Cold wind stung Nyëna's face as she crested the ridge, gritting her teeth and squinting to get a good view of her surroudings. Jagged precipices rose sharply on either hand, and the cleft before her was carpeted in a thick layer of snow. The keen eyes peered from under the hood, and she brushed a dusting of snow from her forehead. She breathed deeply, shutting her eyes and letting her mind search out the impossibilities. A day's travel back was the gate to the Mines of Moria, but she had no wish to enter there again. Having passed through the shadows once with a small band of elves, they had come out halved in number and lean from starvation. And her sister had fallen into darkness, out of that she did not come. She wasted, grew thin and died, journeying to the halls of Mandos -- doomhall.
Nyëna could not go back. The orcs she had crossed and slain many of would now have word to Saruman. For unlike others, she had long ago seen the symbol of the White Hand of Isengard, and known its meaning. She alone had warned Gandalf, but he had not regarded her. After all, he was Istari and she was but elf. She could not go East or North-east, the sheer walls of Caradhras and his fellows strangling any escape that way. Tuilendo then turned North-west, up the ravine. Spurring Silmë into a canter, they ran lightly across the snow, leaving little or no imprint on the whiteness. For Nyëna was elf-blood, and Silmë was of the Mearas. A barbed shaft hissed after her, but deflected off the rocks at the entrance of the cleft, whence she had hastily gone.
The orcs broke shelter, rushing across the snow, sending up cries of victory and adrenalin. They rushed towards the rocks, weilding their scimitars and crude spears, with a vanguard of six archers. In all, there were but forty, and forty was not near enough.
Nyëna, hearing the shouts coming on behind her had flung herself to the side of the path and led Silmë up a narrow ledge out of sight, and then rushed back to the ledge. Orcs were rushing around with wild abandon, furious about having lost their prey. The most part turned up the ravine, but two archers and five Uruk-hai remained and blocked the entrance.
Nocking shaft to string quicker than the eye could follow, Nyëna drew a bead on the archer, seeing that they were the largest threat. The arrow seemed to come out of nowhere, and the slain orc toppled backwards, the shaft seeming to grow out of his chest. The Uruk turned and would have rushed, but Nyëna slew two before they reached the ledge, and another two with one arrow. The last she spitted on his fellow's spear, leaving him hanging by the entrance, the spearhandle wedged between two rocks as a warning. Then she rode along the lip of the ledge until she met another party of orcs. These she defeated in similer fashion until she found the last party. Having found nothing, they turned back and faced her, only three of them. Before they could blink, she loosed her arrow. It passed through one and into the next, leaving the last, a scrawny northernor, cowering on the frost-covered ground next to his wounded fellow.
"Give a message to Saruman," Nyëna said to the orcs. "Tell him Nyëna Tuilendo still lives, and she rides on the warpath for his scalp." The two scrambled to their feet and ran, and Nyëna drew a bead on the one, who turned to look back. "It only takes one to deliver a message." A faint hiss, and her work was done. The wounded orc kept going, aware he would probably die from the snows. Nyëna filled her quiver from the Uruk's arrows, and recovered her own. She looked darkly on the slain, but left them for carrion.
The winds of the pass of Caradhras sand on unceasing.
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Laurelindorinan. The Valley of the Singing Gold, now Lothlorien, the Dreamflower. Mallyrn still held their golden leaves on slender boughs, but the joy was diminished. Still, the last and greatest elven haven was a place of beauty and peace. Galadriel, one of Nyëna's oldest friends and also from beyond the encircling seas, greeted her and asked for news of Elrond and Arwen, her grand-daughter, and many other things.
