The year 2670, Third Age

Queen Gilwen of the Taurhelim did not need her elven ears to hear the ominous thunder of the bone drums in the camp above the valley.

She had been stood on this hill at the edge of her kingdom since sundown, silently watching the shadowed ridge line with the hilt of her ancient sword in her hand and not a shred of hope in her heart.

The fires flickered at the edge of the treeline, the only warning her people would get of the army that marched upon their lands. There were too few of them. Too few to fight the dread army that approached.

Maeglin's steps were near silent on the grass as he came to stand beside her.

"You need to rest."

Gilwen ignored him, unable to tear her gaze from those distant flickers of red and gold, and said,

"We have to get Arien out."

He put a hand on her shoulder, her long, unbound dark hair snagging on her armour as she faced him.

"We are surrounded," he said. "The time for fleeing is long over. The only hope for her now is that we win this fight."

Gilwen looked at him with no lies or comfort in her eyes. "None of us are walking away from this battle alive. Arien is the heir to this kingdom. Get our daughter out and ensure our bloodline does not fail."

Maeglin held her gaze, his green eyes — eyes that Arien had inherited — flickering with sadness. "How?" he breathed.

"We use the battle as a distraction. Send someone to sneak her out while we fight."

He nodded, even as he understood that she meant her people to sacrifice themselves so that Arien might survive.

"I am sorry," she murmured.

Sorry for what she had to do, sorry that she had failed. Sorry that this would be their end.

His thumb grazed her cheek. "Don't be. You are their queen, Gilwen, and they will follow you until their last breath."

Gilwen leaned her head against his shoulder, the only comfort she had left.

For long moments they stood there, gazing out upon the distant army that would be their doom, letting the endless pounding of the bone drums herald the bloodbath to come. And she knew it would be the last time he ever held her.

Maeglin stroked her hair gently and said, "I should tell them."

Tell their people that they must die for their princess. That their queen was willing to sacrifice an entire people to give her daughter a chance.

He turned away, but not before she caught the glimmer of silver lining his eyes. In all those centuries she'd known him, loved him, she had not once seen him cry.

"Maeglin..."

He turned back.

"She is too young. I cannot let her die now." Her voice broke. "I have to give her time."

Time to know — to know what it was to live. Even if it was to be Gilwen's last gift to her.

For the first time, he didn't meet her gaze. "I know. But we will not win this battle, Gilwen. We are too few. The orcs will not be defeated by the remaining shreds of our people."

"I know," she whispered, her heart breaking with the words.

And he saw in her face that she would do it anyway, that she understood the cost and deemed it worth it. But he pressed on.

"We will not win this war either. Even if she does live, we only push it onto her, delay our utter defeat for our daughter to inherit."

"If we do not act," Gilwen breathed, "she won't be alive to inherit this war." She held his unflinching gaze. "Maybe... Maybe Arien will find a way to end this. So we will lose this battle, Maeglin. Our people, our friends will die tonight, and we will use it as a distraction, a distraction to save our daughter. Our final hope."

He gave her no answer as he turned back toward the valley, filled with battle-weary warriors, and Gilwen wondered if she'd ever see him again. See any of them again.

Because no one would know. There would be no one left to tell the world where a queen of both Elves and Dwarves had fallen. No grave. No grave for any of them.

So Queen Gilwen of the Taurhelim turned back to the fires dancing on the horizon, and resumed her death vigil.