She tossed restlessly throughout the night, often bolting upward with a cry of fear on her lips. Nightmares plagued her dreams. She saw them, swarming around from all sides, screaming a terrible war cry. There were dead faces, familiar faces twisted into grimaces of pain.

It was the brightness that finally woke her. She was drifting, not quite asleep and not yet awake, all her thoughts focused on a tiny pebble digging into her hip. As she tried to ignore the aggravating little pain and fall back into the dream world, the last of the night's snow clouds parted to reveal the sun. Finally able to shine where she pleased, Anar beamed joyously down on the freshly white earth.

The snow reflected the light, and filled up the shallow crevice. The light hurt. With a moan she flung up an arm to protect her eyes. Her shoulder burned at the abrupt motion, and she gasped for breath. Letting her arm down and holding it diagonally across her chest, she squinted against the brightness. The pain in her shoulder continued, and she waited it out, a few tears leaking from her eyes. When it subsided, she gathered her strength, and, pushing mostly with her feet, she managed to maneuver into a sitting position, leaning heavily on the rocky wall behind her.

Her mind was clearer this day. Disorientation still lingered in her mind, but she had a much clearer idea of who she was. More importantly, she was beginning to understand the danger she was in.

The ground was blanketed in whiteness. It was not too deep, but the wind had blown it into drifts. The grass could be seen in some places, while in others the snow looked a foot deep. She would have trouble navigating over the snow, especially with the tenderness of her shoulder and the lack of protecting clothes. She shuddered, wishing she could wash away the dirty feeling they had left.

They had scarred her. Her mind, once again in control, tried to shy away from thoughts of them, and she let it. There was no need to think of them. Maybe they had never happened.

She looked at her legs. The injuries there - the pain was one of the few clear memories that she had - had begun to heal. Her shoulder had hardly begun to mend, though it was not bleeding freely. Most of her wounds were only tender pink scars tracing their way across thighs and calves, and angry bruises, darkest on her hips and up her torso. Ugly marks. Mournfully she stretched out her good hand to touch them, and remembered... 'The lady is threatened! The lady!' a dark haired Elf, bloodstained sword raised high, shouted with distress. She reined her horse around, cursing him for drawing attention to himself and to her. His intentions, however noble, were like to get them killed.

The enemy did not prove her wrong. The Orcs caught his anxiety and were drawn to the young Elf. He was cornered, cut off from the rest of the party. He fought bravely, burying his weapon into the chest of one creature, decapitating the next. Black, sticky blood splattered across his face.

"Annael, get out of there!" she yelled. He looked to her with frightened eyes and nodded. A moment later, as she watched, a black arrow buried itself in his throat.

The momentum of the arrow tumbled him sideways off of his horse, and she screamed his name. An Orc jumped in front of them as her horse sprung forward, and she reflexively pulled back on the reins. The mare reared up, and the evil creature fell beneath the animal's hooves.

When they reached the spot where the Elf had fallen she leapt hurriedly from the saddle. She was shaking.

"Annael! Annael!" She shook his shoulder gently. There was no response. An arrow flew over her head, and she desperately lifted him up and began to drag him away from the chaotic battle. When she could go no further, she knelt and laid his head in her lap. The blood from Annael's wound quickly soaked into her practical trousers and over tunic. Tenderly she cradled his head in her hands and looked into his face.

Blank grey eyes stared back at her; the fire in them was gone. Tears clouded her sight, and she gently rocked him back and forth. As she mourned, the company fell back to better guard her.

"Lady, be gone from here!" a soft elvish voice entreated. Lindir had his back to her, but she recognized his voice. She knew all of them, the dead and the living. "Ride far from this madness."

She would have. If the path had been open she would have ran faster than the Northern wind to escape the screams of the dying. But that way was closed. From all around, the Orcs were closing in. Lindir, for that was the name of the Elf who stood by her, sighed with resignation.

"I am sorry, Celebrían. I will fight to the end, but it is our end that approaches. Do not be afraid," he told her, and bowed his head, putting the point of his sword to the ground. She could hear him murmuring the verses of an ancient prayer.

She was afraid. More tears shimmered on her lashes and slipped down her cheeks. Such mindless evil terrified her. Bending her head, she hid her face in Annael's hair and waited.

It was over quickly. The Orcs came down upon the handful of soldiers and destroyed them. They tore Annael's body from her, and she fought them as hard as she could, but it was far too late.

As they dragged her away, she saw what had become of her followers. The Orcs were everywhere, desecrating the bodies and celebrating their victory. Only one other was left. He raised a hand with desperation, reaching for her. Fearing for her and defying death if only to save her. He was helpless.

They were both helpless.

She had given no thought to her companions. Her husband's people had fought so valiantly, giving up their immortal lives to save hers. And she'd forgotten their bravery in face of her own anguish.

Her keening sobs continued as wave upon wave of unbearable sorrow washed over her. She wept for the dead, shaking and pressing one hand to her aching shoulder. "All of them dead..." she whispered.

'A hand raised with desperation...Only one other left...Reaching for her... "Do not be afraid..."'

There had been one who had not fallen. Last that she had seen Lindir had been very much alive if not well. A deep well-spring of hope bubbled up inside her heart, and she clung to it ferociously. If he still lived, she would find him.