[Elora]

Naiore

In the dim light of early morn, Naiore abruptly stood. On her face was carved a smile of pure delight and utter darkness. At her feet, her daughter slowly curled into a protective ball, breathing laboured and pained. Naiore disregarded it utterly, staring into the grey light with her lips curved.

I know you, she mused, I know you now. I have your name and your kin. The Ravennor lifted her arm and stared at her wrist. Gloved in ebony leather, she seemed to gaze at the skin beneath. Or, rather, at the blood that ran through the veins beneath her skin.

"Léspheria," she whispered the newly discovered name. Léspheria was kin. She was nearby and she and Vanwe had some sort of bond. With a startling suddeness, Naiore spun on her heel and walked back to the camp. Her gait was lithe. She was on the hunt and the glory of it filled her senses and fired her blood.

Avanill, who had been uncertainly watching, started upright as he marked her approaching him. She waved a pre-emptory hand at the man, dismissing him with terse command.

"Break camp. We move out now." Naiore bypassed Avanill and walked to where the two mithril tomes sat on the ground. She collected one, opening it's covers wide. The sound of ripping pages broke the dawn. Without compuction, Naiore tore every last page from the first and then the second volume. The mithril covers she tossed aside without interest.

With a bundle of vellum and parchment, Naiore crossed to the all but cold camp fire. Swiftly, she stirred it into life. A thick smoke rose upwards as she started to feed it the pages. Barrold, shaken awake by Avanill, coughed and complained noisly.

"What's the hurry," he belligerantly muttered. Naiore ignored him too. Page after page, steadily she fed the contents of the tomes into the camp fire.

"It's makin' too much smoke," Barrold went further to say. Scrubbing his eyes and shaking his head, his gaze settled on the destroyed mithril books. An exclamation of dismay shot out of his mouth.

"'Ere, those are valuable," he protested.
"A scholar of ancient tongues, Barrold Ferney?"

Naiore had not looked up from the now raging fire. Barrold shifted uncomfortably all the same.

"But them's mithril, ain't they?"
"Take the covers if you can think you can sell them, Ferney. It matters little to me."

Barrold seized upon that opportunity and scooped up the covers. Avanill scowled with discontent and buried himself in his own preparations. By the time Naiore had burnt all the pages of Tallas' records, the group was ready to move.

Barrold shouldered his pack, the mithril safely tucked inside. As far as he was concerned, you never know who might be wanting mithril and it was powerfully rare to find in these days. Avanill shouldered his own wealth, the array of bottles, herbs and powders he'd taken from Tallas' store. Toby uncomfortably tried to remain unnoticed, watching the telltale plume of smoke rise into the lightening morning sky. Vanwe remained where Naiore had left her under the tree, curled in on herself.

Naiore collected her pack, crossed to the tree and dragged Vanwe to her feet. Her daughter was drenched in sweat, pale of face, hands and feet dirty and bloodied in her struggle. Naiore's lips curled in distaste and she pushed Vanwe forward ahead of her. Vanwe somehow managed to find her feet after some weaving. Her shoulders were slumped and her head bowed. She met noone's gaze. Toby stared at her, alarm marked on his hobbit features.

Without a word, Naiore led off, Vanwe's arm in her hand and her daughter struggling to match the rapid pace. Barrold, Avanill and Toby trotted along behind. Swapping glances at each other, Barrold and Avanill both confirmed that they were heading in the wrong direction. Yet, it was Toby who ventured a comment.

"This isn't the way to the Shire," he said in his high, clear voice. Naiore came to sudden standstill and she pivoted, bending to bring her face inches from Toby's.

"It is not, Master Longholes. Have you anything else to say?"
"If we were goin' to take the long way' round, you shoulda kept that horse of yours," Barrold muttered. The prospect of a full day of rapid walking with a heavy pack was not an appealing one. When Naiore straightened to direct her attention to Barrold, Toby heaved a sigh of relief.

"There has been a change. We will make for Imladris first and the Shire later." Avanill frowned whereas Barrold opened his mouth to object.
"Yes, Master Ferney," Naiore asked in a dangerously soft voice. Barrold recognised it in an instant and changed tack with remarkable mental agility.

"What's wrong with 'er," he said as he nodded at Vanwe.
"Nothing that is your concern." With that, Naiore resumed their path through the wilds towards Rivendell.

For nearly two weeks, days and nights passed with only more and more questions. Naiore had become increasingly forbidding. Each night and each morning, she took Vanwe aside and did things that the other three did not wish to consider. It turned even Barrold's stomach.

What also sat uneasily, was their growing proximity to Imladris. It was hardly a place any enterprising merchants such as Barrold, Avanill or Toby wished to be anywhere near. A growing discontent travelled with the group. For Naiore, the days and nights were filled with many things.

Her plans for Imladris and Menecin, the pursuit she knew followed and further work on Vanwe filled her time. When at last they set up camp in the woods north-east of Imladris, Naiore forbade any fire as she had for the past 3 days. Barrold made no secret now of his discontent and sat dejectedly on a fallen tree. Thrice he had come to open conflict with Naiore and thrice he had been forced to conceed to her will. That such things rankled and festered within his breast, Naiore both knew and could little afford to trouble with.

The matter of Menecin and Imladris was too close at hand. She chose to dispatch Toby, whose quiet Hobbit feet were virtually silent in the woods, to scout around. Toby had proved adept at such things and had marked the position of those who pursued... two groups. The sun was fast sinking as she sent the Hobbit off. Leaving Barrold and Avanill to sort out the matter of a cold, dark evening meal, Naiore collected Vanwe and led her aside.

Night and day for two weeks, her daughter had both submitted and defied her. Vanwe had no defences equal to her mother's skill and her memories of torment flailed at her. So too did her feelings of abandonment and longing. But Vanwe did not once admit to being in league with anyone, not Léspheria nor Menecin. She was on the cusp of a darkness that she teetered upon. Naiore knew it, for she knew her craft well. She could push Vanwe over before she built the skills to resist. But she could also use Vanwe in other ways and it was that which occupied Naiore's mind now.

"Sit down," she said to Vanwe as she unslung her pack. Vanwe obeyed with habitual meekness. The rules of survival that she had learnt in Harad, submit and live, were hard to shake now that Harad lived in her mind once more. Obedience was ingrained her and had, thus far, lent Naiore a distinct advantage.

Naiore rifled through her pack in the failing light, pulling at last a well wrapped bundle free. She unpeeled the covers and held up a gown of such beauty that Vanwe stared to see it. It was a gown of nobility, such as that worn at court. Vanwe had never seen such a thing. Folding it over her arm, Naiore sat beside Vanwe.

"It has been hard, these weeks," she began. Vanwe turned her head aside and merely nodded.
"Difficult for you and I both." Naiore did not lie. For all of Vanwe's obedience, she had proved impossible to break on the matter of her allies.
"Why did you leave Harad, Vanwe?" Naiore's voice was deliberately gentle.

"To be free, to find my family," Vanwe replied as she had many times now. Naiore sighed, a carefully timed response. Vanwe looked back to her mother.

"The bonds of kin rarely leave us free, daughter," she said with wistful sadness.
"There are some yokes that we bear full willing all the same." Vanwe's statement held many things, including a growing awareness. Naiore glanced at her daughter and then at the gown draped across her lap.

"Then you would know of your father," she said slowly.
"Yes," Vanwe replied eagerly and fearfully both.
"He gave me this gown," Naiore said. That too was true. Menecin had it made and given to her when they were newely betrothed. It's delicate mint silk sheen had reminded him of the leaves that shone upon her hair, he had said, when first he had beheld her. Vanwe was staring at the gown in new surprise.

"He is near, your father, very near."
"Is... he alive," Vanwe asked with a trembling voice.
"Yes," Naiore said simply and there began her plan. Vanwe sat in silence as her mother told of how he was kept prisoner by other Elves. She listened in anguish as Naiore told her of his distress, of the torment of captivity. Vanwe knew a measure of that so very well. By the time Naiore had finished, night had fallen and a half moon had risen above the horizon.

When both returned to the main camp, Vanwe wore her mother's gown. Her hair was clean and brushed and her face was both grave and alight. Barrold sat back on his heels, stunned at the sight. Toby's return to report on the location of the two groups of pursuers prevented Barrold from saying anything.

Vanwe took her seat, head held high and mind filled with the sad knowledge of her father's unjust captivity and her intent to free him. Naiore sat, curled in her leathers with her braids slickly falling down her back and demanded a report from Toby.