A/N: Someone asked if the Warlord was Eomer; no, this takes place WAY before the trilogy. Benvenue is Aragorn's distant ancestor. Eomer and Theoden and everyone else don't exist yet. Thought I'd clear that up. Read on!
Chapter 41- For Whom the Death Knell Tolls
It was dim and smoky in the tent, not the hellish nightmare world that she had imagined. She squinted around, and she found the form of the Warlord, almost indistinguishable against the gloom. She coughed, cursed, and rubbed her watering eyes.
"Does the Elfling admire my abode?" The Warlord's voice was deep and hoarse, laden with menace. Rosellyn rubbed her eyes again, trying to get a better view. Squinting, she could make out his profile, large and hulking and muscular, far cry from the Elven grace she had seen all her life. He stood at her enterance, his face wreathed in shadow. His eyes glowed eerily in the flickering firelight.
"I've seen worse." A lie.
"And my fighters?" She forced a laugh, though she couldn't remember ever feeling less amused in her life.
"I've definitely never seen worse."
"And yet here you stand, a captive at my mercy."
"Funny. Word has it that you have no mercy." He gave a hoarse chuckle. This wasn't forced, though; it escalated into cruel, mocking laughter. Then he abruptly stopped, as though the sound had been cut off.
"Rumor did not lie. But you amuse me, for now. When you cease to amuse me, you cease to live. Keep that in mind."
"I'm not here to amuse you."
"Then you don't live."
"When I care, I'll let you know." The Warlord roared with laughter, the fullest, and scariest, sound she had heard him make yet. Unlike before, this wasn't mocking, this was full of evil, sending shivers down her spine. He trailed off.
"You have courage. But courage will avail you naught in my tent. You will tell me what I need to know, and you will talk quickly. Then I'm sure that you will dissolve into incoherent babble because you will say anything to end your suffering. I predict that you will be begging for death, in the end, and my soldiers will gladly give it to you. But until then, I will be gentler, taking into consideration the frailty of your gender."
"I'm telling you nothing." Her anger was on a slow simmer. Frailty of her gender? She'd show him what a delicate dove she could be...
A sword point appeared at her chin, forcing her head back. Fear came in full blast, now. She felt her knees begin to give way; she determinedly locked them upright. He pressed a little harder, and she felt a sting and a trickle of blood run down her throat. She felt like crying, and perhaps a tear or two escaped her eyes. Would he really kill her? Her stomach felt like it was full of lead; in contrast, her heart was leaping out of her throat. His eyes were cold and blue, and bloodshot. He looked half-mad. Or lacking sleep. What could she do against a mad Warlord, whose string could snap any minute?
To her surprise, he removed the sword point from her throat. She backed off gratefully, rubbing the blood off her throat. Then the Warlord's hands wrapped around it, and began to tighten, slowly cutting off her air.
Her habit of noticing stupid things came to her again. The Warlord's hair was disheveled, though his sword looked well-cared for. The tent was a mess, as though things had been thrown about. Clearly, this Man was teetering on the edge of madness. The slightest provocation, and she would be dead before she could blink. He was standing with one foot almost in the fire... ~Say that again?~ said Della sharply. -What? He's almost burning his foot off?- ~We're saved! Get your miruvor. Throw it on the fire. The Warlord's going to go up like a firecracker!~
Rose could have laughed, except she needed all of her available air to keep living. Black spots danced in front of her eyes as, with exquisite care, she loosened the cork of her flask. The Warlord saw.
"What are you doing?" he demanded. The time for secrecy was over. She gave him a quick punch in the face and threw the flask. Trailing liquid, it landed smack in the fire, shattering on impact.
The explosion threw her backwards, out of the tent flap. This was probably a good thing, despite many new bruises, and feelings of protest from the old; the tent was in flames, now, with the Warlord in it, screaming.
She had a strange, heady feeling; the Warlord was dead, burned alive, no more than he deserved, but...Mirkwood was free. The fight was over. The Riders would surrender at the loss of their leader, if what Demelin said was true. She had done it; she had completed what her mother, and Syndar, and numerous others had died trying to do: she had freed Mirkwood, she had won the war. By herself. No Tracie, no Legolas, no Awaren, she had done it all by herself...
She came to her senses. Any second now, the panicking Men would trip right over her, and her euphoria was sure to be short-lived if she was ambushed lying on the ground. She pushed herself to her feet, which was strangely hard, now, as though all her muscles had turned to mush. -It's just the adrenaline fading,- she told herself, -but why is it fading now? This is the most crucial part!- She took off into the forest, stumbling slightly. -The miruvor, maybe?-
She was definitely lagging by the time she had returned to familiar territory. -What is wrong?- she thought, feeling the beginning edges of panic. -This has never happened to me before...Della, why did you make me waste that miruvor?- But Della didn't reply. -Della?- Still nothing. She pushed on, wishing she had the Elvish liquor with her. She stumbled, then hit the ground. She couldn't get up.
Panic began to set in. Her strength had left her. Why couldn't she get up? What was wrong? -Poison!- It hit her like a summer storm. The sword edge had poison on it! The Warlord was one of the Men who used poison! -Don't panic, that will speed up your heart, the poison will go faster...- Her vision began to flicker, ever so slightly. Dawn was coming. She needed to find someone, tell someone...
She found herself standing up again. Reeling like a drunkard, she tottered forward, east, towards the rising sun, towards the town. She tripped, almost, but grabbed a tree branch for balance. She had stumbled on the body of cantankerous old Lostisil, stab marks all around his body. Numbness swept through her. Somehow, she was able to keep going, hot tears making their way down her face. There were corpses everywhere; was anybody alive?
She collapsed again, feeling some malignant force crawl through her veins. She couldn't keep this up forever; she had to find somebody before she...died...-No, I'm not going to die, I won't, I'll find someone, Awaren will have medicine, it's going to be all right.-
She realized, with a start, that she wasn't going east; she had been going south. But the sun, it was rising, why was it rising in the south?
It wasn't. Something was burning. Something large. Was the forest on fire? she thought, alarmed. No, it wasn't the forest. She smelled smoke, but it wasn't woodsmoke. And...Awaren's home. The town. It was on fire. The tears came again. She had killed the Warlord, yes, but at what price? Her life, her town, the lives of others. What had she done? Was the bargain too high? What would Awaren say? Even if she didn't like him, he was still the leader, he could punish her...it was ultimately, irreversably, all her fault.
-Legolas, you should have talked me out of it, why did I convince you to do this? I can't believe this is happening. How could I have been so foolish?- Would she die alone now?
"Rosellyn! It IS you!"
A/N: Shocking, is it not? Will she die? If she does, what happens to Della? That's for me to know and you to find out.
Chapter 41- For Whom the Death Knell Tolls
It was dim and smoky in the tent, not the hellish nightmare world that she had imagined. She squinted around, and she found the form of the Warlord, almost indistinguishable against the gloom. She coughed, cursed, and rubbed her watering eyes.
"Does the Elfling admire my abode?" The Warlord's voice was deep and hoarse, laden with menace. Rosellyn rubbed her eyes again, trying to get a better view. Squinting, she could make out his profile, large and hulking and muscular, far cry from the Elven grace she had seen all her life. He stood at her enterance, his face wreathed in shadow. His eyes glowed eerily in the flickering firelight.
"I've seen worse." A lie.
"And my fighters?" She forced a laugh, though she couldn't remember ever feeling less amused in her life.
"I've definitely never seen worse."
"And yet here you stand, a captive at my mercy."
"Funny. Word has it that you have no mercy." He gave a hoarse chuckle. This wasn't forced, though; it escalated into cruel, mocking laughter. Then he abruptly stopped, as though the sound had been cut off.
"Rumor did not lie. But you amuse me, for now. When you cease to amuse me, you cease to live. Keep that in mind."
"I'm not here to amuse you."
"Then you don't live."
"When I care, I'll let you know." The Warlord roared with laughter, the fullest, and scariest, sound she had heard him make yet. Unlike before, this wasn't mocking, this was full of evil, sending shivers down her spine. He trailed off.
"You have courage. But courage will avail you naught in my tent. You will tell me what I need to know, and you will talk quickly. Then I'm sure that you will dissolve into incoherent babble because you will say anything to end your suffering. I predict that you will be begging for death, in the end, and my soldiers will gladly give it to you. But until then, I will be gentler, taking into consideration the frailty of your gender."
"I'm telling you nothing." Her anger was on a slow simmer. Frailty of her gender? She'd show him what a delicate dove she could be...
A sword point appeared at her chin, forcing her head back. Fear came in full blast, now. She felt her knees begin to give way; she determinedly locked them upright. He pressed a little harder, and she felt a sting and a trickle of blood run down her throat. She felt like crying, and perhaps a tear or two escaped her eyes. Would he really kill her? Her stomach felt like it was full of lead; in contrast, her heart was leaping out of her throat. His eyes were cold and blue, and bloodshot. He looked half-mad. Or lacking sleep. What could she do against a mad Warlord, whose string could snap any minute?
To her surprise, he removed the sword point from her throat. She backed off gratefully, rubbing the blood off her throat. Then the Warlord's hands wrapped around it, and began to tighten, slowly cutting off her air.
Her habit of noticing stupid things came to her again. The Warlord's hair was disheveled, though his sword looked well-cared for. The tent was a mess, as though things had been thrown about. Clearly, this Man was teetering on the edge of madness. The slightest provocation, and she would be dead before she could blink. He was standing with one foot almost in the fire... ~Say that again?~ said Della sharply. -What? He's almost burning his foot off?- ~We're saved! Get your miruvor. Throw it on the fire. The Warlord's going to go up like a firecracker!~
Rose could have laughed, except she needed all of her available air to keep living. Black spots danced in front of her eyes as, with exquisite care, she loosened the cork of her flask. The Warlord saw.
"What are you doing?" he demanded. The time for secrecy was over. She gave him a quick punch in the face and threw the flask. Trailing liquid, it landed smack in the fire, shattering on impact.
The explosion threw her backwards, out of the tent flap. This was probably a good thing, despite many new bruises, and feelings of protest from the old; the tent was in flames, now, with the Warlord in it, screaming.
She had a strange, heady feeling; the Warlord was dead, burned alive, no more than he deserved, but...Mirkwood was free. The fight was over. The Riders would surrender at the loss of their leader, if what Demelin said was true. She had done it; she had completed what her mother, and Syndar, and numerous others had died trying to do: she had freed Mirkwood, she had won the war. By herself. No Tracie, no Legolas, no Awaren, she had done it all by herself...
She came to her senses. Any second now, the panicking Men would trip right over her, and her euphoria was sure to be short-lived if she was ambushed lying on the ground. She pushed herself to her feet, which was strangely hard, now, as though all her muscles had turned to mush. -It's just the adrenaline fading,- she told herself, -but why is it fading now? This is the most crucial part!- She took off into the forest, stumbling slightly. -The miruvor, maybe?-
She was definitely lagging by the time she had returned to familiar territory. -What is wrong?- she thought, feeling the beginning edges of panic. -This has never happened to me before...Della, why did you make me waste that miruvor?- But Della didn't reply. -Della?- Still nothing. She pushed on, wishing she had the Elvish liquor with her. She stumbled, then hit the ground. She couldn't get up.
Panic began to set in. Her strength had left her. Why couldn't she get up? What was wrong? -Poison!- It hit her like a summer storm. The sword edge had poison on it! The Warlord was one of the Men who used poison! -Don't panic, that will speed up your heart, the poison will go faster...- Her vision began to flicker, ever so slightly. Dawn was coming. She needed to find someone, tell someone...
She found herself standing up again. Reeling like a drunkard, she tottered forward, east, towards the rising sun, towards the town. She tripped, almost, but grabbed a tree branch for balance. She had stumbled on the body of cantankerous old Lostisil, stab marks all around his body. Numbness swept through her. Somehow, she was able to keep going, hot tears making their way down her face. There were corpses everywhere; was anybody alive?
She collapsed again, feeling some malignant force crawl through her veins. She couldn't keep this up forever; she had to find somebody before she...died...-No, I'm not going to die, I won't, I'll find someone, Awaren will have medicine, it's going to be all right.-
She realized, with a start, that she wasn't going east; she had been going south. But the sun, it was rising, why was it rising in the south?
It wasn't. Something was burning. Something large. Was the forest on fire? she thought, alarmed. No, it wasn't the forest. She smelled smoke, but it wasn't woodsmoke. And...Awaren's home. The town. It was on fire. The tears came again. She had killed the Warlord, yes, but at what price? Her life, her town, the lives of others. What had she done? Was the bargain too high? What would Awaren say? Even if she didn't like him, he was still the leader, he could punish her...it was ultimately, irreversably, all her fault.
-Legolas, you should have talked me out of it, why did I convince you to do this? I can't believe this is happening. How could I have been so foolish?- Would she die alone now?
"Rosellyn! It IS you!"
A/N: Shocking, is it not? Will she die? If she does, what happens to Della? That's for me to know and you to find out.