White Flower's Wilting by Kaylee Arafinwiel

White Flower's Wilting

Read White Flower's Wilting

Stamp. Stamp. Stamp. 
 
The sound of harsh footsteps falling against unforgiving stone – will it ever end, she wonders, eyes closed against the rising tide of fear. She isn’t brave, or powerful, not like her aunts. She is a delicate pale flower, not a warrior – huddled in her bed while the world falls around her, outside her protective cocoon of safety. The footsteps come closer, then pause. Her breath comes in slow, sharp gasps, stifled behind her hand as the footsteps begin again, loud at first, trailing off into the distance.
 
There is no door, she wants them to believe. There is naught to find here. She focuses, wishing she had the power of her great-great-aunt, her grandmother-by-marriage, and predecessor. Naught to find, begone, leave my people be!
 
Yet as she curls under her blankets, praying for her husband, her children, her people, she knows the spell cannot hold forever. Though the Queen’s Door is bespelled, so it will bend to her will for a time, she is no Maia.
 
O Dior, my love – and as she thinks of him, their bond is ripped asunder. Screaming, she clings to the thought of her three precious babes. Was it ill-done to hide the Nauglamir in Elwing’s cradle? She ought to have brought her children in here but had thought the nursery to be safe enough. Her uncle Celeborn and aunt-cousin Galadriel are there after all – and she does not expect the invaders to pursue innocent children.
 
She has forgotten to control her breathing. The footsteps are coming again, and her tears come harder. The Queen’s Door is visible, and they have come – the servants of Feanor’s sons.
 
“Where is the Silmaril?” 
 
She thinks that is what they are asking, though she knows little of Quenya, the forbidden tongue.
 
She holds up her hands, empty, to the one who demands this of her. This just enrages him, and she is knocked back by his fists before another’s sword pierces her breast.
 
Death is quick for Doriath’s last Queen. She falls into the waiting arms of Mandos – her last coherent thought is for her little ones.
 
“Sleep and forget your sorrow for a time, Queen of Doriath that was.”
 
Nimloth daughter of Galathil, and wife of Dior, obeys the command – her fae loses itself in oblivion, slumbering deeply until the command to awaken comes.