Orónëminya felt gentle hands on her shoulders, and looked up, to see Francis gesturing for her to rise. Smiling, she did so, and then watched as Francis began to kneel, and stumbled, but Metimafoa was instantly at his side, as was Bartholomew. Francis waved them off in irritation. "The day I lose the ability to kneel before my king and queen, is the day I die." After a minute of him trying, he finally lowered himself into a kneeling position, and bowed his head. "I served your under your father in the capital, as one of his knights, many years ago. I will serve his line, for as long as I live. I will personally provide you with any resources and services you require."

Orónëminya was so caught off guard by this relatively sudden turn of events, that she had no idea how to respond, as the rest of the family slowly bowed before the heirs of Saironelloistya and Aranellevanima, the Children of Herulepilin, and Herievamornie.

After a moment, she recovered her wits, and said, "Arise, Children of Eru, and now to us no more. We have done nothing to earn your fealty, except to be born into the Royal Family. I would far rather, that if anyone bows before me, it is because of what I have done, not what my ancestors have done. And, more than that, I do not wish to be bowed before in general." An image of Jirah passed before her eyes, the blade of Metimafoa's rapier pertruding out of her mouth, while she gurgled on her own blood. "We are unworthy of such devotion." She concluded quietly. Her voice still high, and melodious, was very clearly tinged with a note that resonated with guilt, and shame.

Elizabeth looked at her, awe still apparent on her face, but curiosity was evident there as well. "What have you done, that you are filled with such shame and guilt?"

Metimafoa went to answer, but Francis raised his hand and stopped him. "They did no more than that which was necessary for their survival. Come, Children. We shall resupply you, and provide you those boats you requested."

Metimafoa grinned. "You do realize the irony of you calling her "child," when she is the oldest person here, right?"

Francis stared Metimafoa down for a moment, before grinning mischievously. "Then she has aged more gracefully than I, my boy. Come along." As they began to walk into the basement, he continued, "so, what resources do you require?" He pulled two large leather bags off of a hook on the wall, and began filling them with ration packs. Reaching over, he took a hand drawn map down off the wall, and carefully rolled it up, handing it to Orónëminya. He packed some rope, and a large piece of flint, into the bags.

Orónëminya answered, "We could use a few canteens, or water skins, if it would not be too much of a burden, but either way, the boats would have been enough. Thank you so much, Sir, for your service. I will remember as long as I live."

Graciously, the man bowed, and handing each of them a bag, he walked away and came back with four empty canteens. "You can fill them in the river," he explained, "while I prepare the two boats." With that he left, out to the docks, leaving Metimafoa and Orónëminya to their own thoughts.

"I honestly, do not understand." Metimafoa stated, watching Sir Francis walk away. "Our family did him no service, in fact, it was quite the opposite. He served our family as a knight." Shooting Orónëminya a glace, he asked quietly, "Did you enchant him?"

Orónëminya shook her head adamantly. "No, I did not enchant him. For some reason, he is grateful to our family, and wishes to help the line of Estelondo." She turned toward Metimafoa, and put a slender, but tan and calloused hand, on his shoulder. "Come on, Metimafoa; we should go fill the canteens."

. . .

Approximately fifteen minutes later, the two siblings were sitting in one canoe, with their supplies in the other, and rowing down the Xitalmar. Xitalmar was from the ancient gnome word Xital, meaning talking, or living, so when the Elves named it in their tongue, they called it Nenquendi, the Water that Speaks.

Orónëminya kept a tight focus up ahead, looking for rapids, that were said to be harsh on this river, and that gave the river its name. They had a peaceful trip for about an hour, but white foam up ahead told a tell-tale tale, that things were about to get interesting.

"Rapids!" She cried out, preforming her duty as active boatswain, and then jumped into the shallow river, to stop the boat. Allowing the other boat to pull up alongside the boat they were riding in, she lashed them together, because, as she later explained to Metimafoa, "A wider craft should be harder to tip." Making sure that the weight was evenly distributed and tied down, she took a deep breath, and climbed into the other boat, as it drifted into to first of the rapids.

Despite what she had braced for, the beginning of the rapids was not as treacherous as she had imagined that they would be. However, after a moment or two, she realized that the boats were steadily increasing in speed, and that the ride was rapidly getting more rough. Within the course of thirty seconds, the boat was occasionally jumping out of the river.

The current was so loud, that Metimafoa barely heard Orónëminya shout: "Slow it down!" Picking up his oar, and bracing in the canoe, he and Orónëminya stabbed the oars into the riverbed, which slowed it down slightly. Orónëminya visibly sighed with relief, but she kept the oar dragging through the riverbed.

Metimafoa's young arms were too weak to hold on to the oar. Failing to resist against such a strong force, the oar flew out of his grasp. The craft spiralled out of control, as it plummeted down the rapids.

Orónëminya tried to adjust its course, but the forces acting on the boat were too strong. She was thrown down onto the bottom of the canoe, and stayed there for a moment, because she had the air knocked out of her. Standing up, which was a difficult task in the spinning boat, Orónëminya tried to take in her surroundings, but she could not observe them fast enough. One detail did catch her eye, however, and that was the two and a half unit rock, pertruding out of the river bed, that they were heading indirectly toward.

Orónëminya gestured for Metimafoa to sit down and hold on, and went to do the same, but she was not fast enough. Her side of the canoe slammed into the side of the bolder, and not only shattered her canoe, but it also flung her out of the boat, and ten feet through the air down the rapids.

Metimafoa watched in horror as Orónëminya was thrown through the air, into a boulder near to the shore, leaving a bloody smear, on the boulder. Her form floated down stream, motionless, leaving a trail of swirling red like mercury in water. Metimafoa screamed, but was helpless to do anything for the next two minutes, until finally, they were both out of the rapids.

Diving out of the last canoe, Metimafoa swam through the water, and, adrenaline pumping through his blood, he dragged Orónëminya's unmoving body out of the water, and onto the nearby shore, where he dropped it to find the source of the bleeding.

Assessing her wounds, he removed her armor, and saw that not only had two of her ribs broken, but they had burst through her skin, just underneath her breasts. She also had a nasty gash on her forehead, but her armor, or more accurately, Jirah's armor, seemed to have taken the brunt of the impact for her. Unsure of what exactly he was supposed to do, Metimafoa quickly removed her two broken ribs, but then the amount of blood flowing from the wound increased. Watching his sister bleed out from three wounds, while he only had two hands, Metimafoa began to panic.

Ripping off a portion of his shirt, he wrapped it around her head injury, and while the blood flow from that injury did not cease, it definitely slowed down greatly. He contemplated doing the same for her abdominal protrusions, but decided against it, because then he would have to deal with internal bleeding.

He looked around hopelessly for help, and then looked at his own hands. "Sorry, Orónëminya." He muttered, before carefully inserting his hands into her chest cavity. He began to carefully move his fingers around, on the surface of her lungs, to see not only if they were inflating, but if one of the ribs had punctured them. Pulling his hands out, he breathed a sigh of relief, noting that by some luck they had not. Dragging her unconscious body over by the stream, he rinsed out the wounds, to see how deep they were, and how badly they were bleeding. Needless to say, they were deep, and bleeding and a high rate of speed, but the blood flow was steady, so Metimafoa, not being highly educated in medicine, guessed that she probably had not severed any veins or arteries. Running to the shores of the river, he looked for something to pack the wounds with, and sank three inches into the soft, cool, mud on the side of the river. Grabbing a handful of it, he let it seep out between his fingers, glancing back to where Orónëminya lay.

Scooping up mud until both of his hands were full, he ran back, and began to pack it into her injuries. It took him two trips, but eventually, he filled up all the holes in her carapace. Forcing her to drink some river water, he took a second breath, and sat down to wait.

He sat for a moment, rubbing his arms for warmth, when it suddenly hit him that he needed to raise her body temperature. He thought for yet another moment, before taking off south, toward the boats estimated location.

. . .

Surprisingly, the boat had not gotten very far, because it had rode up on a log in the river. Wading out to it, he rummaged through his bag until he found the rope. He then tied it to the front of the boat, and using a tree as a pulley wheel, he hauled it up onto the shore. Grabbing his bag, he began to march back toward Orónëminya, following the river in a Northern route. As he went, he encountered a red-fruit bearing tree, that he recognized as being edible, and spent a few minutes picking some of the fist sized fruit. After he had filled his bag, he began running toward his sister, deciding that he had wasted enough time as it was. When he returned to camp, he placed down a faggot of wood on top of a pile of kindling, and began striking the flint off of the blade of his rapier.

Three hours later, he was sitting in front of a roaring fire, eating one of the red fruits he had picked on the way back to his sister. He finished his fruit, and threw the pit into fire which sent up a whirlwind of sparks, peppering the sky with small spots of light, flickering like the sacred stars above their heads. Metimafoa picked up the rib bones, and slipped them into a side pocket on his bag.

He heard a rustling noise from the other side of the fire, and stood. Expecting to see that Orónëminya had stirred, he noticed that she was still asleep, although her breathing had settled off. His brow furroughed in concern, and he thought: She should have been awake by now, if I fixed all of her injuries. He walked over, and readjusted his blanket, which he had wrapped her up in, after it had dried out.

It was only then that he noticed the child.

Standing at the edge of the woods, half hidden behind a tree, was a young child, with pale skin, and eyes as black as the night around them. It took a moment for Metimafoa to recognize her as a LeShay, a fey child of older times, immortal, but the race had been mostly killed out years before, earlier even than the First Great War. Now, the few hundred remnants of the race dwelled in a small village, just North of Moinatarminas, called Sidhmaeion.

"You are far from home, young one." Metimafoa stated. The girl shied further back behind the tree, so he continued. "Do not be alarmed, I mean you no harm." Metimafoa watched her for a few seconds, before pulling one of the pieces of red fruit, and offered it to her.

She looked at it longingly, but made no move to take it, so he rolled it along the ground toward her. She scampered out and grabbed it, before scampering back behind the tree, to eat it. After a moment, he realised that she had left, and he called out, "Wait! What is your name, little one?"

"She is older than you, elfling." A male voice said from behind him.

Metimafoa tried to draw his sword as he turned around, but the scabbard got caught in between his legs, and he fell at the feet of an adult LeShay.

The man was tall and thin, but had an air of strength to him, and his hands lightly darted around Orónëminya's unconscious form, but even at his young age, Metimafoa could tell that every one of his movements was medical, not sensual. Stopping his movements, the LeShay extended a hand to help Metimafoa up. Metimafoa accepted it, and sheathed his half drawn rapier, before asking, "Will she live?"

The LeShay smiled, but did not cease in his activities. "Due to the medical attention she received, I suspect that she will survive, but I can provide her with better medical attention, if I can take her back to my camp." He must have noticed Metimafoa's concern, because he he quickly said, "I promise, no harm will come to her."

Metimafoa still was not convinced. "Sir, I mean you no offense, but I have yet to learn your name, so why would I trust you with my sister's life? A pair of LeShay, alone in the woods, with no explanation as to why they are hundreds of miles away from the LeShay sanctuary, and you expect me to trust you enough, to let you take Orónëminya into the woods with you? That seems highly illogical."

The LeShay's eyes widened, and he muttered something under his breath. He concluded his study of Orónëminya's injuries, and turned toward Metimafoa, looking at him more with curiosity than anger. "One could say the same of two children of the Elvish Royalty, hundreds of miles south of their home, Meneltarma." The man was teasing, but Metimafoa seemed genuinely chastened, so he took a different approach. "Metimafoa, please, let me help you. My name is Mallori Speranton, and we are family, despite the distance. While I may be the last of our tribe, besides my daughter, I hereby swear that you will not be the last of your line."

Something in the LeShay's Gaze, and his words, made Metimafoa trust him. "Lead the way. I will follow my sister, wherever she goes."

With a nod, Mallori scooped Orónëminya up into his arms, and began sprinting in the direction that his daughter had gone before him. Metimafoa followed him, staying close behind, but his thoughts focused on his sister. I hope that Orónëminya survives this. She is single-handedly responsible for our continued survival. He paused for a moment, before tacking on as a afterthought. I suppose I would miss her too, in my heart of hearts.

Onward the two ran, westward toward the LeShay encampment, and toward the revival of Hope, throughout the land.

Dear Readers,
F

irst off, I would like to thank all of you, for your continued support, time, comments, votes, and enthusiasm, on this novel. It helps keep me motivated.
Secondly, I want to apologise, not only for this chapter being late, but for it also being nearly 400 words short of my 3,000 word chapter goal. I just liked the way that it wrapped up at this point, and I knew that the next part of Orónëminya, and Metimafoa's tale will be at least a 1,300 word portion, minimally. Since that would be 900 words over my limit, I decided it would be better to just split the chapter, and be 400 words short. The next chapter will probably be longer because it has been more carefully planned.
Thirdly, I completely doing away with due dates for chapters. Honestly, with school, homework, and personal downtime for other activities because I am a real person, not just a entity on the internet, I simply don't have as much time as I would like to write my story. Sorry, but that is the way the cookie explodes in a ball of fire.
Fourthly, I will be rewriting the description, so keep an eye out for that as well.
Fifthly, Check out all of BedPenname's works, they are highly entertaining, and probably better than mine. Who am I kidding, they are definitely better than mine.
Sixthly, I highly recommend watching the Shannara Chronicles on Netflix. I just watched all all ten episodes in one day, so I certainly enjoyed it.
Seventhly, my name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die.
Finally, thank you once again for sticking with me, and my novel so far. I hope you will continue to do so, and I hope that you enjoy!
Sincerely,
Isaiah Oakley Le Istya.
Live Long and Prosper!
Viva Mucho Tiempo(largo) y Prosper!
Viva Longue et Prospere!
Anda ar Alya Coilë! (Long and Prosperous Life, there is no Elvish word for Prosper by itself.)
Zhivi Dolgo Y Protsvetay
Buhi Taas ug Mahungadon!
Jeetay Raho!