Third Age, Enedwaith
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Two distinct sounds pierce through the silent forest. On the distant shore of a flowing river, a Quenyan battle cry can be heard clearly. Ugly mutterings of the four yrch follow.
Then, a sharp scream. The silver-haired elf on the far shore pauses in his attacks, eyes wide in panic. Distracted by the scream, Ithilwe slips and falls to the ground, the bank slippery and wet.
"Naurthalion....?" he whispers.
He recovers from the fall with haste and his blade finds the heart of one of the orcs in swift succession.
His mind is still on the scream, but the yrch do not stop their clumsy attacks, so neither must he. As he faces the final yrch, he takes a deep, calming breath. Though he was no longer outnumbered, the yrch facing him was fearsome and the last fight would require all his strength and focus.
One glance is spared to the painted white hand that the yrch bore, his eyes narrowing.
"You think your fate will not be like the others, you scum? You will fall upon my blade, just as your companions have." Ithilwe speaks calmly.
The two battle it out for countless minutes, both matched in strength, fury flying from both sides.
The Noldor earns an injury to his chest, but his hatred for the being in front of him, distracts him from the pain.
The yrch grins through his sharp, mangled teeth. "Ha! I admire your confidence! But it will be you who meets his doom, elf-scum!"
"There is no doom for me, you piece of filth. Or have you fogotten what I am?" He says, raising his blade again, this time fast enough to injure the yrch in turn.
The spawn of evil screams in pain, spitting dark blood onto the bank. "Your kind is dying, elf-scum! Last of a dead breed! It is the time of the orc now!"
Ithilwe lets out a disgusted snarl. "We shall never die. And even if that was so, I would never leave this world until every one of your bastardly kind is rid of these lands. Tell your companions that I say farewell when you see them."
With one last cry in the language of his kind, the elf takes the hilt of his curved blade into his shaking hands. With every last bit of strength he can muster, the blade is pushed deep into the black heart of the foul creature.
The world is hushed for many long moments, all but for the flowing river the elf stood next to. Chest heaving from pain and overexertion, the Noldor leans down to pick up his dropped weapons.
Suddenly, his eyes widen as he remembers the scream from across the river.
"Naurthalion!" He shouts, abandoning one blade and several arrows on the ground, he scrambles to swim across the river, though his body was aching and his wounds bled freely.
The time seemed to slow down with every movement he took, though his arms were piercing through the water at record speed. After what seemed like hours, but was only a short minute or two, he finally emerged from the cold water.
His eyes move wildly, hoping to catch sight of his husband and whatever event produced the scream and sounds of battle. Though he searches wildly across the western bank, his love is not to be found. There are no signs of anyone. It is too quiet. Where is Amathlan?
He looks about in a panic, eyes blown wide in fear.
There, on the ground, a shattered shield, the one Amathlan so proudly bore.
Then, a small glance of blue.
"No....no...it can not be."
He stumbles back over to the bank, falling to his knees in the mud. One shaking hand reaches out to take the tattered ribbon from the branch it was stuck on. He holds it tight to his chest, taking a shuddering breath. Eyes blurring with tears, the blue blending in with his surroundings.
"Oh Valar. What have they done to you? Where are you?" Is all he can get out
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The elf does not sleep. Nor does he take any time to rest. For weeks he searches.
The land is searched high and low. But there is nothing. No clues, no signs. No sign that Amathlan was ever even there, but for the broken shield and blue ribbon he had found. The blue ribbon is kept safely tied around his wrist, tattered and ripped as it was.
For weeks, the elf searches. For weeks he does not eat, sleep, still wearing the same grimy armour he had bore in battle.
His return to the Dunedain's camp was pained. He only stayed with them long enough to get his injuries cleand up and to give them news of what had happened.
'This is all my fault.' he thinks.
'No! Why would YOU leave me?'
'What could I have done to change things?'
'If you never come back, I will not forgive you.'
'If you have left this earth? I will follow.'
'Why can't I feel you? Where are you?'
'I will do everything to bring you back to me.'
With each passing thought, his fear deepens, an empty feeling left in his heart. But the elf is not equipped to continue his search. He must make a plan. He must return to Bree for supplies.
But the others can not know. They would blame him. It was his fault after all....
'Why does everyone I love leave me?'
As he returns north, the rangers give him wine so his mind can rest. But they do not know. They do not know the mistake they will have made.
The one who arrives in Imladris weeks later is unrecognizable. He is but a shell of an elf. Nothing like one who knew him would expect.
Blurry and faded memories of sitting in the Hall of Fire, drinking and drinking. Drinking until he is numb and passes out. Perhaps he spoke with others? He does not know, nor does he care. No one can understand his pain. So eventually, he stops speaking all together. The only thing that mattered was the wine.The only thing that mattered was finding Amathlan.
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'I have to act normal. They can not know.'
But his friends are perceptive, he must use all of his strength and abilities to fool them. They must not get involved. This is his burden to bear, and his alone.
A mask is slipped into place, his hair brushed, clothes rid of any wrinkles. There is no sign that something is wrong. Everything is as it should be.
"Mae govannen, mellyn. Do you need any help?"
