Disclaimer: I am not Tolkien, and will never be. Arda and everything in it belongs to him.

Thanks to Klose and Kazaera for the beta. What should I do without you?

The Messenger

She saw the messenger arrive on an exhausted horse when evening fell, obviously he longed to deliver the message he was carrying as fast as possible. Before the borders of the settlement, her guards spied him, came from hiding and led him into the town.

His glances around were fleeting, but he took in everything. The finely crafted, swan-shaped ships, the houses and narrow streets and the people who watched him, survivors from Doriath and Gondolin, some few with open disgust on their fair faces.

The guards led him on, towards the centre of town where he would see a white house with a slender tower. The tower where she waited and watched, filled with nervousness for a reason she knew not. Maybe it was the wind that came through the open window, whispering words of warning to her ears.

She could hear their steps once they had crossed the yard and vanished from her sight into the house.

She knew how the great hall would seem to the messenger: The high white walls would glow eerily in the dusky twilight, the air would be cool and silent. The only sounds would be their breaths, and their steps, which she heard stop at the foot of the staircase leading up to her. They would not dare go further. They knew she had noticed them.

Outside the waves were roaring, storm clouds were gathering and the wind was turning. North, South, East and West. It was still whispering, of the remaining four.

They would come, they would come on the wings of the storm, and she would once again, like in the moment they had invaded her former home, be a fragile bird, unable to withstand their power.

It had been seven of them, then. Now there were only four left. But they would come. The messenger would report their coming, she knew it.

Slowly she rose from her seat and descended down the staircase, until she stood before those who waited for her.

Her guards bowed, their faces earnest. Murmured words of greeting from their lips reached her ears. The messenger was silent, he did not bow. But he was as nervous as her, and his fleeting glances would meet her eyes more than once. It were but moments, yet time stood still for her. Every second for her was an eternity, a lifetime, long enough to

show her the past she had lived through, long enough to make her remember him, the messenger who now stood in front of her, watching, waiting.

She knew how he saw her now.

Tall and proud, radiant and cold, majestic in her robes of deepest blue, with pale skin and dark hair and eyes hard and afire with the light of the jewel in her carcanet.

He did not see the sadness, the fear and the longing deep inside her, that she had kept hidden deep inside her soul ever since Doriath had fallen a second time. Then she had been but a young maiden, fearful and afraid of him, of this very elf, who with bloodstained sword in hand threw her a disdainful glance, finding her unworthy to be killed.

He remembered her, but he also knew she was not the maiden anymore.

His eyes darted to the doors for a moment, of dark wood inlaid with silver and then back to her carcanet, to her face, to her eyes. He knew her, too. He remembered.

She almost smiled in satisfaction, when tiny droplets of sweat appeared upon his brow.

Oh yes, he knew her, he remembered her. And maybe this was what influenced his words.

"My Lady, I am sorry. I did not wish to deliver this message."

"And, pray tell, what would this message be? It can not be good news, since you seem to be so reluctant to tell."

He opened his mouth to speak, but with the wave of one slender hand she silenced the unsaid words.

"No, tell me not. I already know who sent you and what your purpose is. Simply tell me how much time we have left to prepare for the assault."

His eyes widened in shocked surprise. His voice quavered.

"Forty-eight hours, unless you chose to return the jewel to its rightful owners. Please."

She raised one eyebrow and looked at him questioningly, waiting for him to go on.

He bent his head in shame.

"My Lords will not give up on their quest. They are bound by their Oath and so they will attack."

Outside, the wind roared, louder than before. Rain began to fall. Lightning lit the sky, when she answered.

"Go then, return to your Lords, and tell them I will not submit to their will.

I let you go, for you did the same once. A life for a life."

Her voice was cold as ice.

"My Lady, you do not understand. I have changed in the long years since the last attack. I am weary of these lands and wish not to fight. Yet if I must, it will be for you, if you allow. Maybe on this way I will gain forgiveness from the Valar, for helping the innocent. And I can not justify that my Lords will slay their kin again; but they will, because it is easier to slay elves than the monsters who guard the gates to the Iron-Hell. Here there are but the lives of your kin to defend you, and they are easily defeated."

"No matter on which side you fight, you will spill blood. Would you slay one of your Lords to protect me? One of your friends?"

He nodded.

"Kinslayer. I am sure this is not what the Valar would want. Too many lives have been lost because of the Oath of Fëanor. Go and return to those who are of your mind. I for myself will not fight, though I allow it to any who wish to defend their lives."

She nodded to her guards, their faces stone, her eyes fiery.

"Give him his horse and let him go. Then go and spread the word. My people shall prepare."

* * *

In the night, the wind calmed down. The sea was calm, but the clouds were still there.

She awoke to the far-off sound of thunder and hurried to the chamber of her sons, both sleeping quietly with content looks on their faces. She stood in the room, ghostlike in the dark and seemingly fragile in her beauty, her eyes loving and soft and sorrowful. 

They were both sleeping. The thunder had not woken them, it had not disturbed their sleep.

She turned and left the room. At the foot of the staircase she stopped, and listened to the voice of the messenger that still seemed to linger in the air, filling it with fear.

Forty-eight hours. He had lied.

The thunder in the distance, it had been them.

They would attack sooner than expected. The storm would break.

She ran up the stairs, until she had reached the room where she had waited before the messenger had arrived. A shaking hand drew back the curtain hiding the western window that looked out wide over the empty sea, a path of moonlight shining on the waves. He was not coming, her own messenger.

She would have to come to him, and if this meant to die, so she would. She was not afraid to face death, she was only afraid to meet it by their hands, for she had said she would not fight – and to this she would hold.

But her sons, her sweet children could not be harmed.

The thunder had not roused them, so the remaining four would do them no harm… so she hoped, but she could not be certain. She could be wrong, and they were too young to die.

Her husband could not come to take his sons away from the danger so she had to do so herself.

This time, she tried not to be silent. With a candle in the hand, she roused her two young boys, made them dress and hastily gave both of them  bundles with bread and water that she had gathered from the kitchens. Their young eyes wide with wonder they watched their mother´s strange behaviour, but did as they were bid.

She opened one of the windows and in the gust of wind that came in, the curtains moved around her like the wings of a white bird.

"Listen to me. You must go. Run, and hide somewhere where no one may find you. Do not stop for anything, and do not tell a soul where your way will lead you. Strangers will come, do not trust them. Only come back when you have nothing more to eat and drink, and even then, be very careful. I do not want that anything happens to you. Do you understand me?"

The two young ones nodded, and after a last embrace, she ushered them to climb out of the low window. Elrond held his arms up to catch his sibling, and hand in hand they ran away, leaving small footprints, barely visible, in the moist sand.

She did not look where they were going once, out of fear she would call them back against any reason, and closed the window again.

Minutes alter she had climbed the stairs once more, and with her hands still shaking, she opened a box of silver. She had to close her eyes for a moment, when the sheen of the jewel threatened to blind her.

She put the necklace around her slender throat and sat down, waiting, in the knowledge that she would not grant them victory, that she would not die by their hands, and that her sons were safe.

She sat and waited for the storm to rise, for the thunder and the winds that would reach for her, her eyes afire once more.