The word has come from the North of the last terrible battle of the War of the Jewels, which those who still live are already calling the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. The news is devastating; for not a single one of the armies of King Fingon shall ever return, nor his allies among Men. Wild rumors fly, telling of slaughter beyond the count of tears, and of the treachery of Men, and thus were the armies of the Elves destroyed. The forces of the Shadow now pour into the lands from the North, ravaging and destroying all in their path. All hope appears lost.
To one household these tidings bring deep despair. The Elf-woman Thandwen and her daughter Nauthira are reeling with the realization that their husband and father will never return. As Nauthira weeps, Thandwen’s face becomes a mask of nothingness, her eyes as vacant as her heart. She and her husband had planned on raising Nauthira in peace among their own kin, but now the wars had ended all their hopes.
Thandwen rises wordlessly and walks out of their home, toward the bluff overlooking the Sea. As the sun settles onto the bosom of the waters in the West, and the clouds gather in the East heralding a storm, Thandwen comes to realize that the only way she and her love might be reunited is in the Halls of Mandos in the West.
Thandwen turns to a shout from behind her, as Nauthira comes flying up the greensward before the precipice. “Mother! You told me we must never walk this close to the bluffs. Come away from there!”
“All will be well, my love,” Thandwen calls back over the rising wind. “The Elves have failed. It is time for all those to depart who shall, for if not now then soon.”
“Mother, what are you saying? What are you doing? Come back, come back with me!”
Thandwen steps closer to the edge, her feet balanced on the precipice; beneath her is a plunge of many fathoms onto the rocks and surf below. Framed against the setting sun, she turns to Nauthira once more.
“Your father has gone before us, my child. I go now to join him and prepare the way for you to come when you will. This is not goodbye; this is simply a parting until we all meet again, a family forever.”
“Mother, no, you cannot mean this! Do not leave me alone here, please! Come back to me! Do you not love me? Is not my love enough for you to stay? Mother, no!”
Thandwen, with a look on her face of blank nothingness, steps out over the edge of the bluff and vanishes from sight, plummeting down to the waters below. Nauthira cannot move to follow; she sinks to her knees, wailing at the horror she has just witnessed, calling her mother’s name over and again. As if in answer, the winds rise fiercer, buffeting the Elf-maid in her despair. She rises to her feet and turns from the cliff’s edge, shutting her eyes away from the scene, running back to the house as fast as the winds will allow. Gaining the door, she shuts the storm outside, the winds beginning to shake the lattices and eaves. Gasping, she staggers into the parlor and braces herself against a table, letting her mind race in every direction, her voice hiccupping through rising sobs.
“My father dies. My mother abandons me. I am alone in all the world. Unloved, and unlovable – how else could it be for them to abandon me? I am unloved, and betrayed by those who lied to me, making me think I could be loved by anyone!”
Nauthira slams her hands onto the table, the sound sharp and echoing, loud even amidst the rising winds outside. The force of the blow felt strangely good; she strikes the table once more, then again, repeatedly smashing her hands, then her balled fists, onto the table top. Her blows match the rhythm of her beating heart and her gasping breath, in time with the gusts outside, a wordless symphony of anger, of bitterness and rising hate.
After a time, the blows slow, then cease. Nauthira stands silent, gazing at the table, now decorated by two bloody streaks which mark the blows from her hands. Silently she looks at her hands, her fists unclenched, knuckles cracked and bleeding, streaked with bright blood. She looks at her gown, pristine white and pure, now speckled with blood sprayed from her raining blows. She is fascinated by the contrast: the pure innocent white, now stained with blood, her own. The crimson and scarlet flows against her pale skin and the clean cloth, and she finds the color change shockingly beautiful, and meaningful. And a new resolve begins to rise from a depth she never knew she possessed, filling her mind, and pushing out all thoughts of despair.
“My world bleeds. All the world is fire and blood now. The Shadow took Father, and Mother, but it will not take me, let it try. I shall take it before it takes me. I shall learn how to defeat it if it takes all the years left to me. Let the Mortals tremble at my coming, let the minions of the Shadow fear even the mention of my name!
“My name? My name… I shall forge a name that shall make all quake in fear, Elves and mortals alike! At the merest mention of me, they shall know I come with fire and blood. Blood it shall be, the banner by which they know me shall be dyed in their own blood. By their blood shall I be their conqueror, their master - their queen! Yes, yes, they shall all know me as the queen of blood!” And she raises her encarmined hands to the sky, her eyes flashing like the lightning of the storm.
“Nauthira is dead! Behold, this night is born the Blood-queen!"
“I – AM – SEREGRÍAN!!”
Next Chapter: "The Red Beacon"
