[Amanaduial the archer]

Could it be true? Yilsa had returned to him. But she had been dead, he had been so sure... The soldier felt like weeping for joy- how could he have thought his beloved was dead? She couldn't have died. All the pain and hurt he had felt, that had almost taken over his mind with grief...it had all been just generated by his brain, tired no doubt from all the moving around he had done. Yes, his foolish brain had convinced him, made him believe that his wife, his Yilsa, was dead…

“I had an ill divining dream, my love,” He whispered to her as she knelt beside him, continuing to stroke his hair. He knew he could tell her- what could he not tell Yilsa? To say she owned a part of his heart would be to lie- she was a part of his heart. And to tell her would be to dispel the notion of his dream being real. “I…I dreamt you had been taken away from me, my darling.”

“Taken away?” Her reply came from the darkness, and she began to fiddle with her long fingers (long, slim fingers? Where had the roughened, work hardened hands gone?) at the buttons on the rough shirt he wore in bed now. “Nay, I will never be taken away from you.”

Her voice was silky and soft, but also a little sad. Had he hurt her by saying this? Yet she did not sound surprised. Still, despite this, and the nagging suggestion of something in the back of Arthain’s mind, Yilsa’s words could not have made Arthain more happy. As his fingers slid over the back of her dress, under the rich riding cloak she was wearing (a rich riding cloak? Why, he was sure Yilsa did not know how to ride…she was full of surprises…like these silver buttons…) and deftly undid the threads holding her dress, letting the tight bodice untighten and gently slide off, his fears and worries slid off with it. Eyes closed, his mind filled with a happy thrill, the sense that all these foolish thoughts of her death, of all things, were nothing but empty dreams, Arthain let himself go…

The sound of a voice and the gentle thump of the heavy tent flap falling back into place shook Arthain from his pleasure. Starting up, he rolled into a sitting position, seizing his short dagger from where it always lay beside him, just in case, and holding it in front of him, he put himself between the intruder and the woman lying behind him, sleepily rubbing her eyes. He would take on this intruder naked as he was, if it meant these fears of Yilsa’s death would never come true- he blinked suddenly, confused, as he identified the pale faced, shaking intruder.

“Melost? What are you doing here?” He relaxed and put the knife down again, rubbing his eyes and blinking again a few times. But Melost did not move, did not even reply at first. “Melost?” he inquired softly, frowning. But Melost simply stared at him, shaking with rage. When he spoke, it was from between gritted teeth as his face grew paler and paler.

“What have you done?”

Arthain’s frown deepened. “What have I- Melost, what do you…” His voice trailed off as he realised Melost was no longer looking at him, but past him, behind him. Arthain was not sure what had given the elf such a look of horror, but at that moment he felt something slide up his back gently; thin, warm fingers. He jumped, and turned to see…

Anwenelme.

It all rushed back now. Yilsa was not alive. How could his mind have been so cruel as to have tricked him in this cruel parody, this twisted joke; the twisted joke of a cruel elf, he was sure- for had Anwenelme corrected or stopped him? His jaw dropped, but he could not speak. Words would not come, only churned up emotions and pain, such pain; the pain as half of his heart was once again torn away from him. The pain as he lost Yilsa for a second time. He could only stare, horrified and shocked, at Anwenelme. Behind him Melost’s words flowed over him, a torrent of anger and pain to match his own. He turned slowly, as if moving through water, looking wildly a Melost, his eyes wide, arms out towards his friend…but Melost held up his own hand in a sharp, defensive movement, as if afraid Arthain would hurt him…or that he would hurt Arthain, for the sword still glinted coldly in the light of the candle which still flickered at the side, casting light on Arthain’s shame. Melost still spoke more, his words tripping over themselves, his voice shaking, a little stream growing stronger and faster and angrier, buffeting Arthain as he knelt there, unable to comprehend. Later, Arthain would remember every angry, hurt word the elf he had held as his brother said, but now he could barely understand. Grief washed over him; grief for many things…

Melost was laughing now, wildly, hysterically, a laugh with no mirth in it. But his voice was as cold as the numbness inside Arthain’s mind and harder than the sword in his hand when he spoke, words laden with hate and forboding, words that Arthain would never forget.
"I curse you both with all my strength! You, Anwenelme...never will you know love or peace the rest of your days. May you die alone and forgotten. And you." Arthain held out one shaking hand to Melost as the elf turned to him, imploring him, tears mirroring Melost’s own spilling over his cheeks, words tripping from his lips as he tried to find something, anything right to say; but what could be right to Melost which had been said from between those lips, which but moments ago had caressed Anwenelme’s skin. But Melost stumbled back a step, his left forefinger held high, pointing at Arthain, condemning him as he continued, although tears flowed like a river down his face. "You will see the one dearest to your heart die in your arms. May you know the pain I know now and thrice over!"
Melost turned to Anwenelme, speaking once more to her, angrily and fast, in the elven tongue, the insults flowing from his lips, but Arthain did not hear them. All he could hear was the silence, the intolerable, harsh silence that was ringing through his mind, the silence of his broken heart and of his numbed feelings, the silence where feelings and emotions and words could barely stray, simply leaving his head ringing with its suggestions and pain. Looking up, he saw Melost back out of the tent, dropping the sword as he went, and as he did so, his eyes did not leave Arthain’s face as he stumbled away.

Arthain seemed to come alive then, and he grabbed his shirt, struggling into it, seizing his breeches and pulling them on as fast as he could. But on his shoulder he felt a hand, a touch as warm as comfort but with intentions as cold as cruelty. Anwenelme’s hand.

“Arthain-“ Her voice was laden with honey and glass, and he did not wish to hear from this being, this disgusting, adulterous, plotting being who had caused him to betray his best friend. He spun around fast, his arm out, flinging her off and down onto the floor.

“Get off me, viper! Snake!” He yelled down at her. But despite his insults, Anwenelme’s smile remained. And then she did the thing that made her crime so completely, utterly unforgivable, that spread out her true intentions as if they were a sword, previously hidden, but now in full view as it had pierced Arthain.

She laughed.

Arthain stared at her for a moment, laughing wildly, cruelly, her wicked smile saying all, saying more than words ever could, condemning him for the foolish mortal he was, the foolish being Melost had named him to be. How could he have taken this creature, as dangerous and treacherous as the mountains of Mordor, to be Yilsa? Shaking with pain, anger, grief and shame, Arthain stumbled out of the tent after Melost, calling for him, not heeding the sleepy, curious looks of the elven women as they stared, not heeding Dorlas as he tried to pull his master back. He cried out for Melost, but the elf did not answer, the elf would never answer. Tripping, still calling and crying, Arthain fell to his knees, head in hands, in the middle of the camp, not caring who saw. Melost was right; what Gods could exist that would oversee this happening? None, unless they were as cruel as all the dark powers put together, and if these Gods did truly exist and had let this happen, Arthain would have at that moment for the pain he bore got up and followed Melkor himself. For he had lost everything.

He had lost Melost.