Chapter XVII: Vacation or Genocide?

That very morning, hundreds of leagues to the north, the happy chatter of Mordae and Celebdraug awakened Gandalf as they prepared to leave. They spoke in Quenya, a language so ancient that very few understood, and none spoke as fluently as the two.

Gandalf rose from his bed in the elves' mansion, placed his white robe over his sleeping clothes, and made his way to the dining room, where the two elves sat at the table, eating mounds of food and talking excitedly.

"Good morning!" they chimed together in Numenorian upon seeing the wizard.

"My," Gandalf commented with a smile, "Aren't we happy this morning?"

"We gets to go on vacation!" Celebdraug exclaimed brightly.

"Vacation? You're going on a mission that could either save or doom Middle Earth!" the wizard cried incredulously.

"It's us, our swords, and unlimited enemies. No politics, no armies to command. The only rule is, 'no dying.' It's a vacation," Mordae answered with a wry smile.

Gandalf shook his head resignedly, "You have problems."

"Thank you," Celebdraug said as she rose to carry her dishes to the massive kitchen. "Hurry up, Mordae!"

With a sigh, Mordae complied, apologizing to Gandalf as he passed. "I'm sorry we have to eat and run. We want to be out of here as soon as possible so we can get to Moria by tomorrow morning."

"Understandable," Gandalf acknowledged with a small nod.

The elves dashed back to their rooms and returned a few minutes later in full battle array. They wore identical outfits; reversible dark-green or white tunics, pants, capes, boots, gloves, and face masks that covered every last inch of their skin.

The two also toted hefty backpacks, along with a broadsword, bow, quiver, and a myriad of assorted knives. Two long skis with bladed poles completed the ensemble, and coupled with their colossal size, it left no question to why they were so feared.

Gandalf smiled as he looked up into the elves' faces. "Don't you two look awfully friendly?"

The elves laughed, a muffled, yet still melodious sound.

"Wish us luck?" Celebdraug inquired softly.

"But of course," Gandalf replied. "You two will be back here within the next few weeks, I'm sure."

Mordae nodded slightly and swallowed, "A little scary, not having ever fought vampires. Other than the ones we slaughtered in Isen Meares, of course."

Celebdraug's eyes brightened at the reminder of their victory.

"I for one am anxious to see what we can do against them. Come, Mordae. Luuma'a ondol1," she growled.

"Tyala luuma2," Mordae agreed, his apprehension lessened by his cousin's enthusiasm. "Namarie, Gandalf."

"Namarie," the wizard responded, embracing Mordae and Celebdraug as best he could.

The two returned the gesture, saluted, and then they were off, running swiftly west toward the distant mountains.

Dacil stormed down the barrack's halls, stopping at the door to the room of his captain, Eorlmer. He reached up a gloved hand and pounded on the entrance, "Eorlmer! Get suited up! We ride in ten minutes!"

The wooden door creaked open, revealing his red haired, slightly bearded captain's face. "What? Joyriding in the middle of the day?" Eorlmer asked with a boyish grin.

"Act your age," Dacil growled.

"Eighteen? And why are you so happy?"

"I apologize," Dacil muttered, banging his head slightly on the doorframe. "My mind is a bit preoccupied. Just gear up; I'm going to go get the others."

Eorlmer raised one of his eyebrows, but saluted and retreated back into his barrack room.

Dacil made his way down the hall, calling out the eight other riders in his elite officers' èored3. The group had assembled in a few minutes, though none but Dacil knew why. The riders were far too well trained to question, however, and the group was soon riding west, towards Ithilien forest.

Dacil rode a few hundred meters in front, leading his men through Pelinor fields and into the forest. They rode in silence and without any event until Dacil came to a small clearing exactly where the note had told him the meeting point would be.

In the center of the clearing, leaning against a fallen log, sat a small, cloaked woman, bow in hand. Slowing to a halt, the Fellowship General raised his hand up, signaling his men to stop. He drew his short sword from the side of his saddle, then rode slowly into the open.

As he approached, the girl leaped up from the ground and aimed her bow, obviously not of elven quality, straight at Dacil's chest.

"Who are you?" she hissed, blowing a lock of her dark red hair from her eyes.

Dacil held up his hands, replacing his sword in its sheath, "Athfaë?"

"No," the woman said with a wry smile, "That's my name."

Dacil swung from his mount and landed softly on the ground, causing Athfaë to tense and draw the bow back tighter.

"Don't you recognize me?" he asked in shock.

"One cannot be too cautious. Prove it," the young woman growled.

Dacil crossed the distance between the two in the blink of an eye, lowered her bow, and kissed her.

He released her a moment later, holding her at arms length.

"Not exactly what I had in mind." Athfaë smiled roguishly, "You seem confident that I am truly Athfaë."

Dacil shrugged in acknowledgement.

"Let's make sure," she responded, pulling him down and kissing him in return.

Eorlmer rolled his eyes and slowly crawled back to the others from his reconnaissance position on the forest.

"I think Dacil found who he was looking for," he said with an impish grin.

"Does he know the person?" one of the lieutenants questioned.

Eorlmer chuckled and winked, "I surely hope so."

The others groaned, mounted up, and rode back toward Osgiliath, discussing their General's various problems.

Athfaë broke away from Dacil and looked up in alarm at the sound of the hoof beats.

"It is alright," Dacil said, touching her arm in a reassuring gesture, "'tis only my men."

"I said alone," Athfaë hissed.

"I could not let myself believe that it was truly you. I wanted to be prepared for the worst." He sighed, "It has been too long."

"Yes. Far too long," Athfaë agreed, stepping closer to Dacil. "Come," she said, taking his hand, "We have urgent matters to discuss."

A few hundred leagues east, in the black sea of Remnant tents clustered in the center of the Riddermark, the serene silence of the plains a few hundred yards away from the camp where Turdú sat was shattered by the cheerful voice of Dilotè as she approached him.

"Turdú!" the young Halda'ohtar warrior called as she strode toward him, swinging one of her samurai swords absentmindedly in her hand.

Turdú didn't turn from his gazing over the prairie as he responded, "Captain, we are still on Remnant grounds here."

Dilotè giggled, "Oh, come on. Nobody can hear us."

The Remnant General shrugged, surrendering to her observation. "I just don't want to get court-martialed or something."

"Wuss," Dilotè quipped as she hopped over one of the large boulders that scattered the plains and sat beside Turdú.

"That's General Wuss to you," he said, turning slightly in her direction.

"So it does have a sense of humor," Dilotè mused, tossing her blade back and forth between her hands.

Turdú looked back to the Riddermark, seemingly lost in his thoughts again. Dilotè exhaled slowly and tossed her sword higher into the air.

Before she could catch it on the descent, however, Turdú's hand shot out and plucked it from the air above her. "Mine," he stated, holding it high above her head, his 20-centimeter height advantage making his statement into a fact.

Dilotè made an exasperated noise, a high pitched, stuttering squeak.

Turdú raised an eyebrow, "Right."

Dilotè mock-glared at him, then without warning, launched herself straight up with her hands and retook her sword, executing a front flip on the way down.

"Impressive. But can you dance?" Turdú asked.

His captain's eyes widened in confusion, "Dance? Well, I suppose..."

Turdú laughed, "Only kidding, Captain."

She punched him lightly in the shoulder. "Call me Dilotè, if you don't mind, sir."

"Only if you don't call me sir anymore, ma'am."

Dilotè smiled flirtatiously at him, then plopped her head onto his large shoulder.

Turdú sat still for a moment, quite unsure of how to respond. Luckily for him, however, Dilotè sat upright a moment later, her dark-purple eyes squinting off into the distance.

"What's that?" she whispered.

Turdú shook his head slightly to clear the moderate panic that had moments before plagued him and looked out over the Riddermark, attempting to follow her gaze.

Far off, upwards of forty leagues away, a mass of black and gray seemed to ripple back and forth slowly as it wound its way over the hills of the plains.

"I haven't a clue. We don't have any units west of here, do we?" Turdú muttered.

"Not that I know of."

Turdú grinned almost evilly, "Well, we're about to."

He quickly rose to his feet. "Get that sword back out, Dilotè. We're going to go make some friends."

1 Time to rock

2 Party time

3 A cavalry unit