CH4 - The Corridor of Corpses
Arryin was quickly escorted through the winding woodland halls and into a spacious room with the door harshly slammed shut behind her.
For the first time since her arrival, she was left alone with the silence of her thoughts—and it was a relief.
Arryin had always been on her own, ever since the massacre of her people. Therefore, being around others was different and difficult—especially when they watched one's every move; which, of course, was particularly common among elves with their prying questions and peculiar stares. Hence why she preferred solitude. She always had. The Ranger spent most of her time secluded in the elements, earning coin by collecting bounties or stealing. But truthfully so, little did she care for the worries and concerns of others. She had her own to bare.
That thought of which brought up a rather sizable concern.
She felt like utter horse shit.
The Mirkwood healers had done quite a good job of patching her up—better than her own skills of self-stitching. However, as any, their expertise was no immediate cure. The potions and mixtures they provided to lessen the pain were wearing off and their properties running thin. Not a good sign.
Arryin released a heavy sigh as her thoughts drifted from her injuries to her surroundings.
Cold, grey stone stretched beneath her feet. It was met on all four sides by dark wooden walls that rose up to touch a dome shapped ceiling. Yet the complex swirl of the furnished timber was interrupted, for a vast archway lead into another room. This alcove consisted of a toilet, sink, and an oval shaped hole pressed into the ground. Although, it wasn't dirty or gross—it was large and coated in beautiful blue tiles that shimmered from the torch light. Quite a fancy washroom, if you asked Arryin. A vast window was also set into the walls. It looked out over the sickly Mirkwood forest. Her gaze locked onto it for a moment, entranced by her thoughts, as the glass whispered for the Ranger to leap out into the freedom of the wilderness—indeed she felt quite caged within these elven walls.
Arryin shook her head and twisted away from the thoughts of escape and back to her inspection.
Centered upon one wall rested an elaborate bed. It had thick, wooden posts that were engraved with floral petals and swirling designs. The four pillars connected in an intricate manner overhead and a deep red canopy hung down upon each wooden pole. The mattress was rather high off the ground as it was level with Arryin's stomach, but then again she was abnormally small for an elf.
The dark haired woman walked towards the extravagant sleeping space and reached out to touch the soft, velvet fabric that covered the mattress. The cloth easily slipped between her fingers. "High quality and expensive," she muttered to herself.
Arryin let her hand trail down the bed to the fur blanket draped over the bottom half. It had been ages since she came in contact with such fancy materials. She was used to sleeping on rough soil with only her ebony-colored cloak, for all the money she earned was spent on weapons and food rather than frivolous things.
As she came out of her short contemplation, her gaze landed on an enormous mirror leaning against the wall perpendicular to the bed. It was delicately framed by the same swirling wooden pattern of the bed-frame and the reflective glass inside stared into her soul. She could barely recognize the woman that gazed back at her for she was clean and dressed for the elvish court. It was entirely different from—
A brisk knock sounded, interrupting her self-examination.
Arryin spun around, startled by the noise, for she was a warrior and such sounds normally indicated danger.
When the realization of her environment settled into her head once again, she closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath. Arryin then moved to answer the knock. As the door swung open under her touch, a male elf with brown locks stood before her, an armful of weapons and various objects in his grasp.
"My lady," he paused. "My name is Edyrm. These are the belongings that were collected from the battle. I was sent to deliver them."
Arryin's green orbs danced with delight at the sight of her precious steel, leather bag, damaged armor, and—surprisingly—worn-down boots. "I truly thought I wouldn't get them back," she muttered in amazement.
At the sound of her words, Edyrm tilted his head with curious confusion. "The King delivers on his promises," he reiterated.
Arryin rolled her eyes before speaking with a tone laced with sarcasm, "Right."
She could see the shock from her disrespectful manor edge across his elven features which lead her to believe that no one here ever really spoke their mind.
These people really need to get their heads out of their asses and get over their pretentious attitudes, she thought to herself.
The Ranger, seemingly remembering the elf in front of her, took the armful of weapons out of his grasp.
She forced her voice into politeness as she did not have time to bend to the suspiciousness of others. "Thank you for bringing these to me."
A warm smile crossed his lips, "Of course."
She turned around and kicked the door shut with her foot—making sure it slammed in Edyrm's face with a loud bang.
"Privileged elves," She grumbled under her breath.
Arryin dumped all her weapons onto the bed as her thoughts begged her to devise a plan of departure. As her brain worked, she sorted through her steel—fearful of missing weapons.
One steel sword.
Two pairs of long silver knives.
Six throwing stars.
Three daggers...
Her thoughts froze in panic for a moment and her hands desperately rummaged through the heap. Yet, the anxiety soon dissipated as her fingers curled around a blackened hilt.
Four daggers.
Arryinheld the blade up and let her gaze hold onto it tightly. It was made of sharp boned crystal and solid obsidian. The strong curling material reflected the room's light as the afternoon's golden rays passed through it, allowing soft rainbows to edge onto the walls. It was rare and majestic. It was the weapon she had the longest—the only thing she had from her home. This elegant blade was the last physical remnant, besides her own being, from the ashes of battle and the dust of her kin.
The Ranger clenched her jaw. Her chest ached as she tried to push the painful memory out of her conscience for she did not have time to dwell on her regrets.
The female elleth ran a hand through her hair as she then examined the last of the weapons on her bed.
And elvish bow and empty quiver.
A groan escaped her throat for that weapon was utterly useless without its other half—not that it was her favorite, but it was still valued.
Arryin supposed that the only option would be to purchase more arrows, along with parts to repair her damaged armor, during her journey. She knew a great blacksmith upon the edge of Gondor who would be willing to work on such a feat. The only downside was pricing and she was, currently, broke.
The Ranger then snorted at her own stupidity. She was in a kingdom of rich, snobby elves who most definitely have obtained plenty of jewels. Surely, they wouldn't notice a couple missing here and there.
She moved to load her form with her steel, only for a frustrated frown to cross her elvish face. Arryin had almost forgotten the ridiculousness the maids had dressed her in. Dresses and gowns were entirely impractical—especially for a warrior. How was one to kick the legs out from under an orc if one's legs were restricted? A complete absurdity, clearly.
The Ranger's vision landed upon a cupboard tucked against the wall. She immediately made hast towards it, but halted as a ripping pain radiated through her abdomen. Letting a hiss rupture through her grinding teeth, she pressed a hand against it. Once again, not a good sign.
Pushing past the agony, for she had other matters to deal with, she began scavenging through the drawers. As it was a guest room, not a lot did it hold. Few options were available—mainly green, green, and more green. Not her color. Sighing in defeat, she pulled out a forest shaded tunic and deep brown trousers.
Her quick strides led her over to the mirror and she slipped off the confining dress—only for shock to drip through her blood. This was the first time she had seen her body since the battle; actually, the first time she had seen her body in a very long time as the wilderness was a little short on mirrors.
Granted, Arryin had received her fair share of battle wounds, but nothing like this. Her limps were littered with rough bruises and jagged slashes. The harsher cuts were sewn together, yet the surface ones were left to heal on their own. However, that was not what stole her breath. It was her neck. The tanned skin was no longer a smooth color. Instead, it was shaded a blotching blue and purple pattern—the grasp of an orc.
Arryin's lips parted as she let her fingers trail over the markings for a moment, but the soreness and tenderness forced her to stop. As shocking as it was, that was not what would have been the cause of her death.
Her entire abdomen was wrapped in high-quality, thick, white gauss—binding her broken body back together. The freshness of the dressing was tainted with slight seeping red, hinting to a possible reopening of stitches. The Ranger moved her hands to her torso and slowly began to unwrap the fabric. Sure enough, there was a large laceration—leaking at the edges. It started at the top left side of her ribs, flowed down below her belly button, reached to the right side of her hip, and swirled upon her back.
Now that's gonna leave a scar.
As carefully as she could, Arryin re-wrapped the gauss around her body, holding back a moan of pain.
She then clothed herself in the oversized tunic and loose trousers, letting her thoughts settle on her escape.
Arryin knew she would have to wait until dark to take her leave for the elves would be quite persistent if she tried to make a move now. Besides, her eyes were heavy and her body ached.
Surely, a short nap wouldn't do any harm.
The small elf strolled to the large bed and ungracefully clambered upon it. She pulled back the covers and let the lavish comforts enfold around her.
...
Arryin's fingertips released a sharp edged dagger and it expertly slammed into an orc's heart. The vile beast let out a blood curling scream of pain as it grasped at the weapon, but it was too late for the creature collapsed and pooled with black blood.
She was in the sickly forest, surrounded by orcs—some dead, some alive. They kept coming at her, fight after fight. Yet she pushed on and on with her bones edged with exhaustion. Well, that is until she could do so no longer. Soon overpowered and tied to a tree, there was no escape in sight.
An orc, likely the leader of the massive clan, inched closer and close to her—snarling and spitting. He held a large knife in his grasp and brought it against her face.
"Pretty elfling," he grumbled, using the sharp object to lift the hair out of her face.
She clenched her jaw and attempted to turn her head away from the stinking, vile breath, but she was the one bound—she could do nothing.
He slowly trailed the rusting blade down her cheek and to her jaw. However, the lethargicness of his motion was instantly revoked as he reached forward rapidly and snickered. The orc sliced her skin, creating a sharp cut on her bicep. Arryin shut her eyes holding back a yell, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.
The Ranger withstood this notion for hours as he continued to carve her skin apart, angry with the lack of feedback. Yet, one could only withstand so much. As the knife lashed across the soft skin of her stomach, she screamed out in pain—her voice raspy and throat scratchy.
"The last light of the star," he said grinning. "We found you."
Her eyes fluttered shut as the pain encapsulated her senses. Her body, begging to slip into unconscious, didn't even stir as he sliced her leg.
Clearly his confidence grew at her vocal expression for the orc then grabbed her by the neck, surprising her so.
Arryin opened her wild eyes in utter alarm.
"You will die," he hissed while squeezing harder and harder.
Her throat began to close off. She couldn't breath and her vision blurred—the pain, the pain, the pain...
A soft wimped escaped her lips as she mustered up any energy she could to save herself.
Her hands, tied above her, began to glow and heat.
A light erupted and she screamed.
"Dilthen Er, Dilthen Er (little one)," a voice whispered.
Arryin sat up with wild eyes and unruly hair. Her fists grasped the smooth silk sheets in her hand—twisting, squirming, binding. She was coated in a cold sweat and panting—desperate to suck air into her lungs.
She closed her emerald orbs and focused on her senses as a means of calming herself.
It is over now.
It is over.
The Ranger's opened her lids gently and let her gaze fall to the blood-colored blankets draped over her legs.
It is over.
She let out a shaky breath and pulled the fabric back before swinging her legs over the edge of the bed—leaving her haunted memories behind.
Arryin glanced out the window at the coal-colored sky.
It was time, for there was no reason for her to to be here longer than she needed to.
The Ranger slipped on her black leather boots and began digging in her bag. Thanking the Valar for her previous preparation, she quietly pulled out her extra sets of a weapons belt and weapons sling. It was guaranteed her other one was long gone, but that mattered not.
Arryin began to load her steel onto her form in preparation for escape. She fastened on the armor that could be salvaged and strapped on the various holsters and belts. She secured her first pair of elven knives on her back and her second pair into her boots. She latched her sword to her hip and packed her various knives, daggers, and throwing stars into the weapons belt and sling as she had done hundreds of times before. Lastly, she swung her empty quiver and (currently) useless bow over her shoulder and turned toward the door—ignoring the burning pain that stretched across her stomach.
As quietly as she could, Arryin pulled the creaking wooden door open and peeked into the hallway.
Not a soul in sight.
Stepping out of the room, she was unsure of which way led to freedom. However, she had no choice other than picking a direction and hoping for the best. So she did so. The Ranger stealthily crept down ghostly corridor after ghostly corridor—possibly snatching a small golden vase from a display and slipping it into her bag as she went.
The small elf was about to turn yet another corner when she heard a loud growl and an evil tone hiss, "Where is she, you idiot?!"
Arryin slammed her back against the wall, her emerald eyes wide with fear.
Orcs.
Elves had been posted on the perimeter and throughout the whole of the Mirkwood territory—she was concerned that she would not be able to get out, so how did they get in.
The Ranger clenched her jaw as she exhaled slowly.
They want a fight, well they will sure as hell get one.
Arryin unsheathed her elven blades and rounded the corner.
Her blazing eyes met about a dozen beety black ones.
"You!" One of the vile beasts growled.
There was a moment of silence and no movement as realization had not entirely hit their snail-sized brains, but alas, their complete utter lack of intelligence could only last for so long.
They all charged at her with a war cry.
The dark-chestnut haired elleth lifted her blades as the first orc reached her. She crossed the silver metal and sliced his throat in one clean sweep. Vile, rotting, black blood splattered all over her face, staining her skin, but she didn't care—she had a job to do.
Surely by this time, the sounds of battle would have woke the elvish beings that reside in the Mirkwood halls.
Arryin's blade clashed with a heavy rusting sword that was carried but an orc with a similar look—he was quite strong, but she was stronger. She overpowered him quickly and swung her arm with as much force as she could muster. His head rolled to the ground.
She lifted her angry green eyes up from the decapitated head to see icy blue one behind the cluster of orcs coming for her.
The King's son.
Their locked gaze was almost immediately lost given that Arryin ducked to avoid an axe spinning towards at her head.
The weaponless orc ran straight for her, and she did exactly the same. When Arryin was seconds from colliding with him, she fell to her knees and slid right through its stubby legs. She instantaneously turned around to see the confused idiot's back. Quickly, she dragged her blades across his calfs and his howling form cluttered to the ground.
To her delight, the Ranger turned to see that the vile creatures had split into two sections when they eventually noticed the blonde elf attacking from behind.
The fight just became easier.
It was not long before the light haired elf drove his weapon into the last orc and the ugly beast fell to the stone floor, gasping for breath.
He knelt next to the orc and gripped the wretched cloth that covered its body.
"How did you gain entrance into this place?!" The elf questioned. His tone was stern and menacing, but that did not intimidate the orc for it laughed in response.
The Prince's jaw tensed and he unexpectedly slammed the orcs head against the ground.
"Why. Are. You. Here?" The blue-eyed elf hissed with seething anger pouring from his words.
Warm black liquid dripped out of the creature's mouth as his lips moved in a whisper. "The light," he raised his arm. "We came...for...the..." But the rest of his sentence was stolen from him by death.
"TRAAKO (shit)," the blonde elf screamed in anger as he stood up—facing away from Arryin.
The Ranger's arms were crossed as a smirk tugged at the corner of her lip due to his profanity. Elves were supposed to be proper and formal—especially royal ones. But maybe the son of the King has a personality that isn't as bland as lembas bread.
The Prince turned, after regaining his composure, to speak to the her. His voice was firm and emotionless, "You are a skilled fighter."
She nodded, "As are you."
He tilted his head slightly as his eyes raked over her attire. "You were leaving," he stated simply.
Before she could respond a booming voice echoed down the corridor. "Legolas!"
Arryin and the Prince immediately turned to see King Thranduil and six elven guards walking hastily towards them and the dozen orc corpses. However, she didn't care much for the King so she opted to let her thoughts drift.
Legolas, Arryin repeated to heralded, a fitting name for the elf.
Being in such a close proximity to the Mirkwood Prince allowed her to be able to see his features clearly, even through the black blood that had been splattered upon him. Every dip, every curve, and every edge of his expression was accentuate by the moonlight; quite frankly, it gave him an ethereal glow. His jaw line was sharp and defined which was complimented by the rest of his structured and proportional face. His dark eyebrows different from his sun-colored hair, but it fit him well, as did his light colored lip.
Arryin would have been fine if she was left to analyze the elf more, but Thranduil and his prestigious attitude would not let her.
"What is this?!" He demanded angrily.
The guards had stopped their advancement, but Thranduil walked through all the bloody, contorted, and withered bodies—right to the center where Arryin and his son stood.
Legolas made eye contact with his father withholding the same commanding look. "We managed to kill them all. The only thing I got out of one of them was that they were searching for light."
King Thranduil frowned, "Light? How peculiar."
The Ranger blamed adrenaline as her heart pounded to the anxiety that danced within her mind. Surely, they wouldn't connect the dots, right?
Prince Legolas shrugged, "I know not. The ramblings of the dying usually do not make sense."
Arryin's muscles relaxed at that statement for the two royals were ignorant to the meaning of the creature's words.
The King spoke harshly once again, "How did they get in?"
The Prince shook his head in response.
Thranduil breathed heat through his nostrils as his expression twisted into something darker and deeper. "I want reports of every single guard's movement tonight by first light and the patrols doubled. This will not go unpunished."
It was then, when a sudden movement caught Arryin's eyes. A worthless, half-dead beast inched up from his dirtless grave and swayed towards the Mirkwood King.
As swiftly as a fox, Arryin snatched a dagger from her belt and it wizzed past the King's ear into the center of the orc's forehead. It's axe clattered to the ground loudly while the evil creature thudded to the floor.
Legolas and Thranduil whipped their heads in complete utter shock for their senses had not picked up on the beast.
The King looked at her intently before speaking. "Arryin the Ranger," he mused. "You will be escorted to the throne room tomorrow. I have a proposition for you."
The small elleth's brows pulled together in confusion but she nodded respectfully—clearly her plans of escape were ruined and if the only way out of these haunted halls was diplomacy, then so be it.
Without another word, the Elven King turned on his heel and left her and the Prince alone in the corridor of corpses.
As the adrenaline within her dissipated, Arryin started to feel the wooziness of war. Her thoughts spun and searing pain ruptured through her body with no mercy. She staggered backwards, her previous composure fading rapidly. She leaned one hand on the wall and the other upon her stomach.
Legolas's orbs pooled with concern at her actions, "Lady Arryin, are you alright?"
She lowered her head to prevent him from seeing the pain in her expression and tried to mask the sound of distress in her voice. "Do not call me Lady—just Arryin. And I am quite alright."
He reached out to gently touch her stomach, and to Arryin's surprise, she didn't have the energy to stop him.
Even though his touch was gentle, the small elleth could not hold in the tiny, barely-audible whimper. As quiet as it was, Legolas was no human; his elf hearing easily captured the sound. He pulled his hand away and he was not surprised to see the vibrant red that coated it.
"Your wound from the battle in the forest must have reopened," he stated simply.
She replied sharply for fear rose in her chest. "How do you know about that?"
"Besides being the King's son," He voice softened, "I was the one who found you and carried you to the healers, Dilthen Er (little one)."
Arryin's lips parted at his words for she recognized them instantly.
Cautiously, Arryin lifted her head to study his ocean eyes, which, of course, were already observing her.
Legolas moved towards her and tentatively placed a hand on her hip. Arryin sucked in a deep breath for never had she been so close to another in this manner—especially a male. Every muscle, bone, and tendon within her body was screaming at her to lash out—to shove him away. Yet, against her nature, she allowed his hand to stay.
Legolas began to bend down slightly and he placed his other arm behind her knees.
"What—what are you doing?" She questioned with a tone laced with pain and unease.
"You need to be taken to the healers."
She growled and pushed him off—now defensive. "I can get there myself!"
He raised his brows and scoffed. "You are badly injured and you do not know the way." When she did not respond he sighed and continued speaking, "Let me at least guide you."
Her untamed gaze narrowed into a sharp glare as she questioned his intentions. Seemingly deeming him partially trustworthy, she nodded to indicate her acceptance of the terms.
Legolas took her arm and draped it over his shoulder and he gently pressed his hand on her waist once again.
Arryin stifled a moan of pain as she spoke. "You said you would guide me. I don't need your support. I can do it myself."
"Dilthen Er (little one), I know you are strong, you do not need to prove it to me."
Arryin clenched her jaw as heat crept up her neck and embarrassment flushed her cheeks. Was the reoccurring nickname really a necessity?
