Just a little story that I thought of—something that, for once, would not be a Legomance (Legolas Romance). I read somewhere on a review on another website that Legolas was a warrior, not a romantic womanizer, so this is my way of agreeing with them. It won't evolve into romance, I promise you that.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Lord of the Rings or J. R. R. Tolkien (which is too bad), nor do I own Legolas, Thranduil, Mirkwood, Dol Guldur, or any other familiar name. I do, however, own Anathen, Firaniel, and Nyatha. Oh, and Avormith and Kivan, and other unfamiliar names.
If you like it, review it. If you don't, review it anyway. If my Elvish is wrong, if my grammar is not good, or if there are any spelling mistakes, don't hesitate to tell me!
This time the chapter's mostly about Nyatha. It explains somethings, but I bet it raises a ton of questions too. And now…
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Nyatha poked the fire with a long stick, stirring the glowing embers. Firelight flickered over her homely features, casting dancing patterns over her tanned skin and leather clothing. Stars were strewn haphazardly across the heavens, glinting prettily, and the moon cast frail light down upon Middle-Earth. Warm, spring winds blew gently through the branches of the trees above. It was a lovely night, but Nyatha could not bring herself to take any joy in her surroundings.
She heaved a sigh and glanced to her traveling companion, the Elf Legolas. He was standing, back against the tree, looking upwards to the stars, his light golden hair tumbling down around his shoulders. Were it not for his fair skin and long, golden locks he would have blended into the background, clad as he was in dark greens and browns. Three days out after the raid, and she had met him—fate, it seemed, was playing with her.
Elves! Nyatha had heard so many stories of them, had often crept into her father's hall with Niassa and Niarwyn, and sometimes Rokan as well, to listen to the men talk of them. No one in her father's town had ever talked to one, or even seen one.
Niassa…Niarwyn…Rokan… The names of her closest siblings brought her mind to her childhood.
Nyatha was a middle child, the ninth of fourteen children. Being, not only one of the younger middle children, but a female at that, she had been considered useless, but nevertheless grew up happy and contented. For all her family was large, they were a happy one, and for years they had lived peacefully. It had been a rather boring existence—Nyatha's father, Lord Kyrian, was the lord of a large town, a city really, and probably would have held more lands had not the realms of Men been in such disorder—thus she had lived in relative comfort.
As she had grown older, she had begged her brothers to teach her what they learned. They agreed, and took delight in teaching her, since she was their favourite sister, whose interests were so close to their own. First there was archery, which, while she had performed to her brothers' satisfaction, she was only moderately good at (to her dissatisfaction). Then swordplay, which she had loved, and still did, and what she excelled at. And then she was taught to track, to throw a knife, to skin prey. She had worked hard, though in secret—Kyrian had wished for her to be grown up properly, for a maid, like her two elder sisters, with the barest teachings of self-defense.
Perhaps, reflected Nyatha with a wistful smile, it was his own fault, putting this love of the outdoors in me… For Nyatha had often, when she was young, wandered to the forest that bordered the village, scaring the animals, and chasing butterflies, climbing trees and getting into scrapes. She hadn't been happy when her father had forbid her to go, saying a scruffy lady was not a good potential bride.
Bride indeed, scoffed Nyatha. Niassa and the rest, yes…but never me.
She had lived like this; learning weaponswork from her brothers in secret, learning sewing, embroidery and other 'womanly' tasks from her mother, Niassa, and Kivana. Also included with her studies were some basic mathematics and writing skills. She didn't much like them. Then there were music lessons, in lute playing. Nyatha had loved them, finding in this something she could do well that had nothing to do with the trade of war and killing. She had always loved music, and while she could not sing very well, her voice being far too harsh for that use, she could play the lute quite well. In all her studies she had studied hard, earning all from hard work, and she was proud of herself.
Again Nyatha jabbed the stick into the embers, sending sparks flying. She watched as they flew upward, then winked out. She sighed, and leaned backwards. It had been four days since they had met, woman and Elf, and it seemed the orcs got farther and farther no matter how fast or hard they rode. She was falling asleep, lulled to relaxation by the hypnotizing glow of the embers, when a rustling sound caught her ears. She turned to Legolas, to see the Elf tense and wary, looking in the direction the sound had come from.
"Fire," he hissed, nodding his head briefly at the dying cookfire. Understanding, Nyatha kicked dirt over the softly glowing embers, snuffing them out. She grabbed the packs, and threw them under a bush, melting into the shadows.
She saw Legolas leap easily out of view into the branches of a tall tree.
She followed the noise, leaving Legolas to guard the packs from scavengers and the horses from whatever danger. She crept with a stealth she had worked so hard to gain, creeping through the forest, using trees as shelters.
Soon she found the source. The noise the group of four made was surprising to her; she figured that these creatures would be stealthy. They were in a meadow, and around this meadow Nyatha skulked and spied.
But the orcs were nothing like that. One complained in voice that seemed far too high for such a dark, ugly creature to have, "Ifnakh, we've been traveling for ages, and we are useless. We cannot find the main band since we split off as decoys, and it is obvious the," he said something that Nyatha assumed was unflattering in Black Speech, "trackers are not following us. And I'm hungry."
Harshly, the largest of the orcs, Ifnakh apparently, growled something at the other orc, interrupting a further protest, the phrase a mix of Black Speech and Common. It ran something along the lines of, 'We never should have brought an infant along,' which amused Nyatha, as did the young orc's angered response, which was a mix of very colourful words in, once again, Common and Black Speech.
Grimly, Nyatha pulled something from the pouch at her belt. It was neither knife nor sword, but a weapon that Nyatha felt would be useful at this moment. It was a weapon Nyatha had learned at an early age, her skill with it the reason for her close bond with her brothers.
Nyatha wished Legolas would see this—it would be amusing. From her pouch she removed a smooth stone and fitted it into the sling. She twirled it in the air soundlessly, took aim, and let loose.
Immediately, she slipped around the orcs to their rear, as fast as possible, making as little noise as possible. The stone hit the young orc on the side of his forehead, not dead in the center as she'd hoped. It hit with a sickening wet thud, and the orc dropped to the ground, senseless. The others whirled about, trying to see what had happened.
It was a few seconds later when an orc went down, and arrow in his back. Legolas leapt down from a tree, to Nyatha's astonishment—she figured he had walked from tree to tree, across branches, something she hadn't deemed possible. But then, she hadn't imagined the beauty of the Elf, nor his lovely voice.
She drew her sword, and ran out of the bushes, heading for Ifnakh, while Legolas shot down the other orcs. With a half-smile he watched her battle the orc-leader.
She lunged at the orc, and he quickly parried with his crude sword, in a movement fast movement, which had a strange grace to it. He swung at her, and she skipped out of the way, and lunged, was parried, was lunged at, parried, riposte, parry… the blows continued, the two battling 'round the small clearing, the makeshift battlefield. The skill of the orc leader surprised Nyatha.
Finally he knocked the sword from her hand, in a disarm made more up of brute strength than skill. She avoided his lunge, and wove around his blade, dodging the swipes, cursing, and wishing she could maneuver herself closer to where her blade had fallen. Legolas had vanished.
Sweat soaked her now, and she was grateful for the headband, which kept it from sliding into her eyes. Nervously she avoided the hacking, eerily skillful thrusts and attacks of the orc leader, docking, dodging, weaving, dancing the dance of survival. She had left her sling in the bushes, her knife with the packs. She was weaponless, and she knew with certainty that she was going to die.
The camping trip-gone-wrong had been bad; when her brother Orandin had gone she had sunk to despair for a few minutes, then, with her trademark stubbornness, decided to go rescue him, asking for no help at all, but taking the weapons she could scavenge from the wreck of the camp. Legolas, the enigmatic Elven warrior, had seemed like a gift, but now he was gone, and the reality of danger and death now sunk into Nyatha. Die. She would never be able to rescue her brother, and would lose her honour—
"NEVER!" she yelled, and made a furious run and dive for her sword. It was just then she felt an exploding pain in her shoulder, and the last thing she was Legolas' golden hair shining in the moonlight, and a group of fresh orcs…