White haze surrounded me and it cleared until I could make out faint images. Waxen faces, framed with contrasting dark hair. I reached out to touch a cold cheek and a tear slid down my own, head hanging low. They were all gone, all lost. The Quest has failed; blood-red sky glares at my lone figure, reflecting the colour of the stained ground. All I knew and cherished is destroyed. I am left alone to face the violence. A hopeless cry escaped my pale lips and I fell, broken heart taking control over weak limbs. I was shaking and a muffled voice called out. I disregarded it for all allies were dying or had already left. The calling increased in volume until it echoed in my head. Tears escaped my eyes as I lifted my heavy eyelids to face my doom. I recoiled to find, instead of a minion of the Dark Lord, Aragorn. I was being clutched tightly at my shoulders and the rocking ceased. “Faith?” I gave a relieved sigh and fell forward. The end has not approached. Not yet.

*

I was pestered continually with questions but waved them off, blaming the poisoned wound. I suppose that I fooled the dwarf, as he seemed to know little of the ways of elves, and I half-convinced Aragorn, but the one that I had known for over an Age was not deceived. I disregarded this and focused ahead. The trail left by the orcs was one clear to follow, I could easily trace it out; yet I left all direction to Aragorn. He was, after all, a Ranger, trained in the ways of the wild and was our guide. I would run, but my mind would be in a trance, considering the oddest notions. I avoided sleep at all cost, for then I had no control over my words…or nightmares. I would keep watch, and when forced to abandon duty, I would lie awake, sharp eyes looking out for movement of any sort. I would only talk when necessary and would dwell in my own thoughts, mainly terrifying and depressing, the same theme since the fall at the fords. In my head I can still picture the events, unwillingly imaging the pain and panic my sister would have faced. I wish to consider other things but ones of torture torment me against my will. I was trapped, as the two young hobbits were, surrounded by enemies. Yet, unlike the Halflings, my enemy was self-created. I was my own worst foe.

*

Lack of rest eventually took its toll on me and sleepily my tasks were done. I drifted off to sleep in the silent night, awakening to my own alarmed shrieks and evilly possessed dreams. I glance over to the dying fire and see sharp elven eyes respond to my clouded own. “Pois…” “It is not poison, Faith. Admit it. You live in your own world, allowing others only to witness your fear of something that is not spoken of. You have cleverly tricked Gimli, and perhaps Aragorn, yet you shall never to so to me. I have known you for too long.” I avoided his eyes, ignoring his face, “You know not of what you speak, Prince!” I spoke in a harsh tone, sarcastically accenting my last word. Prince. I rolled over and stared into a tree, making my breathing shallow. Yet in truth I was not resting, nor sleeping. The arrow that Legolas aimed hit me straight, true and fatal. Directly through my chest, piercing my faint heart. And I felt the crimson blood seep through my pale fingers.

*

I eyed the strangers with intense suspicious from underneath my elvish hood and was quite relieved when they passed, regarding us as no concern, ignoring us. “What news of the North, Riders of Rohan?” I glared at Aragorn. I could not believe that he readily put our lives at risk! At least the others’ lives at risk. I cared not for my own. But I had no time to concern myself over such. The horsemen surrounded us with rapid speed and I looked nervously at the spears that prevented our escape. I fingered the hilt of my sword and waited for Aragorn to take us out of the trap that he had set. “Who are you and what are you doing in this land?” the leader spoke similar to the Lord Boromir. Aragorn moved not and spoke clearly, “I am called Strider. I came out of the North. I am hunting orcs.” The rider dismounted and studied us thoroughly yet his eyes did not pierce the cloak that covered my face and allowed only the gleam of my eyes to escape. “At first I thought that you yourselves were Orcs. But now I see that it is not so. Indeed you know little of Orcs, if you go hunting them in this fashion. They were swift and well-armed, and they were many. You would have changed from hunters to prey, if ever you had overtaken them. But there is something strange about you, Strider. That is no name for a Man that you give. And strange too is your raiment. Have you sprung out of the grass? How did you escape our sight? Are you elvish folk?” I narrowed my eyes at the way he said ‘elvish’. “No. Only two of us are elves. One is Legolas from the Woodland realm in distant Mirkwood and the other,” “shall remain anonymous,” I cut in, each syllable spoken as a blade, hitting the strangers as knives.

Aragorn shrugged, “But we passed through Lothlorien and the gifts and favour of the Lady go with us.” The leader’s eyes turned to ice, but held some form of curiosity. “Then there is a Lady in the Golden Wood, as old tales tell! Few escape her nets, they say. These are strange days! But if you have her favour, then you also are net-weavers and sorcerers, maybe. Why do you not speak, elves and dwarf?” I clenched my blade and strode towards the man. “What be your name, horse-master? Tell me, for I wish to address you properly. Though you do not deserve such.” “You should introduce yourself first, anonymous one, yet I am Eomer son of Eomund, and am called the Third Marshal of Riddermark.” “Greetings son of Eomund, let I, the anonymous one, warn you against your ill-thought out words. You speak of the unknown and judge it harshly, yet I excuse you, naïve and stupid as you are, matching your words perfectly.” My eyes challenged the lord underneath my cloak and the others advanced, muttering anger. “I would slit your throat, Anonymous one, but I prevent myself from doing so with the sole belief that you are a sorcerer yourself and would curse my house until the end of its days.” I growled, “I have already cursed it. But I have not those powers, fortunately, and neither does the Lady of the Wood. You know not of what you speak.” His eyes gleamed and he took one step closer. I met his furious gaze evenly and he drew his sword. Legolas leapt beside me and drew an arrow, “Halt in your actions, sir, or you shall meet your death before your blow lands.” Lord Eomer raised his weapon and I met it, blocking it evenly. “Faith! HALT!” I ignored Aragorn’s words and continued to attack the Marshall, yet he backed off slightly when my name was mentioned. “I will not stand for my own kin being lowered to mere magicians or weavers of tricks!” I spoke, glaring at the Lord before my wrist was grabbed and I was forced to drop my sword.

“ESTEL!” I was fuming and faced my foster brother with rage. After several moments, he dropped his clasp and I sheathed my weapon. I gently rubbed my aching arms before meeting the Lord’s gaze once more, silently. “Eomer! Before you attack again, I pray that you shall listen to our tale and perhaps you shall understand, somewhat, the anger of one of my companions,” Aragorn spoke wisely but my steel eyes did not leave the Lord’s face. “Faith! Show yourself!” I rolled my eyes before tossing back my hood, “I am Faith, daughter of Elrond of the Elven City, Rivendell. I am also the daughter’s daughter of Celeborn and Galadriel, the Lady of the Golden Wood whom you just severally insulted.” The Lord bowed, “I beg your pardon, Lady Faith of Rivendell for my rash words. I withdraw my judgement.” “You withdraw the words physically but not mentally, Lord,” I shot back. “You misunderstand me, Lady of Rivendell. Yet I admire your courage, in defending your house.” “Pray let me reassure you, Lord, that that emotion is entirely one-sided and is not mutual,” I glared at him still, with stone grey eyes. He shook off my comment, never taking his eyes from my face. I gave him one last disgusted glance before sitting firmly, staring at the ground, ignoring all weapons drawn near me. I was never as furious as I was now before. Wait… yes I was. The Lord Boromir’s comment at the Council of Elrond angered me in much the same way as this…idiot. All men of the South were the same – pathetic.