:: chapter one ::

The flames were backbiting, searing the very air she was trying to breathe.  Ainarien choked on the fumes, the bleak Shadows the surrounded her were hovering above, daunting her with tales of her sister's plight and that of the Telerin Elves.

One half of the legion was slain, the other half in severe agony.  The whispered details of their mutilation and torture were more than her heart could sustain.  Grief was slowly overcoming her, poisoning her blood with its stench and sorrowful depths.  In the moments when the Shadows were closest, she believed she would soon know the feeling of death as it came to Elves.

She raised her head and coughed once, which was promptly followed by a series of other coughs, each worse than the last.  When she finally was able to settle, there was a small trickle of pale blue Elven blood at the corner of her mouth.  But though she was weak physically, she was strong in spirit.

The flames edged closer, desiring nothing more than to utterly consume her.  She nearly sunk into the grief and allowed death to come.  But she would not – could not – leave her sister alone in this endeavor.

"Leithiamin, lachdûr." She briefly shut her eyes and held out a hand palm out and brought the chant to her lips.  "Lasto beth nin, guruthos lachdûr.  Im gwannathon ir muinthelamin sogacenedril o guruth.  Leithaimin!"

With that, she collapsed, her last plea for help was whispered in the direction of the Avari to her mother, the Queen.  She drew another breath, then softly repeated her words, tying her heartbeat to the human drum of her sister's.

"Release me, dark flame.  Listen to my voice, dark flame of the death-shadows.  I will die only when my sister drinks of the cup of death.  Release me!"

Sensing weakness within her, the flame crept ever closer, anxious to revel in its destruction, but a solid ring of white light pierced the earth about her and shielded her from their grasp.  Unable to attain further ground, the flames leaped higher, wanting to taste the flesh of the fair Elven princess.

And so it was that Ainarien Elanoriel was protected by her mother, Aretarië, in her moment of need.  Indeed, the young princess had passed her test of loyalty and strength, and proven herself worthy of her calling, but there was yet more to come that would stretch her boundaries beyond what she thought imaginable.

***

The Battle of Egladûr[1] had been messy and bitter.  A half-legion of Telerin Elves were slaughtered by the Kai-ghren, a revolting race of Uruk-hai, but larger, stronger, and far more dim-witted for the most part.  Bloodthirsty they were, and though so many Elves had been victim to their axes, swords and sickles, they were not yet satisfied.

Celebrin had been one of the very few who had survived the battle unscathed, but her Gift forced her to feel the pain of others.  Stealthily she made her way to those that were most seriously injured and offered them relief.  For some, she produced berries and flowers from her small bag that hung from her belt.  They helped to numb the pain and quicken the healing, but she prayed that they would most lift the spirits of the fallen, for many were battling grief for the slain – and that, she could not heal.

Across the field someone began singing an Elvish lament for those who had been lost, and the words brought tears to her eyes.  The lyrics were so softly sung with such reverence and passion that it's translation couldn't adequately express the sorrow of the Elves.

Moving quickly, she situated herself between a dead elf and one just barely living.  The voices, cries and moans of her kind were not audible to any ear, but only in her mind where the echoes were endless.  In her heart, she cursed her Gift, yet she carried the knowledge that it would bring great help to those who suffered.  Lifting a palm, she attempted to find the source of this elf's pain.

Sadly, she came to realize that his wounds were minor but his mourning was great.  She applied a little juice from a special berry found only in the Beleriand and whispered words of encouragement.

"There is hope yet, Ciryatan."

He gave no answer.  Celebrin stood and felt the presence of a Kai-ghren behind her.

His breath was uneven, his snarl a constant sound beneath the rumble of his throat.  He stood about the same height as she, but with greater physical strength and ability.  Snatching her wrist, he pulled her close.

"Come with me, princess."

She turned her face from his foul-smelling mouth and stumbled after him as he yanked her along.  He brought her to his leader, a Kai-ghren with Elven blood splattered across his clothes and body.  Celebrin nearly vomited at his stench and the purity of her kind evidenced upon him.

"I understand you forsook the Avari and came to travel with the Telerin." Said the creature, his red eyes glowing a terrifying shade.

She refused to comment.  Instead, she inclined her head to the left and gazed at the fields where her people lay – some dead, some dying.

"Celebrin Elanoriel." He spoke her name, and she cringed for it sounded like a curse and felt like a slap to the face.  "The beloved.  The Gifted.  The One."

"I do not know who it is you speak of."

"Yes," he stepped closer, circled her.  "Tis she.  The one spoken of long ago.  The one whose blood will recreate the One Ring.  The one Morthil, son of Sauron, seeks."

Her eyes fluttered shut as she fought the current of emotions that tore at her.  So it was known.

"I am not she."

"Really?" a look of false incredulity crossed his face.  "Perhaps I should tell you why we seem so convinced.  It is said that the Gifted will come from the Avari Queen Aretarië.  It is also said that the Gifted will have a helper, who is Gifted in a different manner.  And so it goes,

She who will come shall come in my name
A shadow of beauty and an air of grace.
Half-Elven, Half-Man, she bleeds red like the human race
She is gifted by her Mother and will surpass her fame
For by her blood will the One Ring be remade
Should Sauron's throne be yet unattained."

Hoarsely, she called out for him to stop.  She would be unable to bear her own private grief and the full recantation of the prophecy concerning her.

Gathering her strength, she stood straight.  And though her voice shook, she still proclaimed, "I am not she of whom the prophesy foretells.  I am merely an elf skilled in medicine.  I know it is rumored the Gifted shall be a healer of sorts, but I have done nothing unusual in my practice.  I've used berries and herbs, and none of strange origins."

The leader peered at the surrounding Kai-ghren, most of whom shrugged or nodded, indicating that she had spoken truth.

Suspicious, he leaned forward and grabbed hold of her waist. 

"It is rumored that the race of Gifted Elves glow when undressed."

In one swift move, he unlatched her belt and stripped her of her dark garments.  Beneath lay a blinding white robe which only partially covered her radiance, yet it seemed to blind the Kai-ghren as they staggered back, falling upon their own weapons and tripping over their feet.

Seeing an opportunity to escape, she sped off as quick and as lithe as a deer.  She tore through the flaps of the tent, heard the anguished cry of those she stuck blind and ran on.  A disturbance in the air signaled a coming arrow, and she dodged it by lowering her upper half and bobbing back up.

Two more arrows whizzed by and she nearly ran into another Elf who was helping dress the dead in dreary clothes.  There was no time for a proper burial, there was no time to stop.  She ran past and grabbed the gray apparel, clutched it to her body and kept going.  Another arrow came, but she could not completely avoid it, and it skimmed her upper arm.

Celebrin muffled her shock and pressed a hand to the open wound.  When she spotted the thick red liquid on her fingertips, she ran harder.  No doubt now that they knew who she was and she could no longer hope to find her way to the Blessed Realm in peace.  She would be pursued, she would be hunted.

And if captured, she would surely die.


[1] Battle of Egladûr – meaning, "Battle of the Forsaken Dark"