Nimraph

Walking down the dilapidated, ransacked streets of Millshaw, a couple held hands as they conversed in the night. Both hooded and cloaked, Nimraph and Eira walked through the small town. Passing some sprawled out scrap wood from the orc raids, Eira tried to distract herself from the destruction by asking, "How did a cookbook wind up in your library?"

She spoke in a light, amused tone. Deep down, however, she did not like the idea of going to that library.

The corpse of a Black Numenorean lieutenant laid at her feet. Blood puddled around her, on the cold steel floor of the infirmary. Walking in for a regular inspection, she had overheard one guard speaking in disgust over her half-Nurnhoth heritage. That simply could not stand. She did not let it stand. She grinned, fire in her eyes as she looked upon to the other soldiers in the room.

Eira placed her third finished shepherd's pie on the counter. She pulled her oven mit off, reaching up and wiping her forehead. Cooking during the blazing heat of summer was certainly not a good idea. Yet, she had pushed through and made three delicious meals for the workers of Millshaw. Not only had she made three shepherd's pies for everyone, but she also baked her blueberry muffins, which were starting to gain infamy for their deliciousness.

Eira's mother was alive.

Eira's mother was here.

Eira's mother loved her.

Eira's mother was happy that she had abandoned Mordor.

Eira awoke from her sleep in Nimraph's arms. Adjusting herself a bit, cuddling closer to him, Eira looked back on her emotionally charged yesterday. She had opened up to Egfor and his mother, Gwawrr, about some of the painful parts of her life in Gorgoroth. Then when they returned to Demlemoth's Estate, she was startled by the sudden appearance of her mother.

Entering the estate, Eira trudged in with a thick coat of sweat hanging on her frame, further worsened by the loose and comfortable, yet heavy and hot robe she wore. She sighed, scuffing her shoes as she walked through the building, a feeling of idleness and loneliness marinating inside.

One month before the drought...

Eira was in the kitchen cooking. The aroma of fresh bread baking and the scents of sweet refreshing berries wafted from the kitchen. Noise flooded the room as Nimraph jogged up the stairs after Dammon. The boy darted towards Eira and giggled. Poor Nimraph tripped, his arms windmilling before he faceplanted onto the ground.

Eira hastily thrust her bowl on the counter and darted towards Nimraph, "Nim! Nim!"

She saw fields of tall, golden wheat. The sun beat down, too much. It grew larger, angrier, and a roaring fire engulfed the feilds in a flash.

She saw white flowers, stained in blood. Puddles of water turned a burning orange, and flames overtook the flowers.

She saw herself, looking up, as legions of fishing hooks flew for her, tips glistening. Then, flames overtook again.

Madaurbeth,

Hobbits… Hobbits are such curious things.

Relief flooded Eira as Nimraph charged in. She stepped back, chosing to be defense while Nimraph attacked. She shouted, "Get lost! My husband won't show the same mercy I have!" 

One of the men hestated, taking a step back. The other let out a battle cry and charged Nimraph. Eira backed into the wagon, aware of Dammon crying. Meanwhile, the second robber had turned and fled.

Eira rode in the wagon, holding a sleeping Briar as Dammon tried to doodle despite the bumpy path. Eira was half asleep herself, looking out into the dead wilds. The grasses were brown, the river was almost dried up. Sadness flooded her chest as she blinked slowly. The group approached the bridge. Nimraph frowned looking around at the landscape. He emitted a soft sigh, "I do think we made the right choice..."

"It's so sad..." Eira frowned, "I know we made the right choice, but I'm scared for everyone we're leaving behind."