The Exile's Daughter

The Beginning of the End

***

The children had barely left Glorfindel's side since he had arrived. Every time he returned from a patrol, sometimes leaving for days on end, he would be surrounded by a gaggle of waist-high admirers. Even Mallor and Raina, who usually pretended, as the eldest, to be above such activities, would edge cautiously closer to ask him a question, or just to watch, fascinated, as he went about his daily business.

He was unique in that he had returned from death to Middle Earth, and that decision, along with his ancient power, made him more imposing than the rest of us put together. The children could barely keep away, but he did not seem to mind. So it was that, when the day had crawled by and we sat, empty plates beside us, on that blustery evening in spring, they sat around him, legs crossed, and blankets wrapped around their shoulders, each taking it in turns to question him. He answered patiently, a slight smile on his lips.

"You're old news now." Legolas muttered to me out of their earshot. I smiled.

"I'm rather glad to hear it. They were so fascinated when we first got together."

"Does your sword glow?" Aranwë said enthusiastically, little hands fiddling with the ends of his cloak in his lap.

"When orcs are near, yes." Glorfindel answered patiently.

"So they just think that elf swords glow all the time?" Voronwë giggled.

Glorfindel paused, neglecting to untangle his hair from Imrathiel's fingers. "I have never thought of that." He half-laughed.

"They think you're overdramatic." Aragorn called, walking past with his sword in his hand.

"Of course, Glorfindel is overdramatic." Legolas whispered into my ear. I laughed, covering my mouth with my hand in an attempt to stifle the noise.

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow at us but, before he could respond, there was a harsh, orcish cry, somehow magnified to ten times its natural volume. Everyone, elves, men, and children, jumped out of their skin. I rose from the grass and looked around me. It felt like it had come from under the very ground on which we lived.

In a step and a sweep, Glorfindel had moved every child behind him. They peeked out from his cloak, wide-eyed and gulping down cries. Almarien rushed over to gather Barahir into her arms and turned to gaze at me. It was becoming harder for her to bend down over her swollen belly.

I stood and drew my swords; even though I had no use for them, they made me look braver than I felt.

Legolas nudged his head to the left to where Aragorn stood, awaiting us. Glorfindel joined us in walking towards him, once he ensured that the children were cared for. Firiel, too, had drawn her blade from her hip, and stood in front of Aranwë, pale but determined. 

"Meeting hut." Aragorn said as soon as we reached him. "Someone wake my brothers."

"No need." Elladan and Elrohir were striding towards us. Elladan squeezed my shoulder, steering me into the hut. "That was enough to wake the dead." 

"Some sorcery is at hand." I muttered. "An ordinary orc does not have a voice so loud." Elladan nodded, squeezing my shoulder again. We looked at each other for a moment, each wondering the same thing. Could the source of the wizardry be this Sharkey , the leader of the men and orcs who had assailed us for so many months? Perhaps he was more powerful than I imagined.

Beriadan rushed over just before the door was closed. Aragorn looked as if he were about to argue but, at the look on his face, he shrugged slightly, allowing him to file past. I sheathed my swords, folding my arms so I would not fidget in my agitation.