Part One: http://laurelinarchives.org/node/14915
Part Two: http://laurelinarchives.org/node/14916
Part Three
Fimbrethiel leaned back on her heels to rest for a moment and looked up at the overcast sky. It was warm for this time of autumn despite the clouds obscuring the sun, but the mallow had become sparse. Eyeing the bundle beside her, she decided further searching would not be worth the few extra plants she might find. Mother would have to be satisfied with this last harvest of the season.
As she stood and brushed the dirt from her wrinkled linen dress, she caught a whiff of smoke. Frowning, she scanned the sky for signs of smoke. Marsh fires were common at this time of year and could easily overtake a person on foot. The breeze shifted and she saw tendrils of smoke, almost invisible against the grey sky, rising from the horizon to the south--rising from the Havens.
She grabbed the bundle of plants and sped off down the twisting path through reeds almost double her height. It could be a simple fire, but...what if it were orcs? Refugees had continued to arrive in their city, fleeing the ruin of the northlands and the power of the Enemy's forces, but there had never been any incursion of orcs here in her lifetime. With these grim thoughts, she pushed herself even faster, dark hair streaming behind her in the wind of her passage. As she neared the town, the bitter smell of smoke grew ever stronger.
Finally breaking free of the reed forest, Fimbrethiel stumbled to a halt. Columns of smoke rose from countless buildings, especially those on the north edge of town, where the recent construction for refugees consisted mainly of wood. Through the haze, she could see many folk running in panic, but none of them seemed to fit the description of orcs that she had gleaned from stories and songs. She ran into the streets towards her home, hoping to find her parents safe, hoping they would be able to make sense of the scene before her.
She rounded a corner and was greeted by the clash of metal on metal. A commotion was barely visible through the thickening smoke pouring from the windows of several houses on the left. As the faces resolved, she froze in place and the bundle of mallow fell from her arms, forgotten.
There could be no mistake--Eldar were fighting Eldar, fiercely, furiously, viciously. Her mind reeled, unable to grasp the horror of the situation as one elf fell, then another. Blood pooled dark on the white stone, and still she stood uncomprehending as one side gained mastery over the other. The small group of victors advanced down the street towards her, swords still dripping red, but she could not tell if they were friend or foe.
Suddenly, a large man crashed into her from the right, grabbing her arm and yanking her sideways between two burning houses. He held her arm in an iron grip, pulling her through the smoke as she coughed and stumbled off balance. When they reached the next street and the clearer air, he whirled around to face her with sword drawn.
"What were you doing, just standing there? They would have killed you for certain!"
Fimbrethiel blinked as she looked up into Túrhavel's soot and blood stained face, her eyes glassy and dazed. She was having trouble forming coherent thoughts, but his fierce expression softened as he watched her struggle.
"What is happening? What's going on? I...I have to find Atto and Naneth...." She looked around wildly, trying to get her bearings, and the young man grabbed her by the shoulder.
"Look at me, Fim. I said look at me, damn you!" She tore her eyes away from the carnage and focused on him.
"I don't know who they are, but they're here for that damn jewel. They demand to know the whereabouts of the Lady Elwing and the Silmaril, and slay those who do not or will not answer." A leather tie held his honey colored hair out of his face, but several tendrils had escaped to hang wildly over his eyes. Strangely mesmerized by those wayward locks, she took several deep breaths to steady herself and collect her thoughts.
"It must be the sons of Fëanor. They did the same thing to my mother's land when Dior kept the Nauglamír. I have to find my family. I cannot go anywhere without them. But...how do we escape?"
Túrhavel scanned both ways, but all seemed quiet on the street for the moment. "We will find your parents and my father and then head to the docks. If there are any ships still there, we can escape on one of them. Follow me, and try to be quiet!"
They moved through the dense haze as quickly as they dared, several times detouring around a knot of battling forms. Fimbrethiel's horror only grew as they passed more and more bodies in the streets. She saw many Edain mixed in with those of her own people; among them were the small forms of children of both kindred.
Reeling from the senseless brutality, she barely noticed that they approached the small home she shared with her parents until it was before her. It was untouched by fire, and she ran heedlessly inside before her friend could stop her. It took mere moments to ascertain that the house was empty. At a loss, she looked to Túrhavel with an unspoken question in her eyes.
"There is no sign of fighting. Perhaps they are already at the docks waiting for you. But we have to find my father before I take you to them."
Nodding numbly, she followed him out the back door and through the herb garden her mother tended. They crossed several streets this way to avoid the fighting they could still hear all around them. As they approached Dírhavel's house, the smoke grew thicker. They burst through a hedge into a scene of chaos as a company of Edain struggled with the invaders. It was hard to be certain through the haze, but it seemed to Fimbrethiel that the Eldar had gained the upper hand. The Edain were falling back down the street step by grudging step. Across the street, her friend's house was ablaze, flames licking out of every window.
With the combatants almost out of sight, the pair slipped quietly through the haze. Then Túrhavel gave a great cry, heedless of all else. On the very doorstep of their home, Dírhavel's body lay still in a pool of blood. Falling to his knees, the man gathered up his father and called his name, tears streaking the soot on his face. He rocked back and forth, clutching the still form to his chest with great, wracking sobs.
In the face of his overwhelming grief, Fimbrethiel could think of nothing to say or do. She knelt beside him and put her arm around his shoulders, but kept her gaze fixed on the street for any sign of danger. Her arm tightened as she saw a form moving their way and she whispered urgently in his ear.
"Someone is coming. We have to go. Please, we have to move."
He stared at his father's face for a moment, collecting himself. When he looked up at her, she pulled away instinctively. His face was taut with a grief so raw and a rage so fierce it was palpable. They both rose, and he turned to the armored elf who had reached the front of the house. The Elda stared contemptuously at the young pair facing him and casually tightened his leather gauntlets with a sneer.
Túrhavel stepped forward in front of Fimbrethiel and shoved her in the opposite direction. "Go on, Fim. Get to the docks." With that he turned, sword raised, to meet his opponent.
She stumbled several steps down the street, responding to the command before she could stop herself. But her heart rose up in protest at the thought of leaving her friend to face his foe alone. When she turned back, the ring of blade on blade had already begun.
Even her untrained eyes could see that her friend was outmatched, yet he channeled his rage and grief into his blows. The Elda fought for allegiance to a lord; Túrhavel fought for love of his father and thus he held his own--for a time. But as the fight wore on, that fury also drained his strength. His blocks came later, his broad shoulders slumped with weariness, and the elf scored several small cuts. Finally, the soldier's sword slipped past his defenses and pierced his left side. With a groan he fell to one knee.
Her heart in her throat, Fimbrethiel did the only thing she could think of --she threw herself directly at the soldier, her weight carrying them both to the ground. The impact jarred his sword free of his hand, so he struck her across the face. She fell to the side, seeing stars, and he rolled over to scramble to his feet. As she rose to her hands and knees, he leaned down and grabbed her by the hair. She squealed in pain and struggled to rise, gripping his hand with her own as he pulled her backwards.
She managed to get her feet underneath her and abruptly twisted around in his grasp. As his right hand lost its grip, he brought the left around to grab her by the throat. Instead of fending it off, she pulled it to her mouth and bit down as hard as she could through the leather gauntlet. Roaring with pain, he backhanded her once on the temple, then twice, finally dislodging her and knocking her to the ground. She lay still for a moment, fighting off dizziness and sudden nausea.
Through a haze of smoke and pain, she could see her own death in the soldier's eyes as he bent to retrieve his sword. Suddenly, Túrhavel's blade erupted from his chest. With a look of amazement, the elf stumbled then seemed to fall to the ground in slow motion.
Túrhavel, clutching his side, half fell to his knees beside her. Raising her head produced waves of pain and nausea, so she wisely kept still for the moment. When he pulled his hand away from his wound, she grimaced at the blood staining his hand and side. Her mother might know how serious it was and how to treat it, but Fimbrethiel had never been a very good student.
They froze in place as they heard the sound of many marching footsteps and voices speaking Quenya. In no shape to run, with nowhere to hide, they simply waited as a company of Eldar marched through the smoke towards them, led by the tallest Elda she had ever seen. The flame-haired lord glanced uncaringly at Fimbrethiel as he strode past, and his beauty took her breath away even as his eyes chilled her to the bone. Then he was gone, heading deeper into the city. None of the company spared her and her friend even a single backward glance. She released the breath she had been holding.
"Are you okay? Do you think anything is broken?"
She raised a hand and gingerly touched the side of her face, now sticky with blood. She searched Tuhavel's eyes, but that terrifying rage appeared to have spent itself for the time being. Instead, she saw only a bleak and weary sorrow that mirrored her own.
"I...I will be alright. But we have to get out of here before any more come." Túrhavel pushed himself to his feet and offered her a hand up. With head pounding, she slowly followed suit. Bruised and bloodied, supporting each other, they stumbled through the streets together in search of escape.
