my heart.
All morning, I have squatted in this bush and listened to the orcs' harsh sounds as they killed each other. They slaughtered themselves - just as I wanted them to, just as I made them do; but abruptly, a short while ago, the killings ended, and these disgusting growls began sweeping the forest, sending chills down my spine. Suddenly it sounds like all of them are worshipping Shargu. All slaying ended.
What did Shargu do? I knew he would be the strongest of all these foolish creatures, but likely he did nothing. These blockheads probably only finally managed to detect the elven army approaching them from the south. All those sharp arrows in the rows of neat quivers could have the desired effect.
In the distance, there is an old aspen on a hill. If you glance at the tree trunk quickly, you might mistake it for a pine. The bark is crackled and darkened. It is crinkled in a way that makes it look like its only desire is to become a pine.
Perhaps the poor aspen has been missing its pine mate for so long that it wishes to transform into one.
Everywhere around me I hear wailing - the spirits of the trees are disturbed. My kind friends, please, forgive me that you have to suffer because those wretched cretins are poisoning the air.
Oh, how I hate them!
The sickness is creeping into me, and I do not understand why. For four days, I was here, listening to the gross words of these foul monsters, watching the ugly faces on even more hideous bodies, smelling their putrid odour - and it was nothing. Well, more than nothing, but no… it was a trifle compared to what I should have felt. I had no difficulties at any point because of their sheer evilness, but now - now I feel unwell.
A flock of black curls swish in the forest, and I feel someone is here. The raw hostility of that someone frightens the seedlings under my toes - and finally, I ascertain who it is.
It is the root of evil, the witch whose only desire is to plague us, and all of a sudden, she opens a rift in the air. Visions of the past, of the future and of the unknown intrude my mind.
A long line of little beds. Tiny cots with crocheted blankets. Beside every bed, a smiling mother sits on a bedside stool. The row of the mothers continues further than clouds. Each mother gently kisses her child on the cheek. The small arms squeeze around the mother's neck, embracing her closely. With all their might, the children clutch to their mothers. A long line of comfort, a long line of shelter.
But one child is hunkering in a corner. In a shady nook, the boy sits and tightly hugs his knees. His quiet sobs fill the sombre room, and even if he is trying to swallow all his cries, they resound all over the world. Soon the world is drowning in tiny tears.
A small blue butterfly is fluttering over the lusciousness of a mossy forest. The soft dark green moss probably has a real name, but the boy prefers to call it bear moss because bears are safe, just like his mother had been. On a thin birch sprout, the butterfly perches. But only for an instant, it is allowed to sit there until the northern gale whisks it away.
A father observes the butterfly for a moment, but soon it is gone. Love is gone; his wife and his unborn child are gone. All he has left is a bloody ring, and with it, he has bent his head over a washbasin. He should not be here. He should not be washing anything here now. The bloody ring he is soaking in the water is not becoming clean. The lake of his misery gets more prominent by the moment, and soon he cannot discern where the basin ends, and the flood begins.
The gore does not go away, and then he realises why. The blood is seeping out of his own heart on his hands.
The whole washbasin is turning red.
The child should sleep and finally reach the blessed momentary oblivion of his dream world. He is clutching his dear Pony against his chest.
"Father," the boy says and fondles the mane of his toy. "My Pony misses Nana."
"I understand your Pony," Father says. "I miss her too."
The boy bites his lip. "I do not miss her."
"It is alright if you do not." Father brushes the boy's silvery hair. "But if Pony yearns for Nana too much, please, give him a hug."
He had told the boy Nana was sitting on a cloud, watching him, but Father was unsure if the son accepted it. And, not by any means, it did not bring her back.
If Nana was sitting on a cloud, Pony was alone.
Forcefully, I rip myself out of this imagery. Go away, you devil! I must not let this dirt enter my mind.
"Shargu, Shargu." The repulsive chants swoosh everywhere around me and inside my head, as well, but I welcome them now as they help me to fight the witch and stay in this world.
So - I tell myself - Shargu has managed to claim some sort of leadership this morning. Has he succeeded in gathering the orc army into unity? Unity? No, it cannot be unity. That word cannot be applied to these numbskulls. The orcs now fear Shargu more than the others and follow him rather than die. Is it only a life-or-death matter for them? Either you follow him, or you die? Or you die regardless of what you do. Orcs are meant to die; they are dispensable. You can continuously have more of them, so one of them is worth naught and thus can perish.
Today they all shall die.
We are ready. All the supplementary arrows are hidden, plans made, all orders given. I have six elves around me who have taken their positions in the wide wilderness north of the last remaining orc base in Middle-earth, and all we can do right now is wait and listen. We waited for the dawn; we waited for the first signs of the vast army of elves and men approaching Shadowland, and all the while, we were listening to the orcs hitting each other.
I gave the "not in danger" signal to Legolas to inform him everything is alright for my group when he came closer, but at once retreated to the north out of the range - and now I only wait. Waiting is something I can do. On the Marchwarden patrols, most of the time is spent only expecting something to happen. During my mission in Shadowland, most of the time was spent waiting for something. All my lifetime is mainly spent waiting, for I have time. We all do.
"Shargu, Shargu." The sun has crept higher in the sky, indicating the early morning, and the shouting has diminished, but still, I can hear it from time to time. Why must they make the clatter? Pointless outcry?
A golden ring rolls around a dainty finger. All the evil of the world is concentrated in that ring. This is ludicrous! One Ring is already defeated! Go away, you wicked witch!
But this ring is not gone. This piece of jewellery exists - and it is insistent. It rolls again, again, again. Three times it circles and whispers it is not born of malevolence but respite.
A majestic river flows between flourishing hillocks. Dandelions shine their bold, yellow cheeriness everywhere. Come and revive here, all ye downspirited!
This ring is even more sinister than I imagined! No tangible item can induce peace, you must find it within your own soul. Go away, you devil!
An elf hunches his shoulders. Sorrow is condensed in his eyes as he walks by. His wife - dead. His son - motherless. His daughter - gone forever. Every moment, the ache of her absence is throbbing in his heart. Words flow from his lips, but there is no one to listen to him. His arms seek something out but discover only emptiness.
Just a moment ago, you were here. I kissed you, and you giggled. Your eyes shone when you gazed at me and swung your hair in the air.
Then you were gone.
My heart searches for you every moment. Every waking moment it craves your spirit. And there are no other moments but waking moments because my soul refuses to find sleep without you.
The world of our dreams is gone. The sweet forest of your fragrance. Our sanctuary is gone, and the trees would hang their branches should I enter there alone. If I ever went there alone, I fear an axe would appear in my fingers out of nowhere, and I would chop all the trees down. All your lovely trees would be murdered by my hands. And I cannot do that to you.
I do not enter the dream world anymore. The trees failed me.
Whenever I see a sprouting weed, you are there, insisting it is not a weed. Weeds do not exist, you claim, only flowers. Every flower has a right to live, you say, but you had no right to live. The gardener of destruction yanked you out of the ground and threw you away to rot.
You are the weed. I am the proper plant with the right to live, but how can I continue living when you are gone.
You decay. My heart decays with you. Outside, my appearance might look sound, but my soul rots. I am the mulch, I am the dirt.
In your grave, you lay, and I am buried with you. Worms are consuming you - and with every bite, it is I who is being eaten. My inside is devoured by worms. A half-decayed compost is my core, and my heart stinks. Only a thin membrane is keeping these worms inside. It would take only the scantiest of cuts on my skin, and the scavengers would slither out of me.
They would crawl out of me everywhere and make all forests degenerate. I would gladly welcome all the woodlands of the world to suffer and deteriorate, but I cannot let them do it to your precious trees.
The stench of my putrid soul fouls the air.
Go away! The black locks swish everywhere, and someone is probing me.
All I can do now is wait - and get these thoughts straight in my head. Was it only yesterday that I was on these plains listening to the disgusting sounds the orcs made, trying to gather what was going on, trying to make a plan? A plan I indeed made after almost four days of constant vigilance. The only thing I had to be doing was giving my full attention to my duty. It had not required much - only everything I had. During every single instant of my mission of observing Shadowland, I had only been required to give my best, and that was precisely what I had given.
Pride. I feel a small smile creeping on my lips now, even though I should not reminisce about that now, but they bowed for me. It was strange. Pleasing, but extremely odd. It would not do to think about that now. I should only observe if any enemies come this way. The sounds of the fighting echo all throughout the forest, and oh, there are rocks everywhere.
Mellegolasdaer, what are you doing? Your sheer determination, certainty and love radiate all the way into my soul. I can understand the first two, but why the love? You should ignore me now. Forget me today! Fight and thrive!
But then again, you cannot do that. No. You are doing this for me. You always do everything for me.
Your every kill in my soul is like rocks thrown on my fortitude. The pile of stones is getting higher, constantly hindering my ability to feel my surroundings correctly. I feel blind and deaf - I feel like suffocating in the smoke, and each rock hitting my soul makes me shatter. I must not collapse.
The ring rotates again. Peace-offering has been terminated. For this elf, there is no need for peace. Today, the ring must create something else. It is the Ring of Essence. For this elf, the equilibrium is not elemental - perhaps the fool envisages already possessing it. For this elf, the Ring must show her sincerest fancy.
The sun is getting higher all the time, and all I can do is wait - and listen to the frightful sounds of the war. The clanging of the swords, the groans of the dying. Shouting, more shouting - and it is all the time harder to get a grasp of who is moving where. I feel hollow - and these rocks on my soul are troublesome.
Your every kill feels harder on my soul, and I am under a massive heap of rocks. Rocks are everywhere, and they are not stones anymore. I drown in a sea of sticky tar, and all I hear is my own shriek for life through your ears, and I cannot be sure which is worse, feeling your distress or feeling my own agony because it was my fault you were subjected to this. I sink deeper into the steaming tar, and all I see is my death through your eyes. The torment in your eyes will haunt me forever.
I cannot allow myself to wallow in this misery now. These agonised feelings should wait. Must wait! I must suppress them at once. Bury them and permit them to leave only after we are safe. But I cannot do that, for everything is bursting out. All I can do is to fly with it.
A mother and a son were walking in the forest. Suddenly, the mother felt intruders. Horror filled her soul. It was not fear for herself but for her child. The child fled, a sword struck the mother. Just before the final onslaught, she was filled with rage. How can a child live without a mother?
The boy would grow up motherless.
But the little lad was not the mother's only child. The tiny secret growing in her womb would never reach life. Lifeless, it would disappear into nothingness when her mother passed away. Quietly, it dissipated in the wind. Never would the first breath of the baby fill the earth. The trees moaned when the tiny life vanished.
Here I am in the forest of destruction, waiting for enemies to come, yet I would prefer the destiny of that mother any day. If I were the mother who lost her children, it would mean I at least had children, even if they were robbed of me at an early age.
Would that destiny be easier to bear? Forever, the mother would blame herself for her child growing up without a mother. Forever, she would miss the unborn child. Forever, she would grieve, but nevertheless, she would be a mother.
If I envy the mother who lost her children, I am a monster. A monster who wishes her children dead. A mother never wants her children dead. I am a rock - a cruel boulder who does not deserve to live.
I am the jewel of the forest - a gemstone cannot conceive. The emerald I am, even though I wanted to be a weed.
I should not be here today, for I should be somewhere crying. But here I am, leading a group even though I am in no condition for that. What am I doing here now? Why did I ever come here? I am no leader! I should have seen beforehand that I cannot do this. They should have seen this. Mellegolasdaer, you should have seen it! All I can do is fail miserably in suppressing my flooding feelings. All I can do is let myself drift in the stream of my regret.
I missed you. I missed you so hard, and I miss you now. You did not even once ask how I am. How am I, then? My heart is searching for yours, and I hate this war. I loathe that we have to be here now. Why are we even here? We should be somewhere soft and warm, just embracing each other, and look at us now - me hiding in a bush and you swinging your knives like never before. You fight, you jump, you shine. I have seen you do it, but still, I cannot fully comprehend how you do it.
But neither should you be here today. You are not the killing machine they think you are. I can feel your every kill like a stab in my core, but I can endure it because I know you do not have to suffer when your knife hits an orc's flesh. The blood spills - and finally, the orc collapses to the ground dead. Dead like a rock. How have you ever survived for centuries, for many millennia, if your every kill makes you feel this bad? How do you do this?
The sight was appalling. A morose elf roamed here and there, gathering whatever he could find. Between two fallen tree trunks, he collected the fragments. The trees kept his wife together when he could not do it. Softly, he threw his cloak over everything he never again could hold in his arms.
He had a task - to find the child. Terror filled his soul - was the boy captured? Did this all happen so they would get the child? He screamed after his child. Over and over again, he shouted but got no answer. With calamitous commands, he asked all his people to search for the child. If he was not captured, they would find him in a tree. Mother would tell him to hide there.
All elves climbed the trees up and down until someone finally found the boy and carried him down. Life had disappeared from the boy's eyes. Sapphire was gone, leaving only a grey mat.
Would his eyes ever be blue again?
Father took the child in his lap. Like a squirrel, he tangled his little limbs around his father and pressed his grief-stricken face to his chest. Father could not be sure what the child had seen or heard. Quietly, he whispered that Nana was no more amongst us. The boy nodded against his chest. Not a sound was heard from the child.
All the time clutching the child in his lap, the King commanded his soldiers. Everyone did what was asked of them. The world was enshrouded in bleak fog.
I remember this tree. I was here two days ago trying to listen. No, I was not trying, but I was listening. All I did for four days was observe. And when I say listen, I mean listening in my full capability to the grunts of those hellish beasts. I hated every moment of it, and you never even asked how I survived it.
I should not say that because what you did was harder. I thank you for doing it, but it does not mean it was easy for me. And I never had the chance to say it for you. I had no moment to cry in your arms with what I had to be doing. Can I say it was not easy for me? Can I say it, even though it was easier than what you had? I miss you, or did I say that already? I miss your gentle touch, but there is no place for softness at the moment - for again, you are forced to kill. You hate it, I hate it, we all do, but this is what is expected of us now. Will there ever be a time when we can be at peace? Can there ever be peace in our souls after all this killing? I hate what it has done to me, and I hate what it has done to you. And I hate what it is doing for us at every moment.
The elf is alone, and he needs to define himself again. A widower. That is what he is, and it is such an inconceivable word.
He watches his son. His brave little boy. Will the child survive this grief with him? His son. Their son. His son. "Will you let me be your wounded father? Will you outlive this with me?"
Will you stay with me? Will you forever run to me and hug me with all your might and let me feel your tiny body against me? Will you let me be healed when I press you against my heart? Will you forgive me that all you have now is a crippled father?
Will you still dash towards me with a twig in your hand and yell, 'Father, Father, I found a wand!'?
Will the twigs still turn into wands in your hands?
Someone is watching me. Someone with covetous eyes. The golden ring rolls. Three rounds it makes, and suddenly the forest is full of heinous monsters watching me. Where are they? I cannot see them, but still, they are there. What is hindering my eyesight? All I see are trees, bushes, grass; but still, something is out there. Come out, you vile bastards!
I close my eyes to see them. All around me, there are only the myriads of decapitated orc heads watching me with revolting eyes - and every head is thrust on a spear. All of them are watching me, their eyes sweeping over my body, measuring my worth. Each spear is stuck between the rocks on the ground - thousands of blurred spears and thousands of ghoulish heads.
Mellegolasdaer, I thought these were your kills, but even you cannot have eradicated so many foes today. What are these? I do not want to see this! There is blood flowing down the spears turning everything red. The further ones are rotten, but their eyes are still moving. I want to get out! Some of these are not orcs at all! Are these bloody heads every kill you ever made? Have these been plaguing you ever since your first kill? Do you remember every face?
An unfinished crib is abandoned. I would like to burn it, but I cannot. I let it stay in the corner of my bedroom and collect dust. Should I burn it, it would be the end.
A half-made doll is lying on the side table. The basket of yarn and needles is beside it. The figure has only one embroidered eye - the second will never appear on its face. The loose threads hang by its sides.
The torrent of ghoulish orc heads waltz around me, and suddenly they are dolls. Half-made dolls with one eye on their half-made faces. In a large circle, they flounce; and the dance is more frantic by the moment.
Their half-made dresses are falling apart. And suddenly, they are not dolls anymore, but ghosts.
Spirits of unborn babies. Small ghosts reach their tiny arms to reach their mothers but cannot find anything. Suddenly, all the babies begin sobbing. The heart-breaking weepings echo in my heart. Legions of inanimate children are trying to find life, but there is none. Not for them. Not for the elves who wished to become their mothers.
It is the land of unborn children.
"Sulrochil!" someone whispers. I lean in to listen and see only the eerie eyes of all these infants who blame me for not becoming their mother.
"Sulrochil," I hear again, and now I realise it is Braigon. He is supposed to safeguard me, or was I to shield him? I cannot remember.
"They are coming," he continues, and I am jolted out of my stupor only to hear a loud crowd of orcs racing northward.
"I…" I try to begin standing up only to realise I make an awful noise, and the orcs alter their course directly towards us.
"Stay right where you are and duck in there!" Braigon whispers and takes an arrow out of his quiver.
"Sulrochil," Rochirion says when he also comes closer, aiming his bow in the direction of the approaching orcs, "do as he says, or I will knock you unconscious."
It is not hard for me to obey their orders because I feel wobbly, and the ground sinks me down between the willow roots. All I see is listless orc eyes gaping at me, and all I hear is fighting all around me. I fail in counting how many orcs there are. I fail in assisting Braigon and Rochirion. I fail in leading them. I fail miserably in everything but lying feebly on the ground and being forced to listen to the vile sounds of dying orcs. The thuds when the bodies hit the ground, the last groans - and I cannot do anything.
The forest swooshes around me, the forest whooshes inside me. Abruptly everything is silent again, and I need to lift my head to see if it is the truth or only a trick of my mind. The forest is soundless. The fighting continues at a distance, but not here.
"Braigon?" I whisper, but get no response.
"Rochirion? Where are you?"
And I am again on the battlefield of sixty years ago trying to find someone alive. I find Rochirion dead under an orc's corpse, and if I understand anything, he died with his last enemy while defending me. No, he was not protecting me, but the betrothed of our Prince. I am not worthy of you! I never was. All I can do is fail. That has always been my part. Heledirchon, I am sorry I was not there for you. Rochirion, I should have been there for you. Braigon, where are you? Please, forgive me!
"Sulrochil," I hear and stagger closer to Braigon. "Sulrochil, you are alive."
"I am," I stutter and take his hand.
"They did not find you."
"No."
"Your place is not in this war."
"But-"
"You must disappear."
"But-"
"Sulrochil, you must live. You must-"
Again I am holding a lifeless hand. For how long must this continue? For how long will I be forced again and again to look at their dead eyes? Hold their chilling hands? My soul is yearning for peace. My soul is craving love, and my soul is so tired of all this crying.
My tears drop one by one onto Braigon's hand, but they cannot bring him back to life. Farewell Braigon. Farewell Rochirion.
Farewell. Never-ending farewells.
I must live, he had said. Do I? Why is it that I must live and all the others die? Mellegolasdaer, I do it for you. Even though I am not worthy… I should not say it. I should not even think about it. I know that, but I cannot help it! I feel any elf in this Kingdom would be better for you than me, who only fails to protect my comrades. I am sorry you are stuck with me - and I should not feel this way!
Kind spirit of the willow, could you please help me? Could you please fill my soul with the tranquillity of your greenness?
Why did I not figure this out earlier? The willow truly wants to help. With a deep breath, I feel better for the tiniest moment until the masses of orc heads stampede on my body, and the growling shouts "Shargu, Shargu" echo again inside my mind.
Warm drops fall on my hands, washing the blood off them. I watch the light red rivulets on the back of my hands as if it is my blood.
And it is.
The sun has crept higher on the blue sky and shines brightly upon the light hair of Braigon and the brown hair of Rochirion. And their heads. The sun shines brightly upon their heads, which now are on spears amongst all the ugly orc heads.
I should not be here. I should go away so far no one can reach me, and I am not sure if I can ever face you again. I, Sulrochil, the leader of this group. I, Sulrochil, of whom you should be proud, who should be your equal. But never can I be your equal. Never. I fail, I falter, I fall.
Please, forgive me.
"Sulrochil?" A whisper alarms me, and I stumble before I can stand still. It sounds like a young man, but the only thing I see is a ghost.
"Sulrochil, it is you," the creature says again, making me tremble. Please, go away!
"Your coat is different, but I know you," he says.
"Who are you?" I ask, turning my head slowly from side to side, trying to see him accurately. The voice sounds familiar, but the face… I cannot look at that.
"Machabon, of Lake-town," he replies, and finally, I recognise him. He is the one who brought us the letter on our betrothal day five days ago. Did I count wrong? It cannot be only five days?
"What are you doing here?"
"I… we…," Machabon begins, and fear fills his eyes, "I… Finedan… I could not save him."
The young man almost cries but bites his lip like he had been taught to. No man can cry. You should cry, Machabon, you really should. I see that Finedan was close to you in your eyes, and he had to be as young as you are. Was he your brother? A friend? You all are so young, too young. You should not be here, neither should I. No one should be here. Can I just take this boy with me and save at least him? Run with him so far that no one can find us until the war is over. Can I do that?
"Machabon," I begin, "It was not your fault. This is war, and it was the orcs who did it to Finedan, not you."
"They told us to be together the whole time, and I could not save him, and I just-"
I know, Machabon. Trust me, I know. You just bolted away. You could not look at Finedan's departed eyes, you could not see the arrow wound, or was it a sword injury? I will not ask, for I do not want to know. And I know. I know it all, I have seen it all, I know what it is to lose a friend. And yet, I do not know what you feel. Oh, I dislike it when someone says they know what I think. The others never understand. So, Machabon, I know it all, and I do not know anything at all. All I can say is that I am sorry for you. I am sorry for all this. You should not be here. None of you young men should be here.
I should be here, and I should be here to save you all. But can I keep you, Machabon? Perhaps I can do at least one thing right and protect you. You are a good boy; likely, you will grow to be a fine man someday. And maybe you fled from the war, so I can at least do one thing right today.
"Machabon," I say gently to the frightened boy, "It is good that you came here now."
"Good?" he hisses, "I ran away!"
"I do not see it that way because I need you here."
"You? How could you need me? You are a brilliant archer, and I bet I could not last even one moment in a fight against you."
"They told you this northern forest is full of elves, who will shoot any orc who comes this way, right?"
"Aye."
"We need more arrows, and you could help us by pulling them out of the orc bodies. Could you do that? Or if you like, you can go back to the war."
The pair of dark eyes move slowly towards the ghastly sight of dozens of orc bodies scattered here and there between the trees, then they glance rapidly over his shoulder to the south. When Machabon finally looks back at me, I know his decision is not hard.
"I… I think I could help you with the arrows," Machabon says even though his hands are shaking, and I know the very thought of it twists his guts - and wrenches my heart, but if I can save the heart of this young man, so he does not need to kill anyone today, I can feel that I did something right.
"Good," I say and begin giving instructions to him. "Go over there and pull them out carefully. You must do it slowly and pull exactly in the right direction so you will not ruin the arrows." Machabon probably knows it all, but I need to repeat it for my sake. Listing these simple orders gives me strength. "You have time because I will watch the forest, and should more orcs be coming towards us, I will alert you by the twitter of a chaffinch. If you hear it, just go down to the ground like a dead body. Alright?"
"Aye, mother." He flashes an adorable grin and dashes away, his dark curls shining in the sunlight.
I begin the watch, and with each step Machabon takes away from me, my concentration fails. He crouches down to the first corpse, and when he starts pulling the arrow, he is tearing my heart out of my chest. I should have sent him home to his mother. He is missing his mother, and I am missing my child, who never will walk on this land, who never will take form - except in my heart.
In my heart, you live, my child, and forever I will hear the sound of this boy calling me a mother. Forever I will feel the exhilaration of being a mother. For a fraction of a second, I was a mother. Do mothers ever do anything but state obvious rules? For a brief moment, I believed I was a mother. Was I? I felt like one, so that means I was.
After the shortest moment of false joy, I was dropped back to reality, between the grey rocks in the middle of the wilderness. The sun is all the time higher and higher, lighting my misery. The hot beams taunt everything in me.
A chaffinch could be a mother, but I cannot. I can do everything in the world, except this.
I can be many things - and right now, I should be watching between the trees to see if enemies are advancing. But I turn my eyes to Machabon, who already has three arrows in his left hand, and he crouches down by the next orc. I see a deep sadness in his eyes, but still, he forces himself to flash a smile at me when he realises I am looking his way - and then it happens.
The lying orc makes a tiny shift, and I grab an arrow. My hands know before my mind what to do, and the arrow flies towards the enemy.
The orc's arm swings just before the arrow hits his head. The sword in his hand severs Machabon's slender body. The boy is sliced.
The crimson droplets float in the air, making round patterns around the boy and the orc, who was not dead even though I considered him gone. So did Machabon. The boy's eyes meet mine in the last second before his death. Mother, it hurts, his eyes tell me. Mother, please save me, he pleads.
But I failed.
The black pair of orc eyes turn at me with a triumphant look, and I can hear the soundless mockery: "I defeated you lousy elf! I won! You failed!"
The orc lets himself die, Machabon's innocent body falls to the ground, and I fall to my knees. The senseless death of this young boy changes into a vision of his angelic head on a spear. It was I who killed him, not the orc. And his eyes - his eyes just before his death - forever I will see the eyes asking me: "Why did you not warn me? Mother, why did you not save me? Why?"
And I have no answers because all I can do is ask the same questions myself. Why? Why did this boy have to die so mindlessly? And the most difficult question, why did I not detect that the orc was not dead? I should have heard it, seen it, noticed it. But I did not.
Was the orc trained to wait for an occasion like this? Was there someone to teach him things like this?
My knees fall onto the wet, sullen moss and the pained swaying of the alders all around me makes the world swirl. The endless sea of disgusting orc orbs pierce my soul, the hostile ocean of evil black eyes surrounds me. The willows twirl around me at a quickening pace, making me scream. I can only hope it is just a scream inside my soul and not aloud.
The whole forest fears for my sake.
The ghosts go around me, the diminutive ghost-babies. They cry, they weep, and they fill the sky with their tears. They reach for their mother, but there is none. Forever, they shall be alone. Forever, my womb shall be barren.
All I can do is hold the boy's stiff hand like I have been doing almost every night for sixty years. It is the hand of all whom I could not save. All whom I could not save because I am useless, worthless, not capable of rescuing anyone.
A large hand grabs my mouth, and I cannot breathe.
"Well, looky here!" an orc grunts when he has a firm grip on Sulrochil. "If it is not the missus of the Princeling?" He has secured her head with one hand so that the elf cannot scream, and with his other hand, he makes sure she cannot do anything with her hands. Sulrochil twists and turns but cannot break free.
"How do ya know it's her?" the other replies, seizing Sulrochil's legs.
"They said she'd have a coat like his," the first one continues when they lift her in the air. "Well, ain't we lucky?"
"This might be their trick. How did we find her so easily? They said no one could ever find her, and here she is right in front of our eyes, bawling over a stiff. Ya saw too how the prince fought - do ya really think he would take a shaky sitting target like this? Who knows if they put dozens of cute little elfins in similar clothes to lure us into a trap?"
Sulrochil tries to kick and fight, but she can do nothing against the two ferocious orcs.
"Well, if they did that, do ya think they'd have put this scrawny mouse here?" Both burst out laughing when they began carrying Sulrochil towards the southeast.
"Right or not, someone else needs her knife." They tip her slightly so Sulrochil can sense her knife fall out of its sheath to the ground.
"Better get rid of these too." They tip her in the other direction, so all the arrows fall out of her quiver. When the orcs step on some of them, the cracking sound makes her feel as though it is her spine fracturing.
"Ain't we more than lucky to find the teensy weensy, miss princess?"
"Nah, we ain't lucky. We just ain't dunces like the others."
Sulrochil tries to fight, but all her endeavours are to no avail, and she fears when she realises the purpose why these creatures must be carrying her.
"Shargu will be pleased when we bring the purty little darling to him."
"He will be delirious."
"And he will praise us."
"Maybe we get her too."
"Maybe."
From the shadows emerges a slender hand that grasps the knife from the ground.
Finally, she has the lure in her fingers.