Disclaimer: I do not own anything within the Tolkien universe, save for Tholi and other OCS.
Thank you to everyone who read chapter one! This new chapter will be introducing another key player to the tale. . . friend, or perhaps foe? Maybe somewhere in between? Read to find out :D
Please continue to keep in mind that the goal of this story is to follow the lives of my OCs, while still checking in on some other beloved characters.
Feel free to comment!
This story is rated M for later swearing, crudeness, later chapters with descriptive gore, and later chapters with sexual intimacy.
[This chapter is rated T for descriptions of battle]
Chapter 2: To Prove Strength and Wit
Merésgaleth shivered in the morning air, drawing her blanket closer to her face, hoping to find a few more moments rest before packing her things and moving on. The first light of dawn broke over the far hills, reminding her that it was time to resume the hunt.
If there's one thing I will never get used to, it's this damned bite in the air.
Sighing, and resigning herself to the chilly morning, she rose, stretching her limbs. Pausing only for a few minutes to retie the long braid that held her ebony hair, not wanting to be annoyed by the winds as she moved. She carried little things, knowing that it was best to minimize the chance that she would fall far behind the pack of orcs, no less than a half days run away.
"How wonderful it would be if they rose late this morning. . ."
She knew that if she hurried, she would catch the band before they arrived too close to the Northeastern portion of Mirkwood, encroaching upon Thranduil's kingdom. Having set out almost three days prior, she'd hoped to have caught them before they wandered too close to Erebor, though as of yesterday it seemed that they were more stupid than she had guessed.
They moved at a quick pace, though not too quick for her own legs to follow, only now slowed that they were wandering toward the Lonely Mountain, having given her enough time to greatly close the distance between her and them.
Though why they turned toward the mountain I couldn't possibly gather. . .
Hours passed, her legs taking her over rock and through fields, never tiring thanks to the steady flow of adrenaline. This kind of work suited her, she thought, nothing more thrilling than the thread of her bow drawn ready to strike at the orcs given the right moment. Many Elves were avid bowmen, though they themselves were not typically drawn to violence, so Mir had always guessed that her fascination with hunting was a gift from her mother's side.
Finally coming upon the troop, she ducked behind a large crag, now the closest to the mountain they had come, counting no less than thirty orcs. They ran without organization, holding clubs and crude axes in their miserable hands. Drawing her shortbow, she notched one of her favorite arrows, waiting for the group to round the short pass, straight toward her.
Come now, you greyish worms and ta-
A movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, her muscles tensing, drawing the arrow to its full length. The shape crouched low, ducking behind a small outcropping of rocks not twenty paces from where she was hiding.
So, then, you did see me. Perhaps I was more careless then I had thought. . .
Merésgaleth crept forward, and fast, hoping to kill the sneaking orc before the others gained too much ground toward her, ruining her chance to strike swiftly from above. She stopped, and gripped her bow tighter, hearing its loud, labored breath, disgusted by the very sound. She would be glad to rid the world of one more of its hellish creatures. Tensing her muscles, she lept high above the rock concealing the orc, twisting round to face it as to shoot it square in the eyes, bow taught and ready, though when she released her arrow, it was struck aside with a flash of steel, and was tackled before she could reach the ground.
Rolling in the dirt, she grabbed her short dagger from her side, readying her knife to slice its throat, shocked, when her own neck was met with steel of its own.
Only it was not an orcish blade with which she was threatened, but one of a dwarf. At a stalemate, she glared half surprised, and half angrily toward the dwarf before her, panting from the effort of the scuffle, swallowing hard against the cold metal.
He was tall. For a dwarf, that is. Merésgaleth was the first to speak, though neither moved.
"If I were you, dwarf, I would be quick to stow your blade before I spill any more of your blood."
A thin line of crimson flowing from the cut of her knife against his throat, he smirked, replying in a much annoyed tone.
"You're not in much of a position to threaten me, elf. Open my throat, and yours will quickly follow."
Not moving her blade, she looked to her left, fully aware that the orcs would nearly be gone from the pass now, her opportunity reaching its end.
The dwarf sighed, following her line of sight, and lowered his blade, stowing into its sheath on his right pauldron.
"Though I do believe that it's not I whom you intend to kill," he said. Mir removed her blade with a flourish, though she did not put it away. Shocked, the dwarf offered a hand to her, though she did not take it, and rose of her own accord.
Considering the situation for a moment, she nodded toward him, suddenly throwing her hand onto the nearest boulder at the end of the outcropping, and threw herself over the side, and onto the shoulders of the final orc of the troop below, driving her dagger deep into his skull along the way. Not pausing to react, the dwarf ran toward the edge of the crag, drawing his own bow, notching two dwarven arrows and letting them fly.
The first hit its target, the orc crumbling into itself, having little time to cry out before its death. The latter flew just shy of the other orcs head, burying deep into its shoulder, the thing shrieking with anger and pain. Cursing his mistake, the dwarf watched as the entirety of the orcish troop turned round, redoubling at their brethren's cry.
By Mahal, I'll be damned before I make that mistake again. Especially in the company of this elf.
Surprised at his own thoughts, and the slightest part embarrassed, the dwarf reminded himself that the only one he needed to be concerned with was himself, though he couldn't help but to search the ground beneath him for the elfish stranger. Below him, she had drawn her longsword, arcing it through the air with deadly flourish, striking hard and fast into the flesh of the orcs rushing toward her.
Let's not let you have all the fun, now.
And so he returned his bow to his back, and drew his own long knives, throwing himself over the edge of the bank of rocks, just as the elf had done moments before, fearless into the fray.
It did not take long for the two warriors to finish off the last of the orcs, save one they left bleeding with a missing forearm, intending to question his company's purpose.
Leaving that one tied and shrieking on a large boulder, Merésgaleth picked her way through the slaughtered orcs, looking for any indication of their origins, as she had been instructed by her King days before.
She had been in the lower rooms below the throne halls, weaving her way between elves carrying trays of breads, cheeses, and meats, all hurrying to replenish the tables on which her people were feasting.
It was Merethnethui, the Feast of November, a small holiday marking the beginning of the snow months, but a feast nonetheless, and she had no intentions of joining in the merriment. Not that she did not enjoy the company of others, but that it was the only time she would be able to find some solitude to mend her bow, broken for weeks without repair.
While Merésgaleth did not mind the handiwork of Balanon, the smith assigned to the guard, she preferred to mend her things herself, feeling that the strength of her own hands gave some trueness to her arrows when they flew.
Arriving at the forge, she paused to flit between the rows of raw materials, gathering new string, and some wood to mend the belly of her bow. She went to the less cluttered of the benches, happy to finally be fixing her weapon, as this meant she could finally return to her post on the far edges of Mirkwood, guarding the Northern Border between the elves and Erebor. Merésgaleth loved nothing more than running through the forests edge, breathing in the air as she pushed herself as far as her watch could take her.
No sooner than the moment she reattached her new string to the nock of her bow, Duáth, a young elf recently posted to the inner guard, approached her, saying that the King had requested a private audience with her.
Not losing a moment, she nearly ran to the receiving room, more so anxious than excited to be called before King Thranduil. As she knew very well, an audience with him was either one of great honor or great anger, and she would have liked to arrive early in hopes to provoke a more favorable outcome.
Once she arrived, it did not take long for the elfish King to explain the purpose of their meeting. A group of orcs had been spotted creeping along the Northwestern border of the forest, and she was to follow them for as long as she could before they crossed the border into dwarvish territory.
"Either come back, then, with them dead and their purpose known," Thranduil had taunted her, "Or do not bother coming back at all. I have been patient with you, Merésgaleth, do not dare to disappoint me."
Swallowing hard, she had bowed respectfully and turned quickly on her heel to leave the chamber, his words echoing in her head.
"Try to remind me why I didn't leave you to rot, half- elf."
Another chapter posted! I decided to include these two chapters on the same evening because I assumed it would be best to introduce two of the main characters ;D Betcha didn't expect Meresgaleth do be only half a Sindarin elf, did ya?
In the next chapter, we will be checking in on our favorite dwarf and elf again, seeing the first parts of their friendship blossom! (That's not spoilerific, is it? Haha :) )
Thank you again for reading!