Disclaimer: I don't think the characters are mine. But if someone tells me otherwise, I am willing to believe ;)
Rating: PG-13
Warning: As I said, this story is slightly AU. You have been warned.
Author's Note: Thank you to Isildwen, who reviewed Tears of Yesterday chapter 4! It was very generous of you to review that chapter without waiting to read to the end. That chapter was one of my favorites as well, as I had envisioned it for a very long time and poured out my heart to writing it, as simple as the sentences may appear.
Thank you also to Chloe Amethyst, for reviewing Tears of Yesterday! I was so honored to hear from you. You have no idea how much I thank the 'accident' which made you stumble upon my fic. ;) Your descriptions regarding my fic gave me new insight into it, as an author usually cannot see one's work from the same perspective as the reader. It is truly gratifying to hear that I have done a satisfactory job at bringing my visions to life, as I have no special skill but to try my hardest to faithfully follow what I had felt and seen. And I was deeply touched, relieved and happy to hear how you felt about my Erestor-Glorfindel relationship. Thank you so much. It is readers like you who continue to give me the courage to keep writing from my heart. I did not expect Tears of Yesterday to be as well-liked as The Strength of One Green Leaf, as it has hardly any action and focuses on emotions, but I was pleasantly surprised and deeply touched at how much readers like you see and understand from my attempt at such a piece of work. I am flattered that you bothered to read and appreciate a piece of dream experienced by a mere 19-year-old. Thank you so much for your deep understanding and support. ;)
Thank you to seeing-spots for reviewing In the Dark of the Night! I am glad you saw through my descriptions and didn't get a slashy idea. I don't have anything against slash, but that was just not exactly what I was trying to put the zoom lens on...;) Thank you!
By Kasmi Kassim
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Into the Light
Chapter 2: Whispers of the Wind
He panted, ragged breath mingling with blood that rose from deep within his throat. With a vicious swing of his sword, he turned.
"Run, Gilraen! Run!"
Her piercing scream tore into his heart, painful, mournful. She was running, running desperately, as men on horseback gained on her. She could not move fast enough. She would never be able to outrun them.
With a desperate cry, he flung his sword forward. It embedded itself in the back of one of the pursuers. He dropped from his horse, blood spurting into the clear blue sky.
"Run, Gilraen!"
The swords were coming. They were aiming for him. He swung his knife, defiance burning into his eyes as he struggled against the hunters, making futile attempts to run after her, to reach her.
The sky was so clear.
The blade reached her neck.
He screamed. And crimson blood drew a lazy rainbow against white clouds.
The dark-clad man fell, his sword slipping through his fingers. Neatly piercing his wrist was an arrow.
Other men looked about, bewildered, as more arrows rained on them. Yelling in a confused frenzy, the hunters spread out, ducking. The man whose wrist had been penetrated scrambled back toward his allies.
With a shrill gasp, Gilraen stumbled. Before her waved a gently fluttering cloak of dark green.
The silent figure moved forward, slowly raising his eyes from the woman panting at his feet, and looked about at the men who were staring at him. His blue eyes burned intensely into the dumbfounded men. His fingers were slowly stroking his bowstring, in an almost languid manner, as his eyes scoured about them, resting on each one of the hunters.
"What is your business?!" spat one of the men.
The cloaked figure cocked his head slightly. His voice was surprisingly smooth, light. Melodiously floating among the blue of the sky, it suited the clear sunny day better than the acrid stench of blood among dusty screams. "What is yours?"
In a flash, Arathorn moved forward. Before the hunters could react, he dived toward Gilraen, and quickly crouched before her, his eyes glittering menacingly toward the men.
"My thanks, kind stranger," he murmured as he recovered his sword and adjusted his grip.
"I am not here to help you." The nonchalant voice startled him. He looked up, puzzled, as the figure continued to watch the band of men. "I have no cause to take sides in the kin-slaying of your kind."
Kin-slaying. So that was what this was.
Arathorn smiled crudely. Kin-slaying was perhaps the best way to describe this shameful act. His hand rested reassuringly on Gilraen's shoulder as she struggled to sit upright.
The men before them quickly gathered into a tight pack, swords raised defensively. "Why do you then disturb us?" snarled one of them. The stranger's eyes flitted toward the dead man on the ground.
"I will not tolerate barbaric bloodshed within the borders of this land," he said quietly. "It would be well-advised for you to leave."
A gust of wind gently wrapped around the tall body, blowing strands of golden hair across his face. A visage of beauty that fitted harmoniously into the painting of the silent landscape, he was the master of the land, the child of the earth that stood to protect the peace of nature from the bumbling intruders of mankind.
Gilraen's fingers were tense on his as she clung onto him. Arathorn clenched his teeth.
"Hand us the man and woman," growled another man. "The man is a curse! And the woman carries the offspring of the curse with her! We must get rid of them!"
The stranger looked down upon Gilraen. She shrank away, avoiding her gaze. One hand rested protectively over her belly. Arathorn moved to shield her from the piercing gaze, looking up guardedly.
"A curse, you say?"
The stranger held an unreadable expression on his face as his gaze skimmed over Arathorn's hand. The ring. Realizing too late, the man quickly hid his hand behind his back, but he could tell that the stranger had seen the ring.
Holding the same unfathomable look in his fair face, the stranger turned back toward the group of men, and tilted his head. "I care not for your man-games." He turned, his cloak fluttering in the wind. And began to walk away. "If this pair is a curse for the race of men alone, I will do what I wish, for I am not of your kind." He turned his head slightly to glance back at them. Cold eyes pierced into the hunters. "And if they are a curse for the whole of Middle Earth, I shall take them to be tested before a wise ruler of my kind."
The group erupted into a thunderous roar. The indignant outcries were not unexpected. Amid the clamor, one of the men rushed forward, his sword raised high. And he froze in his tracks, a gentle whoosh of wind brushing against his feet. Touching the tip of his nose was a calmly pointed arrow.
"Leave." The voice was still light, nonchalant. But the glow in the blue eyes was deadly. "You have defiled this land long enough."
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Arathorn watched, nerves frozen, as the lithe form remained unmoving. He was bent over Gilraen's prone body, his golden hair gently tapping against his shoulders in the wind. A tense silence engulfed the couple, though the bent figure seemed to mind it not.
Finally, he straightened his back, pushing back a strand of hair behind his pointed ear. He reached into his small pack, and took out a small jar of grimy-looking substances. He also pulled out a skin of water, and brought it to Gilraen's lips.
"Drink," he ordered, quietly.
She opened her mouth and allowed the water to trickle in. He gently opened the jar and, taking out a light-colored leaf from his leather pack, scooped up what would approximate as a spoonful. He brought it to her mouth, and ordered her to chew the dark-colored substance thoroughly. While she was concentrating on this task with a weary frown, he stood, and handed Arathorn the water skin and the jar.
"Give it to her every hour, and empty the jar by tonight," he instructed, eyes lowered as he adjusted his quiver. "Make sure she drinks often. It is close."
He turned and began to walk away, toward his white horse. He gathered up the white-handled knives from the ground near the horse and slid them into their scabbards behind his back. He had taken them out and laid them there before approaching the woman with the healer's pack. Arathorn briefly wondered at the rationality of this. Was the elf taking chances, judging that Arathorn would trust him upon this act of peace? Perhaps the elf considered Arathorn helpless to attack, with the woman in his hands. But would he have been able to attack the elf, even without Gilraen as a liability?
The man smiled wryly. He would not have had a chance. This healer had nothing about him that betrayed a weakness. Everything was a relaxed weakness, and every flowing movement was a danger in disguise. And the elf either knew it, or cared not. His eyes had been focused on Gilraen's alone when he carefully set down his knives on the ground and walked slowly toward her.
The elf had adjusted the equipment on his saddle and was now leaping lightly onto his horse. He pulled on the reins, and turned away. There was a look of urgency in his eyes.
"Wait!"
The stranger looked back. His piercing blue eyes rested on stormy grey orbs. With a deep inhalation, Arathorn approached him resolutely.
"Do you realize who it is you have just saved?" His voice was low, tense. The elf stared down, his fair face void of expression.
His throat felt dry. Swallowing, Arathorn pushed back a stray strand of hair. The wind was blowing harshly. Sun would go down soon.
"You have just saved a curse." Arathorn bit his lip. The wind screamed into his ear.
"Why did you interfere with the dealings of men?" His eyes were wild, forlorn, as he searched the unreadable expression for answers. The elf looked away to glance at the woman, who was now sitting up and watching him. He did not answer.
"At least tell us your name," whispered Gilraen, softly, imploringly. The healer looked back at Arathorn.
"Whether or not you or your child is a curse is for you two to determine." He looked far out into the horizon. The sun was setting. The wind gently brushed against his hair, tender in its touch upon the Firstborn. "If you fall to weakness of men, that will be your curse."
He whispered something into the horse's ear, and the horse shook its head vigorously. The elf patted the strong neck.
"There is a small village to the west," he said quietly, as the horse turned. His head was turned slightly, his back completely toward them. "It is but a day's walk. Go. Conceal the ring. Give birth to the child. Live as you will; if you become a curse, I will come myself to slay you."
And as the couple watched, silent, the shadow disappeared into the east, galloping into the wind.
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To Be Continued
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Deana: Why thank you! I hope you liked this chapter as well!
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Brazgirl: I am glad to be back! And no, I did not come back inspired – in fact, I am emotionally exhausted still. I had the frames of this fic roughly mapped out before I left. ;) It's very difficult, in some ways, to cope with one's environment when one knows two entirely different societies and cultures. I have the advantage of seeing from an objective point of view and being able to see many truths that many Americans and Koreans cannot see, and yet I am doomed to be discontent and frustrated because I am of the few who see them and know that there can be better ways. Ah anyway. Thank you for reviewing, and I hope you have fun watching the Olympics! I can't, unfortunately, because I do not have cable...wahh!!
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