Chapter Text
The end is coming. Ioreth can taste the tension stretching the air, feel it crackle over her skin. With every day Orc attacks increase, the territory still controlled by the Tribesmen rapidly diminishing in size. Most days Ioreth spends hunting down and branding Orcs, slowly inching herself closer to controlling their leaders, closer to controlling an army. But its not enough. No matter how many she brands, no matter how many others the Tribesmen kill, more rise to swell their ranks. The few days she spends within the Tribesmen’s outposts she spends training soldiers, reconstructing defences, aiding with strategies. And it’s still not enough to make any real difference.
Celebrimbor becomes increasingly agitated, pacing back and forth in the scant few quiet moments they have, creating plans, deconstructing strategies into the deep hours of the night, not noticing when Ioreth slips into sleep. His stress is contagious, and she finds herself waking up hours before dawn, mind swirling, Celebrimbor appearing within seconds to drag her into yet another discussion, and soon she finds herself in the habitat of breaking camp while the sky is still dark, impatient to complete her goals.
The sun is slipping away as she hikes back towards the main Tribesmen camp. Her hand shakes with excess energy, a reminder of how many ghostly handprints she created, how many minds she stole. Celebrimbor walks beside her, quiet for once, his hand cupping his chin as he thinks silently. Ioreth ignores him for now, content to let him dwell within his own thoughts without invading hers too.
“We may have enough.” He says suddenly, cracking the silence. “There are still many Uruks here that have escaped our control, but we have found no evidence of any other leaders.”
She doesn’t reply immediately, and he stops walking, forces her to pause too and face him. “Ioreth.” He starts, weighing his words carefully. “The time to attack has come. We need to act while we have this opportunity.”
“Are you sure?” She asks. “We only have one chance to do this, Celebrimbor.”
“I’m sure.” He says, “We need-“
They’re interrupted by Alyssi, running out from the gates to meet them, dressed in full armour, followed soon after by a small troop of Tribesmen.
“Ioreth!” Alyssi shouts, relief bleeding throughout his voice. “We need you. There’s-“
“Alyssi, I’m sorry but I don’t think I can help you right now.”
Alyssi’s face twists painfully, fear flashing through his eyes. The show of emotion is so far removed from his normal demeanor that it makes her pause, strikes a bolt of worry through her heart.
Celebrimbor is silent, but a glance at him shows a frown on his face, eyes calculating as he considers the soldiers before them.
“I wouldn’t insist if it wasn’t urgent but.” He takes a breath, steadies himself. “Lithariel is missing.”
“What?”
“She was out on patrol with a few of her soldiers. They were due back hours ago, but theres been no word from any of them. I sent a tracker out to check their route but she failed to find them, only found a set of Uruk tracks headed towards a stronghold. Ioreth, we think she’s been captured.”
“I’m coming with you then.” Ioreth replies, and Alyssi nods. They set off immediately, the troop of Tribesmen unnaturally silent throughout the journey. Celebrimbor stays present, and she shoots a glance at him, waiting for him to rebuke her decision, dismiss it as a waste of the time they do not possess.
“We do not have much time.” He states, predictably.
“I’m aware.”
He pauses, transparent eyes locking with hers, his expression unreadable. Finally, he relents and shakes his head lightly. “Hurry then.” He concedes.
Something within her chest begins to rot. And yes, rotten is the word for it, it twists and burns slowly, and she can just about smell the corruption as it consumes her alive. It consumes not only her body's peace but her mind, worry shooting thought after untraceable thought, at a speed she cannot even begin to follow.
Worst of all, she is not alone. She can just about sense the same poisonous emotions that corrupt her in the Tribesmen around her. Captain Alyssi shows it the clearest, not even bothering to hide the fear possessing him. Lithariel had been cheerful, proud even, as she called him her brother, but all that happiness has rotten away into a fragile fear that threatens to break the man in front of her.
It breaks what little of her heart is still whole. It sends splinters into her soul, because this isn't an army missing their commander, a people missing their princess, but a family missing their sister.
And she understands. Dear God, she understands. Because it's the same poison filling her veins as the day her son died. The same fear, that someone she loves may have been ripped from her grasp because she wasn't strong enough to protect them.
The first time, she was just a woman. A Ranger, sure. One might even go so far as to say she was a formidable warrior, but she was still human. Against the full powers of Mordor, she proved to be nothing more than the slightest breath of wind in the face of a hurricane.
Now though? Now not even death could stop her. She had amassed power after power until she could threaten Sauron himself, and yet she couldn't stop a woman she cared so much for from being taken.
What's the point after all, of cheating death, if the only person she can save is herself?
Alyssi taps her arm, and she finds the entire troop looking at her, waiting.
"When do we attack?" The captain asks. Any other question lies silent, assumed. They're coming, he says silently. We're fighting. You may join us, but you cannot stop us.
"Now." She says. "We attack now."
It's almost shocking that they accept her plan. It's not a glorious one, not by a long shot, and it certainly doesn't put them in the spotlight. But it's as practical for the situation as Ioreth can manage, given the time she has. And the fact that she is the only one here whose death she does not fear.
The emotion from before, the slow warm rot, has cooled into ice. Sharp, it sinks its fangs into her lungs, her throat, makes her every breath bitter.
So. So. She sneaks through their camp, and she brands every Orc she so much as catches a glimpse of. Celebrimbor revels in it, she knows. He may hate that she is here, risking precious time for a single mortal woman, but with every soul he takes control of, the more his silent judgements lessen, until he is all but encouraging her, pushing her onwards.
If she had more time here, she could really take control. She could track down and possess every last Orc within the base, negate completely the chance of anything going wrong. But when she finally sees Lithariel, she is being dragged, bloodied, towards an Orc whose sword size is matched only by his grin.
Time has never been a lover of hers.
Ioreth swings down, and makes her way as fast as she can whilst attracting as little attention as she can manage. The smell of iron mixes with the stench of Orc, and Ioreth traces it quickly to 5 bodies that lie scattered. She would have assumed them Orc, from what little remains intact from their faces, but she recognises their armour. Tribesmen. Likely the rest of the patrol Lithariel had accompanied.
The head Orc is taunting Lithariel, and so Ioreth judges it safe to brand as many of the surrounding crowd as she can, one, two, three, bending under her control.
She judged wrong.
Lithariel is proud at the best of times, the type who'd spit at Sauron, given the chance. And when they were dancing with death in mordor, Ioreth admired that, admired how she knew a single mistake could steal her life away, and yet she still stood against the impossible, day after day.
She doesn't quite feel the same, not now, not when Lithariel takes the first opportunity she is granted to kick out at the lead Orc, her boot connecting with a crack that makes her wince. The lead Orc doesn't hesitate to retaliate, and brings the blunt side of his sword down on Lithariel's arm, and she screams loud enough that he must have broken the bone.
Ioreth draws a throwing knife from her belt and throws it, the blade thudding into the lead Orcs eye socket up to it's hilt, and he gasps and collapses.
The two holding Lithariel shove her to the ground, and draw their own crude weapons, likely confident that with the help of the surrounding crowd and the rest of the garrison, not even the grave walker could emerge victorious, not alone.
But really, it is the Orcs who are alone, this time. Celebrimbor shouts out an order to his possessed troops, and they lumber into action. The two remaining Orcs barely have space to register the betrayal before their brothers have sunk rough blades into their stomachs, left them coughing in the mud, begging for a death swifter than that they were granted.
Ioreth ignores their moans of pain, and runs instead to Lithariel's side, who is leaning heavily on the side of a building Ioreth doesn't trust to hold her weight. She offers her arm instead, silently thankful when Lithariel doesn't refuse the help.
There's so much she could say. So much she probably should say, but it all dies on her tongue when Lithariel hisses in pain. There's something buried underneath, something deeper than the physical. It's no physical pain that tears Lithariel apart. No woman could face everything that she has and be consumed by such a furious pain from a broken arm.
"They killed my men." Lithariel mutters. "One by one, in front of me. Slow. They wanted it to hurt, they wanted it to destroy me, so I'd tell them what they wanted to know."
"What did they want?" Ioreth asks, soft, already afraid of the answer.
"You." Lithariel says, the word dropping like thunder. "They wanted you."
There's more Orcs. An endless stream, such that she fear it will never end, that they will spend the rest of their lives waging war for the right to move another step. Ioreth cannot support Lithariel and fight, so she leaves her leaning against walls and buildings.
Lithariel is exhausted. She is bloodied and bruised, and she only remains in control of a single arm, but every Orc that steps too close to her tastes her blade, her fury making her strikes sharper. Soon she is covered in black as well as red, and the Orcs begin to flee from her reach.
Near the gate the Tribesmen charge, and in the face of them and their possessed comrades, the remaining Orcs flee, and Ioreth begins to feel as though she can breathe again.
Captain Alyssi breaks ranks as soon as he can, rushes to Lithariel's side, his fingers gently brushing over her arm, and he shakes his head at the grimace Lithariel pulls.
"My lady, I-"
"Alyssi." Lithariel interrupts. "I need you to ride back to camp. Tell my mother that we need to make war plans immediately."
"But surely your wounds are more urgent."
"I will survive them. But our people might not, if we are unprepared. Go. Please."
He nods, finally, still unwilling.
"He's not entirely wrong." Ioreth whispers to her. "You need to get to a healer, a proper one."
Lithariel opens her mouth to argue, but it becomes clear even to her that she is only still standing out of sheer stubbornness.
"Fine." She says. "Fine. Let us leave now, then."
Lithariel insists on attending the war meeting while receiving treatment, the healer doing her best to remain unobtrusive as she sets Lithariel’s arm, Lithariel in turn doing her best to ignore the pain.
There's too much to plan, too many small details they don't possess the time to account for. Instead they construct a vague broad sweep of a plan, for the Tribesmen to do what they can to protect their people as they construct a distraction, give Ioreth the opportunity to strike at the heart of Mordor.
The air is heavy with mist on the morning she leaves. It drags the sky down, the weight of it settling white over Ioreth's shoulders. She can see shapes in the mist, forgotten castles and crumbling walls, but apart from ruins they are alone as they march towards the docks.
There's a weight in her chest, dragging her heart towards her stomach, and time does nothing to cure it, rather, every step accelerates its fall. There's a weight in her heart, a weight in the air, and Ioreth finds herself struggling not to feel like she is being pressed into the ground.
The thing is, it's too late for choices. Too late for second thoughts, for regrets to become actions. Ioreth has played her hand, pushed her pieces, and now all that is left is for her to follow those pieces into war. She's made her army, made her threats, challenged the one who stole her heart from within her chest, sliced it apart like he sliced her son.
And, well. Ioreth committed to these plans long ago. What's left of her soul was sold over to revenge since she first awoke in this twilight life. Sauron and his minions murdered her soul, eviscerated her sense of peace, and maybe, maybe, it was Celebrimbor's fault for her remaining in this world, but it was Mordor that corrupted her, Mordor that turned her from woman to monster.
It was Mordor that made her more familiar with death than any human has any right to be. It burnt memory after memory of life fading from eyes, of limbs going slack as blood oozes black over her sword, of mouths gasping as their lungs betray them. But it wasn't enough, was it, for her to simply be a killer? She had to die. Over and over, she had to taste the one secret that should have been denied to living minds.
Mordor came so, so close to taking everything from her. It almost transformed her into a creature who breathed and ate only for the sake of the revenge that for so long remained on the distant horizon. And it might just have succeeded, had it not been for her.
Ioreth sneaks a glance at Lithariel walking beside her. It's strange to think how close they have grown in so short a period, that within a few scant months Lithariel could grow from a stranger to the woman who makes Ioreth feel as if her heart is not made of stone or clay, but flesh and blood, that she isn't a vengeful spirit or a blood thirsty creature but a human woman, struggling to exist like everyone else.
Lithariel's jaw is set tight, and only the slightest of grimaces is present on her face. There's pride in the tilt of her chin, the brightness in her eyes. It hurts Ioreth to see Lithariel hurt, even more to know that she was the cause. That her love for Lithariel got her captured, and that Lithariel's love for her got her tortured.
"We're nearing the docks, Ma'am." Captain Alyssi calls out, and Ioreth simply nods in response while Lithariel offers a simple thanks.
By now, not even the mist can hide the docks and the imposing ship from their view. While it had, they could at least pretend the journey would last longer, that there wasn't an end, a goodbye.
Her Orcs are already waiting, shuffling restlessly in the ship as they wait for her to join them. And really, it's only now that it hits Ioreth that this is it. That she has reached the start of her finale, that she has but a few minutes granted to her to say goodbye to a people, and a woman, who have changed her second life for the better.
Too many words hang unsaid in the white air. Too many muttered apologies, too many tears, too many untrue promises for Ioreth to pick from. Not when she feels the heavy gaze of the Tribesmen. The Queen stares at her with a heavy understanding that leaves little to be spoken, Alyssi with a deep seated sadness that Ioreth dares not mention.
And Lithariel's eyes are full of something that is almost fury. It softens when their gazes connect, and Ioreth knows that the anger isn't directed towards her or her choices, but rather at the world, for creating the circumstances that brought them together, only to necessitate Ioreth leaving. For making this a quest that no one capable of dying could complete, and ensuring that Lithariel is cursed to be the one left behind.
Really, in times like this, words aren't enough. Instead, Ioreth just steps in close, and embraces Lithariel one final time.
"I'm sorry." She whispers into Lithariel's ear. "I'm so sorry."
Lithariel just pulls her in tighter, doesn't acknowledge the apology.
"When you come back." Lithariel starts.
"Lithariel, I-"
"WHEN you come back." She repeats, stronger this time. "We will be waiting for you. All of us. And maybe you lost your brothers and your son on that wall, but you will always have us. Have me. So please Ioreth, for me, promise me you will return to us."
"I will." She pledges, her voice cracking. She can't say anything more, not while Lithariel's arms are warm around her, not while Lithariel's people watch, armoured gloves clenched above armoured hearts.
Lithariel squeezes her one last time, and let's her arms drop from around her, pushing Ioreth towards the ship.
"Go." She commands. "Go now. And don't you dare break your promise."
And she does. She boards a ship filled with the possessed, and sets off to a land where only the doomed walk.
Theres waves of Orcs, followed soon by torrents of blood. It’s hard to keep track of, focus on sides when its Orc blade against Orc blade, the same growling, the same howls of pain on both sides. All she can focus on is the Orcs who come after her. After so many months in Mordor, its almost frightening how easy it is now, to duck and sidestep, dodge by a hair’s breadth before sinking sharpened steel into thick flesh, stain the ground with more and more blackened blood. She’s had practice, more than what is needed to fight with ease so this, this is almost a game. If a game could be played within that crunch of bone, the thud of severed limbs, and not drive someone mad.
It’s almost too much, the roaring, the smell, the blood covering every part of her, snaking its way through her armour to her skin, sticky and still warm. And it strikes her as funny, that now, now that she has sacrificed everything she has for this, put her soul and her sanity on the line for revenge, that more than anything she just wants this over. She wants to end this, sure, but end it in a way that’ll allow her some rest. Even if that rest is in a shallow grave.
Celebrimbor takes shape, steals what colours exist from the world, and points upwards, towards a guard tower that spirals into the sky.
“Look.” He says. “What we seek is up there. The end to this all awaits.”
She nods quietly. He looks down at her, and if she didn’t know him too well, she would have sworn there was something like guilt dwelling in his ghostly eyes, lingering and twisting.
“We’d better get climbing, then.” she tells him, slotting her sword back into its sheath, craning her head upwards, allowing herself a few seconds to find the best route upwards.
“Ioreth, wait. I should-” For once there is hesitance in the ghost’s voice, a stark change from the forceful determination that has been there every other time.
“We don’t have time to wait. You said that yourself.”
“I am well aware. But I am also aware of where we are, how many disastrous ways this could end. And we have worked towards this together for so long that I feel I owe you.”
She sighs, but doesn’t complain, lets him finish.
“I’m sorry. I know how much all this loss has hurt you, carved scars into your soul, transformed you. And I understand, truly, how much it hurts to lose your family, to have them stolen away from you in tears and bloodshed. And I know how much you wanted to stay, with the Tribesmen… With Lithariel. But I promise you, that as much as I am able, I will try to get you that second chance, that second life. You have my word.”
She stares at him for a long moment, and shakes her head finally, letting go of the last few threads of bitterness she held against him.
“Thank you, Celebrimbor.”
Sauron awaits, a figure twisted out of dark metal and shadows, sharp and angled, bent into a shape unrecognisable to the living eye.
It brings her back. Back to soldier’s tales in the guards barracks she hung in as a child, hearing guard after guard claim to be a direct descendant of someone in that battle against the dark lord, that it was solely due to the actions of their ancestor that the dark lord lost that day.
Back then Sauron was nothing but a haunting shadow that only existed in the distant past. A memory preserved only in the minds of the living, incapable of influencing the physical world. No one perceived him as a real threat, as something that could return to haunt the world once more.
Theres no denying his return, not now.
She draws her sword, and circles around, slow, waiting for him to make the first move. He just stands still, unmoving, the dark empty space in his helmet where eyes should be tracking her every movement. She breathes in, about to step in and attack, when his hand shoots up, fast enough that the air ripples with movement. And theres pain, familiar pain, pain that gashes across her throat with a strength great enough to push her to her knees. She touches the wound, reminds herself of that day, an eternity ago, when her throat was cut, when she was bound to Celebrimbor.
A raise of an arm, and her immortality is stripped, stolen. After everything, she is back, her blood staining stone, death whispering in her ears. She cannot see his face, but when she glances upwards, she knows instinctively that Sauron is smiling. He walks in slowly, savouring it, and stops in front of her, helmet tilted down.
“Give in, Ranger.” she hears hissed, the sound echoing around her. “Your quest has failed. Your powers have abandoned you. Let yourself slip into oblivion.”
It'd be easy to let go. Easier to just slip away, let the winds of fate carry her away to... Whatever it is that lies beyond all this. It'd probably be happier too, to grasp with both hands a future where she has a chance to find her family again, to reunite with Dirhael, to protect him better this time.
There's blood dripping down her throat, a gash that promises nothing but death. An unfamiliar death for one such as her. It is the only injury she has ever suffered that promises finality, a proper end to all of this chaos and torment. And some dreadful part of Ioreth wants it.
But there's another part of her that burns bright, fire deep in her chest, and she remembers. She remembers with too sharp clarity every sin this creature has ever committed against the people she loved. And those she learned to love.
Ioreth can hear Celebrimbor's anguish, his fear, his despair, not at the thought of dying, but of this creature gaining his power, walking free on Middle Earth.
She remembers Lithariel standing on the docks, braver than brave as she watches Ioreth go, the first time they’ve ever truly parted since they met. Ioreth knew she wanted to follow, to help fight against the very creature that waged war against her people for so long, poisoned her mother, killed her closest friends. But she knew her people needed a leader, someone strong and brave and unrelenting, and Ioreth knew that this very quest that she follows ends only in death upon death upon death.
And who else but Ioreth, the undead dead woman, could hope to succeed.
So, she stands. Slowly, painfully, but she stands.
And Ioreth thrusts the shattered remains of her dead son's blade into the heart of the creature responsible for his death.
The spectre explodes into a burst of light, leaving the tower empty. It takes something from Ioreth as it vanishes, tugging something free from her chest, and air floods back into her lungs, and she breathes clearly for the first tie in what feels like years. The steady curse of pain from the very spot on her neck that had been slit so long ago fades suddenly. She touches it, and her fingers brush away drops of red. Theres no pain from the spot, the threat of imminent death present just moments before gone.
“Celebrimbor?” She asks. She can’t quite make herself ask the question, spell her fears. He stands where he had been minutes before, when he’d struggled against Sauron’s power, warring desperately to stop himself being absorbed, from letting his power set the creature free.
“Ioreth?” He says softly, a gentler tone than he has ever taken with her. “You’re still here.”
“Yes. What’s going on Celebrimbor? Am I…” Ioreth gestures at the blood smeared across her neck despite the absence of a wound to cause it. She doesn’t even possess the words to describe it, put the event into words.
“I… I do not know. I thought killing him would release me, let us both journey into the afterlife. And I…” He pauses, looks down at his too-pale hands. “It seems… It seems as if we have a bit more time left to wander Middle Earth, Ioreth.”
There’s a lot to consider. Too much, enough that she sets it all aside, lets herself just stand, tilts her head back into the sky, lets herself just exist for now. The air stinks of rot and blood, and she can hear confused shouting from the Orcs fighting below, and yet its only now that she feels free. She spent so long focused on revenge, on letting anger and loss corrupt her, believing that the best ending she could hope for ultimately necessitated her death. Now, now she’s forced to make life about more than stalking and killing.
In the end, the decision is easy to make.
“I have to get back to Lithariel.” She says, already turning towards the edge of the tower, not bothering to ask Celebrimbor’s opinion.
She gets it anyway, hearing from behind a quiet laugh and an “I’m not surprised.”
Ioreth shakes her head, and jumps off the tower.
After everything that's happened, after long days and longer nights in a country that's very stones desired her end, after finding a people to care for only to sell her hope for being with them for revenge, after staring down the chance to finally die only to survive once more, after every single event that presses down heavy on her heart, Ioreth finds herself lost.
She's here now, staring down blank canvas, and she knows what she should do. Ioreth swore she'd return, promised the woman who had more than earnt her heart that she would survive, that she'd make it back to her. And yes, she had thought it a lie at the time. Yes, she believed with her whole soul that she would die in that corrupted land, die like any other human would.
But a promise is a promise, and surely Lithariel deserves to see her friend return to her, to not lose another to war.
But part of her just wants to run. Run away, like she's done with every other thing in her life. She could return to Mordor, a lost soul amongst the dust, fight the dark lord from inside his own lands.
That's the thing. Commitment is almost a more frightening thought than death, in the end. The Tribesmen, and especially Lithariel, represent everything Ioreth has wanted for so long. A place to belong. A purpose. People to love. And that shouldn't be so frightening. That shouldn't make Ioreth hesitate for moment after endless moment, fingers hovering just away from the flaps to Lithariel's tent.
But it still does. It makes her fingers twitch, her mind run. Because maybe, maybe, the Tribesmen are what Ioreth was looking for when she was a child and desperately wanted to be a guard like her father. Maybe they're who she was looking for when she joined the Rangers.
But Ioreth isn't the same person as the girl challenging skilled swordsman to duels to try and prove to a distant father that she had what it took. Nor, really, is she the same person that skulked in the shadows alone in Mordor, staining herself in Orc blood by day to forget the memories of her murdered son.
Ioreth was a lost girl who let loss corrupt her into a creature obsessed with revenge. But Lithariel saw past the bloody hands and far fetched plans, refused to see Ioreth as anything other than human, whose gentle hands and unwavering trust convinced Ioreth that maybe she wasn't a monster, that nothing that had happened to her, nothing she had done, had stripped her of her right to be human.
Lithariel was a force of nature. Her strength of personality matched only by her strength in arms. And maybe, just maybe, there's another reason why Ioreth hesitates. A reason that strikes far closer to heart than to mind.
Ioreth may just have slipped into love. But no, slipped is hardly the right word. She knew, every step of the way, knew without thought. And still she chose to let it happen, chose to let Lithariel's easy smiles, her gentle touch, melt past every defence she'd laid around her heart. She knew, knew that Lithariel would only mean more and more, and so she let it happen, let herself hold onto something sweet and beautiful, in a world with little else.
It had been easy, really. Would've been easy just to love the idea of Lithariel, the brave princess fighting the waves of darkness that threaten her home. Somehow it was easier to fall for the woman behind the titles, who let nothing, not fear, not injury, not hopelessness, let no challenge that rose before her break her will. The woman who wore the death of every soldier that served under her like a scar, a reminder. The woman who shone like a beacon to her soldiers, but was just as human as any of them, who let her love for her mother blind her to truth.
Before, in Mordor, in the wilds, Ioreth's love was something to hold onto quietly, a comfort in cold nights, a motivation in battle. Something hopeless, impossible. Ioreth was a cursed woman, a crusader whose quest would surely end only in her own death. There was no time for a relationship then. No chances. Ioreth isn't sure of herself now, now that an opportunity lies stretched just outside her grasp, waiting for her to take that step, to roll the dice and pray to Lady Luck they'll land in her favour.
She breathes in quietly, and exhales. Stretches her fingers out again, and hesitates, again. She frowns, frustrated by her own inability to make a decision, to commit to one path. Run or stay, run or stay. It's a binary decision, and so Ioreth finds herself stranded on the narrow precipice between, waiting for the gust of wind that'll send her flying to one side or the other.
That gust arrives in the form of a hand on her shoulder, tugging slightly to get her to turn. She moves to face Alyssi, dressed in well made armour, carrying several rolled documents in his other hand, making Ioreth think he's likely on his way to meet with Lithariel, make further plans.
Ioreth tries to step back, move out of his way, but his hand doesn't move off her shoulder, doesn't grant her the ability to run.
He doesn't speak, doesn't make a sound, simply frowns down at her for a moment, before jerking his head towards the tent, a question forming wordlessly on his face.
She opens her mouth, but no words come. She tries to gesture out her anxieties, but all she can manage is a point towards the tent and is lost again, and just shrugs heavily.
Alyssi looks over her for a few moments more, then his gaze softens. He presses one of the scrolls in his hand into Ioreth's palm, whispers in a voice fainter than faint.
"You'd better give her that scout's report now. Before she starts worrying."
Ioreth opens her mouth to reply, and he shakes his head with a smile, and pushes her lightly towards the tent flap. He still stands there, waiting, but he doesn't push her further. Doesn't demand that she act. Just waits, let's her decide this all on her own.
And his wordless encouragement is enough for her to finally push open that flap, step inside.
Lithariel stands with her back to her, leaning over a large wooden table covered with a map, fingers tracing over it's surface.
There's no running now.
"I have the scout's report, Commander." Ioreth starts.
Lithariel straightens up, begins to turn around. "Thank you, I'll-" her eyes fall on Ioreth, and she draws in a sharp intake of breath, harsh enough for Ioreth to hear.
Lithariel looks more like a princess, now. Her eyes are tired, and her arm is wrapped in a sling, but there's a thin circlet on her brow, and strength in her posture that makes it unmistakable. But within seconds, Ioreth watches as the Princess-Commander of the Tribesmen melts away, and in her place there's Lithariel, relief flooding her eyes as she confirms that yes, Ioreth is still alive.
Lithariel steps forward, then hesitates, eyes narrowing. "Are you done with your quest? Or is this another goodbye?"
"I'm done." Ioreth replies simply, her voice choked a touch. "It's over. And I'm back, and I'd like to join your people, if you'd still take me."
There's no hesitation this time, as Lithariel just about runs to Ioreth, throwing her good arm around her, squeezing tighter than most could manage with both arms.
"Of course we'll take you." Lithariel murmurs into her ear. "You're brave, intelligent, and compassionate. The kind of warrior any of us would be more than proud to align ourselves with."
"You flatter me too much, Lithariel."
Lithariel laughs suddenly, and leans away slightly, enough to cup her chin, look into her eyes.
"I am not exaggerating Ioreth, you are an incredible woman, and one I'm privileged to have been able to fight beside for so long. You really shouldn't discount yourself."
"All right, all right. I'll accept your gratuitous praise. Even if I don't quite believe it."
Lithariel laughs again, and she's already so close, and still she leans in closer still, warm breath ghosting over Ioreth's skin. "Why am I not surprised that you don't." She murmurs quietly.
And her hand is on Ioreth's hip now, a warmth that makes Ioreth shiver inadvertently. She's not sure what Lithariel is doing, not until she meets Lithariel's eyes, sees desire swallowing up every other emotion, and she shivers again.
Still, Lithariel doesn't move, doesn't push forward, just stands, waiting for Ioreth to make that final decision.
Trust or run, trust or run.
It's an easy decision.
She leans in, kisses Lithariel softly, wraps her arms around her, feels a smile curve against her lips. It's not an explosion, not all consuming like a forest fire or an avalanche. It's like a puzzle piece slotting into place, a built-up pattern of words and actions finally completed.
For now, it's slow, gentle, and they just relish in the fact that, after everything, they got to have this, that a tale of struggle and loss ends with more than hope. They have time to move, time to push things forward, so for now they just take joy in surviving, in finding happiness through pain.
"Sorry to ruin the moment," Ioreth says, once they move apart, "but I'm pretty sure Alyssi is waiting outside for you."
Lithariel shakes her head lightly, and takes Ioreth's hand. "We'd better show him in then, there's still a lot of planning to be done." She squeezes Ioreth's hand tightly, and moves towards the entrance.