She still dreamed about it. That last battle.

On the same night each year. On the 29th of May, she dreamed about it, about the day when her mother had screamed at her to get out, to run, even as she stood beside her father's body, his blood already washing her mother's feet. Even as that black tide of orcs swept inside the palace. And so she had.

Arien Féathalion, the last princess of the Taurhelim, had fled, had left her people to ruin and death. Fled here, to the Hidden Valley. To Rivendell.

And she hated herself for it.

Hated herself for abandoning her people, for leaving them to die with no help whatsoever.

Lord Elrond had welcomed her and given her a home — tutors and mentors in the crafts both of war and of history. And in Imladris she had blossomed from a girl of three to a woman fierce in word, and yet gentle in heart and hand, wise yet haunted.

Haunted, because flashes of memory ever plagued her, of blood and screams and ugly swords. And when Elrond and Glorfindel deemed her old enough, they had told her about it. The great war between the Taurhelim and the orcs. The five battles that had ended in slaughter and left not one of the Taurhelim alive, save herself.

She had asked, then, in growing panic, who and what were these long-dead warriors that the Elves called her people.

Lord Elrond had told her she was half Dwarf, half Elf. That long ago, a union had formed between an Elf and a Dwarf, and so the Taurhelim were created.

She was the last one left. And she didn't remember it, her kingdom. Her homeland. She had been too young, only three on the day of the last battle. But she remembered enough to know that she had been happy, that the valley where her people had lived had been full of light and laughter. All of it, that happiness, snuffed out like a candle on that half-remembered day, when the orcs had attacked at dawn and destroyed every last one of her people.

She did not remember the sound of her parents' voices, or their faces. Only their screams.

And now, after spending almost a hundred years in Rivendell trying to forget, her past had returned to hunt her.

Elrond's sons had reported an army of Orcs that marched in secret to Rivendell, and they had come for her. To finish the job they started many years ago. Elrond had implored her to flee.

To flee again, to play the princess while others gave their lives. And she had not dared make a different choice.

Never again, she promised herself. Never again.

Glorfindel had been given the task of escorting her from Rivendell. Throughout the long years she had dwelt there, the Elf Lord had cared for her more so than Elrond. He had become as a father to her, and to part with him would be bitter.

She rode in front of him on his white stallion, her head coming barely up to his chest even sitting down. Her people, like Dwarves, had been small, often no more than four feet, though they had inherited the pointed ears and immortality of the Elves.

Glorfindel tugged at the tinkling reins of his stallion and brought the steed to a halt. All about them barren lands stretched on, and a sharp wind sliced at her face. Windswept grasses and the occasional craggy rock peeking above the blades were their only company in this forsaken wilderness.

"This is where I leave you," Glorfindel said quietly. He was turning his head this way and that, scanning the world around them with a piercing gaze.

Looming up above them was the great shadow of the Misty Mountains.

Glorfindel swung his leg from his horse and lifted Arien down.

"Go north, Arien," he told her, kneeling in front of her. "Flee as far from here as you can. We will find you when the Orcs are dead."

She lifted her chin. "I don't want to run away again," she breathed, searching his face for any glimmer of doubt.

"I know, but Lord Elrond does not want you in danger," he replied.

"Why are you all so desperate to keep me safe? I'm not even one of you."

"Because we care about you," Glorfindel said gently. "Because we love you."

Arien couldn't bring herself to argue any longer, so she accepted the pack and twin long daggers Glorfindel offered her, and hugged him back when he knelt down to do so.

"Namarïé, Arien," he said as he mounted Asfaloth.

"Namarïé," she replied, placing a hand to her heart on gesture of farewell.

He gave a brief, sorrowful nod to her, and urged his horse into a walk.

And then he was riding off into the early morning mist.