“Get back, you foul beasts of Mordor! Back to Dol Guldur!” Merilindis hissed, voice raw. Her breath came out in frosty bursts, fogging the cold night air as she swung her blade in a wide arc. The spiders hissed and scurried back.
“You are not getting him!” she spat again, drawing the child closer. Legolas whimpered against her shoulder, his small hands gripping her torn sleeve. His sobs were muffled against her neck, but his trembling told her enough.
Her limbs ached. Her vision blurred. The venom that grazed her skin burned like liquid ice. Still, she would not yield. She planted her boots into the soil, blood and mud mixing beneath her, and raised her sword again, steady though her arm shook.
The spiders encircled them tighter, their eyes gleaming like shards of obsidian, their mandibles clicking with hunger. One lunged—she pivoted, blade flashing, severing a leg with a wet snap. Black ichor splattered across her cheek.
“Come then!” she shouted into the chaos, voice breaking but fierce. “If you crave death! Come and claim it!”
Her heart pounded, the sound loud as a war drum in her ears. The weight of exhaustion pulled at her like lead, but she forced herself to move, to breathe, to fight. Somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of horns echoed—Thranduil’s guard, perhaps. She prayed they were close.
“Hold on, my little prince,” she whispered, her voice breaking as her sword arm drooped. “Your father will find us soon… I promise.”
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