FIRE AND FATE¹ ━ legolas greenleaf

𝐓𝐖𝐎, a place of nightmares

THE FORTRESS OF Amon Sûl is a place of nightmares. That's not to say she had ever dreamed of it; Raelyn is sure she would remember a dream of such a place. But still, she can't shake the strange feeling that she has been here before. 

Unease settles over their merry band as they trudge up the hill — even the hobbits, who have not stopped talking since they left Bree, fall silent. All Raelyn can hear is the crunch of grass on their footsteps, the mud shifting beneath their feet. That's not what worries her. 

She can feel the Nine. She knows not where, for it is as if they are surrounded, darkness forming in every direction. Everywhere she turns, there lies another nightmare; a withered, blackened face, half burnt and half rotten, eyes as dark as night staring into her soul. 

They reach the top of the hill, and Raelyn stops for a moment to survey it; a habit, but a useful one. It does not seem particularly threatening, at least, not for the weathered, ancient rocks that have begun to tear away. But deep within the long-ago sown roots and foundations, a darkness lies. Once, the ancient men of old ruled here, resisting the pull of Rhudaur and Angmar, far enough to the east to be rebelled against, but close enough to be a threat. Until one fateful battle, when the fortress fell, and darkness reigned. 

"This was the great watchtower of Amon Sûl," Aragorn says lowly, his voice echoing through the ruins. "We shall rest here tonight."

Raelyn surveys the ground beneath them skeptically, certain she can see dark shadows moving closely to the tower. "We should not stay here — oh." Turning, she realises that the hobbits have already collapsed onto the ground, their bodies exhausted. 

"We have no choice," Aragorn gestures to the hobbits with a wave of his hand, and Raelyn allows her eyes to narrow. "They cannot go on much longer."

"Anywhere but here," Raelyn whispers, acutely aware that the hobbits already seem to be in a permanent state of shock. "Something is wrong." Aragorn says nothing, and she concedes a little. "Let's look around, at least."

Aragorn nods, pointing at a pile of swords he has dropped beside Sam. "We're going to take a look around. Keep them close. Stay here," he tells them. 

She rolls her eyes. "Because there's so many places to go."

He doesn't speak. He doesn't have to — he can silence her with only a raised eyebrow. 

They split up; they can cover more ground that way, and Raelyn finds herself fiddling with the locket around her neck. She stops for a moment, pulling it off — she's not sure why, she just wants to look at it. 

Star-forged, argentate metal that is so ornate, Raelyn almost believes it was made by the elves. When she touches it, she feels every tremble, as if contained inside is an earthquake, waiting to be released. If the moon was out tonight, she knows the familiar writing engraved along the back would be visible; only discernible in moonlight, the calligraphic words that she has never been able to translate. Perhaps she will never know what it means. 

And concealed within the locket is Raelyn's greatest treasure, a worn, half faded picture of a woman; red hair, withered lips and a tired expression on her face. No slip of ink and paper would ever be able to capture the pure ferocity, the fierce fire with which Tasha Whitelaw lived her life. Raelyn has never been prouder of her mother, but she can't help but wonder where her mother found the locket Raelyn now treasures so dearly. It is too expensive for their life in that village, but Tasha was no thief. 

Not like Raelyn. 

She tucks the locket away and continues her march, until she is halfway down the hill, when her foot hits something hard. Fear runs through her veins as she draws her sword, her palm clammy and uncomfortable.