Here is the other part of the previous chapter which I decided to post seperatly, mostly because it made more sense that way.
Night surrounded him, yet the cries echoed through the land, and shouts came from the distant forest.
"Noro lim! Noro lim na Menegroth!"
His sleeve was pulled as the strength of his mother fought against the adolescent need to fight; yet he had no sword, the time had now come for honor and valor without renown and he had no sword…
Menegroth was in sight, safety and refuge that had once protected them in the past, the dwarves could not penetrate it for weeks, they would fare less successful; the Prince stood at the archway of the large iron doors beckoning what seemed like thousands of refugees from the eastern lands into the warm embracing bosom of the thousand caves. A cry came from his mouth,
"Hurry! Uial! Get your men out of there! To the Caves!"
The paternal face of the child's father looked back at the sight of his family reaching the caves and to the eyes of his young son came a knowing smile that assured the youth of his will to live, hope was not gone…
The smell of blood was stifling in the caves, the cries of hundreds of widows echoed throughout and the smell of burning flesh filtered through the door that was still ushering in people from as far as Aelin Uial. The youth stood at the door with his mother as they watched the woods of Neldoreth burn in the distance to the North, the Hirilorn had fallen, succumbing to the flames of the hateful attack. And through his soot-covered eyes the youth saw his father still standing, silhouetted by the flames that engulfed their home. His band kept them at bay, while the forces of the Prince and the King led people into the caves and guarded their rear. Still the forces of Aelin Uial stood their ground and their captain fought on, and the youth cheered his father…then, as though time had ceased a sight most horrible came to his mind, an arrow, fired from behind the Noldorin flank struck the captain in the breast. And still he fought on, sword to sword with a Noldor captain; a man whose fire lit hair shimmered as the red of the volcanic flows that topped Thangorodrim. And in an instant, as though fate cared not for the heroism of minor elves born not of fame and fortune- the noble head of the captain was severed from his body, which fell to the ground and shook with tumultuous quakes. A cry went forth from beside him, as hope was lost…
Startled from his sleep Celebrin awoke with a great cry and slashed at the air in front of him with an invisible and impotent dagger. Silence surrounded him and the sounds of the desert midnight filled the air as, in the distance a simple river flew through the sun-scarred land. A day had passed since he first came among these people, as a prisoner and thief, now, though less than a hero's welcome, he was not bound to a rock or a tree. This little blessing he received from one of his aged companions who seemed to hold more secrets than even he. Gasping for air from where he sat upon the floor, a shadow covered the light that strewed in from the outside, the beginnings of dawn.
"How long have you stood there?"
He said to the figure, who held her arm, protecting it from the very air that grew warm without sunlight or fire.
"I heard shouting…did you have a dream?"
"Dream is not the word for it…do you have a word for…a bad dream?"
"To us, all dreams are good…even if they frighten us."
"It was no dream…it was a memory"
The woman stepped forward and allowed light to enter; her hair was loosened and flowed with the wildness of Sirion yet with the darkness of the banner of the Aran. Her eyes like his reflected the stars of the night sky, though in a tent they were. Despite its darkened state her face was pale, as though shifting from life to death, and from her wound small veins of pale skin flowed, following the course of her blood. Concern was worn upon the face of the elf,
"Are you well? You should not be awake…"
"I am tired, though my eyes won't let me sleep… I feel…"
And in an instant the form of the woman was broken and her knees fell beneath her; quickly the elf came to her side and feeling her forehead felt the heat of the desert sun upon it, though it was wet as a leaf covered with dew.
When he took her in his arms she was lighter than when he had lifted her in the Talath Anorui, as though he had lifted a child rather than the limp body of a young woman. Briskly he strode through the dead of the night to the tent where grey smoke to greet the dawn that rose in the distance. Already there were villagers awake at that hour, mostly women cooking meals for the next day and their children who gathered water from the nearby river; their eyes rose to see the sight of a stranger carrying their chieftain's daughter in his hands, yet more surprising was the red heat that seemed to emanate from her limp form, red as the fire brand that formed their iron swords. A crowd began to gather as the elf bore her body into the tent; already the old woman sat, half in sleep and half awake, staring into the fire. As the elf began to speak she stopped his words with a simple opening of her half-shut eyes,
"Her spirit burns, like the leaf in a fire…Poison has taken her blood,"
She said as the young woman's body was laid before the fire, the ancient woman was for a moment struck by the worry upon the elf's face, the sense of urgency in his voice,
"Already it reverses the flow of her blood… we have… little time…"
The Ancient woman crawled to where the elf sat, touched the face of the young woman, who writhed in the pangs of birth, though she had no child to bear; her face now had become like a pale gray shadow. With her brows furrowed and voice uncertain she looked upon the elf's face and asked,
"You know of the poison that has stricken her?"
With a gentle nod the elf replied,
"In my land it has caused the death of many lives, the perversion of many hearts… for it does not kill entirely, but reverses the flow of the blood, striking the heart with an irreversible death, though it still pumps blood through the veins…"
"We have known this malady, the lifeless forms left behind are devoid of spirit, without heart, they wither and are misshapen… soulless forms upon the land."
"Do you have a poultice for it? She does not have much time…"
"No such thing exists in these lands, no herbs for its making, though I know of something that may slow the process…"
At that moment the form of Tal-ano burst through the entrance of the tent and came to kneel beside the groaning form of his sister's body. He spoke in words foreign to the ears of the elf, of a tongue that he had barely began to learn; in their sorrowful rhythm he discerned a call to the very soul, a cry to the fruitless task of calling a soul back from death. The ancient woman stood and went to where her bed was laid and she knelt upon the floor and from the place where her head was laid to rest she took a sword sheathed in a scarlet scabbard, that bore foreign runes in a tongue known only to one there,
"Take the stranger Tal-anoku, to the place where the river ends and the Fire Plain begins, use the old horse roads…the ones made by feet invisible to our eyes."
'Why go there, to a place so far removed…my place is here by her side…"
"She will not last the day if you stay. Go now! Ride fast the end of the river! Take the stranger, he knows what I need…"
"I …"
"Never in your short life have I asked you to do something without asking… Your father raised you as a warrior…fight now for your sister's life."
Standing from where he knelt Tal-ano took one last gaze upon Cidhrali and left saying only to the elf beside him in short words full of duty,
"Come…"
The elf placed the young woman's hand upon the floor and rose to leave the tent, when he saw the old woman rise to her feet, holding his sword in her hands she handed it to him and said,
"This belongs to you…"
With a gentle nod the elf took the sword and left the tent to the outer world, where the sun had barely peaked over the flat valley before him to the east. The stars still littered the sky and blazed with their last flame; eyes watched him as he strode to where the form of Tal-ano prepared two horses, both black of hue. In the distance the cry of Thingalad broke the morning silence, and in a silent whisper the elf said,
"Not now my friend, soon you will ride with me into battle…"
The whine of the horse ceased as he sat himself upon the black steed, whose gentle muscles tensed under his foreign loins. And with a silent kick they rode fast into the breaking night following the course of the river, and as the village became smaller in their left a cry went out as though life was being slowly drawn out like poison from a wound, the battle for the life of one woman had begun.