Darkest Nights | Love of Royals: Book II

XX: Fire Moon

Ílren's POV

It was like any other hunt. Any hunt of the time, of course—when Lord Elrond would let his twin sons accompany myself and the Chieftain of the Dúnedain, Arathorn, on our hunt.   The sons, Elladan and Elrohir, were my friends, and the first who would share more than just a couple of centuries of life with me.  Both of them used to joke with me about my relatively short, Dúnedain-style hair—and still do.

Arathorn was my friend, too.  But it was foreseen that he was to have an early death.  None of us who knew him really accepted it until it actually happened, one day in the late autumn, only twenty-two years ago. 

We only knew the orcs were upon us when a rain of arrows soared through the otherwise tranquil forest.  They all missed their marks... save one.  My horse rearing in fright, I turned around to find Arathorn toppling from his mount, an arrow protruding from his eye socket.

There was a sickening crunch as he hit the ground, blood spurting from the wound, splattering my face and clothes as I leapt off to help him.  But an orc had appeared right behind me, so I whirled, drew my sword, and plunged it into its flesh in the nick of time.

I immediately rushed back to Arathorn's side, nausea rolling in my stomach at the sight of the blood—oh, Valar, the blood.  There was so much of it, leaking down the Chieftain's stubbled face and staining the grass.  What should I do—what should I do—

There was only one option.

The arrow had pierced so deep, he'd lost so much blood... he was dying.  Arathorn thrashed as I laid my blood-crusted hands on his shoulders, his wound still gushing relentlessly over the mangled flesh of where his eye once was.  I held steadily with one hand, while the other reached for his sword and laid it over his chest as it rose and fell in sharp, raggedy breaths.  I then placed his other hand on the sword's hilt, and it was as though that calmed him.  Calmed him into slowing his breathing, while Elladan and Elrohir both fought to keep the orcs from reaching us.

'Go,' I whispered, my voice cracking, 'may your soul find its way to your forefathers.'

'Look... after... my son,' Arathorn murmured with his last breath.  I nodded, tears beginning to cloud my vision.  One last promise to a dying Chieftain who knew what his son had to become. 

Then his chest went still.

Fast forward.  Fast forward two days, to a horse trotting steadily beneath me along the wide dirt track, as the horse to my right, bearing Arathorn's wife and son, did the same.  Gilraen still possessed the green eyes of Meiryn's line, which she got from her mother, Ivorwen, but her little son Aragorn inherited the grey-blue eyes of his father—the eyes of the Chieftains of the Dúnedain.

'Gilraen? Where are we going?' I asked, careful not to wake sleeping Aragorn in her lap.

'Rivendell, Ílren.'

'Why must I go with you?' I persisted.

Gilraen cleared her throat. 'It has long been the will of Lord Elrond for you to join him permanently in Rivendell. You are a friend of his sons, are you not?'

'I am, but Rivendell isn't my home. I wish to stay in the wild, with all of you.'

'I'm not going to be in the wild,' she answered, 'I'm going to Rivendell with my son, where he can be safe. We agreed now would be the best time to—'

'We?' I interrupted, my grip tightening on the reins, 'how long have you and Lord Elrond been planning this? Did Arathorn know?'

'Yes, he—he did.' Gilraen lowered her gaze to the ground as she stumbled on her words. 'I didn't think it would have to happen this suddenly, but under the circumstances—'