Chapter Twenty-Two

Estela walked far from the camp.

"My lady!" it was Vorondo.

"What is it?" she asked concerned. "I was merely wondering if you are alright." Vorondo explained. She nodded. "Thank you for your concern but I am fine. Has Telperinquar contacted just yet?" Vorondo shook his head.

"No, my lady." He replied. "But the others. They're getting suspicious." She looked at him with piercing eyes. "Suspicious?"

"Well… they're spreading stories. Rumours of who you are." Vorondo waited desperately hoping she would order a withdrawal from the camp.

She thought silently for a while. "Let them," she said finally. "Talk is just talk."

"But if they should discover-"began Vorondo, alarmed.

"Then they will discover. Why must it concern us? It will happen sooner or later, and fate has taken its course. The Valar have made their decision. Our fate is written in the stars." She glanced up at the sky.

"My lady," Vorondo was rowing alarmed.

"It is the vow we all took, Vorondo." Estela replied. "The vow to do no ill to any innocent and to keep Middle-Earth and their inhabitants alive and free of Darkness. That is what we all swore. And that is the fate written in the stars. We are not Men, Vorondo."

No they were not. But Vorondo had other reasons for wanting to get Estela away from this camp.

"But what if they should pose a threat to us?" Vorondo asked. "If they discover what we've tried to keep hidden for so long- they could pose a threat or reject any offer of aid- even if it means death. Thingol did. Your father experienced that."

Estela sighed. Sighed at the memory and the fact that Elu Thingol was in fact her great-grand-uncle as well as a foreign king. They made such threats against themselves. She had no doubt that her grandfather was manipulated into the War of Wrath by Morgoth.

And speaking of which….

"Vorondo, just how many servants did you think Morgoth had?"

"Eh?" Slightly taken aback by this change of topic, Vorondo involuntarily took a step back. "He had millions."

"Not orcs." Estela said. "How many commanders did he have for his armies- the highest members of his circle?"

Startled by this sudden interrogation- as if it were a history examination- and the War of Wrath, or the War of the Jewels were an Age ago- Vorondo stuttered.

"Well-I-" he began. "There was Dragluin the Werewolf and Thuringwethil the Vampire," he knew that from the lay of Lúthien. "There was Ungoliant the Giant Spidre." Estela would remember that herself. Indeed her face hardened. "And there was Gothmog the Lord of Balrogs.

"And someone else," he continued. "I don't know who."

Estela's head shot up and her emerald eyes, desperate, pleading, looked up at him. "Who, Vorondo? Who can it be?" she was almost begging, yet again. Only this time for different reasons.

Five Slaves. The Old Woman had said that.

"There were five." She whispered. "And one is still alive."

Vorondo inhaled sharply. "That cannot be. Morgoth is defeated. All his servants are slain."

"The orcs?" she countered as quickly as he had finished.

"Useless pieces of filth, that exist here and there and pick at the scabs of wounds, hiding in dank rotten holes," Vorondo said dismissively.

"But still they are not in decline," Estela said. Vorondo snorted.

"Imin, Iminyë, Tata, Tatië, Enel and Enelyë have long since disappeared into myth along with the rest of the unbegotten." Vorondo exclaimed. "Morgoth might not be myth, but does that mean that orcs need him in order not to go into decline, any more than we do?"

"Not him," Estela said. "But a Dark Lord."

Estela had no idea where those words came from but the moment she said it… She felt her own shock filling her with ice.

"What…" Vorondo was unable to speak. "What do you mean, 'a Dark Lord'?" He looked incredulous. "The only Dark Lord, there ever was, lies in the void, where the Valar have tossed him. There is no other, and there never will be another, the Ainur and the All-Father will never allow such a cursed abomination, not as long as there is an Arda." He remained quite fierce about it. But Estela was shaking her head.

"I wish you were correct, Vorondo," she said. "But where do the King's Men get all these ideas from? To turn away from Eru- our All-Father and Creator? To turn against the guardians that raised their very island kingdom from the depths of the ocean? To hate one another and other races most of all? Where does it come from? After all that has happened, how could they forget their own history, their own past?"

Vorondo shook his head. "These are not the Men that set sail with your father's fosterling Elros. They are mortal- their lives are short and envy and pride is an affliction that besets many- especially those that do not remember what they have been given."

Estela looked aggrieved. "Yes," she said softly. "But a messenger spoke to me." She told him all that the 'messenger' had said. The old woman whom she believed to have been sent by higher powers.

Vorondo was, if possible, more incredulous than he had been before. "Unbelievable. You would believe her? The words of a feverish, rambling old woman who knows not what she says?"

Estela looked up at him sharply. "She knew what she said." She took a deep breath. "She also knew who I am." She sensed Vorondo recoil in alarm and shock.

"No," he breathed. "How can she?" He shook himself. "It is not possible-" "and yet it has happened." Estela finished. "This was no ordinary old woman from the race of men. Of that much I could be sure. And she vanished, literally, from my sight. No old woman could have done that."

Vorondo stared at her. She knew he didn't want to believe her. And she couldn't blame him, even with their necessity. She shook her head.

"Let's not talk about this now," she said. This was not a usual characteristic. Estela liked to deal with things sooner rather than later. "Go take some rest. We all need to sleep after a battle."

Vorondo nodded and she smiled at him, trying to give him the impression that there was nothing wrong- at least not anything that could not be solved easily. In reality, she knew it was a far bigger threat than anyone could imagine.

Estela watched him go, unease growing within her. Presently she felt another presence. "Is he that unhappy?"

Again it was Erei- the High King.

Since when did she think of him as anything other than the High King a great leader and warrior?!

He came over to her.

"Aranya," she responded. My King. She kept things formal.

"Don't call me that," Ereinion said sharply. "I don't care if you're cursed."

She took a step back. "No-" she breathed. "You-"

"I know what I risk, but it's no more than what you risked for every day of your life, all these centuries, ever since you left Valinor."

"What I-" She gave a harsh laugh unlike the one he had heard before the battle. "Yes it is." She didn't care if she sounded like she was contradicting the king.

"You are the chosen leader of the Noldor upon Middle-Earth and in times of peril, the elves all flock to you." She looked at him stricken, unable to comprehend his persistence. If only she knew what was to come.

"And you would have me bring Doom upon your head as sure as it will come to me, and possibly affect the other elves?" she exclaimed incredulously. She shook her head. "I cannot do that."

"And then what?" he demanded. "What will happen after the battle? Will you vanish, as you have always done, and that is how people will remember you?"

"No one knows my name anyway," Estela argued. "I told you, I don't fight for glory and fame."

He exhaled. "Then what do you fight for? And when will it end? When will it all end?"

His words struck her to the core. The future. She had always feared it outside of Valinor, ever since her forefather's death.

"Will you not keep some measure of happiness- allow it- not simply for me, but for yourself?" Ereinion whispered.

The future had ever been an unhappy thought in your mind. As one who followed her grandfather she was doomed either to be slain, or to fade in grief. And if she still lingered, she would forever be miserably anchored to the Outer Lands. As for death… Well, she would face the Doom of Mandos. Like her family- her parents before her in particular.

There was no joy. There was no hope. Not for her. She who gave hope to so many, had kept none for herself.

If she thought there was hope and light, and she gained strength through that, then she was wrong. There was nothing.

Suddenly, the world seemed plunged into darkness, crushing her, pulling her, drowning her, with no escape. All light was extinguished. And in the end she knew, tossed in the void he may be, but Morgoth had still won against them. Her family paid the price, and so did she. He had lured them into this trap.

It was like what he did with the children of Húrin.

But someone could still be saved. Many people could. As she said, she did not do it for herself. That thought gave her strength, no matter how little.

"There is nothing you, nor anyone else can do to save me," she whispered. "You only have yourselves to look to." She closed her eyes, and turned before he saw the tear seeping- she would not shame herself again, even if it meant turning her back from the High King and leaving without politely asking for his permission.

Taking deep, gasping breaths, Estela managed to get away. She walked as fast as she could, but unnaturally, uncharacteristically, she moved as if she were stumbling. Estela was among the most graceful beings on Arda, and yet the whole world had shifted and rocked itself beneath her feet. The small amount of stability she imagined would be there, was false.

She clutched at a tree trunk, and almost fell, collapsing. She wanted to stop. Many times she wanted to stop- to end there. Why did she not fade already? Why was she still there?

She could hear the sound of laughter as elves and humans celebrated into the night. Campfires flickered and spat, sending sparks in the distance, their warm glow a contrast to what she felt inside.

Her mother faded. Why couldn't she?

Perhaps this is my Doom.

"Does my lady need assistance?"

Estela started, and whipped around thinking it was a soldier or an aide from the camp, but the voice of the person caught up to her realisation, before she even got to look at him, and she somehow knew this was no ordinary elf.

He was tall, and his hair gold as a Vanya. But Vanyarin elves were rare upon Middle-Earth- the few that ever left Valinor could be counted by the fingers of one hand- Findekáno's wife, Elenwë among them- but although there were Noldorin elves with Vanyarin blood within them, there were few of their kind that actually left Valinor.

But this ellon must have been one of them. His hair was as gold and his eyes were so blue, they could almost hurt a human's eyes. His features were handsome and noble, even more so than the ordinary elf, by far. His figure was that of a warrior.

I know him, Estela thought. But she was certain she had never met this ellon upon Middle-Earth. Aman maybe…

"I-" so startled and stunned by his appearance was she that she actually forgot what the question was.

"It is nothing to be worried about," she managed. "I am tired, I suppose."

"Ah," the ellon smiled. "And yet, it appears to be something more. Forgive me, but it did look like you were in need of assistance, or at least, someone." He came closer.

Estela suddenly realised why this person looked so familiar. With his handsome, chiselled features that no master craftsperson could ever sculpt, his tall stature and figure and his warm, appealing smile, this elf reminded her of her father. No…

The ellon smiled and moved next to her. "I must admit, that you have many worried for you," he said gently. "After all, it is terrible to have so many a burden on one so young."

"Young?" Estela raised her eyebrows incredulously. "I was born in the Age of the Trees. I have witnessed the birth of Man. I am by far, more than old enough." She said it without thinking. She could have given this person a clue on her age and thus her identity. But what did she care anymore?

The ellon smiled. "True," he acknowledged. "But if one were to count by my age, everyone would appear to be so young."

That was the difficult thing with immortals. They could be in their fifties and sixties, or aeons old, and one could never tell.

"Are you one of the unbegotten?" she asked. They were the first of the elven race to have woken by the light of the stars.

"What makes you say I am that old?" he asked.

She blinked. "You said-"

He smiled, cutting her off. She faded into silence. "I am older." He said.

No. That was not possible. No elf was that old. Unless this was not an elf, but-

Estela suddenly whipped her head, faster than she had done before. She turned her wide gaze towards the direction of the nearest elves around the campfire with some men. They had been there, seconds before. She had seen and heard them. Now they were gone.

Gasping, she turned to look at him, and almost fell backwards, if she had not been caught. His strong arms grasped her.

"Do not be afraid." He smiled. There was no danger, no slyness or malice in that smile. Still she began to tremble. Estela had never trembled like this since she was a child.

"You know me," he said softly. "You've met me, long ago. Do you not recall?"

"Who?" she managed before a series of images flashed through her mind.

She saw her father sparring in the courtyards. She thought it would be one of her uncles or Findekáno, but instead it was someone else.

Someone else with hair that shone so gold it made even a Vanya's appear duller in comparison. Whose blue eyes shone fiercely as he parried her father's sword-thrust.

Her father had an instructor. Someone who taught him the ways of the sword-master.

And it was no ordinary elf, but a Maia.

"Eönwë?" she whispered not believing what she saw.

The Maia, a messenger of Manwë, King of the Valar, smiled at her.

She gasped. "No…" she couldn't even form words.

"I assure you, it is me," he said gently. His smile was warm- a smile, she thought, might have rubbed off on her father which she had then became familiar with.

"It can't be," she gasped. "How-" she choked off.

"The Valar have forsaken me," she finally managed. "All the Ainur have… The All-Father-"

"You have never been forgotten," Eönwë said firmly. "Nor forsaken. You who have done no evil, no harm save to Darkness, why should we abandon you?"

Estela was unable to speak. "How can you-" she managed. "No, this isn't real-" she started to shake.

"I assure you, it is." Eönwë said, grasping her tighter. Heat flowed through his touch going underneath her skin, warming her very being. She didn't even realise she was cold. "I came for a reason. You have never been forgotten."

"The Lord of Mandos-" she began.

"What will happen will happen." Eönwë was forbidden from speaking about the Judge of the Dead's prediction on Estela's trials. "But it does not mean you are forsaken. You who have done both good and great things." He gave her a quizzical look. "Did you truly think you have no future?"

"I-"Estela wasn't sure what she would say. "My future is in what I do," she tried to explain- to convince him, as well as herself. "My task in saving the innocent, in doing whatever I can, in keeping safe my friends and kin, in rebuilding the ruins of what has happened to this world, even from the threat of former allies and friends."

"I see," Eönwë raised an eyebrow. The leader of the Maiar looked sceptical. "And you do not believe you are entitled to something more, perhaps? Something the High King has offered you?"

Blushing madly, Estela stepped back. During the course of these few days, especially ever since she met Ereinion Gil-Galad, she was experiencing a whole range of emotions she had long since kept under control. Her friends knew her to be serene and level-headed. To be calm and sure. But now she was going from high to low and she was more uncertain than she had ever been since the end of the War of Wrath.

The Maia must have heard the conversations the High King had with her.

Estela shook herself. This was no way to behave! What if the Ainur were testing her?

"I cannot risk his life and his crown," Estela explained, slowly and clearly. "Nor can I risk his people's support of him, and endanger them in general- and all the Free Peoples in Middle-Earth. If he were to have me by his side, constantly, the alliance with the Wood-Elves would be endangered. Oropher was there in Doriath before it was sacked- by my own family, no less. He would remember." She was pleading with him to understand.

"I see," the Maia sighed. "So you would accept what opinion they have of you, before they even made it?"

"I-" Estela was incredulous. "I am the daughter and granddaughter of kinslayers," she exclaimed. "Can I blame them for not wanting my very existence, when they have lost their homes, their friends, their families, for three jewels?" Her emerald eyes were wide.

"There were two innocent boys," she whispered. "Among so many. And yet here I stand, living and breathing…" she was unable to go on.

"Have you not lost your family as well?" Eönwë asked softly.

Silence.

A tear fell from Estela's eye and fell down her cheek.

She could find nothing to say.

"Oropher had his wife," Eönwë continued. "He had his son. Elwing lost her father, her mother, her brothers. She fled to the Havens of Sirion, and gained a husband. She had two sons of her own- the boys your father and uncle raised, with your help. I am not saying that their loss is less than yours, but what about your losses? What about the forefather you saw slain? What about the grandmother, the two grandparents, the other forefather and mother that you said farewell to? The aunts and cousins- the other kin? Do not forget you are of the Teleri as well," Eönwë said. "Of the House of Olwë. There was a reason why he stood up to your grandfather- him and his son. Arcalimar was your grandfather too," Eönwë's eyes burned a bright blue into Estela's soul. "Tell me your name," he said.

Estela blinked. This was not what she expected.

"Eruvandë Estela Nelyafinwiel." She said blankly.

"Eruvandë," the Maia mused. "The name your father gave you," he said. "And Estela- your mother-name.

"The former was given by your father. It, as you know, means "Oath of Eru," in Quenya, your cradle-tongue.

"But Estela comes from the Telerin dialect," Eönwë explained. "And from that tongue, the Sindarin one arose in Doriath. It means hope, but hope in Noldorin Quenya is Amátirë. Because Sindarin is a daughter-language, it has many roots and similarities with Telerin. You were named by your mother Estela- Hope- in the Telerin Dialect which comes from the word 'Estel'. You were named in that tongue for a particular reason. Remember, your mother was the only child of Arcalimar, High Prince of the Teleri and heir of Olwë brother of Elu Thingol. You are his heir, just as you were Finwë's."

"My mother left Valinor to go with my father," she whispered.

"And with you," Eönwë said easily. "This was agreed on by Olwë and Arcalimar in case anything should happen and Fëanáro forced you to go. In any case your mother would have gone with you and your father anyway. But only after they did everything they could to try to stop him from taking you- and if it didn't work. Ask your cousin Galadriel if I speak the truth."

Estela was startled. This was against everything she had believed for over an Age. "I thought-"

"That the Teleri disowned you after what had happened in Alqualondë?" Eönwë scoffed. "That they did not want you anymore after what your paternal grandfather did in their Harbour City? No matter what he did and why he did it, the Teleri considered you their princess, did they not? They always did, think back on your own memories, if you do not believe."

Estela remembered their cheers, walking in the diamond-dust sands of the beaches barefoot, hand in hand with her mother, and her mother's father as well as his own father. She remembered choosing which design for which boat would be best- her grandfather declaring she was a prodigy, very much so, a true Teler, whenever she helped in the building and suggested details for the ships.

"That was a long time ago," she said numbly.

She felt Eönwë pull her up gently, his hand a warmth that restored life within her.

"Go to him," he nudged her in the direction of the camp. "The king will need you, perhaps more than anything."

She gave him an incredulous glance- to find that he was gone.

She walked tremblingly back to the camp. And asked to see the High King.

The elves standing guard didn't even blink or hesitate- to her amazement- and parted the flap for her to walk through.

Gil-Galad was sitting on his bed. He looked up (his forehead had rested upon his hands) when he saw her.

There was hope in those blue eyes. Hope and a burning longing.

She had to force herself not to flinch and flee.

In truth she was more terrified of this situation than if she were captured by Morgoth himself.

He stood.

"Well?" he asked. "Have you come to repeat what you've told me before? Or is there another reason for this visit?"

He tried to keep his face cool, but he felt that his feelings may have betrayed him.

"I-" she stumbled upon the words as she had never stumbled in anything else in life.

"I've come to-" she paused and took a deep breath. "Apologise firstly. I truly am sorry for whatever harshness and unkind words I said when we last spoke to each other, not long ago. And…"

She didn't know what to say. What could she say? That a Maia just appeared and spoke to her, telling her to speak to him, about… what? Not to run away?

She was uncertain. She had never done this before.

When she was little in Valinor, it had crossed her mind- very fleetingly- that she would be married someday. But it had been a distant thought and she did not bother to dwell on it as she had other things to occupy herself with.

Then after she left, during the War of Wrath, she had put any thought of a normal future behind. Firstly there was no time, they could never settle down- maybe their followers, but the Fëanorians themselves- they were considered kinslayers. And their lives were considered chaotic and turbulent at best. Considering the unhappy lives they led, and the ending of her own mother, she never thought that anyone could ever look at her with desire.

And not to mention, the idea with marrying into a cursed clan… And there was the fact that neither of her parents ever brought it up- they tried to shield her and kept her safe in every way, but neither did they try to delude her with the idea that she might have an ordinary life someday, with marriage and children.

It was not thought of, not considered.

She didn't even know what to say.

She never felt so inexperienced and childish in her life.

She opened her mouth and readied herself.

"I-" she began while Ereinion unexpectedly stopped her and placed his hand on her mouth.

"Don't," he breathed. His voice sounded raspy and strangely lacked air. "Not another word." His eyes shone and he leaned forwards, moving his hand to pull her closer-

When a soldier's voice sounded outside the tent, making her jump and pull back out of his arm's grasp.

"My king!" someone shouted. An ellon poked his head in.

"News from the shores. For the lady shieldmaiden as well. Ar-Gimilzôr is dead."

"Dead?" she gasped.

"Dead?" he repeated incredulously, his annoyance forced to be placed on hold.

"How?" he demanded.

"Apparently he had a heart-attack. The fleet was forced to dock far from seeing distance of Middle-Earth when he complained about agonising feelings in his chest, then he claimed he couldn't move his right arm and his spine stiffened. He collapsed and started to choke and at the same time, attempted to vomit with no success. They took him to his cabin. He died not long after."

The soldier himself sounded out of breath.

Estela turned her wide eyes to Ereinion.

"We should summon a meeting," the High King managed to say. "Do the others know about this?"

The ellon nodded. "They are making their way back to the meeting tent as we speak. They have just been notified."

Ereinion nodded and, looking at Estela left the tent.

"So he's dead," Ereinion said heavily in the tent.

Celeborn frowned. "Who succeeds him?"

"His eldest, Inziladûn," Estela responded before anyone else. Once again she was her calm, cool, controlled self.

They stared at her.

"How did you know?" Elrond asked slowly.

She gave him a look. "I kept in contact with some of the Faithful in Númenor. Including the queen Inzilbêth. She is your niece after all," she nodded to Eärendur, Lord of the Faithful.

"Which is how you knew to find us," he said slowly. "Inzilbêth must have warned you."

"How?" someone choked.

She shrugged. "We gained each other's trust. She warned and smuggled the Faithful out of Númenor, I received them and made sure they entered safe refuge and sanctuary. Her son did the same." She made a face. "Her eldest son," she corrected.

They all looked at each other.

"Does this mean," Celeborn said slowly.

"I do not believe a radical change to the old ways would be peaceful and advisable for the people of Númenor," she said slowly. "Too much has been done, and these are not the people that we once knew and sailed with Elros Tar- Minyatur." She invoked Elros' regnal name. "They are different. These have never known the Valar's grace, nor did they see the White Tree bloom and bear fruit."

"But you said that Inziladûn-" an elf began.

"Might not be at all antagonistic towards us," Estela said smoothly. "But many others including his brother Gimilkhâd, are the King's Men of his father. It will not be advisable to make radical moves such as sending emissaries to Númenor and making treaties with them. Nor is it safe for any elf or member of the Faithful, to return." She cast a sad glance towards Eärendur who missed his home.

They knew she was right. He would never return.

And she pitied him, because she knew how it felt.

"At least," she said slowly. "We need not be so antagonistic towards then either."

They murmured in agreement. Not long after, Estela left the tent.

She needed to console Inzilbêth and offer her sympathies. There may not have been much love between husband and wife, but they must have loved each other at some point and she had had two sons by him and a grandson. Estela would do the right thing.

"She knew the queen," Oropher said slowly. "And I've noticed things about her which are different from any other elf. But there are similarities with certain elves and that is what burns at me the most. Who is this maiden? She never even gave us her name."

"Her name is Estela," Ælfnoð of the Éothéod replied, looking puzzled.

"Estela," Thranduil breathed and looked at his father.

"Hope." He mused. His lips quirked into a smile. "How fitting."

Estela sighed. He was dead. The King who commanded a nation with such hate, who ruled in strength of will alone, was gone.

And his son, his golden wonderful son, was king in his place.

But his wife Inzilbêth was in mourning. Not so much for a lost love and dead husband- she said goodbye to their love long ago- but for a life wasted.

"I loved him once," she said grey eyes clouding over. "I wept when he wasted his life. But our love turned to ash as love no longer became the most important thing in his world, but hate."

Hate. And fear. Envy as well. What horrible a way to live one's life, and what an ending. His life was truly wasted.

There was no hope for him in the Halls of Mandos. There may be even more hope for her kin than for Inzilbêth's husband.

But at least, she reflected, there was hope for Inziladûn- and for Númenor.

And with that her spirit lifted.

Outside in the wood, something stirred.

"Is it she?" something asked in a guttural, harsh voice in an even harsher tongue.

"Yes, it is she," Another of his kind replied.

The speakers had ash-coloured hides or grey or even sickly green, with a slimy, mucus-like substance coated upon it. They had little hair, and that came out in sharp locks. Their teeth were diseased, infested with numerous deadly organisms which would serve useful if they bit someone. They were stunted and bent sharply with strange bones.

Yes, they were orcs, their eyes glinting with malice and desire to kill. But they also showed fear, they were afraid to take her even with wargs.

They were afraid of the whole family-stories had been told, when they were still learning the ways of evil, of that family and all they were capable of.

Of her father most especially, and his daughter, who had whispers spread of them- of swords that shone and moved like lighting- but even faster, of earth shaking when they danced the death-dance as the orcs called it. Of raging cries that meant the orcs were lost. Of darkness destroyed and disaster and near-extinction for the orcs.

They were nearly lost. It was a miracle they could recover. They wouldn't have if it weren't for him.

The orcs snarled. They knew they could never hope to win against her. But she, their master said, had one weakness and one alone.

Everyone else.

The orc that lead grinned maliciously, and licked his thin, grey lips with his foul and snaking tongue. He was given a plan

Which was lucky as they couldn't come up with one themselves.

Estela opened her eyes. Something was not right.

She was on edge as she would be ready to leave before dawn the next morning.

But still she felt there was something that wanted to prevent her from leaving the way she wanted.

And it was not friendly.

She couldn't sleep.

She got dressed and left the tent.

She hated the darkest nights- it reminded her of Ungoliant's unlight the time she killed her forefather.

There were few stars out and no moon.

She stilled and leaned against a post- before she heard a cry.

She ran as fast as she could to the direction of that noise.

It registered to her that she was going further and further from the campsite than she thought it came from.

It occurred to her that something was indeed, very, very wrong.

And she halted when she came across a clearing.

It was Maltariel- and she was bound together, sitting on a rock. Her cheek had a large gash that bled profusely. Estela felt cold rush over her.

She was gagged though, so where did the noise come from, if not from her. But there was something not quite right about the gag itself- it was not tied properly, like it had hastily been retied.

The reality slammed into her, before Maltariel communicated to her in her mind, before the orcs emerged from their hiding places behind the trees.

It was a trap.

Run, just run! Maltariel's voice screamed into her mind.

Only that she wouldn't leave her.

So when the orcs demanded she throw away her weapons or her friend's throat would be slashed like her cheek, she had no choice- even she could not get to her in time, before Maltariel was killed.

The last thing Estela saw was the nearest orc striking her and black, like Ungoliant's unlight once more.

Maltariel had gone to bed early.

There was a goblet of wine- mulled wine that she drank deeply before going to sleep.

But the last thing she remembered was how funny it tasted- it had an unusual bitter finish to it.

And she knew like all the others they came with, ate food that Estela's followers had prepared. So why did this taste different from what it usually tasted like?

She slept before she could continue that line of thought.

But when she woke, it was to a sharp jab to her rib. She started without even stirring from sleep. The bed beneath her was gone- instead it felt- hard and damp? There was also grass. Her eyes focused on her surroundings.

It was night.

And she tried to move but she couldn't. She realised she was bound. She tried to call for help, but she came to realise that there was something foul-tasting and smelling in her mouth. A rag, used to gag her. She panicked.

An orc came up to her and sneering with a dark glee, loosened the gag. But then he slashed her cheek with a crude stone knife. She cried out in pain and shock.

He quickly tied the gag again, though she kicked out at him. When Estela came running, she knew what it was all about. It was too late.

And now Maltariel was running through the forests, after the orcs, cruelly released her without Estela- the friend since childhood.

Screaming, she charged right into the middle of the camp, before Vorondo caught her.

"What is it?" he asked harshly. Fëapoldon came up behind her. "What's wrong?"

She managed to gasp something out. Cursing and shaking his head, because he could not understand her, Fëapoldon suggested to Vorondo to go inside her mind- but Galadriel Lady of the Light, had beaten him to it.

Images flashed through Maltariel's mind. Images of being kicked and gagged, of the sharp flash of pain across her cheek, of the rough cloth being stuffed harshly into her mouth, and of Estela running across the clearing as they knew she would. Galadriel's face was white when she finished.

"What is it?" the High King had emerged.

Maltariel couldn't even curtsy, white as she was, in shock and terror of what would happen to Estela.

Gil-Galad looked at Galadriel.

"She is gone," Galadriel whispered. "She has been captured."

Lightning-cold, shock and fiery heat at the same time, slammed into Ereinion.

"Who?" he whispered through frozen lips. "Who?" his throat seemed to be filling with ice.

"Estela," Galadriel whispered.

The ice reached his heart. The horror and dread was too incomprehensible to process.

No, no, NO!

The High Elven King gave a cry of shock, agony and horror and fell to his knees.

Really sorry for the unusually long wait- I know you've been waiting to find out what's happening next, but I've decided to move things up a little- I know no one would be able to bear dialogue for too long! But things would be happening and this will soon lead to one thing and another- and oh, yes, we will be seeing more of Celebrimbor after this! As for Estela's names- her mother-name is Estela, if she were Sindarin she would be Estelië or Estelë- but I think that Estela is easier to pronounce. Furthermore Telerin might have been the mother-language of Sindarin, but it still has differences surely. If she were named that in Quenya her name would be Amátirë, but she is also Telerin royalty. Her father-name is Eruvandë and it means"Oath of Eru" in Quenya. In an English version, her name would be Elizabeth- does that spoil the mystical quality a bit? I'm sorry.