Lua was in Her full radiance as She rose, greeting Eldás in the west with all that She could muster, a monthly ritual of love between daughter and mother. Beholding their beauty at the Falls of Mithrafëol, where the roots of two opposing lands mingle as one, should have been breathtaking and enlightening; but instead, it bathed the scene below in sorrowful irony.

A monstrous wolf danced upon the Gälnolëa, its lavender eyes once more gleaming with rage as spray glistened in Lua’s silver light with every step. As it drew near, a rider could be seen upon its back holding a spear. It was the queen of the Gälr and the white-wolf ëolfëánor, both blessed by Lua, charging against the Eldás-blessed troop of Pelrëan knights. In other words…

…it was Valýría and Várnos.

At their approach, the captain cast Fëor aside, reaching for his blade; and as he drew it from its sheath, another light shone, for it had been forged long ago in the light of dawn.

But it’s light was now dim.

Tsk.

The captain clicked his tongue.

He knew he’d be at a disadvantage. This entire expedition was the epitome of overconfidence, after all. He knew that. To lead such a small troop straight into the maw of their greatest foe? It didn’t matter that the finest knights were chosen for this task. It was foolish. It was a gamble. It was…

Bring her home.

…cruel.

How could he refuse such an order? Made publicly in front of the people of Pelren, no less? When the stakes were so…personal? He couldn’t understand the logic behind the king’s decision, but he knew how he felt.

He felt it too, after all.

“Alas, the heart mourns anew that which the mind foresaw.”

Silver and gold sparks erupted as Valýría’s spear grazed against the captain’s parrying blade, the ferocity of their charge nearly knocking him to the ground. Seizing the momentum, Várnos whipped his head back and sunk his teeth into the captain’s left shoulder, straight through his cold-iron spaulders as if they were made from wispy bark. The captain responded with a swift swipe from his right hand, taking the tip off of Várnos’ left ear before Valýría jabbed in vain at his breastplate with her spear.

Fëor watched with horror as the battle unfolded more quickly than he could follow.

The captain’s fellows freed themselves from the earth’s grasp, facing the fell beast before them.

Várnos welcomed them with his bloodied maw, defending his daughter as she battled from his back.

Limbs were lost.

The soil was soaked.

Souls returned to the warmth of Ëolna’s embrace.

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Their sorrowful songs echoed through the grove as they went unwillingly to the very place they sought to escape.

Valýría, elated by their elegies, began to best the captain, slipping her spear more and more into the narrow spaces between his armor.

But she and Várnos were still outnumbered.

The best knights of Pelría surrounded them, even as their numbers slowly dwindled. She had been rash to run out ahead of the others.

So rash that she hadn’t even noticed Fëor.

So raged that she saw nothing but her foe.

And as her situation grew more desperate, so too did her battle frenzy. She grinned with eyes that gleamed with glee, revealing her true form to the captain below—for she was known in the West as the Goddess of the Grove, a monster more wicked, they deemed, than the witch who had tamed her people and shackled his own.

Várnos howled, resonating with her wild wind as the tides turned once more in their favor.

Fear devoured the knights of Pelría from within. They were indeed the best soldiers Älthren had ever known, but none of their peers, however great, could compare to the foes they now faced. No amount of training or experience could have prepared them for such a fight.

For they had just realized that none of their blades had actually caused Várnos any harm.

He stood before them, seething with rage, bearing only a single scratch from the captain’s holy blade. Such was the true strength of the ëolfëánorí, whose forms danced upon the threshold between Ethýría, the realm of spirits, and Ánor, the realm of substance. Dwelling there, he could not easily be harmed.

Some ran.

Others fell to their knees.

The rest fought on in vain.

But regardless, all were soon slain…

…until only the captain remained.

His weakened blade could reach the ëolfëánor, but Valýría forbade it with her persistent parrying. It was a risk, but, like Fëor, he would have to rely on power beyond his own.

All he did was hold his left hand up.

No words were spoken. No spell was sung. In fact, it had become eerily quiet. His gesture alone was enough to cause the wind to silently stir with a strange warmth that was neither soothing nor scalding. As it whirled, gaining speed, Valýría’s hair whipped wildly and Fëor’s fallen hat flew to the river. Even the captain’s own helmet lifted from his head, revealing his dark-brown hair.

Valýría gasped as Várnos’ eyes widened.

For an Eldásr, his hair was almost too dark.

His pale visage, paired with the fact that silver lights now twinkled all around them, dancing to his command—

It wasn’t good.

Understanding the threat before them, Várnos defied the fëár gathering around him. Even minor spirits from Ethýría held greater authority than he; but nothing, not even the heavens themselves, could stop him from protecting his daughter and the home they loved.

The spirits scorched him as he passed through their makeshift constellation, sapping his essence one scratch at a time. Silvery-blue flames erupted from his fur wherever they hit, temporarily blinding himself and Valýría with their elder light.

But that didn’t matter.

The price he paid was little compared to what could have been lost.

And so, squinting as the light of his granted mithra engulfed his foe, the captain watched as the smoldering maw of his bane clamped down upon his outstretched arm.

Everything past his elbow was gone.

The shock and horror of it all nearly defeated him. He had seen and done many fell deeds as a seasoned soldier, but no amount of training can truly prepare a person for such a thing. It was a sign of his strength and experience, however, that he managed to singe his wound with his bright blade. Wincing, he recovered his wits, but…

…he was battered.

Both his own skill and the spirits of Ethýría had failed him. That left only one option.

He loathed to take it. It was shameful and an even greater risk than his last move. Was he truly valuable enough to make the Goddess of the Grove and the second-eldest ëolfëánor hold back and hesitate? To grant him safe passage all the way home to Pelren?

It was the only option left.

He turned his back on his foes. They began to pursue him as he bent down, grasping for something on the ground with a hand he no longer had. They were about to finish him off when Valýría finally noticed.

But it was too late.

The captain’s blade was already against his neck.

“F-Fëor?!”

The captain smirked.

“You’re going…to let us…leave.”