Prologue: Evãÿñe & Nÿmuę
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A new Queen’s crown is a realm of diamonds,
Beauty and elegance until another King triumphs.
Diamonds turn red when swords and shields collide,
Now a crown of rubies and thrones of poison and briar.
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Death.
Unfortunately, that is how this story starts. This tale's beginning bears no 'hole in the ground', except for the mucky pits dug to bury the dead. There is no warm, inviting hearth or a pantry stocked with food and wine. In fact, this story begins with two starving children.
Death.
That is all that surrounded two little girls. Ripped wings, battered corpses, soiled hearts; an insurmountable battle of blood and poison. It is a world no child should be exposed to and the irrevocable scars would forever hold a dark place in one's heart.
The tiny, traumatised, golden-haired girl–no older than seven summers–huddled close to a woven basket and, tearfully, she peered down into its contents. It was too heavy for the poor, stranded child to carry...but too precious to abandon.
Even the child, disadvantaged with a young and inexperienced mind, knew that much of right and wrong. She was taught the qualities of a good conscience from her parents, who had died the way they lived. It is not in simpleminded naivety that one forsakes such a helpless creature, but in selfishness and heartlessness.
Thus, this little girl of no more than seven summers had nowhere to go. She was alone in a dark woodland with a basket, famished and exhausted, being hunted by something far darker than the shadows.
She sat on the forest floor, eerily quiet and calm, amongst the Autumn foliage, a few minutes before midnight. The pale light of a full moon shone through the canopy of old oaks and streamed a luminescent path she dared not follow.
The moon was particularly beautiful that night; a rare and hailed sight to behold. But our little, lone lass had no intention and felt no inclination to observe it.
One of her small hands encircled the woven-willow handle of the basket. She gazed down tiredly, yet fondly, at the being she refused to leave; her other hand stroked its tiny, pink cheeks.
The babe wasn't crying as typical babies do. In fact, she was silent and sleeping; her chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm, her little heart working hard to maintain itself.
Though the seven-year-old didn't want to believe it, deep down–with her perceptive, hereditary healing instincts on high alert–she realised her new, little sister was very ill.
The girl was too immature, however, to understand what the baby needed – all she could do was love her baby sister and sing lullabies.
'When the monsters came into our home,' Evayne thought shakily, 'the healers gave Mama a medicine that made Nymue come earlier than normal. Maybe...maybe that's why she's sick?'
The observant child assumed correctly.
The baby was diminutive in stature, prematurely born and suffering the consequences of being forced from her mother's safeguarding womb too soon. She was tiny, even for her species, and underdeveloped; small enough to fit into the palms of a Man or Elf's two hands.
But the girls' parents had no choice. The enemy was invading their kingdom in swift, overpowering waves of ever-present night. To fate's ill hand, this darkness was seeping into the free hearts of many.
Those who rebelled and denied subjugation were executed; those who surrendered were given a fate far worse than death. It was more than an invasion, it was extermination.
There was no other option than to induce labour and bring little Nymue into the world ten weeks early. As soon as the baby was born in their homeland, her parents were going to send the children to their Eldar relatives and allies, then vociferously gather their resources and remaining army to battle the invader.
This race did not stand among cowards. They did not yield to a threat, nor the penetration of evil; an infernal needle piercing the armour of good.
However, this particular family of brave souls was lacking one heart as ironclad as the rest and was thus betrayed by their most trusted kin – an envious, malicious traitor.
Her fearsome and unexpected treachery began with the cold-blooded slaughter of two little girls' parents, the traitor's older sister and brother-in-law.
It was the lady-in-waiting, thankfully, that managed to save the children. Before she was captured, Margo transported the girls hundreds of leagues away from the kingdom, sending them deep into a sacred forest. She was dragged away before she could offer anymore assistance to the girls.
The child managed to lug the basket containing her blanketed, newborn sister a few metres further into the woodland. Subsequently, they were huddled in the shelter of an oaken tree, the winds had picked up and the air turned chilly, but the girls remained unaffected by nature.
'Poor Margo,' thought the small seven-year-old with fresh tears in her brown eyes. 'Poor Mama and Papa. Poor Aunty...' Her mind faltered and teeth gritted. 'No! Not poor Aunty.'
She tried to divert her thoughts from the fact that she was a marooned orphan with her neonate sibling – without parents, without a home and without food or water. She did so by looking upon her baby sister and smiling.
"It's alright, Nym," She whispered in her native tongue. Her fingers were warm and so was Nymue's cheek. "Everything's going to be alright. I promise."
The babe remained asleep and unresponsive.
The girl sighed and then yawned, her mind fatigued and limbs aching. She'd never stayed up this late; Mama and Papa would've kissed her goodnight and tucked her into bed hours ago!
"Do you want me to tell a faerytale? Like Papa's?" She asked the oblivious Nymue, trying to keep herself awake and watchful. "Or would you rather a song? One that Mama would've sung?"
Nymue's tiny button-nose crinkled slightly in her sleep, the smallest but most relevant movement, and so her big sister interpreted that as a resolved "no".
"A story then," She agreed. Snuggling up a tad closer to the basket, managing a smile, she took the baby's hand. Nymue's wee fingers tightened around her big sister's forefinger and she felt a rush of sisterly affection. "Once upon a time," She began in a soft, tuneful manner. "There was a King called Yuëri and a Queen called Mãrillyã and they lived in a beautiful kingdom called Elphámè..."
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Shadows lurked closer than they ever had to Greenwood whilst under the protection of the Istari. They bent and twisted into the putrid shapes of evil creatures, those only the soulless summoned. The flora and fauna of Greenwood could sense its strengthening presence; the looming blackness made all feel uneasy, even on this awaited night of great revelries.
It was the night of Moon Harvest: the thirteenth full moon of the year, a rare and mystifying blue moon. On this night, an archangel of nature and growth appears among the trees of Greenwood to celebrate with her age-old creations; the trees, flowers, streams, and woodland animals. By sunrise, she departs Middle-earth until the next blue moon. In Quenya, this night festival was known as Yáviérë, in the month of Yavannië, which fell in late autumn.
Yáviérë is celebrated in honour of one of the fourteen archangels who shaped the world.
This archangel was a servant to Almighty Eru; she was a Vãla; a female member of an ancient, angelic Order that resided in the Land of the Immortals. She was one of the seven Queens of the Valar, the second most powerful woman. Her name was Yàvánna Kementári, a Queen of the Earth, the Giver of Fruits. Radagast the Brown served as her assistant during the days of Middle-earth’s creation and the Awakening of the Elves.
Yàvánna was Radagast’s most beloved mistress and still, occasionally, there are days when he longs for her ethereal, understanding presence. Midnight was Radagast the Brown's favourite time of night, but not tonight – not even on Yáviérë.
Radagast could feel their dark auras among his animal friends; invisible they remained, yet acknowledged all the same. They prowled amidst the wildflowers and dandelions, making them wilt, damaging the purity of life in Greenwood. In crevasses of the soil they snuck, in the hollows of the trees, anywhere Radagast would not think to look. A fearsome shade of terror chilled the air and sobered the rich festivities Radagast had planning for Yáviérë.
“Find the two little ones that fled,” The shadows held the voice of a lullaby; a sweet and innocent maid, but her vile words proved her nature. Violet, sardonic eyes watched from a tower; a crown of rubies gracing her platinum-blonde locks. “And bring me back their bloodied wings.”
The Orcs bade as their mistress commanded, yet there was one that questioned her and all departed the parlour but him. “Why are you so set on finding them tonight?” He rasped in his native tongue. His height towered over the captivating female and yet, in her presence, he felt meagre and powerless.
“It is the eve of Yáviérë, the Vãla Yàvánna arrives on this night,” She replied coolly, her talent for the language of demons proved resourceful. “I desire to send a...message to the Eldar. No one can threaten my reign; not the Elves, not the Wizards, not even angels can take my throne.” With a sadistic smile gracing her features, she inspected her glistening crown in a gilded mirror opposite her. In its reflection, there stood a ravishing queen with golden hair, porcelain skin, blood-red lips and violet eyes. “Men say the diamonds of queen’s crown turn to rubies once a great war is won, for the blood of one’s enemy stains even the royal jewels. I bear the crown of rubies now, this war is won.”
“This war has just begun.”
She turned to the Orc with a broad smile that made even the most heartless beings fragile. “Indeed,” she agreed. “But, for now, I celebrate my triumph over my dead sister and her kingdom of weaklings. I have strengthened our people into something so...beautiful and alluring.”
“The spell will keep? You are to stay among my legion?”
“Are you fearful of losing an army, my love, or losing a queen?” Her eyes glistened flirtatiously.
“I fear nothing,” was his gruff, irate response.
“You fear something,” She countered and sauntered towards him, her hips were swaying and golden hair billowing. “But you will have nothing to fear, Azog the Defiler, once you defeat the Line of Durin. You will kill Thrain, you will kill Thror and you will kill Thorin.”
“I will wreak havoc upon the dwarf-scum.” He mustered what should have been a smile, but was instead a glower. Her smile, however, was bright and beautiful enough for both of them. Azog then dropped to one knee, allowing her to caress his scarred cheek. He was the most squalid creature she had ever beheld, yet the blackness of their souls bound them tight.
“Yes, you will. And when Sauron returns, we will wreak havoc upon the world.”
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Author’s Note: I hope whoever’s reading this enjoyed the prologue. It took me a while to get around to it, but here it is! I've done a lot of research for this story, so I hope it feels like an authetnic novel. :)
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Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or storylines that belong to JRR Tolkien.
Except my own characters:
Evayne II
Princess Nymue
Evayne I
Queen Mãrillyã
King Yuëri
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Istari: the Order of the Fire Wizards
Quenya: one of the languages spoken by the Elves
Eldar: another word for Elves
Almighty Eru: Middle-earth’s form of God
Yàvánna Kementári: the goddess/archangel of nature, growth and harvest
Valar: the Order of Archangels (consists of fifteen)
Yavannië: a late month in autumn; the Quenya form of March