𝕰𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖆

Chapter Twenty-Three: Evendim

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Sleep, obviously, had abandoned me that night. My mind was far too busy to rest. I sat that night in a dazed lull, staring at the wall across from me. The images I'd seen in the pool bounced around in my head and emitted a light buzz. I couldn't stop thinking about that woman... My mother. She'd risked-possibly sacrificed-her own life in a vain attempt to save mine. She gave up her power, the product of so many years of study and honing, so that I may have a fighting chance against Sauran. All these things she did, she did solely because of the predictions of what may be, foretold by the mirror.

Another thought then creeped into my mind. The image of another woman, me, wreathed in black and white flame, body convulsing and writhing in pain as two separate powers tore through me. A chill ran down my spine.

In trying to shake off the sickness that began to claim me, I pushed myself up from the bed and strode over to the window. Dawn slowly broke over the horizon behind me, basking the forest floor in a cold white light that rendered the frost-encrusted leaves a sort of silver-gold. I breathed a shaky sigh, placing my fingertips on the cool glass that separated me from the outside. A rush of cold jolted through them. My breath fogged up the clear surface, rendering it opaque. And for the first time in what felt like ages, my mind wandered back home. Though it no longer felt like the home it once had.

My brother was only half so... And possibly even dead. I shuddered at the thought. My father, he'd lied my entire life... And the war... Had it yet claimed Aerith? Was my partaking in this adventure all in vain? I'd wanted to protect Aerith, but I couldn't know whether it even still stood. Whether it had a ruler to guide it. The sickly feeling in my stomach grew heavier when my mind settled on a thought. Would I truly miss my father should he perish? He'd denied me everything... Knowledge of my power, of my origins... Everything. Could I bring myself to forgive him for that? I sucked in a deep breath.

I couldn't, no. But that didn't mean I would be indifferent to his death. I could never feel as such.

An errant ray of light escaped passed a tree branch, glinting in such a way so as to hit the rune on my wrist, long since having resumed its light and sparkling state. It gleamed, the pinpricks of white light that composed it scintillating in the light of the dawn. And the sickly feeling grew worse than ever before.

I balled my hand into a fist, beating weakly upon the window, and letting my head fall hopelessly against it.

After everything... Legolas, Aragorn, Orthanc, Cyne, Gandalf, now this... I couldn't take much more. I pushed away from the window, sighing deeply, before sweeping out of the room in a hurried frenzy, the cold biting at my exposed skin. In a matter of seconds I found myself back at the sparring grounds, a wooden sword, cool as the morning, clutched in my hand. I swung furiously at the air. And I swung again. My feet began to move. I fell into the rhythmic loll I so loved about swordplay. With each swing, I let go of another thought, another fear, another worry. I let go of everything.

Negative emotions were replaced by the brisk morning air that cut at my lungs with its sharp coolness. My skill, I noticed with a smile, had drastically improved since my duel with Boromir. After all, I'd only stopped for a month. With my injuries at last subsided and my determination to practice without cease, I found that my skill was quickly returning to me. And my swordsmanship showed it.

I swung at nonexistent enemies with a deadly precision, each blow meeting its desired mark. But my distracted state did not last long. A jolt shot through my shoulders as a voice sounded from behind me.

"How long have you been at it?" Legolas asked, and like floodgates, everything came rushing back.

"Not long," I answered, my voice steely as I tried to ebb away at the sinking feeling through swing after swing of my sword. But it no longer worked.