Chapter Text
The banners of Gondor fluttered in the cool breeze as Boromir stood atop the ruined battlements of Osgiliath, his tall, proud frame silhouetted against the pale light of morning. The sunlight, muted by lingering clouds, danced faintly on the silver thread of the banner he held aloft. His hands, calloused from years of swordplay, gripped the standard with the resolve of a man who bore the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders. Below him, the soldiers of Gondor gathered in the rubble-strewn square, their faces a mix of weariness and grim determination. Their cheers rose like the tide, surging up to meet him, a wave of fierce, unrelenting loyalty.
“Boromir! Boromir!” they cried, their voices filled with admiration and gratitude, each syllable ringing with hope. For many, the sight of the Steward’s heir standing proud beneath the banner of the White Tree was a vision of Gondor reborn.
With deliberate force, Boromir drove the standard into the ancient stone of the battlements. The metallic clang echoed over the ruins, as though the stones themselves bore witness to this moment of defiance. The banner unfurled in the wind, its white and silver gleaming as though it captured the memory of a brighter age. Boromir turned, unsheathing his sword in one fluid, practiced motion. His face, marked by the fatigue of battle, shone with unyielding resolve. He raised his sword high, the polished steel catching what little light the morning offered, and his deep, commanding voice carried over the assembled soldiers like the toll of a great bell.
“This city was once the jewel of our kingdom,” he declared, his gaze sweeping across the ruins, his voice steady and unshaken. “A place of light, and beauty, and music. And so it shall be once more!”
A murmur ran through the ranks, swelling quickly into a thunderous cheer. Men pounded their shields, their voices blending into a symphony of defiance and hope. Boromir lowered his sword slightly, the steel glinting near his shoulder, and his eyes narrowed, his voice rising again, stronger and fiercer.
“Let the armies of Mordor know this!” he called, each word striking like a hammer. “Never again will the land of my people fall into enemy hands! This city of Osgiliath has been reclaimed—for Gondor!”
“For Gondor!” the men shouted, their voices echoing through the crumbling city.
“For Gondor!” Boromir repeated, the words ringing with conviction as he thrust his sword skyward. His voice carried such fervor that even the wounded, leaning on their comrades for support, raised their fists and joined the cry.
The cheers reverberated across the square, louder and fiercer with each repetition, until it seemed the very stones of Osgiliath trembled with the force of their voices. Amid the thunderous acclaim, Boromir allowed a rare smile to touch his lips—a smile born not of triumph alone, but of pride in his men, in their courage, in their indomitable will. His broad shoulders relaxed slightly as he let the moment wash over him, though his chest still heaved from the exertions of the battle.
Behind him, Faramir emerged from the shadow of a ruined tower, his face a mix of joy and quiet relief. His step was lighter than it had been in days, but his eyes held a guarded expression, as though he feared the moment might dissolve too soon. When Boromir turned and caught sight of his brother, the smile on his face widened, transforming into a warm laugh that seemed to push aside the lingering weight of the war. He strode forward and clasped Faramir in a tight embrace, his arms encircling his brother with the protective strength of a shield.
“Good speech,” Faramir said, his voice tinged with playful humor as they pulled apart. The corners of his mouth twitched upward in a rare, genuine smile. “Nice and short. You’ve outdone yourself.”
Boromir threw his head back, a hearty laugh bursting forth. “Short, was it? Perhaps. But leaves more time for drinking! Break out the ale! These men are thirsty!”
The cheers renewed, now infused with a raucous, almost boyish joy, and the soldiers clattered their weapons against the ground as barrels of ale were brought forward. Boromir himself fetched two goblets, the silver cups dull but sturdy, and filled them to the brim. He pressed one into Faramir’s hands, clapping him on the shoulder with unrestrained affection.
“Remember today, little brother,” Boromir said, his voice softer now but no less resonant. “Today, life is good.”
Faramir raised his cup, his smile more subdued but no less sincere. They drank together, savoring the moment—a brief respite from the shadows that loomed ever closer. But as Faramir lowered his goblet, his expression shifted. The lightness drained from his face, and his eyes flicked toward the edge of the crowd, where movement caught his attention. His smile faded entirely, replaced by a tension that drew his brows together.
“What is it?” Boromir asked, his sharp eyes catching the change in his brother’s demeanor.
Faramir hesitated, his gaze steadying on a figure emerging from the throng. His voice dropped, quiet enough that only Boromir could hear. “He’s here.”
Boromir turned sharply, his shoulders stiffening as his eyes settled on their father. Denethor, Steward of Gondor, cut a grim figure as he made his way toward them, his black robes billowing like storm clouds. His face, pale and drawn, was a mask of stern authority, the lines etched deep by years of worry and bitterness. His dark eyes swept the gathered soldiers, but there was no trace of warmth in his gaze, no spark of pride.
Boromir’s expression darkened, and he drew in a slow breath, bracing himself. Denethor’s sharp, calculating gaze scanned the men who had gathered to celebrate their hard-won victory, but his eyes lingered only briefly on Boromir before they sought out Faramir. As he approached, the crowd parted before him like waves before a gale, though none dared to meet his gaze. The weight of his presence was palpable, a force that seemed to freeze the air around him. Boromir felt his chest tighten, his earlier warmth drained by the coldness that emanated from their father.
“Where is he?” Denethor’s voice rang out, cutting through the noise like a blade. “Where is Gondor’s finest? Where is my firstborn?”
Boromir’s stomach churned, the familiar sting of his father’s expectations pressing down on him. With a heavy sigh, he stepped forward to meet Denethor, offering the barest of nods in greeting. His face was tight, but he had learned long ago not to show the anger that often simmered beneath his skin in the face of his father’s coldness.
“Father,” Boromir said, his voice measured, but with a hint of weariness creeping in.
Denethor’s eyes flicked over him, briefly assessing his firstborn son. There was a momentary glimmer of something—almost like approval—but it vanished quickly, as though it had never been. Denethor’s lips curled into a thin, disapproving line, and his voice dropped, laced with a cold edge. “They say you vanquished the enemy almost single-handedly,” he said, his words dripping with calculation, as though he were sizing up the magnitude of Boromir’s victory not with pride but with suspicion.
Boromir shook his head, his jaw tightening, but he kept his composure. “They exaggerate. The victory belongs to Faramir as well,” he said, his eyes flickering briefly to his brother, who stood a few paces behind him, his expression wary and guarded.
At this, Denethor’s gaze turned to Faramir, his eyes hardening as they landed on his second son. Faramir, ever the quiet one, met his father’s gaze with a subdued nod, but there was no warmth in his posture—just the rigid form of a soldier who had long been used to his father’s cold criticisms. Denethor’s face twisted into something like disdain as he surveyed Faramir’s slender figure and pale countenance, which seemed to shrink under the weight of Denethor’s unspoken judgment.
“But for Faramir,” Denethor’s voice turned sharp, his words like a lash, “this city would still be standing.”
Faramir’s shoulders stiffened at the accusation, his normally composed expression faltering for a fleeting moment. The color drained from his face, and the brightness that had briefly touched his eyes evaporated. He took a step back, his gaze dropping to the cracked stone beneath his boots, as though the very ground could swallow him up.
“Are you not entrusted to protect it?” Denethor pressed, his voice low and venomous. He took another step toward Faramir, who instinctively recoiled but held his ground. There was no fear in Faramir’s eyes—not outwardly—but the deep hurt that flickered there spoke volumes.
Faramir swallowed, his voice steady though the words came out strained. “Our numbers were too few.” The words were simple, but they carried the weight of a thousand battles fought and lost—his own pride fractured by circumstances beyond his control.
“Too few,” Denethor repeated, his voice dripping with contempt. “You let the enemy walk in and take it on a whim. Always you cast a poor reflection on me.” His eyes narrowed, and his gaze seemed to pierce through Faramir, seeing not the son standing before him but the weakness he believed lurked in his very blood.
Faramir flinched as though struck, but he did not defend himself. Instead, he lowered his gaze even further, the shame of his father’s words sinking deep into his chest. The ache of being perpetually overshadowed by Boromir, the burden of never being enough in Denethor’s eyes, weighed heavily upon him. And yet, despite the sting, there was no anger in his response—only quiet acceptance, the resignation of a son long accustomed to this cruel treatment.
“That is not my intent,” Faramir murmured, his voice a whisper now, barely audible over the distant sounds of the soldiers still celebrating. His words seemed to vanish into the wind, unheard, forgotten by the man who stood before him.
Boromir, who had been silently observing the exchange, his fists clenched at his sides, could no longer contain his rising anger. His jaw tightened, his lips pressed into a thin line. He stepped forward, his chest rising with the sharp intake of breath. “You give him no credit,” Boromir said, his voice low but firm, the anger in his tone palpable. “And yet he tries to do your will.” His eyes burned with an intensity that matched the fire in his words, and for a brief moment, he wondered if this was the breaking point between them—the point where his father’s coldness would drive his brother further into the shadows.
Denethor dismissed Boromir’s words with a flick of his hand, his expression unreadable. He turned away, as though the subject were of no consequence to him. Boromir’s fists tightened, the urge to shout rising within him, but he held himself back, knowing it would do no good.
“We have more urgent matters to discuss,” Denethor said with a dismissive wave of his hand, as though the fate of Osgiliath—and his own sons—meant little in comparison to the schemes that churned behind his eyes. He motioned for Boromir to follow him, leading him away from the men, toward the shadows of the city’s ruined walls.
“The Elves,” Denethor began, his voice now quieter, but laced with suspicion and conspiracy. “Elrond of Rivendell has called a meeting. He does not say why, but I have guessed its purpose. It is rumored that the weapon of the enemy has been found.”
Boromir froze, his eyes narrowing, his heart thumping in his chest as the implication sank in. “The One Ring,” he whispered, almost unwilling to speak the name aloud. “Isildur’s Bane.”
Denethor’s grim nod confirmed his worst fears. “It has fallen into the hands of the Elves,” he continued, his voice low but urgent. “Do you not see? They will seek to destroy it, or worse, wield it for themselves. Men, Dwarves, Wizards—none can be trusted. And Gondor will be left defenseless.”
Boromir’s gaze turned inward, troubled by the prospect. The Ring was a perilous thing—a weapon of unimaginable power, capable of unraveling all that they sought to protect. “Power such as this must come to Gondor!” Denethor’s voice rose again, filled with an obsessive fervor. “Only we have the strength to wield it!”
Boromir did not respond immediately. He clenched his jaw, his brow furrowed in deep thought, the shadows of doubt creeping into his mind. Despite his loyalty to his father, the idea of claiming such a weapon—one so dangerous, so corrupting—filled him with an unshakable unease. “The Ring is perilous, Father,” Boromir said finally, his voice strained, conflicted. “Its power could destroy us as surely as it could destroy the enemy.”
Denethor’s eyes flashed with a glint of madness, the desperation of a man who would do anything to secure Gondor’s future, even if it meant sacrificing its soul. “Gondor must have it! And we shall be the ones to wield it! No one else can.”
Boromir, still torn by the weight of his father’s words, felt the chasm between them growing ever wider. But before he could voice his dissent, Denethor cut him off, his gaze turning to Faramir, who had remained a silent observer in the shadows.
“You will go,” Denethor said sharply, his voice cold and commanding. “If this is a senseless errand, it suits you well enough.”
Faramir stiffened, his heart sinking, but he did not speak. He was all too familiar with the sting of Denethor’s commands. His shoulders tensed, but his face betrayed nothing—no defiance, no hope, just the quiet acceptance of a son whose worth was measured only by the shadow of his brother’s greatness.
“Father,” Boromir began, his voice rising in protest, but Denethor silenced him with a mere wave of his hand.
“You will remain here,” Denethor said, his tone final. “You are Gondor’s true leader. Gondor’s pride. I will not risk you on this fool’s errand.”
Boromir exchanged a long glance with Faramir, his heart heavy with the weight of their father’s decision. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came.
Denethor’s voice softened, though the venom remained. “Do not fail me again, Faramir. You are accustomed to failure, are you not?”
Faramir met his father’s gaze, his expression weary but resolute. There was no anger in his eyes—only a quiet, undying sorrow. “I will do what you command.”
Denethor nodded curtly, his robes swirling around him like the dark clouds that followed him wherever he went. He turned and strode away without another word, leaving the brothers in the silence of the ruined city. Boromir stood frozen, his fists clenched in frustration, torn between the anger he felt for his father’s treatment of Faramir and the helplessness that swelled in his chest.
Faramir, though, simply stood there, his face a mask of resigned quietude. He approached Boromir, offering a faint, weary smile that seemed to come from a place far deeper than mere fatigue.
“It is as he wishes,” Faramir said softly, his voice betraying a sadness that could not be hidden.
Boromir placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, his gaze dark and filled with a sorrow of his own. “You deserve better than this,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
Faramir shook his head, his smile never reaching his eyes. “What we deserve matters little. Only what must be done.”
They stood in silence, the weight of their father’s words hanging between them like a shroud, the distant sounds of revelry from the soldiers growing ever fainter. Above them, the banner of Gondor flapped proudly, but even its gleaming White Tree could not banish the shadows that loomed over the brothers.
***
The moon was pale and thin above the ruined crown of Weathertop, its light feeble against the gathering dark. Rían moved silently through the jagged stones, her cloak blending with the shadows. The faint cries of the Nazgûl had already sent her pulse quickening—dread coursing through her veins like ice—but she forced herself to focus, to steady her breathing. She had tracked Aragorn for days, keeping to hidden paths, though she hadn’t expected to find him embroiled in a battle against such foes.
Her sharp gaze caught the flicker of firelight below, and she crept closer, careful to keep to the cover of the rocks. There, in the clearing, was Aragorn—her chieftain, her kinsman—standing between four small figures and the towering shapes of the Nazgûl. His sword was drawn, but it seemed dull and weak against the black robes of the Ringwraiths. Around him, the hobbits huddled near the fire, their faces pale with terror.
Her stomach clenched as she counted the figures. Five. Five of the Nine. And they were closing in, their movements deliberate, their whispers cold and venomous on the night air. Aragorn was shouting something, but the words seemed swallowed by the unnatural chill.
The shadows seemed to press closer, and for a moment, Rían hesitated, her hand hovering over the hilt of her sword. Every fiber of her being screamed to flee—to turn and leave the cursed wraiths to their work—but she gritted her teeth and forced herself forward. She had not survived the fall of her home, the death of her family, only to cower now.
With a swift, silent motion, she drew her sword, its ancient steel catching the faint light of the moon. The sword’s edge gleamed with a faint silver sheen, as though eager for battle. She took a deep breath, her muscles coiled and ready, like a serpent preparing to strike. Then she moved.
The first Ringwraith never saw her coming. She swept down from the rocks with all the swiftness of a hunting hawk, her blade slicing through the air. Her blade struck the creature’s shoulder, the steel shuddering on contact, but the wraith reeled back with a scream like grinding stone.
Aragorn turned, his gray eyes widening in brief surprise before recognition lit his face. “Rían!” he called, his voice sharp but grateful.
She said nothing, her focus trained on the Nazgûl that now turned toward her, their hissing voices thick with malice. One surged forward, its jagged blade slicing through the air toward her. She stepped back just in time, the tip of the weapon missing her by a hair. With a sharp twist of her wrist, she struck back, her blade slashing across the wraith’s chest.
The Nazgûl screeched and staggered, but another was already advancing. Rían ducked low, the black blade slicing over her head, and drove the blade of her sword upward in a powerful thrust. The creature hissed and fell back, its dark cloak trailing smoke.
To her side, Aragorn was a blur of motion, his torch burning fiercely as he drove another wraith away from the fire. The hobbits cowered near the flames, Sam gripping his sword with trembling hands. Rían’s heart clenched as her eyes flicked toward Frodo, who lay motionless on the ground, his face as pale as death.
“Frodo!” Sam cried, his voice breaking.
“We must hold them!” Aragorn shouted, his torch swinging in a wide arc.
Rían gritted her teeth and stepped closer to the fire, forcing herself between the hobbits and the advancing wraiths. She raised her sword, the edge catching the firelight, and met the nearest wraith head-on.
Its blade came crashing down, and she blocked it with all her strength. The impact rattled through her arms, but she held firm, her teeth bared in defiance. With a sharp twist, she forced the wraith back and swung her sword in a wide, precise arc. The creature hissed and retreated, its cloak smoldering as it neared the fire.
The battle was chaos—a flurry of movement and shadow, of flame and steel. But slowly, the tide began to turn. Aragorn’s torch burned brighter, its light driving the wraiths back step by step. Rían pressed forward, her strikes quick and unrelenting, until at last the remaining Nazgûl let out an ear-splitting shriek and fled into the night.
The clearing fell silent, save for the crackle of the fire and the labored breathing of the companions. Rían lowered her sword, her arms trembling from the strain, and glanced at Aragorn. His face was streaked with sweat, but his eyes burned with determination.
“Is everyone all right?” he asked, his voice tight with urgency.
“I think so,” Sam said, though his voice shook. He knelt beside Frodo, his hands trembling as he touched the hobbit’s shoulder. “But Frodo—he’s hurt bad.”
Aragorn was already moving, kneeling beside Frodo to examine the wound. Rían sheathed her sword and stepped closer, her sharp gaze scanning the horizon for any sign of the wraiths’ return.
“The blade was Morgul-forged,” Aragorn muttered grimly, his hands gentle but sure. “The shard is still inside him, driving deeper with every moment. If it reaches his heart—” He paused, his jaw tightening.
Rían crouched beside him, her voice firm despite the lingering tension in her chest. “Then we must take him to Rivendell,” she said. “Elrond alone has the skill to heal him.”
Aragorn nodded, his expression resolute. “We leave at first light. But the road will be perilous. The Nazgûl will not rest until they have reclaimed their prize.”
Rían met his gaze, her own eyes steady and determined. “Then they will have to go through me first. I will see this task through, Aragorn, if you will have me.”
For a moment, Aragorn simply looked at her, his expression softening. Despite the danger, a faint smile touched his lips. “You have always been steadfast, Rían. Your blade and your will are welcome.”
She nodded, gripping the hilt of her sword once more as she rose. “Then we will see Frodo to Rivendell. And if the Nazgûl come again, I will show them the steel of Arnor.”
Her words rang with quiet resolve, and though the night was heavy with shadow, the firelight glinted off her blade like the promise of dawn.
***
Frodo lay on the ground, his body trembling as his eyes, once bright, grew cloudy. His breath came in ragged gasps as he stared up at the stone trolls, their twisted forms looming over him like silent sentinels of death. Sam crouched by his side, helpless.
“Look, Frodo,” Sam said, his voice catching with a mixture of awe and dread. “It’s Mr. Bilbo’s trolls.”
Frodo’s breathing hitched, his eyes wide with recognition, but his body grew colder. Sam pressed his palm against Frodo’s forehead, his face etched with panic.
“He’s going cold!” Sam gasped, his voice breaking as he felt the chill that had begun to claim his friend.
Aragorn, standing between the hulking stone figures of the trolls, lifted a torch high. The flame flickered in the stillness of the night as the sound of distant screeches echoed through the trees.
“He’s passing into the Shadow world,” Aragorn said gravely, his voice carrying above the noise of the battle stirring in the distance. “He’ll soon become a wraith like them.”
Frodo’s gasps grew more labored as his eyes fluttered, struggling to focus. Sam’s heart thudded in his chest, and his eyes darted toward the trees as the cries of the wraiths grew louder.
“They’re close!” Merry shouted, his voice tight with fear.
Aro looked to Rían, who had been quietly observing the scene from the edge of the group. “Rían,” he said urgently, his voice calm despite the tension in the air. “Find Athelas, quickly.”
Rían nodded without hesitation, her eyes flicking to the distant thickets where the herb was known to grow. She sprinted into the shadows, her boots soft against the earth as she moved swiftly through the trees. Moments later, she returned, the delicate green leaves of Athelas clutched in her hand. She pressed them into Aragorn's palm as he chewed them quickly, the sharp, aromatic scent filling the air.
“Thank you,” he murmured, his focus entirely on Frodo as he leaned down to press the crushed leaves to Frodo’s wound.
An elleth appeared from between the trees, her figure like a vision of light against the deepening night. Her long, dark hair flowed behind her, shimmering in the moonlight, and her eyes held the wisdom of ages as she urged her horse forward with steady grace. The horse, Asfaloth, moved with the ease of the wind itself, his hooves barely touching the ground as he galloped through the clearing, the urgency of their mission quickening their pace.
Aragorn's gaze met hers as she approached, her face etched with concern, but her resolve unwavering. She guided the horse with a masterful touch, bringing it to a swift stop beside them, her hand still holding Frodo gently as though she could hold him to life with her own strength.
“Frodo, téna’ n’illúvatar,” Arwen murmured softly in Elvish, her voice carrying the weight of her words. (Frodo, I have come to save you.)
Sam looked at her, wide-eyed, his voice filled with awe and disbelief. “She’s an elf!” he whispered urgently to Pippin, still struggling to understand what was happening.
Merry, still trying to understand, turned to Rían. “Who is she?”
Rían glanced at the elf, watching as Arwen tended to Frodo with a grace and confidence that only someone of her lineage could possess. “She is Lady Arwen, daughter of Lord Elrond of Rivendell,” Rían explained.
Arwen’s eyes turned to Frodo, her hand brushing his forehead as she wiped the sweat from his brow. The wound on his shoulder was darkening, the blood congealing, and she could feel the pull of death at his side. Her brow furrowed with concern, but her voice remained calm, firm, and gentle.
“He’s fading,” Arwen said, her voice soft but resolute. She knelt down, carefully pulling back Frodo’s shirt, revealing the deep wound that had nearly claimed his life. “We must get him to my father,” she continued, urgency now present in her tone. “He is the only one who can help.”
Aragorn moved quickly, lifting Frodo into his arms with a quiet, determined strength.
Arwen met Aragorn's eyes for a brief moment, understanding passing between them. “I’ve been searching for you for two days,” she said, her voice full of worry. “There are five wraiths behind you. The others, I do not know where they are.”
Aragorn's face tightened, a fleeting shadow of worry crossing his features. “Stay with the Hobbits,” he said quietly. “I will send horses.”
But Arwen shook her head, her gaze hardening with purpose. “Hon mabathon. Rochon ellint im,” she declared firmly, her voice filled with the strength of her lineage. (I am the faster rider. I’ll take him.)
Sam, confused and a little overwhelmed, leaned closer to Rían. “What… what are they saying?” His voice was full of uncertainty.
Rían hesitated for a moment, her eyes flicking between Arwen and Aragorn. “I don’t know,” she admitted with a rueful smile. “I’ve never learned the Elven language, though I’ve heard enough of it over the years to recognize some words. But no, I can’t understand what they’re saying.”
Pippin, still confused by everything happening around him, stepped closer to Rían. “But you understand enough to know she’s helping, don’t you?”
Rían nodded, her gaze softening as she watched the scene unfold. “I know that much,” she said quietly. “And that’s enough for now.”
Aragorn's brow furrowed, his concern evident, but he did not argue further. He nodded, his grip tightening slightly on her hand. “Andelu i ven,” he said quietly, the words heavy with warning. (The road is too dangerous.)
Pippin, still processing the surrealness of the situation, leaned toward Merry and whispered, “What are they saying?”
Arwen turned her eyes toward Aragorn, a soft yet unwavering smile touching her lips. “Frodo fêr. Ae athradon i hir, tur gwaith nin beriatha hon.” Her voice was steady and calm, filled with the confidence of one who had long understood the burden of life and death. (Frodo is dying. If I can get across the river, the power of my people will protect him. I do not fear them.)
Aragorn's hand tightened around hers, his heart evidently conflicted but resolved. “Be iest lân,” he whispered, his eyes locked on hers. (As you wish.)
Arwen mounted her horse with graceful precision, her movements as fluid as the wind itself. She gently guided Frodo’s limp form onto the saddle behind her, her hands steady as she adjusted him carefully. With a quick command, Asfaloth leapt forward, his hooves pounding against the earth as they sped into the night.
“Noro lim, Asfaloth, noro lim!” Arwen cried, her voice carrying across the battlefield as the steed surged forward, faster than the eye could follow. (Ride fast, Asfaloth, ride fast!)
The clearing was left in a quiet stillness as Aragorn stood, his eyes still on the path Arwen had taken. Sam watched, his face pale and full of worry, the sounds of the night growing distant.
“What are you doing?!” Sam shouted, his voice rising with panic. “Those wraiths are still out there!”
Aragorn stood silent, his gaze fixed on the trail Arwen had vanished down, his heart heavy with the weight of what had just transpired. He did not answer Sam’s question, for there were no words that could ease the tension in his heart. He only hoped, with all that was left in him, that Arwen would make it across the river with Frodo, before the darkness could claim him entirely.
***
The sun was rising over the valley of Rivendell as the weary travelers crossed the final bend of the narrow path, its golden light filtering through the trees and glinting off the distant waterfalls. The sharp chill of the night lingered in the air, though the sight of Rivendell’s serene beauty felt like a balm after the long and harrowing journey.
Rían paused at the edge of the path, her breath catching in her throat as she took in the view. She had heard of Imladris in songs and tales, the hidden refuge of Elrond Half-elven, but even her childhood imaginings had not done it justice. The golden and silver spires of the Last Homely House rose above the mist, framed by the jagged peaks of the mountains. Streams wove like threads of light through the valley, their song mingling with the faint murmur of Elvish voices carried on the wind.
For the first time in weeks, Rían felt a flicker of peace. But it was fleeting. Her thoughts shifted to Frodo, she hoped Arwen brought him here on time
“Come,” Aragorn said softly, his voice low but commanding. “We are here.”
They descended into the valley, where Elrond’s attendants awaited them. Rían stepped aside as the Elves moved to greet Aragorn, their movements full of grace. The tension in Aragorn’s shoulders eased slightly as he exchanged a few words with the elves in their tounge.
Sam made to follow, his hands clenched into nervous fists. “Will Frodo be all right?” he asked, his voice almost breaking.
Elrond himself appeared then, tall and grave, his presence both soothing and commanding. “The poison has not yet reached his heart,” Elrond said, his deep voice calm but firm. “But it is a grave wound. He is strong, stronger than he knows. I will do all that I can.”
Sam hesitated, his loyalty warring with his uncertainty, until Rían stepped forward and laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. “If Lord Elrond says Frodo will recover, then trust him,” she said, her tone quiet but reassuring.
Sam nodded reluctantly, though his eyes remained fixed on the doorway where Lord Elrond had disappeared. Merry and Pippin appeared beside him, their expressions a mix of worry and awe at their surroundings.
“It’s like a dream,” Pippin murmured, glancing around at the cascading waterfalls and graceful arches of Rivendell.
“One I’d rather not have come to under such circumstances,” Merry replied, though he, too, could not help but marvel at the beauty of the place.
Rían allowed herself a small, fleeting smile at their exchange. The hobbits’ resilience never ceased to amaze her, even in the face of such overwhelming danger. She turned as Aragorn approached, his face grave but touched with relief.
“Rían,” he said, his tone both formal and familiar, “thank you.”
She frowned, tilting her head slightly. “For what?”
“For standing with me,” Aragorn said. “For keeping Frodo alive when all seemed lost.”
Rían shrugged lightly, though her gaze was steady. “It was the right thing to do,” she said simply. “You would have done the same for me.”
A faint smile touched Aragorn’s lips, but it faded quickly. “I must ask more of you still,” he said, his tone growing serious.
Rían’s brow furrowed. “What is it?”
Aragorn glanced toward the great hall of Rivendell, where voices could already be heard in heated debate. “Elrond has called a council. Representatives from all free peoples of Middle-earth have been summoned to discuss what must be done with the weapon of the enemy.” His gaze shifted back to her, sharp and piercing. “I want you to stay."
Rían’s first instinct was to refuse. She had spent her life in the wilds, far from the councils of kings and lords. Her place was on the edges of civilization, battling the darkness in the shadows, not in the halls of power.
“I am no diplomat, Aragorn,” she said, her voice tinged with unease. “What use could I possibly be at such a council?”
Aragorn’s expression did not waver. “Your skill with a blade is not the only strength you possess, Rían. You have a voice, one that has been shaped by the struggles of our people. You have seen what is at stake. And you are one of the Dúnedain. Your blood is of Númenor, and that alone grants you a place in this council.”
Rían’s mouth tightened at the mention of Númenor, the shadow of her lineage an ever-present weight on her shoulders. “You are our chieftain, Aragorn. My duty is to follow you, to serve where you lead. But this—this is not my place.”
Aragorn stepped closer, his tone softening but losing none of its firmness. “You have more courage than you realize, Rían. You stood against the Nazgûl when others would have fled. You carried Frodo through the wilds when all hope seemed lost. Do not tell me this is not your place.”
Rían hesitated, the conviction in Aragorn’s voice unsettling the walls she had built around herself. She looked away, her gaze drifting to the distant waterfalls. The beauty of Rivendell seemed almost otherworldly, untouched by the shadow that loomed over the rest of Middle-earth.
At last, she gave a curt nod. “As you wish, my lord. But do not expect me to be gentle with fools.”
A faint smile touched Aragorn’s lips. “That, Rían, is precisely why I ask you to stay.”
Rían exhaled, the weight of his request settling heavily on her shoulders. She had never sought the burden of leadership, but she would not refuse her chieftain. With a final nod, she turned toward the house, her steps deliberate.
***
As she entered the halls of Rivendell, the faint echoes of Elvish music drifted through the air, mingling with the distant murmur of voices. She felt out of place in such surroundings, her rough leathers and weathered cloak a sharp contrast to the grace and elegance of the Elves. Yet she squared her shoulders, her resolve firm.
Whatever this council would decide, she would bear witness to it. Middle-earth was at a crossroads, and she would not shy away from the path that lay ahead. For the sake of Frodo, for the sake of her people, and for the hope that the shadow might yet be defeated, she would stay.
Rían leaned against one of the smooth stone columns in the great hall of Rivendell, arms folded across her chest, her keen eyes following the movements of the Elves as they went about their business. There was a sense of tranquility here—almost a heaviness of peace—and it felt strange after the relentless urgency of their journey. Her thoughts were still with Frodo, the faint lines of worry etching her brow despite Elrond’s assurances, but for the moment, she allowed herself a brief respite.
The soft chatter of the hobbits caught her attention. Merry and Pippin had just entered the hall, both looking a little out of place in the company of Elves, but their faces were bright with curiosity, eyes wide as they took in the beauty of the Elvish architecture.
Merry, ever the practical one, was studying a vase of flowers with great interest, turning it slowly in his hands, while Pippin seemed completely entranced by the hanging tapestries that adorned the walls. The two of them made their way towards Rían, their lighthearted energy a stark contrast to the weight of their recent travels.
“Well, this is different,” Pippin remarked, his voice carrying easily in the hall. “Not a tavern, not a tree, and certainly not a hole in the ground. This place is… well, it’s certainly grand!”
Rían couldn’t help but grin at the sight of Pippin, who was looking at everything with the kind of unabashed wonder that made him appear more like a child than the brave hobbit who had walked beside Aragorn and her on the road.
“Aye,” Rían agreed with a chuckle, “it certainly isn’t a hole in the ground. Though I suspect it’s not entirely to your liking, is it?” she teased, giving him a sidelong glance. Pippin gave her an exaggerated sigh.
“Nope! No good food or drink in sight yet,” he lamented, puffing out his chest in mock indignation. “I thought Elrond’s house would be full of all sorts of treats, but so far, all I’ve seen is…well…stone.” He waved his hand around the magnificent hall as though the polished surfaces and intricate carvings were mere inconveniences.
Rían laughed softly at the sight of him, his lighthearted mood infectious. “You’d think you’d be used to stone by now. It’s what keeps the wilds away from our door.” She tapped the edge of the column next to her with her fingers in a rhythmic motion, and Pippin, taking this as an invitation, leaned in, his eyes gleaming.
“Stone is well and good for keeping things out, but it doesn’t keep the ale flowing, does it?” He winked and Rían couldn’t help but shake her head.
“Not sure there’s much ale flowing here, Master Pippin. Elves prefer their wine, I hear.” Rían’s tone was light, but a playful glint lingered in her eyes. “But don’t worry. If I have anything to say about it, there might be a tankard or two before long.”
Pippin’s eyes brightened at the thought. “Aha! There’s hope for you yet, Rían! You’ll fit right in with us hobbits, you will.”
Merry, who had been listening quietly to their exchange, turned from his examination of the flowers and gave Rían a knowing smile. “You’re not wrong, Pippin,” he said. “Rían’s got the spirit of a hobbit in her, I think.”
Rían raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Do I now?” she asked, amused. “And here I thought you hobbits were all about comfort and food.”
Merry grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Oh, we are,” he replied, “but we’re also about adventure. You’ve been with us long enough to know that.”
“Adventure, eh?” Rían mused. She crossed her arms, leaning back against the stone pillar and reflecting on their travels. “I’ve been on a few adventures myself, though I’ve never thought of them as… comfortable ones.”
Pippin let out a dramatic gasp. “I knew it! You’ve got hobbit in you, I’m telling you.” He threw a triumphant glance at Merry, who just shook his head, still grinning.
Rían’s expression softened as she looked at the two hobbits, seeing the weariness in their faces but also the quiet strength in their eyes. It was strange to think of them as adventurers—small, unassuming creatures—but they had proven time and again that bravery wasn’t always measured by size. She had seen them face dangers that most men would have fled from, and she had seen them stand tall in the face of impossible odds.
“Your courage is something,” Rían said quietly, the warmth of her words carried with a steady conviction. “I’ve been in battle beside many men, but none have shown the spirit you two have.”
Merry and Pippin exchanged glances, both of them clearly taken aback by the compliment. Pippin, ever the cheeky one, scratched the back of his head and gave her a sheepish grin. “Oh, we try our best, of course. But I’m sure you’ve seen much braver warriors than us.”
Rían’s eyes softened as she looked at Pippin, a wry smile curling her lips. “I’ve seen warriors with more skill, that’s true,” she admitted. “But there’s a fire in you, both of you, that I don’t often see in men twice your size.”
Merry leaned closer to Pippin, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “You hear that, Pip? We’ve got fire. That’s something, isn’t it?”
Pippin looked up, his eyes shining with mock seriousness. “Fire, eh? I always knew we had a bit of it in us. Now all we need is someone to light the way to the kitchens, and we’re good to go!”
Rían chuckled, shaking her head. “You may be able to light the way to the kitchens, but I suspect it will be a long wait. The elves are too busy with their council to think about such things.”
At the mention of the council, Merry sobered, his face dimming slightly. “Aye, the council…” He glanced toward the far side of the hall where the high table was being prepared. “We’ll be joining it soon, won’t we?”
Rían nodded, her expression shifting to one of quiet resolve. “Yes, but not yet. For now, we wait.”
The three of them stood there for a moment, looking out across the hall, the tension in the air settling, if only for a moment.
“Well,” Pippin said, giving an exaggerated stretch, “while we wait, how about a walk? I’d love to see more of Rivendell before we’re all stuffed into a room with important folks and talk of doom and destiny.”
“Maybe not too much walking,” Merry teased, “Or else we might end up running into someone who insists we start discussing the doom of Middle-earth before we’ve had a good meal.”
With that, the tension lifted, and Rían laughed. “Lead the way, then,” she said, gesturing toward the door, “but I’ll warn you now, if we’re caught stealing food from the kitchens, I won’t be saving you.”
Pippin flashed a mischievous grin. “I’m not worried,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve got a way of charming even the sternest of cooks.”
Rían rolled her eyes, but the playful camaraderie of the hobbits filled her with warmth. For all the hardships they had endured, there was a simple joy in this moment—an easy comfort in the company of friends who had become family in the truest sense.
Together, the three of them stepped away from the shadows of Rivendell’s halls, finding a moment of respite in laughter, and in the strange, shared understanding that whatever was to come, they would face it together
***
The soft murmur of voices echoed through the cool, airy halls of Rivendell, mingling with the sound of running water from the streams outside. Rían had found a quiet corner in the great hall, a place where the constant motion of Elves and travelers could be observed without overwhelming her senses. Her thoughts were still with Frodo, though she had no doubt that Elrond and his healers would see to the hobbit’s care. The wound from the Morgul blade was poison—no doubt of that—but Elrond was no ordinary healer, and Rían had heard enough about him to know that few were better equipped to deal with such a grievous injury.
But even as her mind turned to these things, there was no escaping the knot of worry in her stomach. She had seen the look in Sam’s eyes when Frodo was carried away, that raw, unfettered fear that only a true friend could feel. Sam had been the one to hold Frodo together through so many trials, and now his heart was torn by the thought of losing him.
Rían had watched him from across the hall, pacing restlessly, his hands wringing together as though he could somehow hold his companion’s fate in his grip. She’d seen that kind of fear before—saw it in the eyes of those who had lost comrades, those who had seen too much darkness and no way to hold it at bay.
It had troubled her to see Sam in such a state. She knew the depths of his devotion to Frodo, the loyalty that bound them tighter than blood ever could. She knew, too, that he was struggling with the weight of the situation, unable to act, to do anything but wait.
Her heart moved toward the little hobbit as she stood and made her way toward him, her boots silent on the stone floors. He was near one of the tall windows, gazing out at the waterfalls in the distance, though his eyes were unfocused, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.
Sam’s voice was small, almost lost in the sound of the rushing water. “I don’t know what to do, Rían,” he said, his words heavy with emotion. “I’ve never felt like this before… like everything’s falling apart. Frodo—he’s always been the strong one, the one, and now… now he’s the one who needs help, and I can’t—”
Rían stepped forward, her boots clicking softly against the stone, and placed a gentle hand on Sam’s shoulder. The simple contact seemed to startle him, and he turned, blinking as though surprised to find her standing there. His face was pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes from the sleepless nights.
“Sam,” Rían said quietly, her voice calm, yet full of that gentle strength she had honed over years in the wilds. “You’ve been through so much already, and yet here you are, still standing.” She paused for a moment, letting her words settle in. “You’re stronger than you think. Stronger than you believe.”
Sam’s lips pressed together in a tight line, but he said nothing. He simply looked down, his fists clenched at his sides.
“I don’t feel strong, Rían,” he said at last, his voice cracking slightly. “I feel like I’m losing him, and I can’t… I can’t lose him. He’s my best friend. My master. He’s everything.”
The words stung, and Rían’s heart ached for him. The bond between Sam and Frodo was like no other—unshakable, unwavering—and it had carried them through more hardships than any of them should have endured. She could see it in Sam’s eyes now—the overwhelming weight of that love, that fierce, unrelenting devotion. It was a love that had carried him all this way, and it was clear that the thought of losing Frodo felt like the very earth was slipping away beneath him.
Rían stepped closer, her eyes soft but firm. “Frodo is strong, too,” she said gently. “You must know that. He is a survivor, Sam. He has survived so much already, and his heart is fierce, even if it’s hidden beneath all that gentleness.”
Sam let out a breath, his shoulders slumping slightly. He wiped his hand across his face, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. “I don’t know if I can do this, Rían. What if—what if I can’t help him? What if he—”
Rían reached out then, her hands gentle as she cupped his face in her palms, her thumbs brushing away the few stray tears that had gathered in the corners of his eyes. Sam froze at the unexpected gesture, his brown eyes wide, and for a moment, there was only silence between them.
“Samwise Gamgee,” Rían said softly, her voice unwavering. “You’ve carried him this far. Don’t you dare believe you’re weak now. You’ve fought beside him, and you’ve never left his side. That is the greatest thing any friend can offer. Frodo is not beyond help. He’s still alive, still breathing, and with Elrond’s care, he will recover. But you have to believe that, too. You have to believe in his strength as much as you believe in yours.”
Sam blinked up at her, as though trying to process her words. The storm in his eyes had not yet passed, but it seemed, for the moment, a little less consuming. He took in a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort to steady himself.
“I’m scared,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I know,” Rían said, her gaze never leaving his. “We all are. But fear is not the same as giving up. You’ve faced fear every step of this journey, and you’ve not once faltered. You’ll face it again, and again, but you won’t let it define you, Sam. Not now, not ever.”
Sam swallowed hard, the weight of her words sinking into him, and for a moment, he simply stood there, his gaze lost in the distance. Then, slowly, he nodded. It was a small gesture, but it was enough.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice rough. “I just… I needed someone to say it. Someone who wasn’t…” He stopped, his voice catching in his throat. “I needed to hear that Frodo will be all right.”
Rían’s heart swelled at the trust in Sam’s words. “He will be, Sam. I promise you that. Elrond will heal him. And when he’s well, you’ll both continue this journey. Together.”
The hobbit let out a shaky breath, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “I suppose… I suppose you’re right.” He gave a small, tentative smile. “Guess I just needed someone to tell me to stop worrying so much. It’s just hard, you know?”
“I do know,” Rían said softly. “But worrying will not make Frodo’s healing any quicker. What will help him is seeing you calm, seeing you strong, even when you feel like you’re not. He needs you, Sam, more than ever. You’ve been his anchor, and that is something not even the darkness can take from you.”
Sam nodded again, more firmly this time, as though the weight on his chest had lessened a little. “I won’t let him down. I won’t.”
Rían smiled, stepping back, her hand still resting gently on his shoulder. “I know you won’t, Samwise Gamgee. Not now, not ever.”
With that, Sam took one last look toward the healing rooms, where Frodo lay in the care of Elrond’s healers, and exhaled, his shoulders seeming just a little lighter. He nodded again, and this time, there was no hesitation in his step when he turned away.
“You’re right,” he said, with renewed determination. “I’ll be here for him. I’ll always be here for him.”
And though Rían knew there was still a long road ahead, a road fraught with uncertainty and darkness, she also knew that Samwise Gamgee—braver than any warrior she had ever met—would not let the shadow take his friend. Together, they would fight for Frodo’s life, as they had fought for each other’s in the darkest of days.