Prelude to Code Red by Scribe of Mirrormere

Chapter 1

If the trip to Dor-lómin got any more boring, Aredhel thought she would just pass out and slip off her horse. The word games Egalmoth and she played throughout the journey was no longer enough to make this bearable. It was not that she hated the journey; being out of Gondolin for the first time since entering Middle-earth alone was satisfying the growing itch for change. But the walk had become an utter bore. The road stretched bare as far as they could see with no visible threat, and yet Glorfindel and Ecthelion insisted on guarding her as though she were a rare and fragile flower. She could not even sneak off to relieve her bladder without having to contend with them and assure them that she was not about to run off. Indeed she could not even pass gas at night without one of them waking to check that she was all right. It was all because Turgon thought it fit to threaten them with hanging should she receive even a scratch in this journey.

It wasn’t that Aredhel was a novice to pain. She wandered the lands of Valinor far and wide by herself, her injuries never dissuading her from more mischief. Mischief was her primary joy; she considered it a good day to return home with a nosebleed at the very least.  

I shall pulverize my brother when we return, she thought. I had far greater freedom in Valinor, and had Uncle Fëanor still lived he would join Turgon’s fate, for it’s all his fault we ended up in this mess!

Ecthelion turned around then, seeing the expression on her face. “Are you feeling unwell, my lady?”

Aredhel snorted. “I do not recall ever contracting an illness. Watch where you’re going lest you walk right into a tree!”

They could not cross into Doriath, as the land was blocked from their entry. But there was no guard for them to speak with, and after waiting for hours they gave up and headed north to Nan Dungortheb. Seeing her growing restlessness, Egalmoth brainstormed another word game for them to pass the time. Aredhel reluctantly complied in want for anything to do. The forests stretched out endless, the path bare of any one of else traveling, and her escorts’ behaviors were increasingly irritating her to the point she half-considered commanding Nimanor to shoot past them and never look back.

But all that thought vanished the moment they came across the mutilated woman. From the distance they had mistaken the lump on the path to be of some beast, but up close the sight of her drew a grasp from everyone. Her body was missing from the waist down, and her skin appeared to have been pulled off. She lay convulsing slightly. Her eyes fell on them and she gave a weak, pained, gargled groan.

“Lady Aredhel, look away!” Glorfindel said, which was enough to make Aredhel snap at him. But she was too filled with horror at the sight and compassion for the pain in the woman’s eyes to pay Glorfindel any attention. Perhaps mistaking her silence for a weakness, Glorfindel assured Aredhel the creature would not harm her, and he stepped closer to examine the woman along with Ecthelion.

“Is she Elf or Manfolk?” Aredhel asked from the distance.

“I cannot tell even this up close,” Ecthelion said. “But she is very much alive.” He inched out of the way in revulsion when the woman made to grab him.

“Oh, what a wretched fate!” Glorfindel added, taking in the full vision of the woman’s ravaged body. “What devilry caused this?”

The answer came just then, as a being hideous but resembling an elf in form suddenly appeared from the thick trees. It lunged straight at Glorfindel, who swiveled back, but was suddenly caught by the hair by another who had just appeared. Before Aredhel’s eyes, the pathway was suddenly teeming with the strange beasts, their growls mingled with the shrieks of her companions. Nimanor neighed in fright, but she steadied it, hissing, “If you do not stay still you’ll get us both killed!”

Ecthelion drew an arrow and sent it flying across one that almost bit Glorfindel.

“Are they orc?” Aredhel asked him. “Are these what Morgoth has been brewing in his fortress?”

“I have seen orcs, my lady, and they are nothing like these wretched creatures,” Eglamoth said. “What could they be?”

“Dead that walk,” Aredhel said, studying them. “Must be Morgoth’s design, but no matter!” she reached for her satchel that swung around Nimanor’s neck. Her hand rested on a bright red fabric for a moment, but she shook her head. “Don’t need for that just yet,” she muttered as she produced her own bowstring and quiver. Commanding Nimanor to stand still again, she rose to her feet on her horse’s back, three arrows in one hand, and sent each flying in quick succession, each striking a target.

“Aim for their heads!” she cried out. “Striking them anywhere else won’t keep them down!”

Her companions turned to her for a moment, perhaps wondering if they should warn her not to get involved, but they nodded and turned back to their battles. Egalmoth kept close, beheading any walker who got too close to them, while Glorfindel and Ecthelion were buried among dozens of walkers.

Is this the reason for us not having come across anyone in our journey? Aredhel wondered, studying the elven and human forms of the walkers, a sick feeling coiling in the pit of her stomach.

“Glorfindel is down!” she heard Ecthelion’s pained cry, and he emerged from between the walkers, bloodied and battered. A little far back Aredhel caught sight of a walker feasting on something it gripped in its hand, long golden hair billowing between its bloodied fingers. She averted her gaze immediately, but she already saw too much.

“Get back!” Aredhel and Egalmoth called to Ecthelion. “It’s futile fighting them all!”

Ecthelion made a dash back for them, and that when he suddenly froze, gasping, and all eyes fell on the clawed hand that protruded out of his gut.

Aredhel and Ecthelion shrieked as Ecthelion was dragged back, the walker who had impaled him bit down on his shoulder. He fought off the walker with all his might, the struggle taking them off the path and toppling down the small hill. Aredhel prepared another arrow, but the battle below was going too fast for her to aim right at the walker. They fell into the lake, and due to their ruckus it had gathered the attention of other walkers. They circled about Ecthelion, whose shrieks made all the hair on the back of Aredhel’s neck rise.

“We’re too late,” Egalmoth said in a weak voice.

“We cannot go to my brother Fingon,” Aredhel said. “The way is blocked. Where else can we go…Himlad! It’s close to us, is it not?”

With a nod, Egalmoth remounted his steed and commanded to turn back. Back Aredhel’s eyes were still on the path. The woman was still staring up at her, her body shivering. Before she could stop herself, Aredhel imagined what it must have been like, to get devoured by terrible walkers and to wake up as one. Did the woman still have thoughts? Was she in pain? Was it hunger for Aredhel’s flesh or was it a plea of mercy in the woman’s eyes?

“Lady Aredhel?” Egalmoth’s voice carried into her thoughts.

She aimed an arrow between the woman’s eyes and was glad to see her arrow meet its mark flawlessly. Darkness swept over the woman’s eyes, and she stilled at last.

Aredhel met Eglamoth’s questioning gaze as she settled herself on Nimanor. “I could not bear to see her continue suffering…there’s more coming - make haste! We might find shelter at Himlad!”