39: The Final Battle (Edited)

                                    

                                          
Two days passed in a blink of an eye. To her, it had only been a second after her conversation with Gandalf, after she had met Ruindoldir himself. 
She woke up in darkness, the stars still veiled by Sauron's shadow. Neither dreams nor visions haunted her the night before, only long hours of no slumber. Foreboding as it may be, Varilerin cherished the long moments of silence to think peacefully, to prepare herself of what was to come. Her wounds ached, but she didn't bother as much now that she was used to the pain. Dawn would not come too soon, but the elleth decided to equip herself in advance. 
Still in her silver tunic, she leapt off the bed—she was too exhausted to sleep on a tree as usual—and eyed her equipment. Blood had been wiped away from her swords, but to her they still remained. Her old garments were forsaken after all the tears and burns it had sustained from the previous battle. She made do with the garments Ioreth had given her, all of the same colour but with less embroidery and less refined cut. 
Varilerin quickly wore her tunic and belt before covering herself with her Lorien cloak. A mirror reflected her image—still the same woman, but different altogether. Her face was not as pale as it used to be, her hair considerably longer, and certainly more scars here and there. It reminded her of the image of her grandmother when she served as a ranger. Even though she shared little of the nobility Elwen exuded, but still she sensed more confidence than before. 
I am no longer the Daefaroth who left Rivendell for exile years ago, she realised. Glorfindel was right in the journey changing her. The only remnant of the exile left was the braid hanging loosely beside her left cheek, which she had kept in honour of her past. Regardless, her past still remained, a speck of dirt unerasable from her existence. That past she needed to confront once more, but she wouldn't flee no more. 
Varilerin drew a deep breath as she untied her hair, its raven flocks draping her back. In the light of a single candle, she braided them carefully, forming four braids and tying them at the back of her hair. Varilerin stared at herself and, for once, smiled at her own appearance. 
This was the person who would be fighting Ruindoldir. Not Daefaroth, but Varilerin, the daughter of Glorfindel, Caldir, and Caladin. 
Behind her, the door was pried open. Legolas peeked through the small crack, checking if the was still asleep, and smiled when he saw her standing in front of the mirror. "I never knew you like to groom yourself," Legolas began as he entered the room. He was still wearing his old garments, for with his skill he was unscathed from the last battle. 
Varilerin blushed faintly and looked away. "Have you had enough rest?" Legolas asked. 
"I do not know," Varilerin absently answered, reaching for her quiver and swords. "What are you doing here? I see that you are as unprepared as I, with no knives or arrows with you."
"I merely wish to make sure that you are doing well," he reasoned. "The battle is nearing and I know you fear the worst." 
Varilerin scoffed. "I do. I have thought about him for days. Truly, I want to believe him, believe that he can still seek salvation, that he is simply clouded by Sauron's deception. But I realise that, despite how hard I try to believe, I always see a shadow." 
Legolas took her hand, frowning. "Dark are the days, but your strength and wisdom prevailed you through those shadows. Perhaps you have wronged—we all have—but you have done your best. I believe you shall also take the best decision against Ruindoldir..." His voice trailed off, and his fair face turned sullen. Varilerin looked at the ground, holding his hand tightly. 
"Please, whatever you do, do not think of dying. Do not leave me alone, not again," Legolas whispered. 
Varilerin winced. "I cannot promise anything, Legolas. You know that this march will end either in our deaths or victory."