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Chapter Text

Chapter One
Daughter of the Steward

Day. The light of the glaring afternoon sun was undeniably harsh for those left to bake under its rays. Luckily for the Rangers of Ithilien, their home was deep in the forests of Gondor’s eastern regions, where the unforgiving sun was halted in its brutal assault by the towering pines, oaks, and elms that sunk their roots deep into the earth. Only the most determined of sunbeams managed to pierce the moon-land’s canopies and, tamed by the ordeal, fall in gentle patches amongst the shrubs and underbrush sprawled across the forest floor.

From the greatest of Ithilien’s hills fell the waterfalls of Henneth Annûn, the Window of the West. It was from behind these falls that the captain of Ithilien’s rangers issued his orders and commands. Faramir was grateful for the fact that the sun was incapable of penetrating the wall of water that hid the base from sight, as the severe glare would have done nothing helpful for the pressure building behind his eyes. The captain stood before a small table, his lieutenant Madril on the other side as they worked to roll out a map of the realm.

“What news?” Faramir asked, squinting at the map in the dim light offered by candles and sconces, the demon in his skull pounding a victorious refrain against his eardrums at the added strain.

“Our scouts report Saruman has attacked Rohan,” Madril began, gesturing to Gondor’s northern neighbor on the parchment. “Théoden’s people have fled to Helm’s Deep.” The gnarled warrior then moved his finger from Rohan to the land bordering Mordor’s mountains. “But we must look to our own borders. Faramir, orcs are on the move. Sauron is marshaling an army. Easterlings and Southrons are passing through the Black Gate.”

“How many?”

“Some thousands,” Madril replied gravely. “More come every day.”

“Who is covering the river to the north?”

“We pulled five hundred men at Osgiliath,” the lieutenant continued his report, tapping on the mark representing the city nestled against the shores of the Great River. “But if the city is attacked, we will be incapable of holding it.”

Faramir ran his finger over the map, the worn parchment smooth beneath his callused hand as he traced the routes of the enemy. “Saruman attacks from Isengard. Sauron from Mordor. The fight will come to men on both fronts.” He sighed wearily. “Gondor is weak. Sauron will strike us soon, and he will strike hard. He knows now we do not have the strength to repel him.”

The captain was then struck by a new thought as he recalled the day’s skirmish with the Haradrim. “What of Rimiriel? Have she and the other scouts reported anything useful?”

Faramir waited a long moment, looking over to his lieutenant when no response was offered to find the warrior’s face overcome with hesitation, tentative even in something as simple as meeting his leader eye-to-eye. “What is it, Madril?”

At the sound of his name, the seasoned ranger finally brought his gaze level with Faramir’s. Though unable to ignore a direct inquiry from his commander, he was still slow to speak. “Your sister and the others have yet to report in.”

Faramir’s stomach bottomed out as his heart simultaneously tried to leap into his throat. He swallowed hard before trusting himself to speak, not wishing for his distress and concern to be overly evident in his demeanor. If he could not keep control of himself, he could not hope to control his men. “Have her report directly to me as soon as she arrives. In the meantime, I shall see what we can glean from the pair we collected.”

Without another word, the young captain left his second to collect the maps, letting his feet take him out of sight of his lieutenants and the other rangers before allowing himself to stop and lean against the rough wall of one of the tunnels tracing through the hill he and his men used as their central base. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply before lifting a silent prayer to the Valar for the safety of his sister and her team. Too many men had disappeared in the forests of Ithilien as of late, never to be seen again and most likely slain by the orcs that endlessly plagued the lands. The plea did little to settle the dread in his heart, but still Faramir pressed on after a moment. There was no rest for a Captain of Gondor when war waited just over the horizon.

Faramir sat against the wall of one of the larger caves secreted behind Henneth Annûn, hunched over with his elbows resting on his knees as he massaged his temples. The pounding in his skull refused to abate, and he dismissed it as a compilation of all of the stresses building on him in the wake of the increased number of skirmishes with Mordor’s allies in the past months. He was certain that his sister would have something to ease his suffering—even just her presence as affirmation that she had not been lost on the mission he had assigned would be a balm at this point—and so he looked forward to her return. Despite all of his confidence in her abilities, however, a small part of his mind harbored the sickening dread that he would never again see his sister—at least not while he was a part of this world. That small doubt only served to increase the tempo of his head’s throbbing. He had not been ready for the Halflings’ revelations that they had been companions of his brother, whose horn had been found washed up on the banks of the Anduin, and so he certainly was not prepared to add his sister’s name to the list of kin waiting for him in the Hall of Mandos when he finally met his end.

With his eyes focused on the ground between his own feet as his fingers traced slow circles on each side of his brow in attempt to calm his wheeling thoughts, it was the crunch of boots in the dirt and the appearance of leather-bound toes only a hand’s width from his own that told Faramir he was no longer alone. Had he truly been paying attention, the captain might have recognized that the boots intruding upon his solitude were much smaller than his own or those of his men and so deduced the identity of his visitor. Instead, he waited for the trespasser to speak and acknowledge their reason for disturbing his musings.

“Headache, brother?” came a voice from above his head. “I could brew a tea that might help?”

Faramir glanced up quickly and then leapt to his feet, deep relief enveloping him from head to toe as he recognized the form before him as that of his sister. Though garbed primarily in the same green and brown as his men, and dusty and grimy from days of sneaking through the dirt and underbrush of Ithilien, there was no mistaking her face. “Rimiriel!”

“Is that relief I hear, Faramir?” she asked, her voice light as she extracted herself from her brother’s arms where he had drawn her into a tight embrace. “We were only delayed half a day!”

“Aye, but those few hours seem like a lifetime in the midst of the darkness we face,” Faramir returned, trying to appear undisturbed as he ran a scrutinizing gaze over the slighter form of the Steward’s youngest child, a frown deepening the corners of his mouth as he noticed a bruise stretching its dark shadow over one side of her jaw while a bandage tinged with blood wound tightly around her upper arm. The mottled red and white contrasted ironically with the grey fabric tied around the opposite arm to mark her position as a healer amongst the rangers. “What happened?”

“We were sidetracked…nothing we could not handle,” Rimiriel answered quickly. Faramir was certain the swift quirk of her lips into the smallest semblance of a smile was meant to be reassuring. It might have worked if not for the fact that she refused to meet her brother eye-to-eye. “What news here? The tunnels are echoing with rumors of captives.”

The captain chose to bypass his sister’s curiosity to first satisfy his own inquisition. “Where are the other scouts I sent out?”

“Reporting our findings to Madril and Damrod. I only came directly to you because I was told you requested it,” Rimiriel revealed before a spark of mixed curiosity and excitement ignited in the stormy grey eyes she shared with her brothers. “Tell me, did you really discover two Halflings? Like the stories Mithrandir told when I was young?”

Faramir had almost forgotten how his sister had clung to the old wizard’s stories and teachings just as eagerly as he had when they were children easily awed by any whom might know more of the world than they. As he read the anticipation smoothing over her face, the captain nearly succumbed to his sister’s prying just to keep the light in her eyes. It had been some time since he had seen her show interest in anything other than the duties that came with defending their homeland’s borders, and it was wonderful to see the darkness growing in Rimiriel be chased away by this novel development, even if only for a moment. Still, they each had roles to play, and so Faramir shelved his own desire to keep that exhilarated glow in his sister’s face and pressed on with more dire matters. “What news can you tell us?” he asked. “Are the Dark Lord’s forces moving as we feared?”

A wrinkle appeared between Rimiriel’s eyes as her face fell, her eyebrows drawing together and a frown pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Brother, you are avoiding my questions!”

“I am the elder and your Captain,” Faramir reminded his sister, sensing her stubbornness rising in response to his skirting of her queries. “My questions get answered first. Deliver your report and I shall tell you what you wish to know.”

Though the set of Rimiriel’s face told Faramir that she was prepared to argue, she finally sighed and took a seat on a flat rock jutting from the cave wall in silent agreement to the terms of this compromise. As the second son of the Steward of the realm reclaimed his seat, Rimiriel dragged a crate of supplies over to rest in front of the pair before pulling a folded map from a hidden pocket of her uniform and smoothing out the wrinkles as she spread it across the makeshift table. With Gondor and all of the surrounding realms clearly defined in dark ink on worn parchment, the map was nearly identical to the one Faramir had pored over with his lieutenants only a few hours before. This one, however, had new routes drawn through the woods and notes added in the margins in what the captain recognized as Rimiriel’s hand, each letter uniform and straight with no movement wasted.

“It is as we thought,” the lady revealed as she rested her hand on the southern realms of the map for a moment before running a finger up a line drawn in red ink from the Harad Road and through Ithilien. “The Haradrim move east toward the Black Gate and Mordor. The forces move in smaller numbers, with ranks staggered and disorganized, which leads me to think not all of the Southron tribes have pledged allegiance to Sauron—though we have no way to know for certain. The more pressing matter is the fact that they no longer strive to hide their movements.”

Rimiriel then pointed out the dark fortress that had once been one of Gondor’s greatest cities. “Orcs are leaving Minas Morgul by command of the Witch King,” she reported, tracing another line of red ink over the border between the forests of North and South Ithilien to Osgiliath. “The orcs are taking a clearly defined route, but they move in large, organized numbers. Our usual methods of attack would yield little success.” A lithe finger tapped the dot marking the ruins of Osgiliath where they spanned the Great River. “The Dark Lord is readying for the launch of his war. Of that I am certain. The forces of Minas Morgul will join the forces already congregated in East Osgiliath and launch their assault from there. I expect an attack at first light, if not sooner.”

Faramir watched as Rimiriel’s lips parted as if she wished to say more, her eyes intent on the map and the routes she and her men had carefully scouted over the past several days. He could practically see the wheels turning in her mind and wondered what suspicions she had pieced together but was so hesitant to share. “Is there something else, sister?”

Rimiriel looked up from the map, enabling Faramir to truly see the conflict warring in her face, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. Though the nearly-pure blood of Westernesse running through her veins gifted her with a keen awareness that meant the majority of her suspicions would later be proven correct, the Steward’s only daughter held a mistrust of her own instincts, having been taught to rely on sound knowledge and uncontestable fact, and it was only ever through gentle prodding that the Captain of Ithilien could sway his sister to share her misgivings. After another moment of battling her own doubt, she finally took a ragged breath and shared her theories with her brother and commander.

“The force moving on Osgiliath is massive—more than fifteen thousand strong,” she noted carefully. “’Tis much more than the garrison at Osgiliath is prepared to handle; they simply don’t possess the numbers. But still”—Rimiriel again traced the red ink representing the march of the Haradrim from the south—“I suspect the Dark Lord has an even larger wave of reinforcements waiting in Mordor. If the force moving on Osgiliath were the entirety of his army, why would he not direct the Southrons to Osgiliath as well?”

The unlikely scout looked to her captain as if expecting him to discredit her theory, but Faramir only nodded for her to continue, his face impassive but his eyes thoughtful as he absorbed her report.

“I suspect the battalions preparing an assault on our holdings in Osgiliath are only intended to test our defenses,” Rimiriel continued when her brother failed to contest her offering. “If the city falls and the orcs gain the fords, Sauron will be able to move his armies over the river unhindered, and that is when his full force will be set against Minas Tirith and his war will truly be launched against the world of men.” She drew a circle around Minas Tirith with her finger before leaning back from the makeshift table and letting her hands fall to her lap, suddenly seeming weary. “How are we to defend against an evil so massive?”

“By first worrying solely about the problem just before our feet,” Faramir returned, keeping his voice calm and level despite the dread worming its way into his very soul. Rimiriel was apprehensive enough without him giving her more reason for concern. “I will have the men prepared to leave at a moment’s notice. Should Osgiliath call for reinforcements, we will be ready to immediately offer our aid. Let us deal first with the enemy we can see.”

Rimiriel nodded and Faramir made the mental note to have Madril send scouts east to see what they could discover about any forces Sauron was trying to keep hidden. His own intuition told him that his sister’s suspicions were correct, but he would not directly tell her so. Not this time. If he did, she would want to join the team scouting for Mordor’s reinforcements. Though Faramir had become lax in keeping his sister close after years of her proving herself capable of handling any situation, the Black Gate was not a place he would ever willingly send her.

As he noticed Rimiriel gathering her map as if assuming their meeting was finished, Faramir reached out and placed a hand over the tattered creases in the parchment, preventing her from completing her task. “You have forgotten something in your report,” he chided when met with a questioning gaze. “Or perhaps purposefully left it out.”

If the day’s events had left him in a better mood, Faramir might have been amused by the look of confusion on his younger sister’s face at having her report questioned. Rimiriel was a creature of logic and reason who strived for the highest possible level of perfection in all that she did. Requiring clarification in anything the young woman delivered was arguably the rarest of rarities among the rangers, and the daughter of the Steward was uncertain as to how to respond to the situation. “What have I forgotten?”

Faramir reached out and caught his sister’s chin in his hand, worry lines creasing his brow as he ran his thumb over the mess of purple and blue bruises swirling over her jawline. “What happened to cause this mark on your face, Merilig?” The captain let the appellation from Rimiriel’s youth slip as the protective urges he had felt from the moment she had been born surged anew in his chest, his brotherly instincts incapable of being leashed. “And the need for a bandage around your arm?”

Rimiriel sighed and pulled her chin from her brother’s grip, casting her eyes to her lap. As the moment of silence stretched, Faramir was beginning to think she would stubbornly refuse to answer. “A scouting party of orcs stumbled across us while we were breaking camp this morning,” the young woman finally said, allowing the captain to discover that it was guilt that slowed her reply rather than pride, the shadowy emotion fully entwined in her speech. “We won the ensuing skirmish, but we should not have been caught off-guard like we were. We let ourselves feel too secure amongst the familiar terrain. I should have seen them.”

“And your arm?” Faramir pressed, not liking the hints of self-loathing in his sister’s voice any more than he enjoyed the fact that she would not look at him, her eyes resolutely fixed on the dirt around her boots.

“An orc snuck up behind me while I had my bow drawn. It was a lucky down strike at just the right moment,” Rimiriel reported listlessly before her voice grew venomous with a deadly promise. “It shall never happen again.”

Faramir nodded despite the fact that Rimiriel was paying little attention to him. There was truth in that vehement oath; his sister had a knack for identifying her own weaknesses and doing her best to eliminate them in any way possible. “Were any of the others injured?”

“Maerven received a cut to his leg no worse than that on my arm. I have already taken care of it. Apart from that, everyone emerged unscathed aside from some bruises that will fade in a few days’ time.”

“That is good,” Faramir ventured.

Rimiriel only nodded absently, still not meeting him face-to-face. The captain sighed, knowing his sister was most likely drawn into herself, revisiting the mission in her head and cataloguing every misstep, finding some way to assign blame for each error to herself. She had always been one to dwell, even over things of which she had no control.

“Rimiriel, you cannot hold all of the blame for yourself. With the way Mordor’s forces have been moving as of late, the fact that this is the first accidental encounter is the more surprising one,” he admitted. “We cannot foresee every move the enemy makes.”

Faramir had hoped the remark might at least pull his sister’s attention to him, but she was not to be distracted as she remained resolute in her gloom, her eyes remaining fixed on the far wall of the cavern. The captain could think of only one thing to divert Rimiriel from the dark path down which she was allowing her thoughts to be drawn.

“We discovered two Halflings watching our skirmish with the Haradrim earlier today,” he said, keeping his tone nonchalant even as he kept a keen eye on his sister to judge her reaction. “Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee of the Shire.”

The effect was instantaneous. Rimiriel swiveled around to meet her brother eye-to-eye so rapidly Faramir had half-expected to hear bones popping in her neck. The dark gloom fled her eyes as they again glowed with wonder. Even her posture improved, her shoulders and spine no longer bowed under the weight of her own self-doubt. Faramir much preferred his sister in this state of mind and loathed that circumstances had robbed her of much of the positive enthusiasm he remembered from their youth. “So, Mithrandir’s stories of the Little People were true? Can I speak with them? How long do you intend to keep them here?”

Faramir had almost forgotten how Rimiriel had enjoyed the stories of the cheerful Halflings in their Hobbit-houses as a child; he himself had much preferred the tales of dragons looming over their hordes of treasure. His earlier interrogation of the Halflings then pounced on him out of the shadows to which it had been banished by his relief at finding his sister returned from her mission and relatively unharmed. The captain immediately rebelled against it, quickly and desperately wishing he’d chosen any other way to pull Rimiriel from her inner despondency. Still, his sister had as much a right to know what he had learned from the Halflings as he did, even though it was likely to snuff out her brief return to the light and cause a repeat of her withdrawal into the darkness of her own mind.

“Aye, I imagine you have many questions for them,” Faramir finally began after shaking off his reluctance. “Though I doubt you will find any more satisfaction in their answers than I did.” When Rimiriel only seemed confused with such a response, Faramir steeled himself and continued. “They were companions of Boromir.”

Clarity came swiftly to Rimiriel, a desire to have her curiosity sated being replaced by a burning and frantic need for truth and understanding. “Boromir? Do they—?”

Faramir quickly fielded the question he knew was coming. “They have no knowledge of what ill befell our brother. My inquisition was the first they had heard of any misfortune.”

As disappointment flooded his sister’s face, the captain felt guilty for the myriad of emotions he had put her through in the span of a single meeting, but he knew it had to be done. It had not been easy for either of the Steward’s remaining children when they had found Boromir’s horn cloven in two and watched his funeral barge drift past on its journey down the Anduin, leaving them with nothing but speculation as to what misfortune had befallen the brother that had been a guiding force for both of them as they clumsily navigated through childhood and adolescence and into adulthood. Faramir could not have Rimiriel meet the Halflings whilst overflowing with the hope of finally gaining closure only for that faith to be dissolved into despair once again when the Hobbits were unable to provide the answers she sought. It was better to tell her firsthand.

“But if they have no information concerning Boromir’s passing then why keep them here?” Rimiriel asked, still uncertain as she tried to process all that she had been told.

This question, at least, permitted a simple answer. “I need to ensure they are not spies of Sauron.”

“Spies?” Rimiriel parroted, reservation clear in her eyes.

“Aye,” Faramir confirmed with a nod. “They are hiding something. I know I saw a third companion with them, but the Halflings have insisted there was none other. I have teams out scouting for him now.”

Rimiriel’s misgivings were still written across her face even as she mulled everything over. “I do not know, Faramir. I cannot see much value in spies the size of children, so why would Sauron?”

“Most would say the same about a female healer serving directly in the field, but that does not mean they are correct,” Faramir pointed out. His sister still did not seem convinced, however, and so he continued. “I have to make sure. You, of all people, know that too many of our men have been lost due to false information.”

Rimiriel’s eyes hardened into steel and Faramir immediately wished he could swallow his words. “I, of all people?” Even though her voice would sound steady and calm to those who did not know his sister as he did, Rimiriel’s word were a dagger of ice plunging into Faramir’s chest as her eyes remained locked on his in a cold mix of hurt, anger, and disbelief. “You think I need a reminder of what I, of all people, understand?”

“No, I am sorry,” Faramir said quickly, knowing he could not retract his words as guilt burrowed through the pits of his stomach, Rimiriel turning away from him to once again stare at the far side of the cavern. “It was not my intention to sound so callused. Please accept my deepest apologies.”

Rimiriel said nothing, only closing her eyes and sighing deeply—more of a hiss due to the way she clenched her teeth and set her jaw. Faramir settled in to wait, knowing his sister needed a moment to sort through her rage and calm herself before she could trust herself to speak without erupting with a firestorm of words she would later regret. It was into this atmosphere of silent tension that another ranger unwittingly stumbled moments later, hesitating in his mission as he felt the strain and pressure shoving into every corner of the room.

“Captain Faramir?” the ranger began tentatively, looking between the captain and his sister and waiting to be chastised for his interruption. Instead, the captain glanced over before beckoning the ranger closer. The scout approached, warily glancing at the woman who sat with her eyes closed—something every ranger had quickly learned was never a good sign—before leaning down to report to his commander. “We found the third one.”

The crunching of nearby boots pulled Frodo from his already restless slumber for him to find himself boxed in by a flight of Gondor’s rangers, their bulk blocking the dim light offered by the candles lit on various ledges and alcoves and throwing Frodo and Sam’s corner into ominous shadow. Their captain stood in front of the team of men, his eyes fixed on Frodo as the young Hobbit bolted upright, alarmed by this sudden show of force.

“You must come with me,” Faramir said once he saw that he had the Halfling’s attention. “Now.”

While the Gondorian captain turned and busied himself with barking orders to his men in what Frodo recognized as the language of the elves, its musical cadence flowing skillfully from the captain’s tongue, Frodo stood and began stretching the cricks from his bones and joints. Rock did not make the best of beds, and the Hobbit allowed himself a moment of longing for the comforts of Bag End and the familiar securities of home. Frodo paid little attention to the exchange between Faramir and his men, only vaguely noting the departure of many of the rangers as they set out to fulfill their orders. The Hobbit was forced to pause and reconsider the situation unfolding before him, however, when a voice fired back at the captain in the same lyrical Elvish syllables but with a voice considerably higher in tone and pitch.

Frodo had first glanced over the figure verbally sparring with the captain, seeing only another ranger, albeit one slighter in both height and build. It was only with a second look and longer study that the Hobbit realized this ranger was a woman. She was arrayed the same as the men, from the brown and green clothing that allowed them to so skillfully hide among the trees and bushes of their territory to the quiver of arrows slung at one hip and sword belted opposite. Dark hair was twisted and secured in a coronet to be kept out of the way, emphasizing a face softer than that of the stolid man she argued with that made her gender unquestionable. There was a certain similarity in the set determination carved into the expressions of both debaters, and Frodo found himself wondering who this woman was who dared question this captain of men.

Something in the argument between the two Gondorians declared Faramir the victor, the woman going quiet and finally stalking over to a nearby ledge and sitting down with a sigh, crossing her arms over her chest. Faramir then gestured to Frodo and they set off through the tunnels, the captain of Gondor leading with Frodo trailing in his wake. Frodo nearly inquired as to the identity of the woman they had left behind, but Faramir’s brisk steps and hunched shoulders did not invite conversation. And so, the Hobbit kept his questions to himself, instead turning his thoughts to where the captain could be taking him at such a late hour.

The last dregs of an awful dream startled Sam awake, and he cracked his eyes open to find the pallet beside him empty. Panic flooding his veins, he bolted upright in his own makeshift bed. “Mr. Frodo?”

“Your friend has joined Faramir to aid in the apprehension of your missing companion.” The voice came from behind Sam, and he quickly gained his feet and turned to find a ranger sitting against the wall, a double-take revealing this ranger ensconced in the shadows with eyes cast down to a knife in one hand and a block of wood in the other was a woman who looked up to see Sam eyeing her warily. “My apologies…startling you was not my intent.”

The pair simply stared at each other for several long moments as if each trying to discover the other’s secrets from within their eyes and so gain some kind of superior understanding of the situation. Sam went so far as to cross his arms over his chest, silently daring the female ranger to underestimate him. After a moment, the ranger returned her attention to her project with no indication as to what her study had decided and the cavern fell silent save for the rough scratching of her blade as it shaved pieces away from the wood in her hand. Sam returned to sitting on his pallet but could not stop fidgeting from worry and anxiety as the minutes stretched on with no sign of Frodo’s return.

“Your name is Samwise Gamgee,” the woman said abruptly a few moments later, shattering the silence and catching the Hobbit by surprise. His astonishment must have been evident on his face since she quickly continued. “That is correct, is it not?” Sam nodded slowly, suspicious of the motives behind this stranger’s questions. “And you are a Hobbit? From the Shire?”

“Maybe,” Sam dodged, not wanting to reveal too much to this odd woman of Gondor. “What’s it to you?”

Sam expected the woman to be offended by his remark, but she instead seemed to perfectly understand his reluctance. “Where are my manners?” she said as if chastising herself, settling her whittling project to one side and brushing sawdust from her hands. “I should not expect you to volunteer information when I have offered none of my own…I deeply apologize, Master Samwise. I am Rimiriel, daughter of Denethor; I serve the Rangers of Ithilien primarily as a healer.”

Rimiriel smiled as she leaned forward to shake Sam’s hand, the act banishing the shadows from her form as she entered the reach of the candlelight. Sam discovered deep-set grey eyes above high cheekbones and flanking a wide, straight nose, artfully arranged in a face still soft with youth and yet etched with the weariness of the dark times in which they found themselves. A faded white scar slightly pinched the skin from just beneath the outside corner of her left eye down to the corner of her mouth where she smiled and a bruise darkened the right side of her jawline. Sam found his curiosity prickling as to the origins of such marks, for the Hobbit understood women of all races to be creatures that put great stock into their own appearance, and could only imagine the ensuing panic caused by being scarred across the face.

The revelation then struck Sam that this woman might be self-conscious of the damage to her skin and the way his inquisitive eyes lingered longer than was polite, and the Hobbit quickly cast his eyes down and away from the ranger’s face, searching for something to cover his blunder as he released the hand offered in greeting. He was saved from having to formulate some kind of apology, however, when a commotion erupted at the entrance of the caves, causing Rimiriel to rise to her feet in alarm. Sam also rose from the blanket he had been sitting on as Frodo came into view, appearing miserable with the results of his quest, not even protesting as Sam began furiously checking over his companion to ensure no harm had come to him during their separation.

Rimiriel seemed anxious to investigate whatever commotion was occurring elsewhere in the tunnels, restlessly shifting her weight from side to side. “I have to see what Faramir has gotten us into now,” she finally said as if forgetting there was anyone around to hear, turning and collecting her whittling project and blade from where she had abandoned them before facing the Halflings once again, suddenly seeming uncertain. “My brother’s actions must seem strange to you,” she began slowly, “but I assure you his intentions are pure. If you have need of anything—food, water, extra blankets—please do not hesitate to find me or ask another ranger to fetch me.”

Without waiting for an answer, Rimiriel strode away. Sam watched her go until she rounded a bend in the tunnels, thankful for her compassionate words in the midst of such peculiarity, before returning his attentions to his friend and the fact that he had disappeared somewhere the loyal gardener had been unable to follow.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two
Temptation

As Rimiriel shouldered her way through the contingent of men crowding the passageway, she wondered what kind of creature could emit the pitiful sounds now reaching her ears. The shrieks reminded her of the days of her childhood when her cousin Erchirion’s new kitten had gotten overly curious and fallen down one of the wells in the gardens of the castle at Dol Amroth. The kitten’s pathetic mewling combined with Erchirion’s wretched sobbing had caused Rimiriel’s heart to swell with sympathy, and it had been the childish ingenuity of she and her cousin Elphir that had resulted in her climbing down the well to save the sodden and miserable feline and return the shivering bundle of fur to Erchirion’s arms.

As she finally managed to shove her way through the last line of rangers blocking her view of the goings-on, that same compassion that had given her the blind courage needed to climb down the garden well, equipped with only a threadbare rope tied around her waist and the trust that Elphir would be capable of pulling her back up, washed over Rimiriel. The Hobbits’ third companion, a gangrel creature with sallow skin drained of color by a lifetime spent in darkness, scrabbled in the dirt in attempt to find enough purchase to regain his feet only to be thwarted in this quest by multiple boots slamming into his ribs, sending him back to the ground with an anguished yelp. To his sister’s horror, Faramir stood against the wall of the tunnel, watching this cruel treatment she would not wish on the most incompetent of hounds with a blank expression.

Anger flooding her body, Rimiriel whirled on the company of rangers at her back. “Are there not duties requiring your attentions?” she hissed, mustering her best glare for these comrades of hers that acted as if this meaningless cruelty were some sick form of entertainment. The idle warriors quickly scurried at the threat of her fury.

Rimiriel waited for the last ranger to disappear into Henneth Annûn’s tunnels before pivoting on her heel to address her brother. “Faramir, what are you doing?” she asked, careful to keep her tone even so as not to seem as if she were directly questioning her captain’s decisions. Brother or not, such an action would be unacceptable.

Faramir turned to Rimiriel and a chill crept down her spine as her brother stared right through her, shadows clouding the grey eyes nearly identical to her own. The captain brushed off the familiar hand placed on his shoulder and returned his attention to the spectacle before him without gifting her with even the vaguest form of a response. “That is enough!” he finally barked amidst another doleful cry from Gollum.

At their captain’s command, the rangers tasked with punishing the Halflings’ guide threw the creature to the ground before stepping away. Instinct trained by years of study in the White City’s Houses of Healing aided Rimiriel as she watched Gollum crawl into a corner and curl into a ball, her trained eyes cataloguing the bruises already darkening the emaciated creature’s ribs and back as his whole body shook with the force of his sobbing. When she stepped forward, however, a tight grip on her upper arm roughly pulled her back, robbing the healer of her chance for a more thorough evaluation.

Before Rimiriel could protest, Faramir had already released her and swept past, an intimidating picture as he stood over Gollum’s huddled form. “Where are you leading them?” demanded the captain, his voice brutal and harsh. “Answer me!”

Rimiriel focused her attentions on the miserable creature the Hobbits had commissioned as their guide on whatever journey had taken them from their homeland, hoping to distract herself from the resentment pulsing in her veins at the fact that she could do nothing to stop whatever madness had seized Faramir. Gollum paid little attention to his captors, staying curled in his corner with one hand stroking his own shoulder in what some might consider a soothing gesture, but he had begun to speak. It seemed like nonsense to the healer—a back-and-forth conversation with only one participant that made her question the creature’s sanity. Surely it was not normal to talk to oneself so. Still, Gollum’s conversation with himself was strangely entrancing as the creature changed his voice’s inflections, one minute speaking in a soft, scared whimper only to adopt a harsh, angry hiss a second later. This conversation seemed to make some strange kind of sense to Faramir as he clung to every word the odd creature muttered.

“Filthy little Hobbitses!” the angry side of the creature cried as it hit its fist against the cavern wall. “They stole it from us!”

“What did they steal?” asked Faramir even as Gollum’s whimpering double denied the claim. The hair on the back of Rimiriel’s neck stood at the poorly-concealed desire in her brother’s voice. Something was deeply wrong.

Gollum turned on the congregated rangers with a ferocious expression that told Rimiriel the more willful half of the creature’s duality had gained control once again. “Myyy…PRECIOUSSS!”

Rimiriel would freely admit to being startled as the pallid creature before her bared his teeth and growled at his captors, but she forced herself to ignore the alarm that caused her blood to pound in her ears as it sang the song of moverunfight, keeping her feet rooted in the earth and her stance steady as her brother barked orders to the rangers who had served as Gollum’s tormentors. Commanding his men to keep an eye on the Hobbits’ guide, Faramir then whirled to leave, giving Rimiriel a piercing view of the storm in his face. He swept past her and deeper into the recesses of Henneth Annûn without another word. Whatever this ‘precious’ was, the knowledge of it had ignited a fire in Faramir that Rimiriel had never before seen in her brother—a dangerous flame that, if left to blaze out of control, could very well prove destructive. As a deep sense of foreboding slithered into the depths of her gut, the healer quickly turned to follow him.

Through the dim tunnels she trekked, clinging to the edges of his shadow and tossing apologies to her comrades that were forced to press themselves tightly against the rock walls as their captain charged past with no intent to alter his path to avoid a collision. She tried calling out when she first began her pursuit, requesting he slow down and let her catch up so that they could walk together, but he neglected to hear or acknowledge her, and so she simply followed in his wake.

Rimiriel wondered about this strangeness that had overtaken her captain as she recognized the route his feet followed without hesitation as the same path she had traversed only a few moments before. This frenzy and agitation was abnormal for the brother five years her senior who featured in many of her prominent childhood memories as the patient, logical, and sensitive explainer of why certain things had to be just so. As she followed her brother’s shadow around a left-reaching corner and into a widening cavern that typically served as their main supply room and currently doubled as a holding cell for their Halfling guests, she pondered the implications of this new tension evident in the hunched lines of the captain’s shoulders.

Faramir crossed the cavern to where the Hobbits sat against a few casks of ale, the pair jumping to their feet at the sight of him. Rimiriel’s steps faltered as approaching the Hobbits seemed to cause the crossing of some invisible threshold, a foreign, nameless sensation last felt when stationed to watch over Sam taking root deep within her very soul to send a chill trickling down her spine. She pressed on, however, until the unsheathing of Faramir’s sword caused her feet to plant themselves in the rock and dirt just outside of her brother’s shadow, refusing to move further into the air of hostility that seemed to suck all warmth from the room.

“So this is the answer to all the riddles,” Faramir began. Rimiriel’s eyes widened at the sight of Faramir’s sword pointed at Frodo’s chest. The Hobbit with the dark mop of curly hair and boyish, innocent features held his breath in the face of the threat of cold steel. “Here in the wild I have you…two Halflings and a host of men at my call.”

“Faramir, is this show of force necessary?” Rimiriel tried to keep her voice calm and persuasive, but in truth she wavered in the presence of this man who looked like her brother and captain but was somehow someone completely different. That suspicious tension that had blossomed upon entering the Hobbits’ domain reminded her of its presence with an almost-painful twinge; she wondered if her brother felt it as well and its threat was what caused this odd demeanor. He again acted as though she had not spoken, not even a small glance confirming that he knew of her presence in his shadow.

“The Ring of Power within my grasp,” Faramir murmured to himself. Rimiriel had only just registered his words when the tip of his sword caught at a chain hanging from Frodo’s neck, pulling a gold band from its hiding place beneath the Hobbit’s collar.

The ring was unremarkable, plain and unadorned, but Rimiriel knew it to be anything but as a wave of power crashed into her as solidly as the curling swells of salt water that were conjured by stormy winds to barrage the high cliffs bordering the sea near Dol Amroth, nearly forcing her to take a step back. Like Dol Amroth’s coastal cliffs, however, she stood resolute despite her seized lungs and thudding heart as her eyes caught on that thin band of gold and held fast. She could feel the dark energy saturating the trinket the Halfling kept so close, and knew this had to be the cause of her brother’s deviance in character and mood. With her protracted study of the great Ring, innocuous on its chain, Rimiriel noticed a pulsing building in her ears, dulling her senses, and suddenly she was no longer in the dank cavern secreted beneath the earth.

She stood alone before the Black Gates: the outline of the dark stain on middle-earth that was the forsaken land of Mordor. Shining armor, the finest Gondorian smiths could produce, encased her body from neck to toe, the sun reflecting off the silver in blinding glints. Tucked under her arm was a matching helm, and Rimiriel could feel the potent weight of the Ring of Power on the first finger of her right hand beneath her plated glove. As she watched, the ominous gates began to open with the reluctant groan of metal that has long remained stationary, revealing a single massive being in black armor. This mannish figure, Rimiriel knew—though she knew not how—was Sauron, and as he approached and drew a menacing sword formed from the same black ore as the gates, she knew that she could defeat him. With the power of the Ring on her side, she could destroy the Dark Lord and his power and free Middle-earth from the tyrannical threat once and for all. Knowing that, she donned her helm and drew her sword and met Sauron’s first strike, sparks flying from the clashing blades.

The picture faded and reformed: Rimiriel stood in the citadel of Minas Tirith, the marble dais that held the throne of the King and the seat of the Steward solid beneath her feet. She was still in that fine armor, though her helmet and gloves had been abandoned; the Ring of Power still graced her right index finger, granting her the strange knowledge that she had emerged victorious from her bout with Sauron. The throne room was filled as it had never before been filled in Rimiriel’s memory, citizens of the realm cheering and clapping to celebrate her triumph. As Rimiriel looked out over the crowd, she saw that her family stood directly in front, glowing with pride at her victory. Her cousins and uncle had made the journey to the White City from Dol Amroth to join in the celebration; Faramir stood just out of arm’s reach, remaining composed but no less delighted as he smiled widely and clapped with the rest of the throng. Even her father stood before the dais, the usual expression of apathy he reserved for his youngest banished in favor of a fond, loving gaze set on the child who had completed the greatest possible service to the realm in eliminating the Dark Lord.

No longer was she simply Rimiriel, forgotten third child of the Steward. She was the Hero of Gondor and Savior of all Middle-earth. It was she who had mastered the Ring of Power and turned it against its master. She who had challenged the Dark Lord and emerged the victor. Rimiriel surveyed the vast assemblage, faces both familiar and unknown, and basked in the triumph of having freed her people from Mordor’s shadow. As she raised her hand to wave at the celebrating mob, a glint drew her attention to the Ring of Power on her first finger, making her smile widen. All of this had been possible because she had made Isildur’s Bane her own trophy.

This can all be yours. If you will but summon the courage to reach out and take it, the One Ring has the power to fulfill all the desires of your heart.

The dark promise was spoken into the back of her mind as Rimiriel admired the sight of the Ring gracing her hand. She trembled at the heady rush of power and desire which flooded her veins. She regained her focus, however, as her line of sight was drawn to the second band of gold resting two fingers over from the Ring of Power. Contrasting with the simplicity of the Ring, unadorned away from the influence of a fire’s heat, this particular circle of gold had a line of etchings permanently engraved into the face, forged by man rather than magic. Recognition sparking through her entire body, Rimiriel looked away from her fingers’ decoration, seeking out familiar faces.

Where was the gentle voice and loving touch she had long imagined receiving from the mother she could not remember but had been told of her entire life? Where were the patient teachings and mischievously twinkling eyes of the grandfather who had helped raise her? If the Ring could truly grant all the desires of her heart, then surely it would be a simple thing to reach into the grave and return those lost? Where was the brother who had doted on her when she was a child and had only recently departed this world? Where was the man whose memory still caused her heart to clench in loneliness and despair each time she looked at the ring he himself had placed upon her hand?

As Rimiriel searched the assembly for the missing faces she most longed to see, her attention was pulled back to the dais on which she stood as a line of figures formed beside her. The lady’s heart soared as a first glance confirmed the return of those she had lost, but then Rimiriel looked closer.

Her heart dropped into her stomach and bile burned in her throat, her mind screaming wrongwrongwrong as her blood turned to ice in her veins.

While those who had joined her were indeed her missing loved ones, Death still held them firmly in his grip. Their skin remained a sickly and sallow grey, lacking the glow of the living. The eyes in which Rimiriel longed to see the love she held dear reflected only her own horror as they stared at her with the blank, unseeing gaze of a corpse. These were not her loved ones. These were ghosts. With that realization, the figures suddenly dissipated into ash, leaving Rimiriel alone on what was meant to be a platform of victory, consumed by distress and despair.

The illusion shattered and Rimiriel was once again in the caves of Henneth Annûn, surrounded by damp air with rock solid beneath her feet. A shiver traced her spine and she willed her knees not to buckle as they felt weak with the force of the Ring’s tempting promises. She knew now that it was that infernal trinket that was so swaying her brother and had been the source of her own discomfort when stationed near the Halflings. She wondered what it was her brother had been promised by this foreboding ring that represented every evil her people had dedicated themselves to fending against. It surely must have been something more whole than her own mirage for him to be so riled whereas she wanted nothing more than to flee as far away from Isildur’s Bane as possible, lest it be the cause of her own downfall.

Looking to her brother, Rimiriel found that Frodo had fled from Faramir, cowering against the wall and away from the shadow plaguing the captain. Sam had stepped into Frodo’s place, quick to defend his companion. “Don’t you understand? He’s got to destroy it!” the Hobbit cried, passion causing color to rise in his face as he confessed the true nature of their journey forth from their homeland. “That’s where we’re going. Into Mordor…to the Mountain of Fire.”

Another ranger entered the grotto—a quick glance as he walked past allowing Rimiriel to recognize the dark hair and lightly-bearded face of Damrod—and approached Faramir. “Osgiliath is under attack,” he revealed, causing Rimiriel’s heart to race, her earlier prediction fulfilled. “They call for reinforcements.”

“Please, it’s such a burden,” Sam noted, pleading eyes dancing between the gathered rangers. “Will you not help him?”

Indecision ripped through Rimiriel’s soul like a hawk’s claws through the body of an unsuspecting field mouse at Sam’s beseeching gaze. She wondered if Faramir felt this same desperation. She wanted that Ring destroyed, the feeling stronger than most anything thus experienced in her thirty-one years of life, but she could feel in her very being that she did not possess the fortitude necessary for such a quest. If placed in a situation where she would constantly be vulnerable to the Ring’s bribes and impossible temptations, though she had no desire to take up Isildur’s Bane even with the purest of intentions, she would surely be driven mad by its whispers. She marveled at the Hobbits and their apparent resiliency to the Ring’s charms.

It seemed Faramir did not share his sister’s qualms after all.

“Prepare to leave,” he ordered as Damrod pressed for instruction. “The Ring will go to Gondor.”

Rimiriel closed her eyes to hide her panic as Faramir pivoted on his heel and brushed past her to exit the cavern, Damrod trailing in his wake as if he noticed nothing amiss. She envied the lieutenant’s ignorance as to the darkness wrapping them all in its frigid embrace from inside their ranks. The Ring would go to Gondor, which meant she would be constantly within reach of its influence, unable to escape its seductive mirages. Just the thought was enough to make her quiver in her boots.

Rimiriel opened her eyes to see Sam watching her sadly, as if he knew her mental struggle and could sympathize with her dread. Indeed, he probably knew that battle on an intimate level from his own months of exposure to the Ring’s allure. As she met the steady brown eyes of Samwise Gamgee, she wondered at what temptations and promises this stalwart Hobbit and faithful companion faced down each day. The gardener of the Shire surely possessed more mettle than she. The lady searched for something to say to the Halfling, but found her mind as empty as the streams of Ithilien during particularly scorching summers. A quick “I am sorry” was finally mustered, and then she turned on her heel and fled the storeroom.

She didn’t slow her frantic hustle down the dark corridors of Henneth Annûn until several twists of the passageway stretched behind her. Rimiriel leaned against the tunnel wall to find soft earth pressing against her back rather than hard stone. The air was cool here, bordering on chilly, and saturated with moisture from the surrounding dirt. Rimiriel pulled many deep lungfuls of the damp air into her chest as she fought to slow her speeding heart. The icy tendrils of dread that had wound their way around her very soul like choking vines of doom had disappeared once she no longer stood in the same room as the Ring, but her thoughts still violently tumbled over each other like a gang of scrapping children, disorienting her with their lack of sense and organization. She turned her body so that her forehead and chest pressed against the tunnel wall rather than her back, bringing her hands up to anchor them in the earth and feeling the dirt lodge itself beneath her fingernails, and then forced herself to focus only on where she was in that moment, closing her eyes as a mental map of Henneth Annûn began to materialize against her eyelids.

The tunnel she had ventured into once fleeing the storeroom and the Ring’s haunting fantasies was one of the greatest of secrets kept by the Rangers of Ithilien, known to none outside of the brotherhood—not even the Steward. She herself had lived among the rangers for over a year before they had answered her questions concerning the path. This passage was only to be used in the greatest of emergencies as an escape into the surrounding woods should the hidden base be discovered and overrun. Knowing that, Rimiriel knew that if she were to continue on this path, the tunnel would turn again to the right before ending in an earthen room carved beneath the roots of a towering pine, one of the oldest in Ithilien’s wood. A climb through the maze of overlapping roots would cause the adventurer to emerge in a small chasm surrounded on all sides by sharp and jagged cliffs save for a single pathway winding through the cliffs that was invisible to any not knowing exactly for what they searched. It was a rather ingenious hiding place, Rimiriel thought, for even if one were to stumble across the path and follow it to the base of the cliffs, who would think to venture among the roots of a tree to see if anything other than earth lay beneath?

Knowing where she was physically enabled Rimiriel to better understand where she was mentally. After several long minutes, the lady managed to sort through all she had seen, heard, and felt over the past day, and it all led her to a single conclusion: she needed to find Faramir.

The youngest descendant of the great House of Húrin found her brother and captain in the main cavern of Henneth Annûn, where he had gathered his lieutenants to brief them on their orders. Rimiriel watched her brother’s form hunched over his command desk that was little more than a table strewn with various maps, reports and supply lists. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary as the captain confidently shared his plans, and for a moment Rimiriel questioned if perhaps she had imagined the darkness seizing Faramir, but she knew her brain had not conjured the dark bruises staining the creature Gollum’s ribs at Faramir’s orders, nor had she imagined the desire lighting her brother’s eyes whist pulling the Ring from its hiding place beneath the Halfling’s shirt. Still, she prayed that the Ring and its evil had not taken a complete hold on her brother and captain. She prayed he would listen, or else she feared all would be lost.

“Faramir?” she called only once Madril, Damrod, Mablung and Anborn had set out to follow their captain’s instructions, leaving her brother alone in the main hollow of Henneth Annûn. Rimiriel noticed him stiffen at the sound of his name, but thought maybe it was a trick of the light as Faramir turned to face her with his lips parting in a pleasant smile.

“Rimiriel?” Surprise laced the captain’s tone as he gestured for his sister to step further into the cavern. “Is something wrong? Why are you not preparing to move out?”

“I just hoped I might have a quick word with you,” Rimiriel informed her brother, not bothering to mention she was already mostly ready for the march to Osgiliath since she had yet to have the opportunity to unpack following her return from her scouting mission.

“What troubles you?”

The younger hesitated when faced with the concern gracing her elder brother’s features and his intuition that her reason for seeking him out was not a particularly positive one. Faramir seemed himself in this moment; perhaps she was making more of the situation than there was to be made. If such were the case, then surely he would listen to her concerns and assure her that the reasoning behind his decision was sound. In all their years together, her brother had never rebuked her for requesting an explanation, even when rankings and birthright declared that she only obey without question.

“Brother, are you certain this is the best course of action?” she finally began, shaking off her hesitance and meeting the captain eye-to-eye. “Taking the Ring to Gondor?”

“Of course,” Faramir affirmed, leaning against the table at his back. “If Sauron means to unleash a force on Gondor such that the world of Men has never seen, then we need every advantage we can muster. The weapon of the enemy is the greatest of these we could have ever hoped to possess.” The second son of the Steward looked to his sister, reading the tension in her bearing as she cast her eyes away to study the ground. “You disagree?”

There was no challenge in his tone, only concern and gentle inquiry. The halves of Rimiriel’s heart, one devoted to realism and the other dedicated to hope, warrred in her chest as she studied her brother’s familiar face. This was the man who had always soothed away every trouble and fear with the greatest patience and kindness. This was a man to whom she could entrust the greatest of secrets and in whom there could abide no darkness.

“I do not like the feel of that Ring,” Rimiriel finally admitted with a heavy sigh, unable to resist putting words to the trepidations of her heart. “It drips with evil and darkness and I fear the White City would fall into ruin if forced to play host to such a malevolent trinket.”

“It will not be our land that falls into darkness and ruin, but the Forsaken Lands that will be exposed to a new light when we defeat the Dark Lord once and for all!” Faramir declared with passionate confidence, bridging the distance between them as he read the skepticism in his sister’s thin-pressed lips and raised brows.

“Do you not see, Rimiriel?” entreated the captain, gripping her arms and shaking her lightly as he was overcome with the desire to make her understand. “If we can master the power of the One Ring, then Sauron and his allies will be doomed to defeat! We can finally destroy Mordor and bring peace to Gondor! Is that not what you want?”

Faced with her brother’s fervor, Rimiriel wanted nothing more than to be able to agree with his plan, but one notion left her unsettled. “‘If we can master the power of the One Ring,’” she parroted, lightly pressing her palms against Faramir’s chest to urge him to release her.

Sensing her continued contention, Faramir dropped his arms with a heavy sigh, presenting Rimiriel with his back as he stalked to his command table, bracing his hands on the flat surface of oak and letting his head hang slack as he waited for the rebuttal he knew would continue.

“Faramir, you know I desire nothing more than for Gondor to be at peace and its children to grow to adulthood with no fear of the Shadow in the East,” Rimiriel continued, pleading with her brother’s hunched shoulders since even the use of his name would not bring him to face her. “But the Ring is not chattel to be traded back and forth with its loyalties shifting with ownership. A token like that—overflowing with dark magic—it is a thing loyal to only one master.”

The tension in Faramir’s shoulders told Rimiriel that he did not agree with her, but she pressed on regardless, for once not questioning the feeling in the depths of her soul that told her the words passing her lips were true. “Gondor’s defeat, not its victory, lies with that Ring.”

“And what would you have me do?” Faramir returned, pushing off of the desk and twisting to face his sister once again, his hands falling to hang at his sides in agitated fists. “Release the Halflings and let them carry the Ring straight to Mordor?”

Rimiriel did not answer, and Faramir understood her silence to mean that such was exactly what she wished for him to do. The youngest of the Steward’s children stood unflinching as her brother stared at her in clear question of her soundness of mind.

“You are mad if you think they can complete such a task!” Faramir declared vehemently. “We captured them with hardly a struggle; imagine if orcs were to find them! The Ring would be returned to the Dark Lord and our destruction would be definite.”

“Or they would slip past Sauron’s eye and all his forces undetected and destroy the Ring, ending this war once and for all,” Rimiriel proposed instead, continuing when Faramir’s skepticism refused to abate. “They have made it thus far…surely that counts for something?”

The Rangers’ captain simply shook his head in disbelief of the proposal coming from the sister who always preferred to deal in absolutes. “You speak of a future that is not assured.”

“As do you, brother, though mine seems the more likely,” Rimiriel noted. “Would it not be better to let the Halflings continue their mission with but a slim hope for victory than to keep the Ring for ourselves and assure Gondor’s defeat?”

For a moment Rimiriel thought something in her words had resounded within her brother and he would come back to the light of reason, but that hope was quickly snuffed out as a grim resolve crept over the captain with the squaring of his shoulders and a deepening of the frown lines around his mouth and along his brow.

“Our father sent Boromir to Rivendell to bring Isildur’s Bane to Gondor. He died seeking to fulfill that quest,” Faramir reminded her gravely. “Now I have been given the opportunity to complete the mission in his stead and I will not squander that chance simply because you allow yourself to be blinded by fear!”

In the stunned silence following Faramir’s declaration, all of the pieces suddenly fell into place. Throughout the entirety of her life’s journey from infancy to adulthood, Rimiriel could not remember a time when there had not been a set hierarchy to her and her siblings’ existence in the eyes of their father: Boromir, the eldest and the favorite; Faramir, the second and the ignored; and she, the last and the forgotten. None of them had ever been at odds with the others over their places in the hierarchy; such things simply were. Still, though no rivalry had existed between him and Boromir, Faramir had always sought validation in their father’s eyes, and it seemed he had decided to seek after that unobtainable prize once again, the desire intensified by the Ring and its dark promises.

In this sudden onset of clarity Rimiriel forgot the greatest rule of seeking knowledge: one must understand that there are times when it is best to pretend one knows nothing.

“So that is what this comes down to? Completing something Boromir could not in the hope of gaining our father’s approval?” A wave of righteous anger swept over the daughter of the Steward as confirmation of her conclusion could be read in the set of her brother’s face. He dared to call her blind when it was him who ignored the potential downfall of their people for the small chance at glory?

“I would rather be blinded by fear a thousand times than suffer your pride!” she declared as disappointment welled in her chest. “You will send yourself to an early grave and cast Gondor into ruin!”

Rimiriel knew she had overstepped her bounds the moment she spoke, and so she was unsurprised at the storm of fury that swept over Faramir in the wake of her castigation. Wishing she could reclaim the indignant words still hanging in the air before her but knowing that such a desire was folly, she remained composed when she was abruptly pinned against the cavern wall with her captain’s hand against her shoulder keeping her in place, though she could not stop her muscles from automatically tensing as her brother raised his free hand to deliver a fairly-earned punishment.

It would be the first time that anyone dared strike her who was not an enemy of the realm.

Rimiriel had never imagined it might be Faramir to breech such a milestone, but she would accept the reprimand without complaint. It was one matter to present her reservations and request her brother reevaluate his decisions; it was entirely another to openly condemn his choice. Such actions could not be without consequence, and so Rimiriel forced herself to hold Faramir’s gaze even as his eyes burned with such ferocity she felt she would be entirely consumed, anticipating the sting in her cheek as she quietly accepted her impending sentence.

It never came.

Faramir dropped the hand that had been raised to strike, resting it on his sister’s shoulder, a strange mix between a growl and a sigh escaping his throat as he seemed to hold her at arms’ length.

“You are my sister, whom I swore always to protect,” he began, a warning creeping into his tone. “I cannot bring myself to strike you, though perhaps it would do you good. It is hard to take away freedoms once they have been given, and you have been allowed too many. You forget your place and think you have the right to speak against matters you know nothing about, but now you will not speak. Now you will listen.”

Still stunned by this withdrawal of retribution, Rimiriel could only nod as a strong grip on her shoulders and light shaking emphasized her brother’s words. She could see the angry fire still simmering in the depths of the grey eyes that so closely mirrored her own and had no desire to stoke it into a roaring inferno once again.

“It is not pride that drives me, but loyalty,” Faramir stated, his voice cold as he released his grip on Rimiriel’s shoulders to stand at his full height. “I swore an oath as a Captain of Gondor to always obey the Steward’s commands, and he has ordered Isildur’s Bane taken to the citadel. You swore an oath as a healer of Minas Tirith to aid my men and obey any orders given to you without question. None forced you into this; you willingly placed yourself under my command. So listen well, little sister”—a finger under her chin prevented Rimiriel from looking away as the embers in Faramir’s eyes sparked into flame once again—“I have made the decision that the Ring and its bearers shall go to Gondor. You do not have to like nor agree with that decision. You will, however, ready yourself to set out for Osgiliath at first light as I have ordered. Do I make myself clear?”

A submissive Rimiriel nodded, no other answer left available as she shrank before the intimidating shadow cast by her brother’s authority. “Yes, Captain.”

“Good.”

Faramir’s cloak swished around his calves as he spun and made his way to the roughly-hewn entrance to the grotto before pausing in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder to where Rimiriel remained in the spot against the wall into which he had forced her.

“Should you no longer desire to remain under my command once we reach Osgiliath,” he began as the hesitance in retreating footsteps caught his sister’s attention, his voice turning to acid, “you are free to return to Minas Tirith and the Houses of Healing where you belong. Someone there will surely be happy to remind you of your place.”

Rimiriel wanted to be strong, unintimidated by her brother’s show of superiority, but found that she could not. Instead, she collapsed into a heap the moment Faramir swept away, his caustic parting words stinging deep down into her core. How he could make her feel ashamed of the words she had spoken despite them being truths Rimiriel did not know, but her whole body shook from the force of Faramir’s anger as she struggled to compose herself. The temptations of the Ring had shaken her, making her feel weak, unstable and unprotected in a way she loathed, but they seemed to have done much worse to her brother. Rimiriel could not shake the foreboding sense of doom nearly choking her and sending dark thoughts bouncing about her skull. Even when a ranger came to tell her they would soon be departing from Osgiliath, she could not push away a single notion: how was Gondor to defend against the full brunt of Mordor’s darkness when even their most noble captain fell before the far-reaching shadow?

Chapter Text

Chapter Three
The Healer

The first lights of dawn broke bleak and grey, chilled with the lingering tendrils of a fading winter. Despite valiant efforts, the sun made few advances over the course of the morning as heavy clouds kept the warm rays of light at bay, casting the realm of Gondor into shadow. Through this gloom the Rangers of Ithilien steadily marched. Their course from the forests of Gondor’s northeast borders to the ruins of the once great city of Osgiliath never wavered.

A shiver slithered from the crown of Rimiriel’s head to her toes as a breeze nipped at her as though she wore a summer gown of thin cotton rather than a thick-woven wool cloak. She pulled her hood lower over her brow in attempt to trap as much heat as she could. Every exhale hung in the air before her in a cloud that reminded her of her childhood, when the cold of winter would set in and she and her cousins would while away the dreary days pretending to be dragons puffing smoke from the fires in their bellies. The time for games was long-past, however. Though the quick pace Faramir had set upon departing Henneth Annûn was enough to keep the chill from sinking into her bones, the youngest of the Steward’s offspring was far from warm, finding herself oddly jealous of the group of horses she led and the way they huddled together and kept each other from feeling the chill.

Rimiriel collected her ambling thoughts and forced them into an array of sense and order as she realized their journey was rapidly drawing to a close. The rocky ground began a steady upward climb, forming the ridge hiding the valley through which the Anduin kept its steady course toward the sea and in which the city of Osgiliath dwelled. Shouts tinged with dread echoed back from the men that had already crested the fold: the garrison was burning; Mordor had come. Rimiriel finally breached the ridge herself, taking in the familiar view with her own eyes. The ruins of the former capital of Gondor were cast into ominous shadow, heavy clouds choking out the sun and its half-hearted attempts to brighten the day. The Great River painted an inky black divide between the two halves of the city spanning its banks, broken only by a few pillars rising from the water to stretch toward the sky like the grey fingers of a drowning man, the last remnants of the bridges that had spanned the river to unite the city until the onset of the enemy had made it necessary to destroy the causeways in attempt to halt the spread of the Shadow of the East. The lush farmlands of the Pelennor, rich earth already tilled in anticipation of the upcoming growing season, stretched from the outskirts of the ruins to the gates of Minas Tirith. The capital nestled against the base of Mount Mindolluin served as a pale watchman over the battles for control of Osgiliath.

“The Ring will not save Gondor.”

The small voice came from just ahead, where Frodo looked down on the valley and the smoldering remnants of a region that had teemed with life until the tenants found the threat from Mordor too much to bear and retreated to the seemingly safer vales of the south and west. Frodo looked back to where Rimiriel had taken her customary place in her brother’s shadow. “It has only the power to destroy. You must let me go.”

As Rimiriel took in the Hobbit’s gloom, the otherwise boyish features terribly aged by an expression of sorrow permanently etching into her memory, she recalled the stories Mithrandir had shared in her long-ago youth of a fertile land inhabited by a peaceful people who knew neither war nor famine. She supposed that to a creature raised in such a culture, Gondor’s situation must have seemed very bleak indeed. To her and her comrades, however, fostered beneath the constant threat of the Great Shadow of the East and its allies, ‘bleak’ was not synonymous to ‘hopeless,’ and so they would continue staving off the evil threatening their lands until not a single soul remained to stand against the darkness. Such is the fate of those carried from childhood into adulthood by stories and legends of valiant heroes and times when all was not shrouded in death and gloom, taught to forever strive to return their realm to an era of glory and peace.

Taking a deep breath and adjusting the strap crossing her chest that kept her quiver of arrows at her left hip, Rimiriel hesitated a moment longer on the ridge even as Faramir pushed the company on amidst Frodo’s pleas, looking down on the city turned battlefield and wondering what fate lay waiting for her within the ruins. It had been more than seven years since she had begun aiding the Rangers of Ithilien, and she had long lost count of the number of skirmishes she had fought, but she knew with all her heart and soul that those would seem child’s play in comparison to the true war looming just over the horizon. She only hoped she was ready for whatever darkness lay ahead.

The Rangers of Ithilien entered Osgiliath in the midst of a life-threatening rain of arrows coming from both enemy and ally as they wove through the archers lining the banks of the Anduin to fire on the orcs swarming the opposite shore. Everywhere echoed the din of an encroaching battle, from the twang of arrows hurtling from bowstrings to the metallic scraping of steel against steel as soldiers shuffled past in their plated armor. The cacophony set Rimiriel on edge and she knew the horses sensed the unrest as well, anxious snorts sounding in her ears even as the herd faithfully followed her lead through the ruins.

The rangers came to a halt in what had been the grand courtyard of some noble estate when the city had been a jewel of the kingdom of Gondor. Now the square was just as ruined as the rest of the garrison, the cobblestones broken beneath their feet with weeds struggling to grow between the cracks. What once might have been an elegant home was now a dilapidated tribute to decadence: all doors gone, pillars retired from their duties as sources of support to rest in mounds of rubble, the dome roof toppled inward to leave the rooms and halls open to the sky, black scorch marks painted around windowsills and doorframes where a fire had ravaged the dwelling. Over it all, what had perhaps been a statue of a great patriarch of the house stood as a silent witness to the passing of time, all distinguishing facial features worn away by wind and rain and only a proudly tilted chin and arm outstretched as if in command offering clues as to the sort of person the faceless watchman had been meant to embody. It was at the base of this remnant of time forgotten that the rangers gathered as they were rejoined by Madril and the contingent of men Faramir had sent ahead to inform the garrison of their arrival and gather information concerning the status of the city’s defenses.

“The orcs have taken the eastern shore. Their numbers are too great; by nightfall we will be overrun,” Madril reported, the lieutenant’s gaze immediately finding Rimiriel in her customary place at her brother’s left shoulder. “Many were wounded in the attempt to halt the advance.”

Rimiriel knew the silent plea of those words. Without waiting for an order of confirmation from her brother, she pivoted on her heel, quickly finding a familiar face in the collection of horses at her back. The chestnut stood tall over the other horses led out of Ithilien, and the warm brown eyes and fine contours of the stallion’s neck, withers, and flanks were as familiar to her as her own skin. Voronwë.

As Rimiriel sorted through the packs her stallion dutifully bore, searching for the telltale silver buckle delicately wrought in the five-petaled form of a wild rose in full bloom that set her pack apart from the other rangers’, she heard Faramir give the order to have the Hobbits taken to Minas Tirith. If Madril noticed the change in their usually humble captain as a boast crept into the message for the Steward, the lieutenant was wiser than Rimiriel in his decision not to question the order, only the rustling of moving bodies sounding in the courtyard as the captive trespassers switched hands from one group of rangers to the other.

“Do you want to know what happened to Boromir? Do you want to know why your brother died?”

The outburst seemed abrupt to Rimiriel from where she stood, having finally located her pack and removed it from Voronwë’s saddle, slinging the familiar weight over her right shoulder. The words, however, were no less potent as she seemed to become stone herself in an echo of the ruined statue standing as a marble warden to these goings-on, a desperation for—and fear of—Sam’s next words and the truth they might hold seizing her heart in a dangerous and icy grip. “He tried to take the Ring from Frodo. After swearing an oath to protect him, he tried to kill him! The Ring drove your brother mad!”

Rimiriel twisted her hand in the straps and buckles of her horse’s saddle until she lost feeling in her fingers, the improvised anchor promising to keep her from stumbling to the ground in a disconcerted heap as her knees threatened to buckle. Her eyes bored into Faramir’s back as she silently begged him to shift only a bit to one side, just enough that he would no longer be blocking the Halflings from sight. She wanted to contest the truth in Sam’s claim against her brother, to look into the Hobbit’s eyes and see a lie that would subvert the conviction in his voice. Boromir, her brother, the strongest Captain in all of Gondor, could not have fallen victim to the Ring’s whims. Her brother was too firm in his values, too loyal to his country, too good. These words that tumbled from the Hobbit’s lips could surely not hold any truth, but only the most grotesque of falsehoods.

Yet Rimiriel remembered the future promised to her by Isildur’s Bane, remembered all of the enticement and the heady rush of power with which it had tempted her, stronger than the finest of Gondor’s wines. She recalled the viciousness that had taken hold of Faramir, a man arguably more noble even than the eldest of the Steward’s issue. Boromir was strong, loyal, and brave. But he was also proud. Had that pride been his downfall? Rimiriel wished Faramir would turn so that she could see his face—see if he accepted the Hobbit’s claims as truth—but he, too, had gone rigid from the heaviness of this revelation, and she could only wait with bated breath for his response to Sam’s declaration.

His reaction was not one she was meant to witness, however, for before Faramir’s reply could escape his lips to find purchase in the air a warning erupted from the men stationed on the shores of the Anduin. The rangers turned as a single unit toward the heavens only to see a boulder flung from the enemy’s war machines smash through one of Osgiliath’s few intact towers, showering debris over any standing below. In the wake of the warning cry, a more terrifying sound broke through the morning air, a blood-chilling, unnatural shriek that could have but one source: Nazgûl.

The courtyard burst into a flurry of movement as everyone sought cover out of sight of the evil pair swooping over the city, leathery-winged fell beast and ebony-cloaked master. Another shriek sent the horses bolting, Rimiriel disentangling herself from Voronwë’s saddle not a moment too soon as even her fearless stallion proved unwilling to face the Nazgûl. The sounds of heavy wings beating the air drawing closer, Rimiriel joined the other rangers in seeking refuge away from open air, slinking back into the shadows offered by the threshold and overhanging roof of what would have been a grand stable during Gondor’s golden age. Another shriek sounded from the recesses of the wraith’s hood, this one close enough to cause the hair on Rimiriel’s neck to stand on end. The pitch of the Nazgûl’s cry made it seem as though her skull would split in two, and she fought the urge to clap her hands protectively over her ears, instead grasping the bow lashed to the quiver at her hip.

When the fell beast swooped over the courtyard, Rimiriel reasoned quickly as she reached for an arrow once her bow had been strung, it would be in close range of the bolts that could not reach when it soared above the rooftops as a menacing shadow. While the Nazgûl could not be killed by any man, its mount was as mortal as any other beast of the earth. This chance before her could be their only opportunity to disable one of Mordor’s most prominent commanders. Swan feather fletchings soft against her fingers as she set an arrow to the bowstring, Rimiriel held her weapon at the ready where she could draw and loose in an instant. She closed her eyes and listened to the beating wings of the wraith’s steed, hearing them bring her target closer and closer. She breathed deeply and steadily despite her racing heart, focusing on the long-memorized sensations of the muscles of her arms, shoulders, and core working in perfect harmony to release the bowstring and send the arrow hurtling toward the target. She would have but one shot, and the thrumming air told her that the window of opportunity was approaching quickly. She steeled herself and sent a silent prayer to the Valar…only for an arm to fall across her chest, barring her from stepping out of the shadows.

“A fell beast’s hide is thick and tougher than leather.” The familiar voice came quick to her ear, quiet as a breath. Faramir. So intent on her target had she been so as not to hear his approach. “Your arrow may penetrate, but not deep enough for a kill. And even if you managed to bring the beast down, the Nazgûl itself cannot be killed. All you will have accomplished is the revelation of your hiding place.”

“Then what are we to do?” Rimiriel asked, returning her arrow to the quiver. Faramir’s interference had held her back long enough for the Nazgûl to pass beyond the courtyard, the shrieks and beating of wings against the morning air fading as the leader of Mordor’s forces took his cloud of terror to plague another part of the garrison, leaving an eerie silence behind. “When the Nazgûl fly freely in the light of day an attack cannot be far behind.”

“You will go to the wounded,” the captain said after a long and solemn silence. Though his eyes were looking to the men emerging from various nooks and crannies now that the threat had passed, Rimiriel knew that her brother was seeing beyond the present, clouded glass eyes shielding the churnings of a busy mind as he considered whatever battle lay before them somewhere amongst the haze of present and future. “In this closeness of building and stone—with our enemy either flying overhead or coming across the river—our bows and forest tactics will be of limited use. And the wounded will need your care more than I will need your sword.”

Rimiriel nodded despite knowing Faramir was paying her little attention as she unstrung her bow before setting out on the mission which her brother bestowed upon her. There were others capable of taking part in the clash of swords, others who could carry messages to Minas Tirith, others who could cross the Great River in secret to scout enemy numbers and movements. But there were no others in Osgiliath who could do as she did in keeping men from the Halls of Awaiting, no others who could firmly anchor men on the cusp of death and draw them back to the world of the living. That ability was what had brought her outside the protection offered by high city walls and into the chaos and danger of the battlefield so many years ago after she had gotten her first taste of the truth of war separate from the false glories offered by songs and legends and the dusty annals of history. To the duty of preserving life she had first sworn her loyalty, and so that obligation would always come before the drawing of a bow or unsheathing of a sword. Archer, scout, messenger, swordsman—she could assume these roles any time a situation called for it, but she would always be Healer first.

The path to Osgiliath’s makeshift infirmary was one familiar enough that Rimiriel could have traversed it in her sleep, and so she arrived quickly, slowed only by having to dodge sudden downpours of rocks and debris as the enemy’s war machines continued in their quests to reduce the city to nothing more than rubble. More than once had she skittered into the shadows of an overhanging building or empty threshold, hands clamped over her ears and heart pounding as the ominous thrumming of air split by the leathery wings of the Nazgûl’s steed passed overhead, but even these moments of dreadful waiting did not manage to significantly hinder her arrival.

Upon first appraisal, there was nothing particularly noteworthy about the building chosen to house the wounded soldiers of Osgiliath. A squat but wide collection of stone and mortar, built plainly with usefulness in mind rather than decoration, the building’s most overt advantages were its proximity to what remained of Osgiliath’s Golden Gate, allowing the wounded to quickly and easily be transported to Minas Tirith and the skilled healers residing there, and its distance from the banks of the Anduin, far from the conflict and out of range of the enemy’s war machines—unlike Osgiliath’s original Houses of Healing that were now nothing more than rubble piled near the Great River. While these advantages were crucial reasons behind its choosing, it wasn’t until entering the building that an outsider could understand its importance. This place, Rimiriel had learned on her first trip to Osgiliath to tend the garrison’s wounded, had long ago served as the private bathhouse of a merchant’s manor in the ages when Osgiliath had stood strong and proud as a City of Kings. It had tapped into a natural spring deep in the earth that still flowed centuries later, providing a constant supply of fresh water for the wounded and those who tended them. While Rimiriel could not take credit for such a stroke of ingenuity, she certainly appreciated the foresight of whichever long-ago captain had chosen this place to house those injured in the constant struggle against Mordor’s forces.

The sharp tang of sweat mingled with blood accompanied the groaning of men in pain in assaulting Rimiriel’s senses as she stepped through the arched doorway of the ancient bathhouse and entered the battleground between life and death that mirrored the battle between chaos and order going on outside the stone walls. All around the room men lay in hastily-made pallets on the floor or else sat leaning against the wall, blood-tinged bandages wrapped around limbs, chests, and heads showing wounds that had been heedlessly tended. A sunken pool in the center of the room had steam rising from it, informing the healer that the hearth responsible for heating the spring water before channeling it into the bathhouse had already been stoked to life. A fire had also been lit within the main fireplace of the bathhouse, but the lingering chill in the air despite the eager crackling of the flames told her that the blaze was still young. The chest she had personally brought to Osgiliath and kept stocked with herbs, bandages, and other tools of the healing arts sat in the far corner with its lid swung open like the gaping maw of some beast, its contents littered across a table. There stood a man in the simple armor of a common foot soldier with his profile facing Rimiriel, a strong brow furrowed in a mix of determination and uncertainty as he picked up various carefully labeled jars of prepared poultices and tinctures only to set them down again.

A critical eye took in every detail, blind only to the way the grim atmosphere in the room had shifted as those men still clinging to consciousness turned their gazes to the new arrival. Hope sparked in eyes dulled by pain as they recognized the healer walking amongst them in the guise of a ranger, trained over the years to recognize the grey sash tied about her arm even if they might not remember her name or face. Wounded or sick soldiers were not typically in a state of mind suitable for a formal introduction after all, nor could they be expected to remember the presentation once the haze of fever or blood loss had been chased away by a healer’s medicines. If the direct inquiry were made, Rimiriel might even admit that she preferred the anonymity. If the soldiers knew who she truly was, then they would question the sanity of the high-born woman who dared venture outside of the safety of the city walls, and such a thing was difficult to explain or understand for those who had not been led down a similar path in their lives. The wounded remembered the grey sash, the calming words, the gentle touches, and the relief of the pain that plagued them, and that was enough for the healer.

Sensing the change in atmosphere brought about by the new arrival, who was too preoccupied with counting the number of casualties and evaluating what injuries she could in her initial sweep of the room to realize the effect she was having on the wounded simply by her presence, the man standing at the table and surveying the medicines as if trying to remember their uses turned toward the healer, nearly dropping the jar he held as he caught sight of her just inside the archway.

“Lady Rimiriel!” Relief blanketed the soldier’s tone rather than surprise as he returned the briefly endangered jar of herbs to the company of its fellows, Rimiriel realizing that she recognized this exhausted-looking man several years younger than she as he crossed the room on long legs to meet her, offering a slight bow. “Welcome back to Osgiliath. I am most grateful for your return.”

“Titles and propriety are a waste of time here, Halchon,” Rimiriel reminded the son of a healer she had studied under so many years ago, his brassy voice pulling the name to match the familiar face from the depths of her memory. “Are you in charge of looking after these men?”

“Aye,” the soldier confirmed, running a hand through messy brown hair as he surveyed the wounded in his care. “My mother taught me some of her art. I know more than the other soldiers stationed here, but I am no healer. My hands are trained for the sword; they are too large and unwieldy for the finesse of the needle.” A broad, all-encompassing gesture swept over the evidence of unsewn wounds and gashes in the bloody bandages of the wounded before tired eyes turned back on Rimiriel. “They said the Rangers of Ithilien would be joining us. I only hoped I could keep them alive long enough for you to arrive.”

“In that you appear to have succeeded,” Rimiriel declared as she scrutinized the soldiers clinging resolutely to life despite the savage damage their bodies had sustained. She also noted, however, the stench of pus and redness of infection settling into many of the wounded that indicated that a considerable number of these injuries were not freshly incurred. “But why have these men not been taken to Minas Tirith and the Houses of Healing?”

“The enemy is too strong; they have advanced too far,” Halchon revealed, a hopelessness darkening eyes of blue and deepening the lines of a face too young for such sobriety. “No supply wagons will risk coming to Osgiliath when the Nazgûl endlessly swoop about, and the wagons are how we have been transporting the wounded back to the city. These men are stranded here and our rations are dwindling fast.”

Rimiriel’s heart plummeted to her toes with the weight of such news, but she forced herself to maintain all outward signs of composure despite any inner discord. We must first focus on the problems before our feet, Faramir had said. She would have to take charge of this infirmary if these men were to survive their injuries. They would not fight the call of Mandos if she seemed to despair, and she could consult with Faramir on the matter of broken supply lines once the wounded were securely anchored to life once again.

“Rations and supply lines are the worries of captains and commanders.” She was glad her voice echoed a confidence she did not entirely feel as she clapped Halchon on the shoulder in a gesture of assurance. “These men here are our worry. If we cannot get them to the Houses of Healing, then we must instead get them onto their own feet. Come, show me which man is in the direst condition. We will start there and continue pressing forward until our task is complete.”

Gentle Estë, Queen of the Valar, Great Healer of all hurts and weariness, Rimiriel prayed silently and desperately as she was led to a man burning with fever and stinking of infection and rotting flesh, steeling herself for the daunting task ahead. Grant me your wisdom. Guide my hands in your ways as I tend these wounds brought forth by malice and hate. Help me to ease the suffering of these men that they might regain their strength and walk in the light once more.

In his thirty-six years of life, Faramir had learned many things. In fact, he would consider himself a scholar even before a warrior, despite how some seemed to look on his love of knowledge with disdain. Along with the information that came from books, however, the Captain of Gondor had learned much simply by watching the world twist and turn about him. One of the revelations his observations had brought about was this: you could ascertain much about a person by seeing how they navigated the obstacles set in their path. He had learned that there were two typical responses when one was faced with a stumbling block in achieving their goals. Many faced with hardships crumbled before them almost instantaneously, either choosing another path or descending into uselessness until someone else stepped forward to help them. But then there were also those willing to face the chaos when a storm arrived to hinder their journey, daring to continue through the thunder and lightning. It was these people brave and determined enough to not allow even the greatest obstacle to sway them from their path that sparked true changes in the world.

Boromir had been one such person, overcoming any problems in his path through sheer strength and force of will, refusing to bend and instead making the situation yield to his desires, as immovable as the mountain against which Minas Tirith had grown. Faramir hoped that time would prove him to be one of those people as well, though his strategy was more like that of the river which twisted and wound around obstacles to carve a path to the ocean. His was a way of logic and reasoning, of finding the surest path through the chaos to ultimately reach his goal. And as he stood at the threshold of the improvised House of Healing nestled on the outskirts of Osgiliath, watching his sister take command of the confusion and shape it into something resembling order, he was almost painfully reminded that she, too, was one of the lion-hearted, as strong and unyielding as any king or warrior of old.

If Boromir was a mountain and Faramir a river, then Rimiriel could be likened to a master potter at his wheel. Just as a potter took the dirt of the mountain and the water of the river together to make clay, so too did the youngest of the House of Húrin employ a combination of logic and reasoning, stubbornness and strength, as weapons to bend any obstacle to her will. Like the potter who would not form a vase once deciding a bowl would be his finished product, she took the whole of what was presented to her, decided upon an end result, and tirelessly molded the situation over and again until her vision was achieved. Her tactics were relentless, but deceptively so—as seemed to be her nature in general. While her suggestions fueled by rationality would seem delicate and innocent to those unfamiliar with her strategies, they would prove to be no less effective than another’s brutal maneuvers once reinforced by her unyielding heart. Under her careful ministrations chaos could be reformed into harmony without any awareness of thus being tamed.

Faramir himself had been thrown on his sister’s wheel many times, though there was one instance which would always crawl forth from the depths of his memories each time he saw her tending to his comrades in the aftermath of a skirmish. He liked to think that his status as the elder brother made him more aware of her subtle manipulations, but he would forever admit that there had been at least one occasion in which she had gotten the best of him, trapping him like a rabbit before he had even realized he was in danger. Like a wolf pup still learning what it is to possess teeth and claws, he still was uncertain as to whether or not Rimiriel had been aware of the snare she had set, as she had been so young then…or at least had seemed so as she balanced on the precipice between adolescence and adulthood.

She had been but a novice of the Houses of Healing then, having barely completed both the second decade of her life and the first stage of her training in the healing arts in which she had been a lowly student, spending her days memorizing herbs and their uses and being taught the theories behind healing with little raw experience beyond tiny glimpses caught whilst going about her daily chores. The Rangers of Ithilien, of which Faramir had only recently been appointed captain, had been in a brutal skirmish and one of his men had been gravely injured, leading to the company’s return to the White City. After making his report to his father, the young captain had set out for the Houses of Healing to receive an update on his comrade’s condition. Instead, he had been quickly met by one of the senior Mistresses of the House.

She introduced herself as Ioreth as she bobbed a small curtsy, grey wisps escaping the veil over her hair to hang limp and defeated over her brow, and Faramir recognized her immediately. While her talkative nature could be off-putting in the Houses where solemnity tended to reign, none could deny that the woman was wise and skilled in her art, fully deserving of the golden sash tied about her waist that denoted her high position within the infirmary. With grave sincerity the Captain of Gondor listened as the healer explained that she had been tasked with tending to his comrade and had been unable to save the soldier despite her best efforts, infection having taken too deep a hold within his wound in the time it had taken to return to the city. The captain accepted this news with sad frustration, already making mental preparations for informing the man’s family and arranging the burial when he realized Ioreth still stood before him rather than leaving him to his duties.

At his inquiry, the nervously shifting healer reluctantly revealed that his sister had been placed under her tutelage. Delighted at first that Rimiriel would have such a wise mentor for her time as a novice and amused as he wondered how his quiet and serious sister would fare under such a chatty teacher, Faramir’s heart was then all but wrenched from his chest as he realized what being Ioreth’s pupil would mean for Rimiriel, and he was moving even before the healer finished speaking.

He found her—his sweet, tender-hearted Merilig—within one of the smaller treatment rooms of the Houses. Looking back, Faramir sometimes wondered if he would have the strength to enter that room a second time whilst knowing what waited inside and what would be the result. Having long experienced his first battle and seen his comrades falling around him through the violent onslaughts, even holding their hands as they succumbed to Mandos’s call, it was not the stench of death’s plague that bothered the young Captain of Gondor as he entered the room. It was not the blood staining nearly every surface. It was not even the detached leg sitting on a table as if simply discarded by the owner, evidence of an amputation that had failed to save his comrade from the infection plaguing his wound, that caused the bile to rise in his throat. Rather, it was the sight of his sister standing as if made of stone, surrounded by the gore and carnage of a lost battle against death, which caused his heart to drop into his stomach and his breath to catch violently within his chest.

Your sister worked valiantly to help me tend your comrade, Mistress Ioreth had said, sadness etched in the lines of her aged face. But novices are not usually faced with such atrocities so soon.

A macabre testament to both the truth of the healer’s words and the tragedy that had taken place within the room, Rimiriel looked as if it had been she herself who had fought on the battlefield. The grey smock worn over her gown was drenched with gore, turning much of it a murky brown as the blood dried. Sleeves rolled to her elbows exposed red-stained hands clenched into fists; gruesome streaks painted across cheeks and forehead revealed where those same hands had tried to brush stray hairs from her face as she worked. The young novice stood with her back ramrod straight and her face void of emotion, but Faramir could see her inner turmoil in the way haunted eyes remained transfixed on the sheet tented over the body of the fallen ranger as if begging for life to return to it.

Gathering his resolve, the Captain of Gondor approached slowly and cautiously, as one might a skittish horse. Rimiriel gave no sign of knowing of his presence within the room, remaining mesmerized by the shrouded corpse, and neither a gentle hand on her shoulder nor calling her by any of the various appellations granted to her could rouse her. She was a blank slate, as if she too were a body awaiting its burial shroud. At a loss for what to do to help his sister and more disturbed by the carnage painted across such delicate features than he would ever care to admit, Faramir finally took her hand and led her from the temporary tomb and to her own room within the students’ quarters of the Houses, hoping that perhaps the familiar surroundings might spark her return from her trance.

Rimiriel’s room in the students’ quarters was small—a hovel in comparison to the grand suite within the Steward’s House that had been hers from birth—and for a moment Faramir found himself cursing his sister’s refusal to reside in the Citadel over the course of her studies as he shuffled through the tight quarters not meant to hold more than a single occupant. Bumping his hip on the edge of a desk laden with neat piles of scrolls in his attempt not to upset a pillar of books and parchment he was sure contained a collection of herbs in the process of being dried and pressed, it took several long moments of twisting and turning about the cramped space for the young captain to finally find a position in the room that neither discomfited him nor endangered his sister’s belongings, a still passive Rimiriel offering no help or advice during his plight. Finally settled, Faramir vaguely wondered if his actions could be paralleled with those of a mother toward her child as he worked at the knot binding the green sash of a novice about his sister’s waist before removing her filthy smock, leaving her in the dark blue—and, more importantly, void of gore—dress of a healer. Rimiriel continued to offer neither aid nor protest at her brother’s actions, as yielding as a ragdoll as he guided her to take a seat on the sturdy narrow bed made as neatly as if done by the best of the Steward’s attendants.

Though she said nothing, Faramir could feel Rimiriel’s eyes on him as he filled the washbasin on her nightstand with water from its matching pitcher before taking up the rag folded over the rim and dunking it in the cool water. He pretended not to notice her following his every movement as he knelt before her and began cleansing her cheeks and forehead of the dried blood clinging to her skin, uncertain as to what he could possibly say to ease her pain. The harsh words of a commander that he remembered from the aftermath of his own first encounter with the brutal realities of battle would not help her; she was no warrior. He focused instead on her hands as he tried to purge the gore from her skin. They were delicate like their mother’s had been, with long fingers that might have been suited for the musical arts had their owner not been proven to possess more talent—or patience, if one were to be honest—for the artist’s brush and pencils than a musician’s harps or flutes. She kept her hands devoid of jewelry and the nails were cut nearly to the quick, the better to tend to those in need of medicine—and they were shaking. Faramir looked up in surprise with this realization and quickly wished he had not.

Rimiriel had been prideful from the moment she had been born, reluctant to admit her own shortcomings and the first to hide any emotions that could not be attributed to strength behind an expressionless mask. Only those who knew her best had ever been able to see through these shielding habits, and yet those defenses had fallen into shambles on that day in the Houses of Healing. Faramir could read her grief as clear as he could read any book or letter. Grey eyes were wide and glassy with tears that had finally broken through her emotionless front, cheeks flushed from his rough scrubbing now carved with tracks leading to where salty drops fell from her chin to soak into the wool of her gown, shoulders shaking from the sobs she was instinctively trying to conceal and hold silent. As Faramir finally faced her directly, however, the dams truly burst and the first choking sob painfully escaped, echoing in the silent room.

His sister was no longer a child and so many might have questioned the appropriateness of his actions, but the captain could not curb every brotherly instinct as he pulled her from the edge of the bed and into his lap, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder as she succumbed to the weight of the horrors she had experienced. He cursed her compassionate heart as he shuffled out of his kneeling position so that his back could be supported by her bed and his legs were free to stretch across the floor, securely sheltering the grieving young woman in his arms. The profession she had chosen would be easier for one with a heart of stone, but his sister had always been soft beneath her strength and pride, feeling everything deep within her soul. It did not matter that she had not known the ranger or that she had only been an assistant to her mentor and therefore the loss was not hers to bear. She felt the defeat as profoundly as if it had been her own brother and she herself the one unable to save him, leaving Faramir with the task of collecting the pieces as her resolve shattered and the room filled with naught but the sounds of her despair.

“It will be alright,” he said softly several long minutes later, rocking his sister slightly as her keening began to subside, the wracking sobs having ceased their violent assault on her body and subsided into gentler tremors.

“We tried to save him,” Rimiriel whimpered, her voice muffled from where her face remained resolutely buried in her brother’s shoulder. “But it was too late. He was in so much pain—screaming and delirious from fever—and I could only watch!”

“It is over now,” Faramir returned, running a soothing hand over her back. “His fate was in the hands of the Valar. Your duty is only to do the best that you can to influence that fate.”

Rimiriel’s hair tickled the captain’s cheek as she shook her head, her whole body tensing at his response. “No, we could have saved him if there had only been more time.” Her sobs quieted into little more than sniffles and some strength returned to her voice. “Faramir, why do healers not tend the wounded directly on the field of battle?”

The question confused the captain for a moment. “You know your answer already,” he noted. If he could have seen her face, he would have noticed the moment his sister’s grief strengthened to resolve and the turmoil in her soul hardened into purpose, determination sparking in her grey eyes and causing the tears to flee. Otherwise occupied in his role as caretaker, however, Faramir missed the rapid transition in which his sister finished her wallowing, decided on a goal, and dedicated herself to reaching it.

“Healers are either young women seeking to make themselves useful before dedicating themselves to marriage, widows wishing to spend the remainder of their lives in a practical manner rather than wallowing in loneliness, or men who have chosen a life dedicated to knowledge rather than war, none of which have any training in arms. They are therefore unsuited for the battlefield.”

“Then why not station them with the garrisons?” Rimiriel pulled from her brother’s comforting embrace and out of his lap, kneeling beside him. Expecting to see sadness still etched on his sister’s face and instead being met with the usual steady composure she had adopted upon leaving childhood, Faramir quickly realized this blooming discussion was not simply rhetorical. “They would not be directly involved in battles and would be able to treat the wounded faster than bringing them all the way to the city. So many lives could be saved!”

“Perhaps. But what happens if the garrison is overrun? What happens to your healer when they are defenseless and in the hands of the enemy?” the captain replied quickly, watching Rimiriel process his argument and practically being able to see her mind form a counter. “They would be mindlessly slaughtered just like any other.”

“What if the healers knew how to defend themselves?” Rimiriel grew restless with the weight of her idea, wringing her hands in her lap, and the core of her proposal suddenly became clear as Faramir watched her fidget.

“I suppose you mean yourself to be one such healer?” Her almost sheepish silence provided an adequate answer. Oh, dear sister, you are still so innocent. Today was but a taste of the horrors of battle, and I would have you experience no more than you must. “It is not possible, Rimiriel. Our father would not allow it; neither would Boromir nor I.”

“Why not?”

Her voice remained calm and steady, though Faramir could see the hurt written on her face as though she had expected his allegiance in this matter. Indeed, the young captain had stood with his sister time and again, but he would not agree with her on this. “You have said yourself that I am as good an archer as any of your rangers. If I can defend myself then there is no—"

“A child’s hobby is different than a battlefield, sister.” Faramir was firm and certain in his interruption, sure that Rimiriel would see that this idea of hers was but a foolish, hastily-formed notion stemming from the horror she had witnessed that was weighing on her soul. “You are talented with the bow, yes, but straw targets do not bleed, nor do they retaliate against your assault. A sharp eye is not enough to warrant a place on the battlefield.”

“Then I could take up lessons in the sword!” Rimiriel moved as if to run a hand through her hair in frustration only to lower her hand back to her lap as she remembered that a tight braid kept her hair constrained. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet and grave. “That ranger—I watched him die a needless death. He could have been saved.”

“Mistress Ioreth said that you did all that you could. The blame for that man’s death is not yours to bear.” Faramir placed a comforting hand on his sister’s shoulder, misunderstanding her words, but she shrugged it off just as quickly as he placed it.

“Do not patronize me!” She leapt to her feet as if unable to contain her energy, agitatedly pacing about as much as the tiny room could allow. “You do not understand. It was not the wound itself that killed your comrade. If he had received such an injury whilst within the walls of the city he could have survived. Infection—preventable infection—killed that man only because he could not be treated sooner! His life was wasted, and for what?”

“And you think your presence on the field would change anything? With swords clashing all around, fifty dying men all calling your name, and you with the supplies and time to save only ten?” Faramir, too, gained his feet, towering over Rimiriel as he blocked her pacing, forcing her to meet him eye-to-eye. The young Captain of Gondor had already seen many good men lost and could feel that countless more would suffer and die before his country would be at peace. He had been forced to accept such a truth long ago and thought it time for his idealistic sister to accept it as well. “Death is an inevitable part of a battle, and you are but one person. Even if it were allowed, what difference could you possibly hope to make?”

“A much greater one than can be made from behind these walls of stone!”

It had been some time since his sister had dared be so bold, and the force of her rebuttal pushed Faramir back into a seat on her bed in surprise. As if she, too, realized the audacity of her response, Rimiriel suddenly seemed tired, the raging inferno that had sparked within her eyes dimming into a silent plea for understanding. With a billow of heavy skirts, she fell to her knees before her brother, taking his hands, callused from years of training with both bow and sword, and caging them within her own, soft-skinned from years of handling books and scrolls in the pursuit of knowledge.

“I wanted to become a healer so that I could do something worthwhile for our people,” the novice began, once again the epitome of calm as she steadily met the captain’s gaze from her lower position kneeling on the stone floor. “You know this, Faramir; it was you who first suggested I do so. Since I was only a child you and Boromir have taught me that it is the duty of our house to serve where we are needed most. The men giving their lives to protect our country from the Shadow of the East have no one to help them when they are wounded unless they can survive the journey to the White City. Many are dying unnecessary deaths while dozens of healers stay behind these walls delivering babies, setting broken bones, and tending fevers. How can I let that stand? I know I could be of great service if you would but grant me the opportunity to prove myself.”

And just like that, the snare had been sprung, though it would be some time before Faramir would come to realize it, as such had not been the end of their debate. The young Captain of Gondor had thought his sister’s idea preposterous, and had not hesitated in saying so. He knew there was no place for a woman on the battlefield, regardless of her abilities or in what role she served. He had thought that Rimiriel would forget her foolish proposal once the horrors of the day had faded from her memory, her idea simply serving as a comfort to help her move past the shadow cast by her first bitter encounter with the darkness of war. He had even said as much to Boromir when the elder had learned of their sister’s strange request. And yet, the brothers had found themselves battling with their sister for months over her proposition, their defenses being steadily chipped away by Rimiriel’s shrewd negotiations. She had met their every argument with a logical counter, speaking with such conviction that the Captains of Gondor had eventually been left with little choice other than to yield. They could not have known the strength of the unquenchable flame of determination that had been sparked that day, nor that they had become clay to be molded on the potter’s wheel that was their sister’s indomitable spirit.

Now, however, Faramir was grateful for that resolve as he watched her from just inside the doorway of the makeshift infirmary on the outskirts of Osgiliath. In the years since that long ago debate in a tiny room of the Houses of Healing, Rimiriel had indeed proven herself time and again as an asset to Faramir and his rangers. She had overcome every obstacle that had risen before her with both tenacity and grace, becoming so much more than a healer as one-by-one she took up the duties of any full ranger. While he had certainly lost count of how many times his men had been saved from the brink of death by her medicines, he had also lost count of how many times she had successfully scouted the movements of their enemies, how many times it had been her swan-fletched arrows flying to his defense in the midst of a skirmish, or how many times it had been her strategies that had granted them victory. What she lacked in size and brute strength she made up for with speed and agility; though she could not be cruel or ruthless, her unwavering courage and quick mind were match for even his greatest lieutenants.

Still, though she valiantly performed the duties of one suited for the battlefield whenever the need arose, and could fool many into thinking she had never been meant to serve in any other capacity, the daughter of the Steward would always be better suited to saving lives rather than ending them. Here, amidst the pain-filled cries of the wounded and dying, her gloves and leather bracers abandoned, weapons carelessly discarded in some shadowy corner, and sleeves rolled up to her elbows as blood-soaked hands stitched wounds and applied bandages, Rimiriel stood as an unconquerable bastion against chaos and despair, fighting even for those who no longer had the will to fight for themselves. Faramir had sometimes wondered how she could face so much death and pain each day without losing herself, though he had never dared to ask. Thanks to a certain pair of stalwart Hobbits, however, he felt that perhaps now he understood. His sister endured shadows and desperation every day, refusing to submit despite having had the chance many times, hoping that something waited just beyond the next obstacle that would prove her efforts worthwhile.

In turn, her unwavering fortitude encouraged the men in her care to fight just as hard to remain within the world of the living. As a potter turned clay into a beautiful vase, Rimiriel took broken men and molded them through medicine and gentle strength back into the brave soldiers she knew them to be. The rangers loved her for her kind words and tender care, as unshakably loyal to the one who pulled them from the very cusp of death as they were to the captain who led them into battle. Rimiriel had never desired a mantle of leadership, seeking a meaningful life over a glorious one, and so she was blind to the devotion earned from the men she tirelessly served, but her brother and captain was not so blind. He had long seen how his men were quick to listen when their healer chose to speak and swift to follow wherever she might lead.

Faramir watched Rimiriel take control of the crude infirmary as easily as the great heroes of old legends had commanded the battlefields of their time, grasping just how long it had been since she had been the despairing young healer seeking solace from her elder brother in the wake of tragedy. Though he still offered his guidance when she sought it and his words of comfort when the darkness of war weighed particularly heavy on her heart, the Captain of Gondor realized that it had been quite some time since his sister had truly needed him. As plans and strategies for the coming days shifted and tumbled about in his mind, however, the Captain of Gondor decided that such was for the best despite the bitterness it left in his heart. They stood on the shores of a sea of darkness with the tides rising fast. No one could be certain as to what the storm-tossed surf of war would bring, but Faramir could take comfort in the assurance that Rimiriel would not easily be pulled beneath the choking waves.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four
A Dangerous Proposal

Ignore the screams. Sometimes it is necessary to cause momentary distress to relieve a greater pain.

Rimiriel did not think she would ever completely be able to drown out the terrible screams that would issue forth from even the most stoic of patients when the strong spirits used for cleansing met with the raw flesh of a gaping wound. Sometimes she felt that the older healers who had given her such advice when she had been a novice amongst their ranks were only able to put it into practice because their hearing had been permanently damaged by years of exposure to the forceful bellows that could sound when the distilled alcohol did its duty of burning through anything that could cause infection in an injury. Indeed, the healer sometimes worried for the state of her own hearing after particularly violent skirmishes, her ears continuing to ring long after the last of the wounds had been cleaned, stitched and bandaged.

This was one such time when it seemed as though she might never fully recover. The wounded had been forced to spend too much time suffering from untreated injuries, allowing infection to run rampant and wreak havoc on whichever souls were most open to invasion. Lucid men were far superior patients in that, while the pain was no more bearable, they could understand the necessity of a healer’s actions and so did not put up much fight. For those lost to fever and infection, however, she was the enemy, torturing them and extending their suffering by pouring liquid fire into their wounds to consume them from the inside out. A man who had been rent from left shoulder to opposing hip had, in fact, presented a violent reward to the healer for her efforts in saving his life from the blight that had set into his wound, giving her a black eye and busted lip to match her already-bruised jaw before Halchon had managed to subdue the delirious soldier. It had taken her strongest sleeping draught—a careful blend of poppies, red clover, and valerian root—to finally quiet the soldier’s bellowing. Her left ear still plagued her with a persistent clamor despite the fact that she had long finished sewing torn flesh and had left the most desperately afflicted men to their rest and recovery, focusing now on those whose injuries were not a threat to their lives—disjointed limbs, light sprains, minor fractures and the like.

Rimiriel had just finished returning two disjointed fingers to their places, wrapping them tightly to limit their movement before sending their owner on his way, when she noticed Faramir lurking near the doorway. A critical eye assessed the goings-on around him even while the captain tried to stay out of the way of soldiers shuffling in and out. The healer motioned her brother forward as she moved to a small washbasin she had ordered filled with distilled spirits so that she could quickly disinfect her hands as she worked. She suspected that the captain was seeking a status report on her efforts within the makeshift infirmary, though she vaguely wondered why he had personally made the trek to the outskirts of Osgiliath instead of sending a lieutenant. She would have preferred he sent one of them—Damrod, perhaps, quiet and always careful not to interfere, or Anborn, sly and mischievous outside of the battlefield and skilled at distracting the wounded with jokes and stories so that they scarcely noticed her needle piercing their skin to draw ragged edges together again.

The healer would only admit it to herself, but she was wary of reporting to her brother and captain, his caustic words from the day before still fresh in her memory. Logic told her to be understanding and forgiving, that her brother’s hurtful words and harsh demeanor had not truly been his own, but her heart was stubborn and would not be coaxed from its hiding place where it nursed the lashes Faramir had carelessly inflicted whilst under the shadow cast by Isildur’s Bane. She busied herself with dunking her hands in the basin of spirits to avoid meeting the captain’s gaze as he drew near, wrinkling her nose against the strong, bitter scent.

“How are you faring here?” Faramir inquired, watching as his sister focused on scrubbing between her fingers and beneath her nails, the contents of the bowl sloshing merrily against the ceramic sides in response to the turmoil occurring beneath the surface.

Rimiriel could detect nothing dark in his tone, but still… “I have everything under control, Captain.” She kept her voice brusque and her words simple as she withdrew her hands from their bath, continuing to avoid his gaze as she dried them on a towel slightly damp from previous washes.

“One of the wounded has forgotten his manners.”

Rimiriel flinched at the light touch on her chin and it quickly retreated. She hoped Faramir would think her reflexive wince an impulse caused by pain in her busted lip and not by fear, but when she looked up and saw a flash of hurt in his eyes she knew that he was not fooled.

“It is nothing.” She charged forward, hoping that if she pretended not to notice the blooming tension between them then he would also act as though nothing were amiss. She did not know if she could even explain this newfound apprehension to a man who surely saw no fault in his actions, but she did know that this was not the place nor time to try. “It is not uncommon for men to forget themselves when they are lost in the throes of fever. If you have need to stay, you will have to speak while I work.”

She returned the towel to its place by the washbasin and briskly strode across the room to where she had ordered the injured to congregate while they waited for treatment after an initial assessment by Halchon. While he was honest in claiming to lack skill in the finer arts of healing, the soldier had proven himself to have a fine eye for assessing the severity of an injury and thus prioritizing the waiting patients so that those most grievously afflicted received her attentions first. He did this duty with neither hesitation nor prejudice, making him invaluable to the efforts to usurp the pervading chaos that suffocated the infirmary and enthrone order in its place. Together Rimiriel and Halchon had beaten back the forces hungering for blood and death and now only a single man remained waiting for the skilled touch of a healer to relieve his pain.

Seeing Halchon busy himself with checking on those that had been most critically wounded and were in need of particularly close attention, Rimiriel advanced on her target, unsurprised when Faramir followed her, taking up the open position at her right shoulder. This particular soldier had earlier entered the healer’s domain whilst clad in the armor of a member of the garrison and had tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, hugging the wall in attempt to stay out of the way. Even through the heavy plate armor and chainmail weighing down his frame, the experienced healer had seen how the arm the man kept cradled against his stomach hung at an awkward angle from the shoulder. The injury was even more noticeable now that Halchon had helped the soldier remove his armor, and Rimiriel already knew what she would need to do to help this man.

Noticing that his turn for treatment had come, the soldier rocked forward onto his feet from where he had been leaning against the wall and then stiffened as he recognized his captain following in the wake of the approaching healer, dropping his cradled left arm to stand at attention and attempting to hide the wince of pain the movement caused.

“You have dislocated your shoulder.” Rimiriel cut through the warrior’s attempt to acknowledge his superior, closing in on his injured side.

“Yes, Mistress.” The soldier seemed determined to maintain formality in the presence of his captain despite his botched salute, but his presentation crumbled as the healer reached for the laces binding a quilted woolen jacket to his frame. A violent blush rose in his cheeks as he began to protest, “I can remove my own clothes!”

Another who had noticed that the soldier was hardly more than a youth, having barely shed the weight of adolescence, might have been amused by the young man’s protest, but Rimiriel was focused solely on doing her duty and so her rebuke was swift and stern. “Not with this shoulder. You would harm more than you would help.”

The injured soldier wilted at her unyielding assessment but offered no more objection as the healer carefully but deftly removed his jacket and followed with the thin cotton tunic beneath it. A shiver sent a spasm up the warrior’s spine as his torso was exposed to the chill air that refused to warm despite the fire crackling in the hearth, but Rimiriel paid little mind as she prodded at his disjointed shoulder.

“Where do we stand on casualties?” Faramir asked while she worked. Rimiriel was grateful for the normality of the question and her brother’s willingness to gloss over her attempts at avoidance—at least for the moment.

“After finishing with this, I will have tended twenty-eight men so far.” She never diverted her attention from her task even as she spoke. “Eleven suffered minor injuries that do not require leave from the garrison. Four have sustained injuries that are not life-threatening but render them incapable of fighting. The other thirteen need to be moved to the Houses of Healing as quickly as possible. My medicines can only do so much here. There were also eight men slain before we arrived. Their bodies await a wagon to bear them hence. I doubt messages have been dispatched to their families.”

“If it has not been done already, I will see that letters are sent before nightfall,” Faramir promised.

Though she did wonder if her brother had been informed of their broken supply lines and was only making an empty promise for the sake of her listening patient, Rimiriel offered no reply as she directed her charge to a seat on a low stool. She began chewing her lower lip in concentration as she studied the shoulder from this new, higher viewpoint, taking particular interest in the bulge protruding from the front of the man’s shoulder. Obviously in pain if his knit brows and held breath were any indication, the young warrior flinched as fingers prodded at the stretched skin where the arm was supposed to join his torso, the muscles in his shoulder spasming in response to the investigation though he remained unwilling to voice any protests to the healer surveying his injury. Finally, Rimiriel moved around to crouch in front of her patient. Having watched and occasionally assisted his sister in her work with his men over the years, Faramir recognized the decisive shift and quietly shuffled behind the young soldier as the healer took hold of his arm.

“You are lucky,” she stated, seeming to surprise the injured man before her. “Your arm and shoulder have not started swelling yet, so it will be relatively simple to put your arm back in its proper place. The only part that proves a bit difficult is ensuring that we have the arm aligned correctly before we attempt to return it to the socket. So long as the arm is in the correct position, it will slide back—”

A loud, pained groan cut off Rimiriel’s explanation as she quickly relocated the soldier’s arm while he was distracted by her explanation, with him hardly noticing his arm being shifted into position or Faramir readying to brace him. The swiftly ignited fires of betrayal were doused and replaced with a glow of relief as the young man took note of the absence of pain in his shoulder. “It doesn’t hurt anymore!”

“It will,” the healer cautioned as she crossed the injured arm over the man’s chest and stood. “It will bruise over the next few hours and will most likely be tender for the next week.”

Without awaiting a response, Rimiriel turned and made her way to the table where her herbs, bandages, and tools had been laid out for easy access, quickly gathering a length of cloth to fashion a sling for the soldier before returning to his side.

“Keep your arm in this sling for the next four weeks,” she instructed as she looped the cloth around the young man’s neck and nestled his arm inside. “Try to use it too soon and you could cause it to slip out of place again. If you notice any swelling or have trouble with pain, a tea made with elderberry leaves or valerian root will help. In a moment, Halchon will help you dress and you are free to return to your company. I would recommend that you fall back to the safety of Minas Tirith at the earliest opportunity, but—assuming this is not your dominant arm—it is not my place to demand it of you.”

“I thank you for your services, Mistress”—the soldier bowed his head respectfully as he accepted Rimiriel’s tone of dismissal—“and will certainly take your recommendations into consideration.”

“Have you eaten yet?”

Faramir’s inquiry came only after Rimiriel had dismissed Halchon with the assurance that she could handle the makeshift infirmary alone now that the flow of patients had ebbed, leaving the siblings with only each other for company aside from the most severely wounded that lay in various states of unconsciousness around the room.

“Of course you haven’t,” the captain then declared, answering his own question as he removed his pack from his shoulders and set it on her worktable to unload the rations nestled inside. “You always forget to take care of yourself once others have your attention. Come, I brought enough for us to share.”

Rimiriel hesitated for only a moment before her stomach loudly reminded her of how long it had been since she had last eaten, having skipped breakfast due to the rangers’ hasty retreat from Henneth Annûn that morning. Before joining her brother for whatever lunch he had managed to scavenge and therefore smite the monster that had begun clawing at her insides, however, she once again moved to the painstakingly assembled supply chest in the corner. Salvaging a simple earthenware teapot and two complimentary cups from inside the strongbox, she then advanced on the hearth to pull an iron kettle from its place hung over the crackling flames before retreating back to the worktable. While Faramir divided the food he had brought into two equal portions, Rimiriel focused on brewing a tea for the siblings to share, filling the teapot with boiling water from the kettle. As she added leaves to the pot, the healer felt the weight of her brother’s eyes where they watched her handle the dishes with careful efficiency born from years of practice.

“Do not worry, brother.” Despite her quick assurance, Rimiriel felt a nostalgic grin pull at the corners of her mouth as she remembered once finding Faramir in a sound slumber on a couch in her sitting room after helping himself to an unlabeled blend of leaves and herbs, unaware that the tea was a personally-crafted concoction used when the youngest child of the Steward was having trouble sleeping. “It is only linden.”

Faramir seemed only slightly reassured as he returned his attentions to their meal, sliding a cloth containing Rimiriel’s portion across the table. Leaving their tea to steep, the healer surveyed the collection of cured meat, cheese, bread, and apples with satisfaction. The modest lunch would have seemed a particularly scant offering to most nobles of Gondor, but to Rimiriel’s empty stomach it equaled any great feast held in Merethrond.

“Eradan will not be happy that you have given away his treats,” she observed as she plucked one of the apples, slightly bruised from tumbling about inside Faramir’s pack for an unguessable amount of time, from her share of the food and tossed it into the air.

“You are confusing my horse’s habits with those of his sire,” her brother returned as he drew a dagger from his belt and used it to cut his cheese into thin slices to be eaten atop his bread. “Your Voronwë likes apples; Eradan prefers carrots.”

“Ah, yes, you are right,” Rimiriel ceded as she wiped juice from her chin, a large chunk now missing from the apple resting in her palm. “He would steal them from your pockets when he was a colt.”

“Yes, I would try to reward him and my pocket would be empty!” Faramir laughed heartily. “It is a wonder that he managed to become a worthwhile mount, mischievous rogue that he was.”

Even to her own ears, Rimiriel’s laugh seemed forced. Vines of dread twined in a choking grip about her heart as she caught Faramir’s eyes narrowing in suspicion, and she silently prayed to every member of the Valar that her brother would not choose this moment to investigate her hesitations now that she would have no patients giving her the needed excuse for avoiding his questions. She turned her attention to the tea once again, pouring the prepared brew into the two waiting cups. Her knuckles lost all color as she clenched the teapot, anxious as she made the mistake of meeting her captain’s watchful gaze. Her breath caught in her throat as she felt the weight of his scrutiny even as he wrapped his hands around a steaming teacup and raised it to his lips, knowing that the interrogation would begin at any moment. But then Faramir visibly relaxed once he had tasted for himself the strong but sweet flavor produced by the linden flower, smiling that easy smile that caused crinkles to frame his eyes as he commended the blend.

Only years of lessons concerning etiquette and manners kept Rimiriel from staring slack-jawed at her brother from across the table as he fell easily into his meal as if nothing were amiss and he had only been wary of the tea rather than her behavior. Relaxation did not come so easily for the healer, whose blood was now pulsing in her ears from holding her breath for so long, matching time with her pounding heart. She tried to imitate her brother’s display of normalcy by turning her focus to her own meal, but her ravenous appetite had been lost as she could not resist the urge to continue watching the captain for any hint of trickery. Furtive glances at an outwardly content Faramir, his movements unhurried and his posture relaxed as he worked his way through his share of the rations, were nearly enough to drive Rimiriel mad as she tensed in anticipation of the interrogation she was certain would begin at any moment.

The tension had built into something almost tangible, scraping Rimiriel’s nerves raw as several long minutes of silence stretched on, the only sounds at the table being the tink of a cup against wood, slurp of tea past thirsty lips, and crunch of the tender skin of an apple torn by devouring teeth. She wondered at Faramir’s assumed indifference to the pressure building within the room. Surely he could not be so oblivious to the chasm carved in the planks of the oak table separating him from his sister? Even the most ignorant simpleton in all of Middle-earth would be able to feel the weight of such a rift. Her brother possessed many qualities, some more desirable than others, but dimwittedness was one attribute that had never been ascribed to the young Captain of Gondor. The healer’s thoughts twisted and churned in attempt to understand Faramir’s lack of response in regards to the distance stretching between the siblings, pondering the implications of such a display of apathy. The theory that made the most sense to her agitated mind was not one that had any success in tempering her irritation.

The fires of her fury were stoked into a dangerous blaze as she watched her brother finish his meal with such relaxed ease while she had barely touched her own. How dare he? She fumed. Rimiriel truly loathed the feeling of any kind of distance or conflict between herself and the brothers she had admired from her first conscious memory. Serious disagreements had rarely arisen between the three, but when they had it had nearly always seemed to be the youngest of them that would sacrifice her own dignity and be the first to admit her share of any fault. The House of Húrin was known for its pride for good reason, but Rimiriel had always chosen her bond with her brothers over any egotistic vanity. Faramir knew this. And so, it was not that her captain was unaware of the tension between himself and the healer, Rimiriel realized, but rather that he wanted her to be the first to acknowledge it. Of course it could not have been enough to cut her down with a show of intimidation and superiority that had made her feel like a foolish child that had spoken out of turn. Now he also had to intrude on her domain of mercy and taint it with his arrogance, knowing that by doing so she would then seek to appease him by offering an apology and seeking his forgiveness for daring to speak against him.

Well, she would not give him the satisfaction, Rimiriel decided. If Faramir could sit at her table and act as though nothing were amiss, then she would do the same. It had been more than a decade since she had last been considered a child, and so she would not bend before his immature attempt to display dominance. The healer would do many things for the sake of keeping peace, but she would not confess to a wrongdoing and seek atonement when she knew that little error existed on her part.

“Halchon has told me that our supply lines have been cut off,” she began as she tucked into her lunch with a new fervor, eager to seem as unperturbed as her counterpart. Strategy had always been a common mealtime discussion between the siblings, even when they had been adolescents speaking of theory rather than from experience, with no awareness of the peculiarity of a brother and sister having such debates. Falling back on such familiarity now would not seem odd. “He says no wagons will come from Minas Tirith so long as the Nazgûl swoop about.”

“Yes, I have been informed,” Faramir returned with a long-suffering sigh. Setting his teacup down on the table, he fixed his gaze on the healer across the table as he continued, “though I have not yet decided how best to respond. Even with the additions of our rangers, our numbers are dangerously low compared to our enemies.”

“Well, something certainly must be done,” Rimiriel insisted, keeping her voice stern to disguise her urge to squirm beneath the weight of her captain’s coldpiercingdagger stare. “And soon. Our rations are nearly spent and the wounded are trapped within the garrison. The supplies I have will not last more than three days if we cannot move the most severely wounded to the safety of Minas Tirith.”

“I see. Have you come up with one of your brilliant schemes, then?”

“Of course not. It has been made clear to me that it is my duty to mindlessly follow orders.”

Rimiriel cursed her tongue for daring to speak so carelessly without first taking the time to recognize the gravity in her brother’s tone. Her wounded pride had prematurely drawn the conclusion that Faramir was mocking her, biting back with caustic words meant to eat through a man’s soul as easily as hers had been devoured by his acidic ultimatum from the previous evening. As the words had charged from her tongue to slay the enemy that had dared slight her, however, the healer had realized that there was no ridicule in the captain’s inquisition. It was too late to sound a retreat, and so she could only brace herself for an impending counterstrike. Eyeing the needles and thread used for stitching wounds that she had abandoned at the far end of the table, she entertained the idea that the world would be much better off if her mouth were sewn shut, leaving her unable to speak.

Bowing her head in shame, the healer wondered what sort of reprimand she might receive from her brother and captain. The table between them would save her from any physical retribution, she mused with a certain degree of relief, but the span of solidly-crafted oak offered no protection from a verbal lashing. The shadows of Rimiriel’s consciousness were grimly amused as they noted that she had faithfully served a full seven years under Faramir’s command without requiring a single word of discipline, and yet she was now preparing to accept her second dressing-down in as many days. She wondered which of the Valar she had angered that they might exact revenge in such a manner. Regardless of what actions had led to this moment, Rimiriel hoped that her brother’s reprisal would be swift as she waited with bated breath, uncertain that she could withstand the trials of a drawn-out sentence.

“It seems I owe you an apology.”

Rimiriel felt the bones in her neck crack and pop from the speed with which she raised her head, seeking the captain’s place across the table. Whatever she had been expecting, it most certainly had not been that. She had earned words of condemnation…she should have been apologizing and asking her brother to grant her mercy. But he was seeking forgiveness instead?

Faramir was looking down at the teacup clenched tight in his hands as if all the answers he sought could be found floating amongst the dregs. As if sensing his sister’s rising confusion, however, he abandoned the possible solutions his tea could offer in favor of meeting her face-to-face. Rimiriel suddenly wished he had not.

When had her brother begun to seem so old?

Faramir possessed a face that could be easily read by those who knew the languages spoken by smiles, creased brows, or narrowed eyes. Rimiriel had always known it as an earnest face, open and kind—at least until it had become shrouded in the taint of the One Ring, twisted with cold ambition. Now it was the face of a warrior who had seen too many battles. Eyes that had once shone with the laughter of a joke or excitement of newfound knowledge had hardened into the hollow steel of one who had witnessed how quickly the tides of a war could shift. Wrinkles with a depth more fitting for an elder than a young man of thirty-six revealed where a forehead had too frequently been creased with the burden of heavy thoughts. Slain comrades could be counted in infinite frown lines; the weight of past defeats could be seen in the hunch of overloaded shoulders. Rimiriel realized that she could no longer see the effects of the seductive stranglehold of Isildur’s Bane on the noble Captain of Gondor. How the cursed trinket’s spell had been broken she might never know, but it had obviously drained her brother. He looked so weary, and the healer felt her apprehension wither as her heart swelled with compassion.

“Are you alright, Faramir?” A deceptively simple question loaded with both empathy and concern.

“No.” The reply was quick and firm. “Countless men—myself included—continue to draw breath today only because of your skill and willingness to serve. You complete tasks appointed to you without complaint and consistently strive beyond the original mandates of your assignment as a healer in order to better aid myself and your comrades. And yet I have awarded such devotion with contempt!”

A clenched fist pounded the table in an uncharacteristic bout of anger. “I allowed myself to be tempted by the very evil we have dedicated ourselves to defeating…my own pride nearly brought our lands to ruin!”

Rimiriel was uncertain as to whether she was more startled by the rage-blinded glare boring unseeingly through her to focus on some unseen rival over her shoulder or by how the fiery glower cooled as quickly as it had ignited, thunderstorm eyes fading into the clarity of glass as they dismissed the enemy mirage to instead focus on the healer. There was something sad and familiar in that heavy gaze, as she found that she could not look away.

“You tried to show me the error in my decision to bring the Ring to Gondor, and I belittled you for it.” The bud of Faramir’s clenched fist bloomed into a white poppy as callused fingers unfurled to lay palm-up on the table in a silent peace offering. “I am deeply sorry for the cruelty of my actions. I hope you can forgive me.”

There was power in choosing whether or not to accept an apology. One could easily refuse to accept such a request until certain terms were met, or even challenge the guilty party to prove the legitimacy of their contrition. Rimiriel had never been comfortable wielding such influence. While the youngest direct descendant of the House of Húrin could be as vindictive as any other should she feel she had been unjustly scorned, her years as a healer had taught her to temper such malevolence with mercy and compassion. If one was truly genuine in his acts of penance, then she saw no reason to send a simple altercation spiraling into some tragic feud.

Besides, Faramir had always been a terrible liar, even for inconsequential matters such as gambling between comrades. As such, Rimiriel could read his sincerity with little effort. It was in his eyes, aged beyond his thirty-six years of life by the tumultuous times they lived in, and in the way he maintained eye contact, unafraid of her scrutiny. It was in the way he subconsciously leaned toward her, seeking to bridge the distance between them both in actions and in words. Faced with such a candid quest for clemency, the healer had no choice but to relent. Covering her brother’s outstretched hand with one of her own, she felt all wariness fall from her shoulders as nerves stretched tauter than a fiddler’s bowstring in response to the previous day’s events began to unwind once again.

“There is nothing to forgive,” she declared with finality. “The Ring of Power was forged for the sole purpose of drawing even the most powerful of beings into submission, and we are mere mortals. The temptations of the Ring are no fault of yours.”

“‘Mere mortals,’ indeed.” It was difficult to determine if the huff accompanying Faramir’s parroting was meant to be one of amusement or frustration. “And yet you have proven immune to the Dark Lord’s beckoning. What superior strengths are you keeping hidden, Merilig?”

Rimiriel shook her head with a sigh. “None, it seems. If anything, it was weakness which saved me from the Ring’s clutches.”

Faramir’s beseeching gaze requested elaboration.

“That trinket draws its victims with promises of delivering that which one desires above all else. You wish for a way to end the threats of the East so that our people might know what it is to live in peace, and so the Ring presented itself as some great weapon capable of securing that future. My heart is considerably more selfish than yours,” she admitted. “I desire peace for our country and happiness for our people, yes, but even more so…not even all the magics of the world could grant my most desperate wish.”

Her brother’s all-knowing eyes followed hers down to where their hands joined in the center of the table, seeking out the golden band on the third finger of her right hand. His callused thumb traced a comforting circle over her knuckles before he covered the clasped hands with the one he had kept free. The captain could not seem to find any words to accompany the gentle display of understanding, but the healer did not truly expect him to do so. All necessary words and sentiments had long been expressed. To say them all again would be a superfluous waste of breathe and time.

Determined to cast aside the creeping gloom trying to settle over her shoulders like a stifling blanket, Rimiriel decisively pulled her hand from the stack her brother had built. Reclaiming the nearby teapot, she quickly refreshed their drinks before matching stares across the table. “So what is our next step?”

Faramir blinked owlishly.

“What do we do with the Ring?” the healer clarified. “Assuming you no longer wish to use it as a weapon…but I do not think even the deepest vaults of Minas Tirith could keep such an evil hidden and secure.”

“Isildur’s Bane is no longer our concern,” Faramir revealed as he wrapped his fingers around his teacup once again. “I personally escorted Frodo and Sam to the old sewers beneath the city. They should be well on their way to continuing their journey to Mordor by now.”

“Really?” Rimiriel could not hide her surprise. “I thought you did not believe the Halflings have the necessary determination to see the destruction of Isildur’s Bane through to its end?”

“I still do not know if they have strength enough to complete the task destiny has placed before their feet, but I have decided that it is not my place to question whatever fate lies ahead. The darkness we are facing is bigger than any one country or race can defeat alone. If we are to hope for victory against such odds, then we must trust everyone to do their part…even two Halflings wandering far from home.”

“Then so we shall,” Rimiriel agreed with a decisive nod and small smile in support of her brother’s decision. “It we can only keep the forces of Mordor at bay long enough for the Hobbits to cast that cursed trinket into the fires of Mount Doom, then this war will be over and peace will return to our lands.”

Her brother and captain was not so optimistic. “We cannot hope for victory here at Osgiliath.”

Rimiriel felt as if she had been punched in the gut as all air whooshed from her lungs. How could Faramir speak so hopefully one moment only to fall to the brink of desolation in the next? Her eyes narrowed as she studied the grim expression that had not wavered. Dark hollows and constantly multiplying worry lines framed her captain’s eyes, but she could still see the fires of resistance flickering in the depths behind grey irises. She realized it was not despair that made her brother so bleak, but rather his grip on logic and realism that kept him from clinging too tightly to hope lest it be ripped away.

“Scouts have returned from the eastern shores,” the healer concluded as comprehension dawned. “How bad is it?”

“As bad as you estimated,” Faramir admitted. “Fifteen thousand orcs wait on the other side of the river; we stand with barely a tenth of that to defend the western banks. And it is but a matter of time until the enemy finds a way to cross the river.”

“Then we send for reinforcements from Minas Tirith,” Rimiriel countered confidently. Superior numbers meant nothing so long as those numbers remained trapped on the far side of the Anduin. They still had time to prepare. “The Nazgûl might target wagons of supplies, but surely they would not waste their efforts on a single rider. Nearly six thousand men are stationed in the White City. Our forces would still be outnumbered, but this is our homeland. We know the layout of this city and the surrounding territories better than Mordor’s commanders ever could! We can block routes so that the orcs are forced to bottleneck in specific areas and then stage ambushes.”

“And if those numbers still are not enough?” the captain challenged, raising one brow in inquiry. “If our forces are beaten here then the enemy gains the river and is in position to advance on Minas Tirith. If we pull forces from the capital now then there will be no one left to defend it if we should fail. Even if the Steward calls for the lords of Gondor to muster their armies, it would take days for many of them to come to the defense of the city. Your plan has merit, but the White City needs men as desperately as we do.”

“Then we abandon Osgiliah.” Rimiriel knew it was a radical suggestion even before she watched her brother’s face harden and eyes narrow in something not quite akin to ire.

“No.” The reply was swift and vehement as he set his cup down on the table with no small amount of force. “We have been commanded to defend this garrison and we will continue to do so for as long as we are able.”

“You just said that Minas Tirith needs men to defend it, and Osgiliath is vulnerable,” the healer countered logically. “The Great Gate has never been breached. If we withdraw now, we gain a more defensible position and swell our ranks at the same time!”

“And cut off our own reinforcements in the same motion,” Faramir noted sternly. “The more time we spend delaying Mordor’s forces in crossing the river is time the Steward has to call the outer lords and their armies to defend the city and prepare for a siege. The moment Osgiliath falls, orcs will march on the capital and cut off all routes that might be used to bring our countrymen to our aid. We must stand firm here.”

“So we are to be some kind of necessary sacrifice?” Rimiriel cried, finding herself incapable of reining in her frustration as she slammed her hands against the table hard enough to nearly upset their cups and the teapot precariously close to her now-tingling fingers. “Are we supposed to just sit here and wait for our turn to die, hoping that our father is taking advantage of the time to ready the city’s defenses? That is what you call trusting everyone to do their part?”

“Not entirely,” the captain returned calmly, unperturbed by his sister’ display. “I will defend the western shores of the Anduin for as long as is possible, and I do sincerely hope that our father is readying Minas Tirith for assault in case we should fail,” he stressed, “but I also think that it is time to dispatch a rider to call for aid. Not from Minas Tirith, nor from the lords of the southern lands, but rather from our allies to the north.”

“Rohan? The horselords have not honored the old alliances in over a century. What makes you think they would help us now?”

“Those words sound suspiciously closer to our father’s sentiments than any I have ever heard from you,” Faramir said, lightly chastising the young woman before him for the doubt in her tone.

“Perhaps, but that hardly matters,” she replied. “You speak of approaching the sovereign of an independent realm, and that cannot be done without the permission of the Steward. Our father has long declared that the old alliances are dead. He will never agree to call for aid from the northmen regardless of how dire our need may be.”

“In times of great peril, a Captain of Gondor may act in the name of the Ruling Steward without the explicit permission of his liege in order to protect the realm and better serve its citizens.”

Rimiriel’s stomach dropped to the floor and her heart skipped a beat as her throat went dry. Instinctively turning about to ensure that no one could be eavesdropping on what had become a particularly scandalous discussion, she was relieved to see that they still remained alone aside from the wounded still securely journeying through dreamland thanks to her sleeping draughts. Still, she lowered her voice to a venomous hiss as she returned her attention to the brother sitting before her as calmly as if he had remarked on the weather rather than recited a controversial piece of Gondorian law. “Have you gone completely mad?

“What you are speaking of is not evacuating civilians from a battle zone or ordering a mass relocation of soldiers to defend a strategic position without informing the Steward of your intentions. You are talking about engaging in negotiations with a foreign king and giving that king permission to march an army into our lands. You are suggesting treason!”

“Even treason is forgivable when it is done for the good of the people.”

“‘For the good of the people,’” Rimiriel echoed dryly. “Perhaps that is what Castamir the Usurper claimed when he slaughtered Prince Ornendil and forced King Eldacar into exile. That turned out well for everyone.”

Faramir scoffed. “You know this is nothing similar to that. This is no case of mixed bloodlines or civil unrest. Mordor’s forces outnumber us ten-to-one! When our defenses fall, the Shadow of the East will sweep across our lands and destroy every crop and burn every village. Our people will either be slaughtered or enslaved, and our struggle will be nothing more than a memory forgotten by the next generation. We are simply not enough. We need help.”

Rimiriel turned from the conviction burning in her brother’s soul and lending him strength, her skin crawling with goosebumps as his passion burrowed its way into her own being. She instead focused on clearing her throat of the trepidation lodged within that made it difficult to breathe. Several gulps of tea helped dissolve the blockage, but still she could find no words to form a suitable response to Faramir’s proposal. There was so much at stake—not just for the siblings, but for Gondor and its people and even all of Middle-earth. How could she know which was the right path to take?

“It seems odd that you would so readily place your faith in Halflings hardly capable of defending themselves as they journey into the very deepest parts of Mordor bearing the weapon of the enemy, and yet hesitate in believing that the people of Rohan—already proven by history to be just as honorable as you or I—would come to our aid.” There was a hint of teasing in her brother’s tone.

Rimiriel took another bracing gulp of tea, feeling the liquid swirl in her belly in a silent offering of comfort and fortitude.

“Let us speak theoretically and say that I agree that this idea of yours is our best hope for victory,” she proposed. “Who do you intend to send as an ambassador to the northmen? You know this plan will have consequences regardless of whether it succeeds or fails, and our father will not be pleased with your interpretation of our laws. You could be jailed, exiled, or put to death even if this works in your favor, and whoever takes on this mission will face the same charges without the advantage of being the Steward’s son.”

“I had hoped that you might be willing to accept the task.”

It is not a pleasant sensation to choke on hot tea.

“You truly have lost your mind!” Rimiriel declared stridently once her coughing and spluttering had subsided, rising from her seat and locking her incredulous gaze on the brother and captain who now stood beside her where he had circled the table to thump her back as soon as her choking fit had begun. “I am a Healer of Gondor. My duty is to tend to those wounded while defending our realm from invaders, not to go galloping across all of Middle-earth as a co-conspirator in your crazy scheme. Go find some other fool to agree to your mission of suicide!”

“And whom would you suggest I speak with first?” Faramir inquired even as he dodged his sister’s shooing motions. “Which of our comrades do you think would benefit most from being charged with treason? Dathon, perhaps? Peldor? Or maybe Tolben would be willing to risk spending the rest of his life in prison?”

The healer froze as Faramir’s words sank into her skull. Dathon, quick on his feet and even faster on a horse, was a veteran Ranger with an oversized nose and a scar across his forehead as a reminder of another gash she had stitched in her time amongst the guardians of Ithilien’s borders. His children were fully grown, but an infection had left his wife completely blind and unable to continue the weaving for which she had become rather well-known in their town, leaving the meager pay he received as the sole income for the family. Peldor was younger, only two years older than Rimiriel herself, and overflowing with gentle kindness. He had married young and just recently welcomed his fifth child with a wife even more kindhearted than he. Tolben, on the other hand, was the newest addition to the Rangers. He had hardly reached manhood before volunteering for the same outfit in which his father and grandfather had served. Often teased for the lack of facial hair along a jaw still slightly rounded with youth, the young man was enthusiastic and willing to undertake any task.

Rimiriel understood the unspoken message in Faramir’s words, the truth like lightning as it sparked down her spine and nearly caused her knees to buckle. The rangers and soldiers of the garrison were common men—the sons of farmers, soldiers, fisherman, and bakers. While any of them would faithfully undertake any mission their captain assigned without a single qualm, the consequences for such a mission as her brother had in mind would be particularly harsh for those men who did not have noble blood to protect them. Rimiriel, on the other hand, was a woman, a healer, and the daughter of the Steward of Gondor. As horribly unjust as it might seem, her life was seen as something more precious than that of some archer or foot soldier.

Those responsible for upholding the laws of Gondor would be ruthless in sentencing a commoner charged with disloyalty to the realm, but would be certain to act with mercy if it were she bearing the charge. She realized that such was why Faramir had come to her directly rather than sending one of his lieutenants. Her brother had a skill for analyzing situations with limited options and finding the path to victory that limited the casualties incurred. For this particular scheme, the best way to ensure success was for the fewest possible people to have any knowledge of it altogether, minimizing the possible casualties should the plan fail.

Still, Rimiriel was a healer, and with that came a responsibility to those under her care. She could not abandon the men she had already worked so hard to save! Calculating eyes scanned the room and her resting patients as her overactive imagination pictured the men sweating with fever as infection crept back into their wounds. In her mind’s eye she could see injured men piled together with cuts and burns left unclean and festering. If she left then there was no guarantee that the wounded would be tended in enough time to save their lives. Men would die needlessly—the main tragedy she had set out to prevent!

“No medicine in the world can save these men from death if we cannot gather a large enough force to repel the swarms from Mordor.”

Her brother, it seemed, could always follow the trails of her contemplation regardless of how those paths might twist and wind. Sometimes she thought he could truly read her thoughts, though he swore that no such mysticism was needed when she revealed everything in the expressions on her face.

His gentle warning reshaped the images in her mind so that suddenly she was witnessing endless battalions of orcs crashing against Osgiliath like ocean waves, destroying all life in their path. She could picture the beasts storming into the makeshift infirmary and slaughtering the defenseless wounded in their beds, the sunken pool in the center of the room overflowing with the deep red of the spilt blood of easy targets. The vivid image was enough to make her nauseous, and she closed her eyes, shaking her head in hopes of dislodging the imagined scenario.

Sometimes it is necessary to cause momentary distress to relieve a greater pain.

Such was what Rimiriel would be doing by turning her back on the wounded in Osgiliath in favor of going along with her brother’s plan. If she went to Rohan, the injured she left behind would suffer and perhaps even die, as well as any men broken in the time it took to complete the mission and return to Gondor. If she did not go, however, and the realm was indeed defeated by Sauron’s long-reaching shadow because they did not have enough men to fend off the horde, then an entire country would fall to chaos and despair. Was it not better to yield the lives of the wounded and leave a hundred families mourning the loss of a father, brother, or son than to remain here and allow a million innocents to suffer? It was all a question of sacrifice, and while the healer in Rimiriel wanted to make the injured her main priority, she had never been only a healer no matter how often she wished to be free of the burdens into which she had been born.

We are descendants of the House of Húrin. It is our duty to place the welfare of the people of Gondor ahead of our own desires, even unto death.

The statement was one of her first tangible memories. From the moment she could speak she had been taught her position in life. To be born into a Great House was to constantly wield a double-edged blade of both power and responsibility. Along one edge lay the benefits of the finest tutors, best foods, comfortable estates, and respect from the moment one had been identified as a member of his or her family house. On the other edge came the burden of self-sacrifice, of always placing the needs of others before one’s own, and of doing everything in one’s power to ensure the future of the realm. The needs of the many would always outweigh the needs of the few.

Rimiriel did not like this plan. She did not like the idea of acting without the Steward’s approval and she did not like the lack of certainty of success. After all, there was no guarantee that Rohan’s king would agree to help them. Faramir could be risking both their lives and the fate of Gondor itself on a mission that would fail. We must trust everyone to do their part, he had said. She questioned his understanding of the word ‘trust.’

Even so, despite her inward doubts it remained a fact that the Shadow of the East was invading Gondor. It was a fact that the army was not large enough to survive a full-scale clash with the forces of Mordor, and it was a fact that Rimiriel could not allow herself to watch her country fall to ruin without doing anything to stop it. Therefore, she shelved her misgivings and braced herself for whatever path might lay ahead, hoping that she wound be hardy enough to weather the consequences of the plan her brother and captain had set into motion with his dangerous request.

“Fine, I will go.” She turned and pierced her brother with a gaze that she hoped reflected every ounce of her resolve as she gave a firm nod. There would be no turning back.

“I will ride to Rohan.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Five
A Journey Begun

Faramir had never considered himself a particularly anxious man. Indeed, he had come to pride himself on his ability to keep a level head and approach even the most desperate of situations with calm rationality. Such discipline had paid off during his years serving as the captain of Ithilien’s rangers, with his men emerging victorious in many a skirmish despite steep odds. When his countrymen saw his seemingly unshakable confidence in their ability to push back the enemy, it strengthened their own courage and resolve so that each ranger fought with the will of five men, beating back the invaders either until victory had been achieved or they had drawn their last breath in the mortal realm. If such brave men could see their steadfast captain now, however, Faramir was nearly certain that no great speeches or attempts at assurance would be enough to rebuild their resolve.

But Rimiriel was late.

The captain had given his sister two hours to make arrangements for the care of the wounded and do whatever else she felt necessary to prepare herself for her journey. Meanwhile, he had taken the time to secure rations for her to take along and had readied her stallion for the long ride. Now two hours had come and gone and he was pacing near the ruins of the Golden Gate and wondering where his sister could be. As if snakes had been hidden in the lunch he had eaten only a short while ago, his stomach twisted and churned in knots of uncertainty and anticipation as he awaited her arrival.

Perhaps this plan is not such a good idea, Faramir thought as he paced, gravel crunching beneath his boots in beat with his pulsing heart. After all, he had no way of knowing what precautions, if any, their father had begun taking from his post at the heart of Minas Tirith. For all he knew, the Steward had already summoned the lords of Gondor and their armies to march to defend the realm. For all he knew, a force equal to that of Mordor was already amassed in the south and beginning its northward march. It could be that they would not even need the Rohirrim and their cavalry to defeat the Shadow of the East. And if such were the case, then he would be needlessly sending himself and his sister into danger through what could easily be considered an act of treason despite the purity of their intentions.

In a last bid to convince himself that perhaps this course of action was unnecessary, Faramir paused his pacing to look back through the gaping maw of the Golden Gate. Hungry eyes cast their gaze southwest to where the White City hugged the foothills of Mount Mindolluin. Up, up, his eyes searched, to where the beacon of Minas Tirith would be shouting a fiery summons across the realm, calling Gondor’s people to arms the moment his father issued the order. On a clear day such a signal could be seen for a hundred miles, with a line of similar beacons tracing the spine of the Ered Nimrais ensuring that no citizen missed the call. And yet, despite desperate searching, the captain saw not even the smallest spark against the background of white stone. His father had not ordered the lighting of the beacon. Though part of him had known that such was the case, still he felt his heart plummet.

While there was still time for the Steward to alert the realm of impending war, something told Faramir that this radical plan he and his sister intended to carry out was the right course of action. Be it instinct or intuition, every fiber of his being stood alert in recognition of the greatest threat of his lifetime looming ever closer in the cloudy haze of an unknown future. If the peoples of Middle-Earth did not band together in an effort to defend the lands they called home, victory for Mordor promised a dark future of defeat, despair, and ruin.

There is still some good in this world, and it’s worth fighting for.

The words of the Ringbearer’s stalwart companion came back to Faramir as he stood fixated on Minas Tirith in the distance as if staring long enough would somehow enable his father to read his mind and light the beacons. The Hobbit had spoken those words with such hope—not a child’s innocent hope that believed victory would be achieved simply because they deserved it, but rather the committed hope of one who knew that victory was not assured and that defeat was more than possible, but who was willing to fight anyway because no one else would.

Sam had reminded him of Rimiriel in that moment, not bothering with what was easy or would bring renown, but simply focusing on what needed to be done. He, on the other hand, had felt an uncomfortable amount of empathy for Frodo, teetering on the brink of despair in the face of so many enemies and nearly ready to give up. In that moment, he had realized that he wanted the same faith and hope as Samwise Gamgee, Hobbit of the Shire. He had wanted to make the decision to either keep the Ring of Power or send it away based on which choice was right for his people, not for himself or the father that had also seemed to be venturing closer and closer to the edge of the dark chasm that was hopelessness and defeat. In that moment, he had managed to break free of the strangling grip of Isildur’s Bane and see the world in true clarity once again. He had then used his reclaimed freedom to make the best choices he thought could be made, and he was determined not to regret them now that they were set into motion. That did not mean, however, that he could be untouched by anxiety as he waited for his actions to reveal whatever consequences they might bring.

Faramir was pulled from his reflections and ponderings by the scuff of boots against a stone path, turning to see that his sister had finally arrived. She certainly looked ready for a journey, having exchanged the blood-stained tunic he had last seen her wearing for one freshly clean and arrayed herself in the full uniform of a Ranger of Ithilien once again. She had taken her usual braid and twisted it up in an out-of-the-way coronet atop her head, and her weapons had been reclaimed from whichever corner she had abandoned them in whilst tending the garrison’s wounded. There was determination in the tilt of her raised chin and squaring of her shoulders, and yet Faramir nearly buckled beneath a foundering of his own will as she approached.

Faramir realized that he rarely saw his sister standing alone. She was always surrounded by either wounded men or comrades-in-arms while in the field, and by fellow Healers or her own family when within the walls of Minas Tirith. Seeing her approaching now, with no one at either shoulder, before or behind, suddenly the youngest child of the Steward seemed lonely and vulnerable. Over a hundred leagues stretched between Osgiliath and the Rohirric capital of Edoras, crossed by a solitary road which Rimiriel would be traveling alone. Any number of dangers could be waiting on such a long journey. His sister would have no one to watch out for her, and he would have no way of knowing if she had arrived at her destination safely until she returned to Gondor herself. This plan swiftly dropped in merit.

“Is everything alright, Faramir?” It was the second time she had asked him that and only a few hours had passed between instances. No, nothing was alright, nor would it be until their lands had been cleansed of the blight spreading across their forests and plains in the form of orcs and their war machines. But his sister already knew that.

“Aye, aside from the fact that you are late,” Faramir said instead, replacing his uncertainty with gentle scolding. “I was beginning to wonder if you had changed your mind about this mission.”

“I have spent the majority of the last two hours trying to devise a better plan than the one you have crafted,” Rimiriel declared dryly, brushing past her brother to greet her waiting stallion with a scratch between the ears and an apple pulled from the shadows beneath her woolen cloak.

“I see. And were you successful?”

“Am I not here?”

Faramir shook his head as his sister quirked one eyebrow at him, mild amusement making grey eyes twinkle despite her serious frown. Ushering her into a derelict guard shack nearby, the Captain of Gondor decided that it would be best not to validate her quips with a response.

Across a dusty table he had already spread various maps of the region meticulously marked with the observations of various scouts and reports from other nearby garrisons. Faramir chose to stand at the far side of the table while Rimiriel mustered her courage and placed her faith in a rickety chair on the side of the table closest to the door and opposite her brother. The captain gave his sister a long moment to survey the collection of information he had already obsessively gathered and studied, watching her forehead crease as she noted one mark or her head dip in a nod as she processed another, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth throughout the entirety of her thoughtful study. Rimiriel had been identified as having a quick mind from childhood—after all, there were very few children who would request a tutor when asked what gifts they might like to receive for their third birthday—and little time passed before she leaned back in her chair from where she had been practically hovering over the table, leaving one hand with nimble fingers drumming against the oak surface while the other fell into her lap.

“For the sake of speed and secrecy, I think it would be best for me to ride straight northwest from here,” she said. “I can cross the plains to meet the Great Road east of the Grey Wood rather than take the road inside the Rammas Echor and almost to Minas Tirith before turning northward. It would save more than eight leagues in distance and keep me both out of the townlands and out of sight of the sentries on the wall.”

Faramir nodded his agreement. “According to our reports, there should be little threat from enemies on your way to Rohan.”

“For now,” Rimiriel countered before leaning forward once again, tapping a finger against a familiar landmark on one of the maps. “But I think we should assume that the forces of Mordor intend to attack Cair Andros, and that will make the return journey quite difficult should the island fall.”

Leaning to place his hands on the table as he spotted the map’s inked rendering of the ship-shaped islet nestled between the banks of the Anduin some sixteen leagues north of Osgiliath, Faramir nodded as he considered the fortified stretch of land and its precarious position. There were but two places where an army could cross the Great River into Gondor in relative safety: Osgiliath and Cair Andros. It would make sense for an invading army—particularly one so large as that issuing from the depths of Mordor—to attempt to capture both points so that even if one assault failed the invaders could still continue their quest. He would do so were he the commander of such a force. A dark horde was already amassing against Osgiliath, so it was not unreasonable to think Cair Andros would be besieged as well. If the island fortifications were to collapse, then the plains of Anorien would be free for the taking, with the farmers dwelling there falling against orc blades while their crops burned. The Great Road crossing the region to connect Gondor with their northern neighbors would be taken as well, blocking any reinforcements from Rohan…and his sister’s ability to return home.

The captain separated three pieces of parchment from the mass spread across the table and slid them to meet Rimiriel’s waiting hand. “These reports from Cair Andros are barely a day old and do not mention sighting any enemies, so I think it is safe to assume that the garrison has not been besieged yet,” he noted. “Still, I think your suspicions may prove correct, given enough time. Ride hard and be beyond Cair Andros before this day is done. The risk we are taking is great enough without adding a skirmish in the sun-lands to your list of worries.”

“Voronwë and I will be beyond the island by nightfall,” Rimiriel declared confidently, a curt nod punctuating her words as she accepted the unmistakable command in her brother’s firm tone.

“I have no doubt,” Faramir returned with a thin smile. Rimiriel’s stallion was strong, with long legs granting a speed rarely seen in a horse so large, and his sister’s lithe form made for a much lighter load than that carried by most warhorses. Together, the team had trained to such a condition that the swallowed distances in a day that would leave most riders saddle-sore for a week and most horses dead on their feet from exhaustion.

No, Faramir had no doubt in his sister’s ability to make the journey in terms of skill or speed. It was the fact that she would be alone which concerned him and left a knot heavy in his gut. “But I worry about how you will return to us should the garrison fall.”

“With any luck the journey home will be made in the company of Rohan’s armies,” Rimiriel said as she focused on the main map occupying the center of the table, tracing the faded line marking the Great Road’s eastern route from Edoras and pausing where the road began to curve south near the first beacon-hill at Amon Dîn. “In which case I believe the greater concern is Mordor presenting a divided front. If Cair Andros falls and the Rohirrim have to face an army here on the Anorien, it hinders providing reinforcements to Minas Tirith.”

“But a split in our forces means a split in the enemy’s as well,” Faramir countered as he considered his sister’s own observations.

“True, but the enemy has ten times the numbers to divide.” The sober reminder sent a chill through the room as the youngest of the Steward’s issue sighed in bitter resignation. “We are resting much of our faith on the men at Cair Andros.”

“And the pressure on the garrison multiples even more should Rohan refuse to lend us aid.”

The Captain of Gondor had intended to phrase the rebuttal as a logical counter meant for discussion, but he knew he had failed in keeping the worry from bleeding into the tone meant to be strong and direct as he watched his sister’s eyes widen and brows nearly disappear into her hairline in surprised concern.

“Do you truly think the northmen might ignore our call for help?” she asked. “You seemed so certain—“

“It is easy to be certain when you are simply tossing suggestions into the air,” Faramir admitted, letting his head hang slack from his shoulders in defeat. “Seeing an idea become reality and realizing the possible dangers, however, have a way of breaking a man’s resolve.”

Rimiriel leaned forward in her seat once again to place her forearms on the table and peer up at her elder brother where he still rested against the table with the weight of his upper body supported in his hands. “This is your plan, brother. If you are having doubts—“

“I do not doubt that this is what needs to be done and I do not doubt your ability to see this assignment through to its end—whether that end is destined to be success or failure” –-Faramir let himself drop heavily into a chair behind him, wincing as it groaned in protest of the sudden added weight—“but it is a long journey to Rohan’s capital and we are not even sure that the people have been successful against Saruman’s army. They may not be in a condition to help us whether they wish to or not!”

“They may not, but we will not know unless someone goes to Rohan to find out,” Rimiriel countered logically.

A heavy sigh and a hand running through already tousled hair and then, “I know this. I already considered this. And yet I am unable to embrace the idea of not knowing what dangers may be lying ahead that you will have to face alone.”

“You and I both know that there are few obstacles that could arise on this journey that I would be incapable of handling, alone or otherwise,” Rimiriel noted warmly.

Faramir appreciated her efforts in dismissing his fears without invalidating them in the same breath. “Still, perhaps it would be best to send someone we trust to ride with you,” he pressed. “Anborn would go, or Damrod.”

“And Anborn or Damrod would be executed for treason in my place or yours if this mission is not as successful as we hope,” came Rimiriel’s swift reminder as her voice grew stern. “I will undertake this journey and risk its consequences because it is you who has asked it of me, but I will not allow anyone else to be dragged into this scheme. This is one path that we will walk alone. Besides, you need your lieutenants if you expect to hold the horde from Mordor until I return with reinforcements.”

A reply from her captain was not necessary for Rimiriel to know that her words rang with truth. She quickly dismissed herself from the room with the excuse of wasting no more time in puzzling over that which would not reveal itself until they had gathered their courage and stepped out into the unknown. Faramir knew he should follow but found himself unable to move from his chair, left alone with only maps and reports and the dust of the dilapidated guardshack for company as the air pressed heavily around him, weighed down by his sister’s stark reminder of why she had been tasked with undertaking this mission alone.

The Captain of Gondor was not known for second-guessing himself once he had assigned a mission, whether it be a team assignment or a single ranger venturing out alone. He was known, however, for being a fair commander, treating all of his men equally and never weighing one life as worth more than that of another. Yet now he found himself in opposition to both of these cornerstones of his leadership mentality as doubt ate away at his very soul.

The fact that Rimiriel was a woman was not the sole cause of his hesitation, Faramir knew. To try reducing the conflict to such a banal matter would be to disregard everything his sister had contributed to this outfit and cheapen her value. The captain would rather give his own life than to ever dishonor her in such a way again, as he had whilst under the influences of the Dark Lord’s One Ring. As he pondered just what made this quest seem so much riskier than any of the other hundred solo missions he had assigned to various rangers over his tenure as their captain, Faramir realized that the desperation in his gut stemmed from the fact that Rimiriel was family. She was blood.

In his decade of command over the Rangers of Ithilien, Faramir had grown close to his comrades, and he often referred to all of them as brothers. When the orders came for them to break from their posts and return home, however, even the most faithful of these collective men would seek a path separate from his own, riding off to return to their various towns and villages and to their own wives and children. Some of the rangers he had known since they had first joined the outfit and still clung to the youthful exuberance of the newly enlisted. Others had been warriors since long before his arrival, with temples streaked with grey and eyes hollowed by the burden of battles fought before he took up the command. All were brothers, sharing the strong bonds of those who have fought and survived together and defended each other from harm. Despite these strong ties, however, there were aspects of each ranger’s life that remained unknown to their captain. He heard stories of their families, but rarely did he have the opportunity to meet their wives, mothers, or children. During long nights around a campfire, memories would often be shared of the first time riding a horse or shooting a bow, often met by an empathetic roar of laughter as they all remembered their own struggles with learning the lessons necessary for taking up the post as one of Gondor’s chief defenders, but Faramir had not witnessed these memories firsthand.

With Rimiriel, however, Faramir’s connection ran deep. When called home on leave, they rode through the same gates, stalled their horses in the same stable, and walked into the same house to offer their greetings to the same father. When Rimiriel shared the memory of her first time being thrown from a horse, Faramir’s booming laugh was not born from the notion of being able to identify with the experience, but rather because he had been there to personally witness his then seven-year-old sister being tossed from the saddle to become a dusty heap on the ground. He remembered running to ensure she had not been hurt, expecting to be needed to offer comfort and soothe newfound fear, only to instead find her laughing as she regained her feet and brushed the dirt off of her clothes, eager to try again.

Rimiriel had been no recruit fresh from training, nor a seasoned veteran awaiting instruction when Faramir had first met her. She had been an infant, born too small and feeble in the middle of a cold winter. Faramir remembered, though he had not understood it then, how none had thought she would survive save for their mother. He remembered watching the Lady Finduilas bundle his baby sister in various blankets and furs, keeping her close to the roaring fireplace so that her tiny body would stay warm. After two weeks of patience—a rare feat for any child, he remembered holding the newly-named Rimiriel for the first time while under his mother’s watchful eye. Something in his heart had begun to swell when bright, curious eyes focused only on him and a petite hand caught his first finger in a fierce grip. At barely five years of age, Faramir had solemnly and passionately sworn to his mother that he would always protect his little sister. He had not understood then why the Lady Finduilas had laughed.

“It is good for you to make such a promise, my son,” she had said in the musical voice that still visited him in his dreams, adjusting the blankets swaddling the bundle in his arms. “All brothers should. I think, however, that this little one will make it hard to keep that promise. Already, she is a fighter and she is stubborn, and such traits will define her throughout her life. She will only ever do anything in her own time and in her own way. You will have to find a balance between protecting her and allowing her to carve her own path in this world. Do you understand, my heart?”

Faramir had not understood, but he had nodded anyway. As he and Rimiriel had grown into adulthood, however, his mother’s meaning had become abundantly clear as her predictions proved true time and time again. He never forgot his promise, always doing everything he could to keep his sister from harm’s way. As she grew older and left behind the childhood frailty that came with being born early, however, each of his measures would be met with either stern opposition or willful ignorance as she searched for the niche in the world around her to which she truly belonged.

No matter how many times she proved herself capable or how many times he reminded himself that she had long grown past being the petite baby he had held so carefully, still Faramir felt that swelling in his heart that ordered him to protect this sister of his. He did not feel that same otherworldly command with even his closest friends amongst the Rangers, nor had he even truly felt such a call for his brother Boromir, and he concluded that such was why he was struggling so with the idea of sending Rimiriel on this mission alone. He knew it was particularly illogical since he had been the one to suggest she undertake this task in the first place, especially considering how she had already committed herself so fully to its completion and had conquered any qualms she herself had, but still he felt as if he were failing in upholding the oath he had sworn so long ago by knowingly sending Rimiriel out into the unknown. His sister had made it clear, however, that it was too late to turn back, and so Faramir finally sighed and forced himself out of his chair and toward the door, taking his first strides down this dangerously uncertain path.

Dearest Mother, if you can see this world from whatever afterlife your soul calls home, I hope you understand the urgency of our need and can forgive me for failing in keeping my promise.

Faramir could not prevent the flicker of annoyance that rose in his chest when he stepped outside to find his sister double- and then triple-checking every buckle and strap of her stallion’s saddle and tack, without even the smallest glance in his direction as she gave her entire focus to the task. He had begun his lessons in riding before Rimiriel had even been any more than a wishful thought in their mother’s daydreams, and yet she did not trust him to saddle her horse properly? At least an overly thorough sister would not give him as much to worry about as an overly reckless one, he supposed as he shook the feeling off. Rimiriel never did anything by halves.

“I secured rations for ten days,” the captain said as he stepped alongside his sister where she stood at her stallion’s shoulder adjusting the buckles where she had taken the time to secure her sword sheath and arrow quiver to the saddle. “Hopefully that will be enough food for the journey.”

“Are you certain it will not leave the men with too little?” Rimiriel asked, turning to face her brother fully once she had finished her task. “I could make the journey on half that amount, especially if I am able to resupply in Edoras.”

“We will be fine so long as you promise to return to us quickly,” came Faramir’s solid assurance. He sounded much more confident than he felt, but if they would be taking this path then he wanted his sister focused. Distraction was dangerous on a long journey such as this, and he wouldn’t have her thoughts dwelling on him and the garrison any more than absolutely necessary if he could help it.

“Voronwë and I will ride with speed rivaling Oromë and Nahar,” Rimiriel swore, standing tall as she made the vow. “You will have scarcely noticed our absence before they herald our return.”

“Good.”

It was the stern voice of a Captain of Gondor that accepted the pledge, but it was the soft heart of a brother that had taken over when Faramir reached forward and pulled his sister into a tight embrace, cradling her head protectively against his chest as she returned the fierce hug. “Be safe, Merilig.”

“And you as well, brother.”

Before he could change his mind, the captain released Rimiriel and quickly knelt to grasp one booted foot, boosting her up into the saddle. He held her stallion’s reins while the healer-turned-messenger situated her feet in the stirrups, and then suddenly she was ready to go while Faramir could not shake the feeling that he was forgetting something important.

“Ten days,” Rimiriel swore as she looked down on her brother. “Give me that long and then look for my return—and the army of Théoden King with me.”

And then Faramir remembered.

“Here, take this with you,” he ordered, pulling at the smallest finger of his left hand to remove a ring of etched silver and deposit it in an outstretched hand. “It will assure Rohan’s King that you speak with the authority of the Steward.”

Faramir could see the conflict on Rimiriel’s face as she realized that he had given her the key to their deception. The silver ring had an oval face pressed with the sigil of the House of Stewards. Such a ring could be worn only by the Steward himself, his heir, or someone—such as an ambassador or messenger—who had been chosen to speak on behalf of the Steward. There had been a time in Gondor’s years of prosperity when such rings had been numerous as multiple messengers and diplomats constantly traversed the various realms of Middle-earth at the order of their liege, but those times were long gone. Only three rings remained, to Faramir’s knowledge. The most ornate of the three adorned his father’s hand as a symbol of the noble office he had inherited from his father and grandfather and on through the generations of men who had served as the patriarchs of the House of Húrin. Another had rested on Boromir’s hand, the birthright of the Steward’s eldest son and heir, and Faramir assumed it still remained with his brother wherever he had been borne by his funeral barge. The third and final ring had been given—albeit reluctantly—to Faramir himself after Boromir had departed for Rivendell so many months ago, with the Steward calling his second son to take up the heir’s responsibilities in his brother’s absence: a temporary role that had become abruptly permanent.

Passing the ring to Rimiriel now meant that no one would doubt her words when she spoke of Gondor’s need for aid, as they would immediately assume the Steward himself had sent her. This would be a lie, of course, as their father had no knowledge of the journey Rimiriel was undertaking in his name, but Faramir hoped the mission would long be completed before the Steward would ever hear of it. He knew Rimiriel did not like this underhanded move—Faramir did not like it either, if he were to be honest—but he knew she had accepted its necessity just as he had as her fingers folded over the signet ring, resolutely consenting in bearing its burden.

Farewells had already been said and there was much ground to cover before nightfall, so Faramir was unsurprised when his sister dug her heels into her mount’s sides with nothing more than a grim nod in her brother’s direction. The stallion shot through the ruins of the Golden Gate and immediately angled itself to run northwest at the command of its mistress. Neither horse nor rider turned back as they set out on their journey, but still the Captain of Gondor watched desperately until they had completely disappeared from sight. A blanket of dread settled across his shoulders when he could no longer see a mottled blend of chestnut horse and green-cloaked rider on the horizon. He had the distinct feeling that it would be quite some time before he laid eyes on his dear sister and her trustworthy steed again.

Faramir sent a last, silent prayer to the Valar, asking that they watch over his sister where he could not, before entrusting Rimiriel’s fate to the forces that be and returning to where his men were in need of their captain. His sister had started the next steps in her journey, and it was time for him to begin his own.

As the first hour of her journey came to an end, Rimiriel guided her stallion to a halt on the banks of a small brook dancing its way across the grasslands of Gondor. She slid from the saddle with a groan, the muscles of her legs protesting having to bear her weight once again as she stretched her arms overhead to alleviate the stiffness in her back. While her life amongst the Rangers of Ithilien was an active one and thus provided little opportunity for her body to go soft from lack of exertion, it had been quite some time since the healer had been given the opportunity to take her horse on a long ride across Gondorian plains. Now she could feel every minute of missed time in the saddle across her thighs and through her core. The sore muscles were a comfort to Rimiriel, however, for they were the echo of an honest effort of which anyone could be proud. The aches would fade in time, and so the healer paid them little mind.

Looking to her surroundings, Rimiriel could see nothing but rolling seas of tall grasses out to the horizon, where the faint outline of the Ered Nimrais jutted into the clear blue of the afternoon sky. The ambitious sun had burnt away much of the clouds and chill of the early morning, for which the lady was grateful as she tilted her head back to feel the warmth of the rays on her face. With the glow of the sun on her cheeks and little sound aside from the snuffling of Voronwë as he grazed in search of the most tender greens, twittering of grouse and thrushes building their spring nests across the fields, and the rustling of the tall grass as light breezes chased each other across the plains, she could almost forget that this was not simply an afternoon pleasure ride.

Almost.

The weight of a certain heavy silver ring that had found a temporary home on the thumb of her left hand—the only digit on which it would fit snugly enough that she did not have to fear its accidental loss—kept her grounded in reality. Rimiriel was not racing her cousins across the hills near Dol Amroth, nor was she simply exercising her horse beneath the forest boughs near Henneth Annûn or across the sparse clearings in the townlands near Minas Tirith. She was on a mission, pushing Voronwë across unfamiliar lands into regions they had never before visited, racing not against another horse, but rather against the enemy’s progress in their assault on her homeland. They had to canter, gallop, and trot faster than orcs could cut down her countrymen or Mordor’s siege engines could destroy Gondor’s walls.

Rummaging through her pack where it was belted behind her horse’s saddle, Rimiriel gathered her canteen, map, compass, and a single apple from the various pockets of the leather satchel before leaving the chestnut stallion to his grazing and settling herself in the grass near the edge of the brook. Unfolding the worn map and spreading it out across the ground, weighing the corners with smooth rocks from the bank, the unconventional messenger began studying her future routes, looking up to reference the sun’s position in the sky or down to consult the lazily-wavering needle of her compass as she worked.

“Oi! Back, thief!” she suddenly exclaimed a few moments later, shattering the peaceful atmosphere as a long, brown snout shot over her shoulder from behind her back and nearly stole the half-eaten apple from her hand where she had only just taken a loud bite. There was an indignant huff in Rimiriel’s ear as her stallion realized that he had been unsuccessful in his crime, and then the nudging of a nose against her shoulder and side as the charger began searching elsewhere for a treat.

“Oh, no,” Rimiriel said, pushing the intruding muzzle away and keeping her voice stern. “We have a few more hours of travel before you earn yourself another of these.” She did not truly know if Voronwë could understand her, but the way his greedy eyes followed her every move as she took another bite of the apple suggested that perhaps he could. The lady could not resist reaching up and scratching behind her horse’s ears with a smile as he brought his nose level with her cheek, his warm snuffle almost sounding like an apology.

“A hundred leagues to Edoras,” she mused aloud then, dropping her eyes back to the map spread in front of her. “In normal conditions, that would be at least a six day journey. Nearly two weeks in total!” She shook her head. “Gondor does not have that long. We need to be faster if we are going to be any help to Faramir and the garrison at Osgiliath. When we visited Dol Amroth last spring, we managed twenty leagues a day easily. If we can push for twenty-five leagues a day now then we can make Edoras in four days. Two days to convince the King to help us and then four days to return puts us exactly within the ten days I promised Faramir. Do you think we can do it?”

Again, Rimiriel could not be sure of how much of her speech was understood by the chestnut charger she had personally raised and trained. For the sake of her own resolve, however, she chose to imagine that Voronwë’s low nicker and nudge against her shoulder was his way of confirming that he was up for the task ahead and not only him trying once more to convince her to share the last remnants of her apple.

“If we manage to complete this mission successfully, I will personally turn you out to pasture for an entire month,” the lady promised as she gathered her belongings and returned them to her pack. “With fresh apples every day and a bucket of oats with every meal.”

Voronwë snorted his agreement to such an offer as Rimiriel swung up into the saddle once again. The promise may have been a bit of an exaggeration, but the sense of urgency coursing through her blood was not. The ill-fitting signet ring practically burned where it rested the full weight of Gondor’s need on her thumb, spurring her into action in the same way that she spurred the beast carrying her across the plains. Every hour brought the hordes of Mordor closer to victory. Rimiriel could feel that the answer to Gondor’s survival rested on the path stretching before her into the unknown, and so she would follow that path to whatever end awaited her. In the endless sea of uncertainty that surrounded her on every side, there was only one notion in which she could place her absolute faith, and she would cling to that single anchor throughout this journey and beyond:

She would not fail.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six
A Dangerous Road

It was nearly dawn when Rimiriel finally gave up on attempting to rest for even a moment more after a night of tossing fitfully about within her bedroll. The inky blue-black of morning twilight seemed evermore eerie where she camped at the eastern-most edge of the Firien Wood, the canopy of towering oaks casting shadows in thick clusters ideal for hiding enemies or predators, and so she focused on coaxing life back into the dying embers of her campfire. Every muscle remained coiled to spring as she listened for any enemies attempting to sneak up on her campsite, but it seemed her only company aside from Voronwë where he stood dozing nearby was the hooting owls and singing insects composing their nighttime melodies from within the forest’s dense shadows. The lone healer-turned-messenger knew that it was her own exhaustion that had her so on edge, but she also knew that she would be unable to rest peacefully until she had completed her mission.

After leaving Osgiliath at her brother’s command, she and her stallion had ridden hard across the plains of Anorien, pushing themselves until well past the midnight hour. They had finally stopped and made camp at the northwestern edge of the Druadan Forest, well past Cair Andros and any potential threats coming from that region. Just as she had promised her brother. Still, Rimiriel had felt as though she was being watched from the moment they had entered the ancient wood, her skin crawling under the weight of unseen stares even once they had exited the forest and made camp in its shadow. Weary from the long day in the saddle, she had lain down to find what rest she could, hoping that sleep would come quickly. Instead, her tired mind instantly recalled the old legends of the wildmen who called the Druadan home, conjuring sinister images of troll-like creatures waiting in the shadows to drag her away from the warm safety of her brightly crackling campfire the moment her guard fell.

She had hardly slept a moment that first night, but still faithfully rose to greet the day when the sun began to rise and burn away the darkness of night, replacing it with bright hues of red and orange. She and Voronwë set off at a brisk pace, the weathered grey stones of the Great Road cutting a path through the farms and fields of the Sun-land. The morning’s red sky had been offering a warning of things to come, however, with Rimiriel noticing dark storm clouds gathering overhead as the day progressed. The foreboding clouds chased horse and rider across the grasslands until their luck finally ran out.

The downpour began near midday and grew steadily worse over the course of the next two hours. Both messenger and steed were drenched and chilled to the bone by the time Rimiriel managed to find them shelter in an abandoned farm’s old barn. The crumbling building provided refuge from the worst of the gale, but little else as it proved to be both leaky and drafty. After seeing her horse dried off and made as comfortable as possible in one stall of the barn, the healer stripped out of her wet clothes and hung them to dry before bundling herself in her own blanket and bedding down in a pile of old hay, electing to use this obstacle to her advantage and get some rest.

She was primarily unsuccessful.

She knew there had once been a time in her childhood when she had slept soundly to the cadence of raindrops on the stone roofs of Dol Amroth or the Citadel, taking comfort in the new beginnings the spring rains promised after a long winter. That time was gone, however, with a young Rimiriel learning a hard lesson in the uncertainty and danger a storm brought with it, reshaping a childish love into a blatant dread of the darkening skies and strong winds that heralded the arrival of a squall.

She dozed restlessly until she heard the storm begin to die down, and then it was time to move once again. Fear of how much time had been lost due to the storm made her movements hasty as she dressed herself and saddled her horse, and she allowed herself only a quick meal before setting out once more.

Rimiriel had pressed Voronwë hard in attempt to make up the time and distance they had lost, and it was not until they had reached the stand of trees that she knew to be the Firienholt that she stopped to make camp. Exhausted after two days in the saddle with little sleep, she had expected a deep slumber to wash over her instantly. Once again, however, she was thwarted.

This time, after she had finished getting her horse settled for the night and allowed herself to climb into her own bedroll, urging her sore body to relax into sleep, her mind had begun to churn as she wondered how Osgiliath fared in their fight against Mordor’s forces. How many had been wounded without her there to help them? How many had died? Had the storm delayed her enough that she would not be able to complete her mission in time? What if the garrison had already fallen? What if Faramir and her comrades had already been lost, slain by the monsters of the East? Did the Anduin already run red with their blood?

Around and around her thoughts had spun until she could take no more.

Now she studied her maps intently by the light of the fire while she waited for her breakfast to warm, checking and rechecking every estimation as she glanced between her compass and the maps’ faded ink. By her estimation, she and her stallion had managed to make up enough distance after being brought to a temporary halt by the storms that it seemed they were truly only a few hours behind schedule. If Voronwë was able to handle another grueling day, Rimiriel believed they could cover enough ground to realign with the tight timeframe their urgent message required.

Meticulously repacking her supplies as the lightening horizon heralded the approaching sunrise, Rimiriel then scarfed down her scant meal of toast spread with cheese and a small slab of cured ham before extinguishing the coals of her campfire. After ensuring that no one would be able to tell if anyone had camped there, she set her sights on the chestnut charger grazing nearby.

Bribing him with an apple to draw his attention away from the tender grasses at his feet, Rimiriel removed the forest green blanket draped across his back, folding and storing it with mindlessly automatic movements born from years of repetition. She then ran her hands gently over the horse’s sides and down his legs with ministrations both careful and thorough, seeking out any sores or knotted muscles that could hinder their journey. Only once she was absolutely certain that Voronwë remained in a condition fit for undertaking the distance ahead did she begin the process of saddling the patient horse, checking and rechecking every buckle and strap to ensure that her companion would be able to carry her comfortably and securely. As prepared for the day’s journey as she could possibly expect to be, the healer swung into the saddle and gathered the reins, nudging her heels against the chestnut stallion’s sides to push him toward Rohan once again as the first of the sun’s rays lit the horizon.

Little time passed after leaving her campsite to follow the Great Road’s path deeper into the Firien Wood before Rimiriel began to think that another night had done little to improve her fortunes in this journey she had undertaken.

With a sigh, the healer stood in her stirrups and swung her right leg over her stallion’s rump, stepping down onto the muddy road. Stones had been washed from their places over the centuries by heavy rains and floodwater, exposing the earth beneath. Rimiriel winced as the mud squelched loudly around her boots with each step she took forward to study this new obstacle in her path.

In front of her flowed what was supposed to be the Glanhír, also known as the Mering Stream, a tributary of the southernmost arm of the Onodló which itself united with its larger brother the river Anduin several leagues north of Cair Andros. It was supposed to be a gentle waterway serving as the primary border between Gondor and Rohan, easily crossable via a sturdy stone bridge. The storms of the previous day had obviously been long-reaching, however, as the stream raced across the land, swollen beyond its banks much more than the spring snowmelts would warrant and churning with a mix of fallen trees and other debris left in the wake of the tempest. It had risen high enough to swallow the bridge that spanned its banks, though Rimiriel could still see the causeway through the water and would estimate its depth at only a few inches below the surface.

With a quiet order for Voronwë to stay put, Rimiriel left the security of the Great Road to walk the banks of the stream, first following the river north before turning back to march south. As she walked, her eyes searched along the banks for clues as to her safest option in fording the flooded stream. Studying both the shoreline and the river itself, the rider catalogued dark spots that promised deeper water, muddy banks that threatened a bog that could sink and trap her horse in an instant and steep, rocky descents that served as a warning for unreliable footing beneath the water’s surface. She also searched for any tracks that would reveal where the forest’s wildlife crossed the steam, but any prints had long been washed away between the rain and the surging floodwaters.

All careful deliberations brought Rimiriel back to the bridge, and she absentmindedly chewed her lower lip as she surveyed her surroundings. The stream grew narrower in the spot where the bridge had been built, widening to the south as far as the eye could see. Meanwhile, to the north the banks remained narrow, but the waterway was scattered with sharp rocks that jutted above the water to form rapids in the quick current. Without going miles out of the way in attempt to find another crossing, the bridge offered the shortest route to the other side of the stream, as well as the shallowest from what Rimiriel had been able to discern.

But was it the safest?

Knowing there was only one way to find out, the healer reminded her stallion to stay—an unnecessary gesture since he seemed content to graze on the overgrown grasses along the roadside—before stepping out into the river. Mud sucked at her boots as she waded out to where the beginnings of the bridge had been overtaken by the rising floods, but her footing became steadier once she had found the first stones of the causeway. The water rose to the middle of her calves but no higher as she took a few more steps out into the water. The current pulling at her legs was fast, perhaps too much so for an amateur horse and rider. She and Voronwë, however, had crossed deeper streams with less secure footing. She was confident that this trek would be no different.

Wading back to shore, Rimiriel whistled to call Voronwë’s attention away from his midmorning snack and back to the mission at hand. She gathered the reins, hoisted herself back into the saddle and situated her feet in the stirrups with practiced ease. Once secure in her seat, a squeeze of her calves and a nudge of her heels had the team setting out once again. The horse paused at the water’s edge, snorting and blowing at the unfamiliar obstacle, but he proved to be as steadfast as his name suggested as another nudge and spoken cue of careful had him stepping into the rushing waters to begin his trek toward the western shore, the air filling with the sounds of sloshing as his legs pushed against the churning water.

Over the course of decades, the Kings of Rohan and the Stewards of Gondor had allowed their bonds of fellowship and comradery to crumble like ancient ruins until their alliance was little more than a ceremonious idea. Communication between the lands had lessened more and more until roads that had once been beaten smooth by the hooves of messengers and dignitaries constantly moving between kingdoms fell silent. Those responsible for ensuring that the routes remained secure and passable saw little reason in maintaining highways that were never used except by farmers traveling between fields or brigands seeking trouble. Over time, the negligence between allies reflected in the weeds grown up around the Great Road and the gaps formed from stones washed away by storms or broken by a farmer’s particularly heavy wagon and never replaced.

If Rimiriel had been less focused on completing her mission, she might have paid more attention to the worn state of the road passing beneath her horse’s hooves and considered that the bridge between Gondor’s Anorien and Rohan’s Eastfold had fallen into similar disrepair. Even without knowing of the cavities where floodwaters had loosened and then washed away some of the stones forming the causeway’s floor, a horse’s strides were long. Probably, the few, scattered pockets would be missed. But Rimiriel’s history of such luck proved poor at best.

She was startled by the sudden lurch in her stallion’s gait as his front right hoof found one of the hollows.

She instinctually kicked away from Voronwë as he lost his footing and was swept sideways into the stream, but her brain numbed momentarily as her body hit the water.

Cold. A thousand invisible needles stabbed through layers of clothes to embed in every inch of her skin. Her heart boomed against her ears. Invisible bands squeezed her chest.

Air. Her body’s natural response to the shock of falling into the river had gifted her with a single gasp of air before she was completely submerged. Her lungs were screaming that it was not enough. She fought the urge to breathe. It would mean death as the water tightened its embrace.

Confusion. The fast-flowing current sent her tumbling and twisting about. She was a ragdoll in the hands of a child throwing a tantrum. She did not know which direction would take her to the surface. The river spun her around and pushed her deeper, deeper, deeper. A painful pressure building in her ears silenced the thudding of her heart. She could still feel it hammering on the insides of her chest.

Escape. She flailed her arms, seeking some kind of control over her movements. Her hands raked through the gravel of river rocks. She had been pushed down to the streambed. She planted her feet solidly on the river floor and pushed away with all her might. The surface was somewhere above. She swam as hard as she could. She broke the surface and gasped for air. Every desperate breath scorched her lungs. Nothing could extinguish the fire. Wide eyes sought the shore. She swam for the first bit of land she saw.

Rescue. A loud bellow pulled her attention away from the riverbank’s whispered promises of safety. She searched for the source of the familiar sound. Voronwë. He was being swept downstream, somehow tangled in debris. His cries were full of fear and desperation.

Approaching the tangled mass of horse and debris, she realized that something from Voronwë’s saddle and tack had gotten caught in the branches of a tree felled by the floodwaters when the stallion had collided with it during his own fight against the current. The trapped horse was understandably distraught, and no soothing words would calm him as he thrashed against the log, trumpeting and shrieking in rage and fear. Unable to see just where the charger had become tangled in the log’s many protruding limbs, his mistress swam to the other side of the trunk.

Reaching out and grabbing a branch, Rimiriel attempted to heave herself out of the water. The river refused to release her, turning her own clothes against her as her waterlogged cloak pulled at her neck. Her already-suffering lungs protested the new lack of air caused by the pressure against her throat. She clawed at the pin fastening the cloak around her shoulders, desperate for freedom. Finally, she broke the garment’s hold. The cloak swept downstream at the mercy of the current while she still clung to the trunk of the tree keeping Voronwë trapped. Once again, she tried to pull herself out of the stream and onto the log. Her arms ached with the effort, but she was ultimately successful.

From this vantage point straddling the log, Rimiriel discovered that the straps holding her supplies at the rear of the saddle were caught in the limbs of the tree. She tried to disentangle the ties. Voronwë nearly crushed her hands between his bulk and the trunk as he thrashed about. She considered snapping the constraining branches, but the tree had not been young when the flooded river had claimed it as a victim. The limbs were too large to be broken in a show of strength even if her fingers were not clumsy from the cold. It would take too long to saw the branches with the small dagger she carried at her belt.

She saw only one way to free her stallion. Gritting her teeth in resignation, she drew the dagger from her belt. The wet leather straps were not easy to cut. Shivering made it hard for her to keep the blade in hand. The horse’s thrashing did nothing to help. She had been sawing for an eternity when the last strap finally gave. Voronwë was free.

Rimiriel gave herself no time to mourn for the food and supplies now lost to the river. She slid from the tree trunk instead, ready to fight the current once more. Grabbing her horse’s reins where he swam in easy reach, she pulled him toward shore. He resisted only until he set sight on the western bank that was their goal, with instinct taking over as he sought safety. Bolstered by his bloodline’s advantages, the stallion proved to be the faster swimmer as he surpassed his mistress. He had nearly scaled the steep riverbank in his zig-zag fashion before she reached its base.

Treading water as she studied the bank, the healer envied the ease with which Voronwë climbed—as if there were a mountain goat somewhere in his ancestry. The hill before her was steep and rocky, with sparse vegetation clinging half-heartedly to the slope. While the rocks looked like prime hand and foot holds at first glance, pockmarks and tracks in the muddy earth suggested some of the rocks might not be as sturdy as they looked. Still, she had few other options if she wanted to escape the watery deathtrap this stream had proven to be. She would have to be careful.

Caution. Reaching for two rocks that looked like solid hand holds as she found purchase with her feet in rocks just below the water’s surface, Rimiriel heaved herself up and out of the stream. Her muscles groaned under the combined weight of her body and waterlogged clothes. White-knuckled hand over white-knuckled hand and foot over foot, she climbed farther up the bank, slowly testing her weight on each hold before fully giving it her trust. She had nearly reached the top when a rock that had already proven a trustworthy handhold failed to perform as admirably whilst underfoot. The failure proved too much for her remaining anchors. No amount of scrabbling in the mud could save her.

Down she tumbled. Rocks scraped and tore at her skin. The stream’s chilly embrace welcomed her once more. The current’s greeting was violent. She smashed against brutally hard rocks. She scraped against the rough gravel of the riverbed. The mindless intensity of each collision nearly had her crying out in pain. An inner voice sounded suspiciously like her uncle during her childhood swimming lessons as it sternly reminded her that to cry out meant death from the moment the murky water filled her lungs.

Cold
Air
Confusion
Air!

She sucked the precious substance into her choking lungs each time the broke the surface. Each time her desperate gasps captured less and less. The cold sapped what remained of her energy and constricted her muscles as if chaining them in steel. It was becoming harder and harder to fight her way to the surface. Like a cat with a mouse, the river was winning its cruel game of keeping her alive just enough that she could believe survival to be possible.

Death. Rimiriel realized with icy clarity that this would be her end.
There was no one around to save her.
She would die.
She would die alone.
Her mission would be forever unfinished.
Rohan would not help Gondor.
Gondor would fall.
Everyone would die.

Panic. Sudden, gasping horror sent new life racing through Rimiriel’s veins. She tried once more to break the surface of the rushing stream, not daring to think that the quick gulp of air waiting for her where water meets sky might be her last. She did not dare let herself think of anything at all beyond these next few seconds that could mean the difference between life and death. Not just for her, but for her people.

She forced her legs to kick.
She forced her arms to heave upward.
Another breath of air was only inches away…

And when she broke the surface one last time, there was a rock.

She wrapped her arms around the boulder as if it held the answers to life itself, coughing and sputtering and gasping as she pulled herself onto the flat surface as far as her tired arms would allow. Her lungs screamed against the sudden abundance of air so soon after a famine and Rimiriel thought for a moment that nothing so painful had ever felt so wonderful.

Alive. She allowed herself a few minutes to simply appreciate the fact that she was breathing. She had lost feeling in her hands and feet and every muscle ached. She was cold and shivering and she could not think of a time when she had ever been more exhausted. But her heart was still beating. Her story would not end here.

She turned her attention to the nearly identical stretches of shore flanking her on either side. It was time to move again.

First, she felt the current pushing against her legs where they still dangled in the water. They were being pushed against the rock rather than being pulled away, so she was facing downstream. To reach the shores of Rohan rather than return to Gondor she would need to cross to the bank on her left.

Second, she studied the shoreline that served as her goal, searching for the best place to escape the clutches of the stream. Parts of her body were numb, the rest pulsed painfully, and she still had half a stream to ford. There would be no more near-vertical slopes in her future. A bit further downstream, the slope of the bank was much gentler, softly angling down to a sandbar that jutted into the water. That would do nicely.

Third, she summoned every ounce of reserve strength left in her body, gritting her teeth in determination as she silently prayed for favor from every one of the Valar and even Eru himself. She slid from the rock that had been her savior, clinging to it as she circled to where she had an unobstructed view of her desired destination. Keeping her focus centered only on her next goal, she kicked away from the rock and began swimming in slow, steady strokes. She let the current that had spent so long punishing her do most of the work as she drifted diagonally downstream, paddling only enough to be certain that she would not miss the sand bar entirely.

Fourth, she crawled from the stream on her hands and knees. Every limb was shaking and her chest ached from the strain of drawing each breath, but she did not allow herself to stop. She had to keep moving, even if it was at a crawl. She fixed her gaze on the sand directly in front of her and pressed forward, not allowing herself to look up to see how far she had to go or back to how far she had come. She was going to make it. That was all that mattered.

Fifth, she crested the summit of the bank onto the flat grasslands of Rohan, crawling on her elbows and stomach where her arms had given out several long minutes before. She allowed herself to sink into the earth, clawing her fingers into the rich soil and inhaling the soft scent of sweetgrasses without a thought as to the pitiful picture she must have made.

She knew she needed to get up. She needed to find Voronwë. She needed to figure out how far off-course the raging river had swept her. It would be harder without her compass and maps lost somewhere downstream, but she knew how to use the sun and surrounding landmarks to reestablish her sense of direction. The loss of her food and supplies was a hard blow, but not a crippling one. A difficult journey was not the same thing as an impossible quest.

They were in Rohan. They were nearly there. She could do this. She just needed to get up.

But she was tired.
She was so, so tired.

She let the world go dark.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven
The Stranger and the King

Only the dead have seen the end of war.

Éomer remembered his father speaking those words around a blazing fire after he and his riders had returned home from one of the many skirmishes with the enemies of Rohan threatening their borders. As a boy he had never questioned the truth in his father’s words even though he had not understood their meaning. Even now as a man, with his father gone to join his ancestors in the afterlife, he had yet to find a reason to doubt the bitter wisdom of Éomund, former Lord of Aldburg and Marshal of the Mark. For while others had honorably given their lives in defense of their homeland and now enjoyed the endless peace of the afterlife, free from war and strife, Éomer was still facing the threats of Mordor’s long-reaching shadow, his still-beating heart a constant reminder that he was not yet done fighting.

Would the battles ever be finished? Would his people ever know true peace?

As Éomer allowed the heavy doors of Meduseld to close behind him, cutting off the dismissive chatter of his uncle and his fellow Marshals of the Mark as they gathered the maps and reports referenced in their discussion of the next steps in securing their borders, he did not think so. All the talk of war so soon after losing so many men to the battle at Helm’s Deep had him feeling much wearier than his twenty-seven years would suggest. He was grateful for these few stolen moments of solitude as he stood on the porch of Meduseld, even though the solitude itself was a stark reminder of how much could be lost in war, with the terrace unusually empty since Háma the doorward had been slain and Théoden King had yet to appoint a replacement.

The youngest of the Riddermark’s Marshals breathed deeply of the air, fresh with the scent of the early spring rains that had been sweeping across the land over the past few days. He looked out over the town that had mostly fallen silent, with many of the citizens journeying to the western hamlets to aid their relatives and neighbors in restoring that which had been destroyed by Saruman’s marauding armies, rebuilding devastated homes and resowing uprooted crops, and his chest puffed with pride. None could deny that the Rohirrim were a hardy people, capable of weathering any storm. It would take more than the malice of the White Wizard to bring his people to their knees!

While he surveyed the land beyond the walls of Edoras, the Marshal’s sharp eyes noticed movement on the horizon to the east of the capital: a dark figure racing down the Great Road with considerable haste. As it drew closer, the formless smudge shifted and gained definition so that he could discern the separate-but-joined shapes of a horse and rider. Perhaps a messenger was bringing news on the efforts to push the barbaric Dunlending raiders that had chosen to side with Saruman back to their borders, he hoped. Reports of success would be most welcome and would do much to quell the rising tensions between the Marshals who could not seem to agree which move should be Rohan’s next.

Deciding to undertake the duty of greeting the messenger, Éomer descended the steps of Meduseld as the horse and rider barreled through the gates of Edoras, thundering through the town and cresting the hill to approach the Golden Hall without hesitation. He quickly realized that this was something more than a routine report, faltering at the edge of the first steps leading up the summit of the hill to where Meduseld stood tall and proud over its surroundings. Dread sent ice coursing through his veins as he surveyed the travelers coming to a halt only a stride away from where he stood.

An unfamiliar brute of a stallion staggered to an uncertain standstill within arm’s reach of the Riddermark’s Third Marshal, its chest heaving and nostrils flared wide as it fought to breathe. Sweat frothed over a chestnut coat; mud was splattered across the horse’s quivering flanks and caked down shaking legs. Éomer quickly grabbed hold of the reins where they joined the bridle on either side of the horse’s mouth, offering an anchor as the exhausted animal sidestepped as if struggling to keep its footing. He then looked to the rider still astride the charger’s back, fully prepared to demand an explanation from one who would dare push a horse to such a point of near-collapse. Before he could confront the thoughtless caretaker, however, the stranger had swung one leg over the stallion’s drooping head and was sliding down its side to land in the square. The dismount should have been smooth in its simplicity, but Éomer found himself releasing the horse’s reins as quickly as he had snatched them: the traveler’s knees buckled at the moment of impact, and the Marshal barely caught the rider beneath the arms before he could hit the ground.

Before she could hit the ground, he corrected himself with no small amount of bewilderment as he was borne to his knees by the unexpected dead weight of the traveler. While she was guised in a man’s clothes and covered head to toe in as much mud and grime as her steed, making defining characteristics difficult to determine, there had been no mistaking the distinctive curves momentarily pressed against his chest when he had kept the rider from tumbling to the ground in a boneless heap. She was clearly as drained as her stallion, slumped obliviously against the Marshal’s shoulder in a dead faint. Éomer wondered what sort of ordeal could have driven the horse and rider here in such a desperate condition.

Spotting one of the stableboys amongst those few whose curiosity had pulled them from their homes and duties at the sound of approaching hoofbeats, Éomer called for the lad to come forward and collect the tired horse and take it to the stables. The boy jumped at the Marshal’s bellowing address but recovered quickly, springing forward to gather the charger’s reins and lead it away.

Meanwhile, Éomer adjusted his hold on the strange woman sprawled across him where he still knelt on the ground, keeping one arm rooted behind her back while he snaked his other arm beneath her knees. None had stepped forward to claim this woman as an expected guest or recognized relative, which would make her a guest of the Golden Hall until more could be discovered about her reasons for traveling here. Unable to avoid jostling the rider as he clambered back to his feet, the Marshal heard her breath hitch in a painful way that suggested some hidden injury, her ragged exhale hot on his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. She was not so heavy once he had solidly regained his feet. Still, Éomer cursed under his breath as he surveyed the steep stairs that separated them from the safety and security of Meduseld. As he adjusted to the extra weight in his arms and started his ascending journey, the young Marshal found himself again pondering what sort of message or mission could have brought the rider hence with enough haste to dismiss not only her horse’s well-being, but even her own. Whatever it was could not bode well for the future.

Éomer returned to the familiarity of the Golden Hall, his calves burning from a climb he had never appreciated for its ease until this moment, and his arms aching with the strain of bearing Meduseld’s newest guest into the hall. As quick glances turned into curious stares when the gathered commanders noticed their counterpart’s return, the Third Marshal steeled himself for the questions that would flood forth at any second. Before any barrage could begin, however, life suddenly returned to the limp form in the Rohir’s arms. He nearly dropped the woman as she became one of the fish often hoisted from the Snowbourne for dinner, flopping and writhing about in a frantic attempt to escape his hold.

Éomer managed to bear her down to the stone floor safely, kneeling beside her as her eyes opened. They were a pale shade of grey that might not have seemed so shocking if not for how bright they appeared, set as they were in a face dark with dust and grime. When they settled on him, they dulled in confusion, the woman’s brows knitting together in an unspoken question. A small, round mouth fell open, but the sound that escaped was a harsh and inhuman rasp. The woman winced against the foreign sound, bringing one hand up to her throat. The young Marshal cast his eyes about the room as understanding washed over him.

“She needs water,” he said to the first person to meet his gaze.

Aragorn, a man Éomer did not yet know well enough to call ‘friend’ but whose deeds spoke for themselves and commanded respect, nodded and quickly gathered a nearby goblet and pitcher before kneeling opposite the Rohir. While the Marshal helped her into an upright position with a guiding hand on her back, the Ranger of the North filled the cup with fresh water from the pitcher. The woman’s eyes narrowed in distrust as she eyed the new arrival, instinctively trying to jerk away as Aragorn raised the rim of the cup to her mouth.

“It is only water,” the ranger said in his usual calm manner, letting an encouraging nod accompany his words.

The tension evident in the stranger’s body eased as her first swallow revealed the truth in Aragorn’s words, and then she was greedily pulling the cup from the ranger’s helpful hands, guzzling the contents with desperate gulps.

“Slow down,” Aragorn advised as the woman extended the empty goblet to be filled a second time. “You will make yourself sick drinking so fast.”

With eyes that had grown accustomed to spotting injuries in proud soldiers reluctant to admit their need for a healer’s attentions, Éomer assessed the strange woman. Even while she obliged the ranger’s request and tamed her ravenous gulps down to easy sips, her eyes held suspicion as she studied her surroundings. She was surprisingly alert for having collapsed at his feet only moments ago, sitting upright and unaided with her legs hooked to one side, but shadowy circles that had nothing to do with the mud and grime streaked across her face and caked on her clothes rimmed her eyes. She seemed to be uninjured, but the route she had taken to arrive in Edoras had clearly been long and difficult, leaving her exhausted and weak. These, at least, were things that could easily be fixed by a hearty meal, a hot bath, and a long night of solid sleep, all of which his uncle would be sure to generously provide.

“Where am I?” the woman asked slowly once the cup of water had run dry a second time. Her voice was still hoarse, though vastly improved from the grinding rasp it had been at first. “Is this Edoras?”

“It is,” Aragorn obliged since her eyes had settled on him rather than the Rohirric Marshal that had borne her into the hall. “This is Meduseld, the seat of Théoden King.”

“Théoden King…”

The trailing echo was a spark that ignited a fire within the stranger as she pushed the empty goblet in her hands into Aragorn’s surprised grasp. She drew herself up to her knees in an attempt to regain her feet as she cried, “I must see him!”

The woman’s tired body was slow to respond to her ambitious mind’s commands. Her knees rebelled against her, nearly sending her back to the floor as they buckled. Éomer lunged forward and once again barely managed to catch her in time, the air whooshing from his lungs as she crashed solidly against his chest. She clearly did not wish to be deterred, however, immediately struggling back to her feet. They scrabbled against the stone for a moment before she managed to convince her legs to bear her weight and stood solid on her own. The Rohir rested a steadying hand on her elbow and kept one wary arm at her waist, uncertain of the likelihood that she would stumble again.

“Please release me, sir.” Éomer was surprised to find his aid met with the coldness of a thinly-veiled demand, instinctually raising his guard and refusing to yield. “I need to speak with your king at once!”

“Calm down,” Aragorn urged as he rose to his feet, extending his hands toward the woman in a placating gesture. “We will speak with the king about arranging an audience to hear your message, but first you should rest. You have had a difficult journey—”

“There is no time for that!” The rider tried once more to twist from Éomer’s grip, but the Rohir outmatched her in both size and strength, keeping her firmly planted where she stood. “My message is of utmost urgency and I cannot and will not rest until it has been heard!”

“Then share this urgent message you are so desperate to deliver and let us be done with it!”

This familiar voice was one that called for immediate action. Even the stranger in Éomer’s grip was not unaffected by the authority of the gruff tone, stilling in her attempt to forcibly prize his arm from around her waist and following the sound to its source. The gathered soldiers all shifted to one side of the hall or the other, clearing a path for the tall man who had stepped from his raised dais to cross the room in long strides.

Pride swelled in the youngest Marshal’s chest as he surveyed the stern face and regal bearing of the man who had been kind enough to raise him as a son and ruthless enough to ensure that he became a disciplined warrior fit for the place of leadership he had inherited. Strength was still to be seen in the king’s upright stance and steady gait, tempered by the wisdom and experience of a man beyond his prime. There had been a time when Éomer had thought the noble liege he had sworn to serve gone forever, poisoned by dark wizardry and cold ambition. He had never been happier to be proven wrong. There was no crown on the brow of Théoden Ednew, but such a symbol was not necessary when the balance of power could clearly be seen in the downcast nods of submission as the king passed.

Éomer met his uncle’s shrewd gaze when the elder halted only a few strides away, immediately obeying the silent order in his king’s subtle nod. As per her insistent request, the stranger suddenly found herself freed from the Third Marshal’s grip and standing alone, the sole focus of the assessing eyes of Théoden King. Éomer noticed that the woman did not seem intimidated as she met his uncle’s level stare.

She spoke plainly. “You are Théoden King?”

“I am,” the Rohir returned in the same tone, quirking one heavy brow. “Here in Edoras, it is tradition to bow before addressing the king.”

“Forgive me, my lord.”

The stranger’s quick reply was followed by a deep curtsy with the right foot shifting behind the left as the woman lowered her head in a respectful nod and bent at the knee. She sank nearly to the floor, her knee almost brushing the ground, and held the position for a full breath before slowly raising herself back to an upright position. Éomer noticed his uncle’s eyes narrow and knew he and the king were sharing the same thoughts. This had not been the clumsy bob of a villager or the quick, waist-level bow of a soldier. This had been an official action fit for royal courts and the weight of a formal gown, executed with the smooth grace that indicated a practiced motion. Coming from a woman dressed as a man and filthy enough that it was hard to tell whether her vest was fashioned from black leather or brown, it was an odd sight, indeed.

“Who are you, stranger?” Théoden inquired. “And from whence have you come to my hall?”

“My name is Rimiriel, my lord, and I have ridden from Gondor down a road plagued with misfortune.”

“From Gondor, you say?” echoed the king, his expression grave. “Long has it been since we have received any word from the men of the South.” Another appraising look swept his guest from head to toe. “Much has changed since my youth if they are using women as messengers.”

“It is an unusual appointment for a woman,” the stranger—Rimiriel, Éomer reminded himself—agreed diplomatically, “but these are unusual times in which we find ourselves.”

“Indeed.” Théoden closed the distance between himself and his guest, extending his arm in an invitation for her to walk with him. “What message is it that you carry, mistress?”

“I am afraid it is not one of good tidings, my lord,” Rimiriel began, obligingly lacing her arm with the king’s and allowing him to lead her toward the head of the room where his throne awaited him atop its platform. “The time has come in which the dark realm of Mordor has chosen to make war against the world of Men.”

Few would have noticed the king’s loss of stride, so quickly did he regain it. Those that did were wise enough to leave it unmentioned.

“When I left Gondor, a force of orcs was amassing on the banks of the Great River under the command of the Witch-king, waiting for the order to attack Osgiliath,” the messenger continued, effortlessly meeting her listener’s graceful strides step for step. One could almost ignore the contrast between the king’s fitted tunics of fine make and the stranger’s muddied attire if they were to focus only on the match between straight-backed postures and the slight upturn of proud chins. “By now, I am sure the attack has begun. My people are not prepared to face this threat…at least not with any hope of victory. Our numbers are too few.”

She was momentarily left speaking to the king’s back as they reached the dais, with her remaining on the floor below as he released her arm and ascended the step. “So, I am here to ask that you send reinforcements to help Gondor in its time of need…as many men as you can spare.”

Éomer’s seized lungs struggled to properly function as this envoy’s words drew all of the air from the room. Another fight. More blood. More death. More widows. More orphans. Would this shadow ever pass?

“These are bleak tidings, indeed,” Théoden agreed, unknowingly voicing his nephew’s thoughts as he settled heavily on his throne. He closed his eyes for a moment before fixing a heavy stare on the woman below him. “Tell me, messenger, why should I willingly endanger my own people by sending them into battle against a force intimidating enough that the Steward of Gondor sends for aid before his Captains have faced even a single opponent?”

“My lord, Gondor is the first line of defense against the shadow of the East. If Osgiliath falls, the Dark Lord’s army will be able to march on Minas Tirith without challenge,” Rimiriel said, her voice grave. “And once the White City is razed to the ground, they will next come for Rohan. But if we stand together—”

A humorless laugh cut through the rider’s words.

“Stand together? I did not see any men of Gondor standing with Rohan when it was our villages and towns being raided. Where were the armies of Gondor when the Rohirrim were being cut down at the gates of the Hornburg only days ago? Rohan has been left to face its enemies alone. Why should I not leave Gondor to do the same?”

There was a warning in his uncle’s tone, Éomer knew. He had heard it often enough when he had been younger and more foolhardy, eager to become a man without truly knowing what the achievement meant. For those who knew the king well, this tone advised its intended target to tread carefully and measure each word’s weight before allowing it to slip from the tongue. This Gondorian did not know the king well. Éomer had seen her body tense when his uncle voiced his threat of leaving her realm to face its enemies alone, and now he watched as she squared her shoulders and narrowed her gaze. Éomer braced himself for what he knew would come next. Like realizing he was about to be thrown from a panicked horse too late to do anything to prevent it, he could see that this woman was about to ignite his uncle’s formidable temper. Once unleashed, there would be nothing anyone could do but wait for the king’s wrath to run its course and hope that they did not attract his attention until it had done so.

Her plea was innocent enough. “Lord King, your ancestors swore an oath—”

“I know the promises my forefathers have made!” The king leapt from his seat like a predator pouncing on its prey, directing his anger at the messenger standing below. “It seems to be your people that have forgotten them!”

To her credit, the Gondorian did not flinch as the booming voice of Théoden King stampeded through every corner of the hall. She stood as if made of stone, with the only outward hint of her displeasure being the curling of her fists at her sides. In comparison, Rohan’s lord was restless in his fury, pacing back and forth across his raised dais with heavy feet and a reddening face.

“It was men of Rohan who turned the tide of the Battle of Celebrant when Easterlings wished to take your lands for their own!” he proclaimed. “It was Rohan that sacrificed two of its heirs when Gondor was threatened by the Haradrim. When the blood of the Rohirrim was being spilt, however, Gondor was nowhere to be seen!” The king ceased his agitated march to direct his venom at the woman who still stood firm in his presence. “Why should we ride to the aid of those who did not come to ours?”

A palpable tension thickened the air in the Golden Hall, and Éomer knew he was not the only one who felt it as he caught his fellow Marshals shifting uncomfortably in place. It was not that their liege’s words were untrue; indeed, every word thus far spoken had been irrefutable fact. Still, an envoy could only do their duty and deliver the missive with which they were tasked. It was not their place to command battalions or even try to sway the minds of those that did. And so, it seemed rather unfair to speak down to one who was only following orders as if it had been she herself who had chosen not to aid the Rohirrim. In Rohan, a servant did not pay for the misstep of his master anymore than a son should bear the debts of his father. This stranger, however, was not of Rohan, and none would dare suggest the king had misspoken in his own hall.

“And how could we honor a request that was never received?”

The challenge was so subtle that many missed it. Rimiriel’s voice had been cold and calm—far too calm for one who had endured such a verbal assault from a stranger, king or not—like the stillness of the air just before a great storm. Éomer’s instincts screamed a silent warning, his muscles coiling as if preparing for battle even though he knew that skill in arms would help him little in this arena where the tongue was deadlier than any blade. He looked to his uncle who stood solid, his ire clear in every sharp angle of his face and stance, and then to the woman, her face as expressionless as the stone beneath her feet even as she fearlessly held the king’s unyielding gaze. Battle lines were being drawn across the floor of the Golden Hall, and the young Marshal felt wholly outmatched.

With the same ice in her tone, Rimiriel continued, “You speak with bitterness, Théoden King, as though we have betrayed you by not aiding in your struggles. But when your people came under attack you did not send riders to Gondor. No alliance is fostered in silence.”

“The old alliances are dead!”

“Then Gondor owes you nothing and your anger toward my people is undeserved!”

“Your people are cowards who left us to be slaughtered in our own homes! What do they deserve if not my anger?”

The Marshals were familiar with the temper of their king, a short-lived, fiery thing that would ignite and devour its surroundings only to quickly die once there was nothing left to consume. The Rohirrim had thought they knew the temper of their guest, listening to her frosty words and watching small, long-fingered hands curl into seemingly useless fists. There had been no sense of fear or surprise as Théoden’s contempt thundered through the Golden Hall, but only pity for the defenseless young woman who was to bear the brunt of it. None were prepared when the might of Théoden’s wrath proved great enough to crack icy stillness, freeing a violent tempest that had been carefully locked away. Lightning flashed in stormcloud eyes and a voice strengthened by fury and scorn slammed through the room with the force of a battering ram.

“You blame Gondor for not riding into a battle unrequested and condemn us for the lives you have lost. In the same breath, you resign us to a fate even worse than that which you have suffered and call it just. It cannot go both ways at your convenience!”

“It can go whichever way I wish because in this hall I alone am King!”

“Then you are a poor king, indeed!”

At first, the king’s resolve held strong against his challenger’s furious claim despite the unexpected discovery of a temper that matched his own. Then an accusatory finger levelled at his chest found the chink in his armor as incensed words dealt their fatal blow. He staggered back from his opponent, falling limply into the seat of his throne as his world spun with the power of her assertion.

The gathered Rohirrim froze at the sight of their lord so ruthlessly defeated by an outsider who had fought to even stand on her own feet moments before. They were quick to recover from their momentary surprise, however, and fuming hisses filled the hall. Éomer had already moved to his king’s defense, finding it fitting that it be him who met the woman’s challenge since it was he who had brought her into the king’s hall, unaware of the havoc she would wreak.

“Mind your words, messenger,” he warned as he captured the wrist of the hand still pointing accusingly at his liege in a tight grip, matching the fire of the woman’s gaze with the steel of his own, “lest your people’s war cease to become your concern.”

“You were not present when I was learning speech, horselord,” Rimiriel spat, unabashed as his taller form loomed over her. She wrenched her wrist from his grasp and lifted her chin in proud defiance, making it unspeakably clear that she was not particular in who she was to battle against and would deal with the Marshal as ferociously as she had his uncle. “I will speak as I like, before a king or otherwise!”

“You will find it difficult to do so when you are without your tongue,” Éomer observed in equal measure.

What sort of land was Gondor where messengers would dare to be so bold?

“I will not waste time on pleasantries when I am being spoken down to as though I were a child!”

“Enough!” came the voice of the king, once again ringing with authority without being tainted by the venom of rage.

It was enough to draw the attention of both emissary and Marshal to where the king had once again risen from his throne, this time to end a skirmish rather than start one. With a wave of the king’s hand, the Marshal retreated—albeit reluctantly—back to his place alongside his comrades, casting one last aggressive glower in the woman’s direction before leaving her alone before the king once more.

“My nephew’s words are harsh, but they are not untrue,” Théoden began, sternly eyeing the Gondorian below him as he clasped his hands behind his back. “You are a guest of this hall, and you are overstepping the bounds of our hospitality.”

“Overstepping?” Indignation and fury laced Rimiriel’s echoing words, threatening a return to battle. “My people—”

“But—” the king spoke loudly, cutting cleanly through her protest, “I, too, have acted dishonorably as your host. It is not my place to challenge your message or speak against those who rule the realm you call home. I ask that you forgive this shameful behavior and allow us to start this meeting anew.”

Silence.
A series of wide-eyed, owlish blinks as a jaw dropped in either shock or surprise.
Three heartbeats in which every Rohirric occupant of the Golden Hall eyed the foreigner in their midst with bated breath.
And then the slump of proud shoulders as tension ebbed from a body heavy with exhaustion.
A sigh of either relief or resignation.
Another curtsy as the outsider acknowledged the white flag waved by the king, with Théoden offering a bow in return.
These lacked the depth and formality previously displayed—a silent declaration that the proceedings would continue on equal footing.

“I accept your apology, sire,” Rimiriel declared, her tone apologetic, “and ask that you forgive my outburst as well. Those of my house are known for their pride, and I am afraid that I have been known to allow mine to best me on occasion.”

There was a spark of amusement in the king’s eyes. “In that, messenger, we have something in common.” He then retreated to his throne once again, returning to the matter at hand. “An army you have been sent to ask of me, but I am afraid Rohan does not have the strength it once did. Already the shroud of war has fallen dark and heavy on my people.”

“It is the same in Gondor,” Rimiriel said, matching the king’s somber tone that implied an unspoken grief. “More blood than I can estimate with any hope of accuracy has been spilt in the struggle against our enemies. Widows and children fill the streets of Minas Tirith, searching for husbands and fathers that are no longer part of this life. Our kingdoms may be different, but our struggles are the same. Why should we not combine what strength we have and fight for an end to this destructive conflict?”

“You make it sound easy,” Théoden observed. “War is not so simple.”

“On the contrary, Lord King. In my experience there is nothing more straightforward than war. There is only friend and foe. Defeat means death and the end of the world we know; victory means life and the opportunity to establish a new age in which none shall live in fear of the Great Shadow. War is easy. It is in the aftermath where difficulties arise.”

“Aye, and it is this possibility which concerns me,” Rohan’s king agreed, fixing a pointed stare on the Gondorian messenger. “My father was the last King of Rohan to hold strong relations with the kingdom of Gondor. Silence has held between our realms in the forty years since his death and has only been broken by the promise of war. Let us say that I choose to help your people in this fight. What promise is there that Gondor wishes to rebuild a lasting alliance and my people and I will not be cast off once our usefulness has expired?”

Silence reigned in Meduseld for several long moments. All eyes fell on the foreign woman where she stood at the base of the steps of the king’s dais. Her brows had knit together and her lower lip had been pulled between her teeth while she crossed her arms over her chest, pondering the king’s question.

His uncle’s query had been fair, Éomer thought. There was great risk in riding to war on foreign soil, both for the men who would answer their king’s call and for those citizens of the Riddermark who would be left vulnerable and exposed in the absence of their defenders. Such a risk had to come with a worthwhile reward, otherwise the undertaking was pointless. Alliances could not be built on wishful thinking alone.

Théoden King grew impatient as the silence stretched. “Am I to assume there is no such promise?”

“I am afraid I was not given any such assurances to offer,” Rimiriel admitted, “but this I will vow to you, in the hope that it might be the first step in renewing what was once the strongest alliance amongst all the kingdoms of Men. Forgive Gondor’s shortcomings and honor the Oath of Eorl once more, and in return Gondor will help you recover from the destruction wrought on your lands by Saruman’s armies. We can give you supplies to rebuild your homes and food to supplement the loss of any crops destroyed in the raids.

“We have neglected our relations with you and your people in the past, I will not deny it,” she continued as the king leaned forward on his throne in interest, “but I give you my word that Gondor is willing to do whatever it takes to rebuild the bond of trust our realms once shared.”

“Your word?” Théoden laughed. “You are a bold one, indeed! How will your Steward react, I wonder, when he is expected to fulfill the pretty promises his emissary dared to make on his behalf? Do you truly expect me to believe that you have offered anymore than an empty oath?”

The Gondorian bristled at the king’s tone that walked a fine line between condescension and reproach. “I assure you that my words are anything but empty, my lord,” she said stiffly. “If fulfilling a few ‘pretty promises’ is the price to come a step closer to victory, the Steward will bear that cost gladly. My father will stand by this vow, I swear to you.”

“Your father?” The king’s eyes narrowed.

“Aye,” Rimiriel returned. “I am of the House of Hurin, born the third child of the Ruling Steward Denethor, second of his name.”

Whispers broke out amongst the gathered Rohirrim. As Marshals of the Mark, their duties lay in protecting the borders of their homeland from attack, and so they involved themselves little in the affairs of their allies. All, however, knew enough of their southern neighbor to understand the implications of their guest’s claim. They understood that no normal messenger stood in their midst. Éomer’s own head spun with the revelation that caused much to make sense but also raised many new questions.

“You expect me to believe that the Steward has sent his own daughter to my doorstep in this dark hour?” An incredulous expression washed over Théoden King’s features as critical eyes swept his guest from head to toe as if seeking noble features amongst each mud splatter on her face and loose thread hanging from her clothes. “You?”

Rimiriel dared to laugh, though it was a dry thing void of true amusement. “I can understand how my current state of disarray might cast doubt and assure you that it is not by choice that I appear before you in such a condition. As previously stated, my journey from Gondor was not an easy one.”

Under the watchful eyes of Rohan’s king, the lady then twisted a silver ring from where it rested on her thumb. “If my words are not enough, allow this to convince you,” she suggested, offering up the trinket. “It is all I have that supports my claims.”

The king rose from his throne one last time and crossed to the steps where Rimiriel stood at their base with her offering held aloft. Careful fingers seized the ring and discerning eyes studied its distinctive etched face. The Rohirrim knew their king had found no fault in the presentation as he looked to their guest with an air not only of newfound understanding, but also fatherly concern that Éomer again found almost painfully familiar.

“Why would the Steward risk you, his own kin, to carry this message?”

The lady’s calm mask returned effortlessly. “I am sure his reasons are many, but I find that such things matter little. I am here, and I have delivered my message.” She addressed the king directly, “Will you aid my people or not?”

“You have given me much to consider, Lady Rimiriel,” Théoden replied, matching her serious tone even as he gently took her hand and returned the heavy signet ring to its home on her thumb. “Tomorrow I will give you my answer.”

“Forgive me, my lord, but my people cannot afford any hesitations,” the woman said, failing to recognize the opportunity she had been given. “My return to Gondor must not be delayed!”

She was taken aback when the king laughed, this time with true amusement rather than irony.

“My lady, you are in no condition to make the journey to relay my answer even if I were to give it this instant!”

“I am well enough,” Rimiriel retorted stubbornly.

“Even the strongest of us need their rest,” Théoden pointed out, not unkindly. He then waved a servant forward before continuing, “What you ask of me is not something that can be decided on a whim. I have a responsibility to my people to consider all choices and their consequences; there are no easy decisions for a king. Go and find rest from your journey. You will meet no enemies in this house.”

The lady hesitated for a moment longer before seeming to realize that she would make no more headway with the king this day.

“I thank you, Lord King, for hearing my message and for your offering of hospitality,” she declared, dropping into another swift curtsy. “Until tomorrow.”

Once their foreign guest had disappeared into the bowels of Meduseld’s living quarters at the direction of the servant, Théoden King quickly dismissed the rest of the assembly, seeking some time alone to ponder this new predicament his people were facing. The Golden Hall emptied quickly, save for a single figure that lingered near the door.

Éomer watched, unnoticed, as the king lowered himself down on the steps leading up to his throne rather than retaking the seat he had inherited from his father and his grandfather and all those who preceded him in the line of the House of Eorl. His uncle had often claimed that he felt freer to think when unbound from the weight of responsibility the throne represented, and Éomer was unsurprised to see his uncle lean on such tradition now that so great a choice had been laid at his feet. Théoden King looked weary where he sat with his head leaned into his hands, and the young Marshal did not envy the burden on his king’s shoulders.

Éomer considered approaching his uncle and seeing if he might be able to offer any help to the man he loved as dearly as he had loved his own father but decided against it. His king had requested solitude, and the duty of a Marshal was to follow his liege’s commands without question.

Instead, Éomer once again stepped out onto the porch of the Golden Hall. His eyes were immediately drawn down to the base of the steps where the lady Rimiriel had reined her horse to a halt what felt like ages before, and he cursed under his breath. Had he known what trouble the virago would unleash on his people, he might have left her out in the dirt. Now his people faced the threat of war before they had even recovered from Saruman’s treachery.

And face it they would, this the young Marshal knew. For although his king’s words might seem coarse and without concern for the fate of Gondor, Éomer knew his uncle possessed a love for the southern lands born from his childhood spent amongst his mother’s kin. Though he would not say so until he had pondered every other possibility, Théoden King would not leave Gondor to fight the darkness of Mordor alone. The Riders of Rohan would travel south. They would fight. Many would die.

Once again, Éomer was reminded of his father’s words spoken around those roaring fires of winters long past. There would always be a battle to be fought, whether they were those that required strength of arms or those that were best fought with silver tongues. He would never see the end of war until he was dead, of that he was undoubtedly certain.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight
Common Ground

Returning to the waking world was like fighting that cursed river all over again. Time and again, Rimiriel would rise to the very edge of consciousness. Time and again, the clawed grasp of heavy slumber would drag her back beneath the surface. She tumbled and twisted in the undercurrent of dark dreams filled with fire, blood and death. When she finally breached the surface of awareness and managed to stay afloat, it was with muddled senses and no small amount of confusion.

Coarse sleep-sand glued her eyelids together. Every feather from the down pillows cradling her head had been stuffed through her ears, overcrowding her skull so that she could not piece together a coherent thought. The surrounding quiet was suffocating after days of thundering hooves and steady rain.

For a moment, Rimiriel imagined she was a child again, having fallen asleep after a night of studying and been carried to bed by one of her brothers. But no, a drowsy voice in her head reminded her. She had wandered far from the libraries of Minas Tirith, and she had done so alone. She had traversed the farmlands of the Anorien, survived the icy waters of the Mering Stream, and crossed the grasslands of Rohan with none but her stallion for company. She had seen the golden roof of Meduseld with her own eyes—a feat few in Gondor could justly claim—and met the lord of the famed hall.

As she opened her eyes to the brightness of the mid-morning sun, Rimiriel remembered Théoden King’s offer of hospitality. Her foreign surroundings stood witness to the truth of his offer. A servant had led her to this room—spartan, though not in an uninviting way. High wooden beams arched overhead, so different from the stone ceilings of Gondor. A rock hearth still glowing on one side and a single window on the other were all that interrupted the walls aside from simple, solidly built furniture. She reclined in the room’s centerpiece: a large bed dressed in blankets made from pelts. Curious fingers marveled at the foreign softness of the warm layers. Aside from the mining villages high in the mountain regions, Gondorian winters were rarely cold enough for furs to be in high demand.

The servant that had brought her to the room had stoked a fire in the hearth and ordered a bath drawn. His retreat had heralded the arrival of a team carrying a wooden tub and a collection of steaming water pots. They had filled the tub quickly and then they, too, all retreated, save a pair of women near Rimiriel's own age.

The servants did not bother introducing themselves, so the Gondorian resorted to quickly cataloguing the pair. One was taller with hooded eyes while the other was slight in both height and build, a thick spattering of freckles across her nose. What they spoke of the Common Tongue was thickly accented, but their intentions were clear. In no condition to refuse after her series of misadventures, the Gondorian allowed the women to help her disrobe. Deft fingers worked at buckles and clasps, confiscating Rimiriel’s belt and vest while she toed off her own boots. She reached for the bottom hem of her shirt and pulled it overhead, letting out a low hiss as aching muscles protested.

She had not thought about how she might look to an observer until she heard a small gasp and a foreign curse.

“You need a healer!” Taller’s eyes darted between the dark bruises marring Rimiriel’s torso where cruel river rapids had slammed her against unforgiving rocks. She waved her hand and the other attendant scurried toward the door.

“Please, no!” Freckles paused at Rimiriel’s call, one hand resting on the door. “I would not want to cause any more trouble than I already have.”

“Better to cause trouble now than to be dead tomorrow,” Taller noted, one eyebrow raised.

“It is not so bad as that. Simple bruises, no more. A healer would only tell me to rest, which is already my intention.”

Taller hesitated a moment longer, but finally waved Freckles away from the door with a few quick words in their native tongue. Freckles instead retrieved a bundle from a basket of supplies that had escaped Rimiriel’s notice, scattering a handful of herbs over the steaming bathwater.

“They will help you feel better,” Taller explained while helping Rimiriel with the rest of her clothes.

“Thank you.”

Taller only nodded as she guided the Gondorian to the tub. The mingled scents of chamomile and lavender wafted from the water; the steam teased Rimiriel as its whispers sent goosebumps crawling across her skin. She gasped as she stepped in, but it devolved into a content sigh as the heat worked blissful magic on her tired body.

Despite the lady's attempts at protest, Freckles undertook the daunting task of untangling matted, mud-saturated hair. Taller guided Rimiriel in choosing from a selection of bathing oils, waving unstopped bottles under her nose. She chose one that reminded her of the gardens at the Houses of Healing. The soft scents combined with the warmth of the water and the fire crackling merrily in the background wove a soothing spell. The bath chased the thrill of completing her mission from her blood as effectively as it washed the dirt from her skin. Slowly, the exhaustion following days without rest settled deep in her bones. Her eyelids grew heavy.

She had held out until her bath was finished and she had donned a clean linen shift. Crawling into bed, she had allowed the servants to excuse themselves, but she had fallen asleep before the door could close behind them.

The stiffness in her bones now implied that she had not moved since.

A shiver traced Rimiriel’s spine as bare feet met the cold stone floor. The merry fire in the hearth had died down to embers while she slumbered. The persistent chill of a dying winter had taken advantage of the weakened defenses, invading through the unshuttered window to chase away the room's warmth. The Gondorian stood and stretched her arms high above her head. A moan of relief slipped past her lips as she felt sore muscles loosen and seized bones crack.

Drawing one of the furs close around herself, Rimiriel crossed to the window. Thrice as tall as it was wide, it offered a narrow view of the world to the east. The sun painted the snow-capped mountains in the distance with brilliant golds and silvers. Below Meduseld sprawled the thatched roofs of Edoras, where townsfolk bustled between various buildings. The lady smiled at the quaint picture so different from the White City where she had been born.

The comfortable silence was broken by her stomach loudly reminding her of how long she had gone without a proper meal. Pressing a hand against her complaining belly, Rimiriel wondered if it would be acceptable to leave her room in pursuit of sustenance. She knew little of Rohirric customs of hospitality. How much liberty was she allowed as a guest? Would it be rude to not wait until someone came to collect her? She certainly could not risk offending Théoden King when he had not yet agreed to aid her people. Her stomach growled once more. It did not care what manners might dictate.

Chewing her lower lip, she cast her eyes about until she spotted a dressing gown draped across the chair of a small desk. Her boots had been taken for cleaning with the rest of her mud-encrusted clothes, but a pair of slippers had been left alongside the robe. She returned her blanket to the bed before pulling the dressing gown around her and securing the belt at her waist. The slippers were a bit too large, but they would have to do for the time being.

Rimiriel found the halls empty despite what she thought to be a late hour. Had she not been abed so long as it seemed? Trailing one hand along the walls of rough stone, she wandered the passageways without encountering a single soul. Where two corridors met, she guessed which would be the best to take, filing the choice in her mind so that she might retrace her steps if necessary.

Right. Left. Left. Forward. Right…had she been down this hall already? They all looked the same!

She could not decide if she hoped to encounter someone who could guide her in the right direction. By remaining solitary, she avoided explaining why a guest was roaming alone. Rimiriel had begun to lean toward the former when a new junction of corridors assaulted her senses with the smell of fresh-baked bread and the high-pitched lilting of easy chatter amongst women.

Her knees weakened, her mouth watered and her stomach groaned. Her wanderings had brought her near the kitchens. What luck! Not caring how mad she might look, she closed her eyes and inhaled through her nose as she turned a slow circle in the middle of the intersection. The world tilted momentarily off-kilter; she braced a hand against the wall to keep her balance.

The tantalizing smells were stronger in one direction over the others, so Rimiriel followed her nose. Babbling voices rose in volume, clashing cookware accenting the unfamiliar guttural syllables. The strong scent of spice mingled with something sweet. A few paces more brought the Gondorian to a half-flight of stairs and a heavy wooden door. She set her weight against it.

As the door swung open, a blast of warm air sounded a charge. An army of robust smells--roasting meat, sweet herbs, and tangy spice--assaulted the invader. Her empty stomach clenched in agony. Her vision went fuzzy. Her knees buckled. She leaned against the doorframe, hoping the stone threshold could steady her until the onslaught passed. Dark spots danced in her eyes, resisting her attempts to blink them away. Between the shadows, Rimiriel spotted a mannish form approaching. A gentle hand landed on her arm as the figure hovered at her side. It spoke, but she could not make out the words through the ringing in her ears.

Everything was muffled and out-of-sorts. Why did she feel so hot? She tried to speak but could not tell if she made a sound.

The figure must have understood. The gentle touch tightened to a vice grip pulling Rimiriel further into the kitchen and pushing her down on a stool. The level change made the room spin and the blots in her vision swirl faster, so she screwed her eyes shut tight. Leaning forward and burying her head in her knees, sucking deep breaths into her lungs and fighting the urge to vomit, the lady wished she had not chosen to leave her room.

A light touch landed on her shoulder. Rimiriel groaned what she hoped was a request to be left alone. It was ignored as the touch became a forceful shove that pushed her up and back to lean against the wall. Her empty stomach heaved as her gut flipped and spun, protesting the change in position. Gentle hands laid a cool, damp rag across her sweaty forehead, ripping a relieved gasp from her throat.

A spoon snuck past parted lips. It was only a simple soup of beef stock carving a hot path down her throat to pool in her belly, but the explosion of flavor across her tongue was enough to make Rimiriel dizzy again. She devoured more soup, not sparing a thought for the pitiful picture she made. The sickness and disorientation passed slowly as her stomach forgot the feeling of emptiness.

Rimiriel reached up to pull the rag off her eyes so that she might see who had come to her rescue. Sitting opposite was a woman old enough to be her grandmother. Her simple garb signified she was a servant of the house, but her posture suggested she held some level of authority. A wrinkled face played host to a kind, encouraging smile and dark, piercing eyes. Rimiriel read no judgement in that stare, but only concern and curiosity.

“Feeling better?” the woman asked. Her pronunciation of the Common Speech was rough to Rimiriel’s ears, but not indiscernible.

She matched the casual tone. “Much better, thank you.”

It was true; the dizziness had abated and the spots in her vision had faded away. The ringing in her ears had also subsided as her stomach stifled its demands for sustenance.

With the return of her senses, however, Rimiriel noticed the silence in the kitchen that had been so noisy. Peeking around her helper, she saw that workers had abandoned their duties in favor of openly staring at her. Mortified by how pathetic she must seem to warrant such unapologetic scrutiny, the lady cast her eyes to her lap.

She was not the only one to notice the kitchen’s shifted focus. The woman who had been helping her barked an order in what could only be Rohirric; her unyielding tone sent the women back to work in a frenzy. Rimiriel took note that this woman was undeniably in charge here. Such knowledge might prove useful.

“Excuse them,” the cook said as she returned her attentions to the source of her kitchen’s unrest. “We haven’t had guests from the south since before many of them were born.”

The comment did little to soothe Rimiriel as she felt her body flush. Her actions here reflected not only on herself but on all of Gondor. What a fool of herself she had already made!

“It is no trouble,” the lady lied. She focused on the elder woman’s kind face and apologetic tone rather than the distrustful glances she could still feel. It was no small task, especially considering the two women hissing in their native tongue, heads bent together and never taking their eyes off her. Her aunts and various tutors had spent countless hours lecturing her on manners and proper courtesy. Now was not the time to shirk their teachings and humiliate herself further.

The cook nodded before sweeping through the kitchen in search of more food for her half-starved guest. When she returned to Rimiriel’s side, she had a plate of toast in one hand and a cup of water clutched in the other.

She seemed apologetic as she passed them into the lady’s outstretched hands. “I’d offer you something heartier, milady, but it’s nearing time for the midday meal and you’ll be expected.”

“This is more than kind,” Rimiriel assured her in return. She did not wish to be any more of a burden than she had already.

She was kept under scrutiny for a few more long moments. The elder woman seemed to expect her to relapse at any moment and send her dishes crashing to the floor. After watching her finish one of the pieces of toast, the cook was finally satisfied in the lady’s recovery. A wide grin and a kind pat on Rimiriel's cheek, and then the cook excused herself.

With their overseer disappearing in a series of brisk steps, the workers set to speaking amongst themselves once again. Despite knowing none of their tongue, the meaning was not lost on Rimiriel as she noticed the women breaking from chopping vegetables, kneading dough and washing dishes to glance—or stare, as it were—in her direction. Not undisturbed by the malice that danced between the curious tones, the Gondorian elected to keep to herself. It was not the first time she had faced such hostile scrutiny, and it was unlikely to be the last.

She nibbled at her toast, still warm from the fires. It had been dressed in a sort of fruit preserves, unfamiliar but not unpleasant in their sweetness. They were not the famed preserves of South Gondor, but still Rimiriel hummed in satisfaction. Even such a simple thing was like a king’s feast when one was hungry enough.

She had been fortunate in her life to never know what it was to be starving. She had missed the occasional meal when studying or tending the wounded in the wake of a skirmish, but this was the first time she had experienced the overwhelming sickness that came from exhausting all her body’s reserve energy and then some. Such vulnerability was not something she was eager to reacquaint herself with anytime soon—especially not while she was alone in a strange land. She had been lucky this time, she knew, in running into someone like the kind cook who had helped her rather than one who would do her harm. Eventually, luck always ran out.

“Do you think she can wear my clothes?”

Éowyn matched Hilda’s trot down the halls of Meduseld as they followed a familiar path toward the kitchens. She had been in the midst of preparations for the midday meal when her progress had been halted by the call to her newest duty. Meduseld’s foreign guest had finally risen-- and found her way to the kitchens on the verge of starvation, to hear Hilda tell it.

Perhaps the lady was in as poor shape as her brother suggested, Éowyn thought. Otherwise occupied when the Gondorian had arrived the day before, the Rohiril had not witnessed the spectacle for herself, but all anyone had wished to discuss at the evening meal was their highborn visitor. Though the Rohirrim were not dishonest by nature, they were known to exaggerate for the sake of a good tale. Éowyn knew there was a seed of truth in the talk of a woman dressed as a man appearing at court. She knew it was likely that the lady had suffered a long and perilous journey; the servants who had seen to the lady reported that she had been exhausted and bruises marred her body. And it took no particular intelligence to notice the sobriety in the usually lively hall and conclude that the Gondorian truly had come to request that Rohan join their southern neighbor in the fight against Mordor.

But the stranger’s failure to appear at dinner barred Éowyn from forming her own opinion on the matter. Someone had tried to wake the lady, but she would not rouse despite all efforts. In many eyes, this was damning evidence of their guest’s character more than it was a normal result in the aftermath of a strenuous journey.

“Some promising alliance,” one soldier had grumbled.

“Typical southern nobles!” another crowed from the depths of his umpteenth pint of mead. “They can ask ye to die for them, but ye’d best no’ ‘spect anythin’ in return. Cheats ‘n’ liars, the lot o’ them!”

Both raised their pints to join a chorus of agreement when Éomer offered the scathing comparison of their visitor to an aggressive half-drowned rat.

The king had said nothing in response to these comments, if he heard them at all. Éowyn had noticed her uncle’s silence and assumed he was preoccupied with considering Gondor’s request. He had asked her to ensure their guest was treated well and would join him for the midday meal, but that had been all.

She knew she should feel honored by her uncle’s faith in her, but still the Rohiril chafed under the yoke of responsibility. Did she not have enough to do without coddling some foreigner? How did one go about tending a daughter of the Steward of Gondor anyway?

The first step would be finding the lady some proper clothes, she knew, having already heard from Hilda that the Gondorian had arrived in the kitchens still in borrowed nightclothes. Even that task seemed daunting. From the little she knew of Gondor’s customs, Éowyn understood that much of an individual’s status reflected in their manner of dress. Would their guest be offended if offered a gown that was too plain? How was Éowyn to know what colors their guest liked? Did she prefer draping sleeves or fitted? An open neckline or something more modest?

“She is a bit shorter than you, m’lady,” Hilda reported before her mistress’s thoughts could spiral out of control. She clicked her tongue before continuing her observations. “But of a similar build, I think. We may have to tack the hem, but one of your gowns should do well enough until her own clothes are clean and mended.”

Éowyn nodded. Having entered the king’s service long before his niece had been born, Hilda was not one to stand on ceremony with the younger Rohiril. The unyielding woman had been a source of discipline and wisdom from the moment Éowyn and her brother had arrived at Meduseld after their parents’ deaths. Having raised six children of her own, Hilda had taken on the responsibility of raising Théodred after the death of Théoden’s queen. Doing the same for her liege’s niece and nephew had been pure instinct. As Éowyn had grown to adulthood, Hilda taught her the duties of overseeing the Golden Hall—traditional responsibilities of the king’s closest female relative. Filling a hole left empty by the Rohiril’s deceased mother and aunt, Hilda had never steered Éowyn astray. She trusted the wise woman’s judgement above anyone else on matters such as these.

Hilda paused with a hand on the door to the kitchens. “Be sure to address her as your equal,” she advised, her tone carefully even. “The lady does not strike me as so particular, but she is still the daughter and chosen emissary of the Steward of Gondor. And he is king of that realm in all but name. Take care to honor her accordingly.”

Only after Éowyn had confirmed her understanding did Hilda lead the way into Meduseld’s kitchens. Unsure of what she had anticipated after all she had heard of their foreign guest, the Rohiril was somehow still surprised. Perhaps she had expected some wooden sign declaring outsider to be hung around the stranger’s neck, or maybe she had thought to find the lady shouting orders about the kitchens as her lofty upbringing might suggest.

Instead, the Gondorian was tucked into an out-of-the-way corner of the kitchens, unassuming where she sat on a stool with one of the hall’s cats purring in her lap. She was humming and running her fingers through a tawny coat, a half-smile on her lips as the cat arched into her touch. In a green dressing gown cut and quilted in traditional Rohirric style, only the lady’s dark hair swept unbound over one shoulder and the unfamiliar tune of her song made obvious her position as a guest. Before Hilda could alert the foreigner that she was no longer alone, she had already turned to watch their approach. Sensing the shift in her attentions, the tabby quickly vacated her lap to amuse himself elsewhere.

Éowyn resisted the urge to squirm as sharp eyes scrutinized her from head to toe. She held her head high and proud as Hilda gestured to her.

“M’lady, this is Éowyn, daughter of Éomund and niece of Théoden King.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Éowyn,” the Gondorian said as she rose to her feet and swept into a curtsy in one practiced motion.

Éowyn envied the innate grace in the action as she met it with her own simple bob. “Likewise,” she returned blankly. “My uncle has tasked me with attending to your needs during your stay here in Meduseld. He asks that you join him for his midday meal so that you might further discuss the circumstances that brought you to our realm.”

“Then of course I will oblige him.”

An uncomfortable silence fell once the Gondorian had followed Éowyn from the kitchens. The Rohiril would never admit it to her charge, but she was uncertain of how to proceed. The customs of hospitality required welcoming a guest and extending a hand in friendship.

But this was a stranger. One who had brought with her the threat of war. The Rohirrim still had not recovered from another time when they had welcomed a stranger. The wizard Saruman had taken over Isengard under the promise of a strong alliance, welcomed by Rohan’s king so many years ago. Then he had betrayed them. He had caused the death of her cousin Théodred, had poisoned her uncle’s mind almost beyond recovery, had sent armies to raze the villages, and had left all of Rohan on the verge of destruction. So many had died because of his influence. It would take years for the realm to recover from such treachery. And now a stranger was asking them to sacrifice even more? How could she be expected to counter such a demand with hospitality and friendship?

“Did you sleep well, my lady?” Éowyn finally asked in attempt to break the disconcerting silence.

“I did, Lady Éowyn. Thank you.”

It was quiet again.

The path to her own quarters was a short one, at least. But even the relief of arrival was short-lived as Éowyn noticed the Gondorian studying her new surroundings. She considered tales she had heard of the southern lands: vast cities of stone ruled by great lords, such an excess of riches that precious gems served as toys for children, whole buildings used for nothing more than hoarding books and knowledge, citizens whose sole duty was to create art through paintings and sculptures. Looking around her own room with a new eye, the Rohiril noticed cracks and discoloration in the wooden furniture that had once been her mother’s when she had been a child of this hall, bedclothes worn thin from frequent use, tapestries hanging on the walls woven by her own hand rather than that of a master. She had always been comfortable in her room, surrounded by the familiarity of her own belongings. Thinking of how it must look to one who had been born into a world of such wealth as Gondor, however, it all felt inadequate. Éowyn wanted nothing more than to push the woman from the room and slam the door behind her.

But it was too late. The lady had already crossed the threshold. Well. Best to finish this quickly.

Éowyn marched over to the heavy chest at the foot of her bed, unlatching and flinging open the lid to reveal its contents. She dove into the collection of gowns, pulling one out only to frown and return it after imagining the color against the foreigner’s skin or contrasted with steely eyes. Another was shaken to remove the creases in the fabric, earned a nod and was draped across the bed. This one had an odd cut to the neckline that the lady might not appreciate. That one grew irritating and itchy after a time. This one might do. That certainly will not.

“Did you weave this?”

The odd question pulled Éowyn from her task only for her heart to plummet into her stomach. The Gondorian was inspecting one of the wall hangings, running a slow hand across multicolored threads that intertwined to depict a herd of horses racing through a field.

“Yes,” Éowyn managed around the knot in her throat. She waited for the quality to be deemed poor, the handiwork sloppy, the subject matter boring.

“It is beautiful. I wish I had such talent.”

Stunned by the lack of sarcasm or derision in the lady’s tone, the Rohiril felt heat rising in her cheeks. “Th-thank you,” she stuttered. She did not know what she should be doing with her hands. “You are not a weaver, my lady?”

“I never possessed the talent or patience for it,” the Gondorian admitted while crossing the room to study its other tapestry. “Much to my aunt’s disappointment…the Lady of Dol Amroth is held in high regard across Gondor in both weaving and embroidery.”

“And what about your mother?”

“She was not a seamstress, either. Music was her preferred domain, in which I am also talentless. But I have heard many tales of her skill on the harp.”

“Only tales?”

“She died when I was very young. I consider myself fortunate that she passed beyond this world before I could prove a disappointment to her.”

“Oh.” Silence reigned in the room for a long moment as Éowyn cursed her own curiosity. Struggling to find a proper response to the foreigner’s offhand revelation, she wished she had never spoken.

“My apologies, my lady. I should not have spoken so loosely.”

The wavering voice brought the Rohiril’s attention to flushed cheeks, eyes studying every facet of the room except where she was standing, a hand rubbing the back of the neck, and the way the lady shifted from foot to foot. Almost as if she were…nervous?

Éowyn considered her own apprehension toward the hall’s guest. She was strange to them, but were they not also strange to her? Whether it was wise or not, the lady had come to Rohan alone. She was outnumbered in a land of unfamiliar customs and laws, forced to rely on the hospitality of strangers. She considered the hostile words being tossed around Meduseld without challenge and the malicious stares of the kitchen staff that had not escaped her attention only minutes before. Looking to the woman who was now gazing only at her feet, tension in every line of her body, Éowyn wondered: what had the woman done to deserve such behavior? Yes, she had arrived with the promise of war, but she was a messenger seeking aid, not some foreign invader thirsting for blood. There were those who claimed the woman had treated their king with disrespect, but Éowyn could not swear she would not do the same if she were seeking an alliance from a reluctant lord while innocent lives hung in the balance. If she were in the same position as their foreign guest, alone and with no idea of where to turn, she would hope for the kindness of a friend to help her navigate the foreign environment.

The Rohiril had never had many friends; few understood her well enough to earn such a title. Even her own brother had grown deaf to the yearnings of her soul: a desire for freedom and choice and the opportunity to answer the call of the blood that rushed through her veins. The blood of warriors and kings, wasted within the body of one condemned to a small life. She had grown skilled at pretending. The charade of dutiful niece blind to the invisible shackles caging her within Meduseld had become so familiar she could almost forget she had not created the chains herself. She supposed she could pretend again, at least until the outsider returned to her own lands. What was one more illusion?

“I also lost my mother when I was young.” She kept her voice soft and even, offering an encouraging smile as it had the intended effect of drawing the stranger’s eyes from the floor. Éowyn beckoned the Gondorian closer. “Come, see which of these you prefer.”

There was still a wariness in the lady’s slow approach and tense posture. Éowyn pretended not to notice as she chose a navy gown and held it against the Gondorian’s torso. A small smile tugged at the corners of round lips as the lady held the heavy skirt out to one side. She swayed in place before glancing at the other waiting dresses.

“These are all lovely…you have fine taste, Lady Eowyn.”

“Choose whichever you like.” The Rohiril busied herself with adjusting a dark grey, velvet gown to avoid acknowledging her charge’s praise. “This would compliment your eyes.”

The Gondorian pulled her lower lip between her teeth, deep in thought. She finally asked, “Which is your favorite?”

The question confused Éowyn. She looked to the Gondorian with narrowed eyes, finding her absentmindedly fingering the soft fabric of the navy gown still clutched to her chest, oblivious to any scrutiny. Why did the lady want to know? Was it some sort of test to ensure she was not being forced to wear cast-offs? Her way of making certain that she would only be dressed in the best Rohan had to offer? Surely it was not an intended slight against Éowyn herself? The same woman who seemed so nervous could not also be so haughty as to demand Éowyn’s favorite gown and no other, could she?

It occurred to her that perhaps she was not the only one who had practice in pretending.

Sometimes deflection forged the quickest path to an answer.

The Rohiril shrugged. “I do not see how my opinion matters, my lady. I am not the one who will be wearing it.”

“That may be true,” the Gondorian returned, “but I would be loath to repay your kindness by damaging your favorite gown. If there is one you feel no particular attachment toward, I would much rather borrow it over any other.”

And then, like an afterthought, “Please, call me only Rimiriel. I have never been much of a lady.”

She had assumed the worst yet again. Guilt squirmed in Eowyn’s gut in response to her guest’s simple reply and its underlying grace and consideration. Not a lady, indeed. “Then it is only fair that you must do the same for me.”

“Of course!” Round lips split into a wide smile that sparked lightning in stormy eyes. It was an infectious, unguarded thing that had the Rohiril meeting it with her own grin even as the lady repeated her name slowly, as if tasting it and testing its sound.

Eowyn returned to the more pressing matter at hand as she studied the line of dresses sprawled across her bed. Rimiriel had little to fear, as none of the dresses were considered favorites, and so it became a game of which gown would best serve the wearer. Reminding herself that this was not about her own tastes, Eowyn took a moment to study her charge from head to toe. Rimiriel was lithe and long-limbed. Her skin was pale, but with an olive undertone that Eowyn found strange compared to that typically seen in the Rohirrim. A high-collared gown would do little to compliment the lady’s long, graceful neck; fitted sleeves would serve her better than wide, draping ones. Narrowing down the collection based on these observations, Eowyn nodded and selected a gown, holding it at arm’s length as she turned to her waiting guest.

“I have never much cared for purple, but I believe this will suit you well.”

The process of readying the Gondorian for the midday meal went far too quickly for Eowyn’s liking. She could not remember the last time she had so enjoyed the company of another woman.

It had begun with Eowyn’s inquiry as to Rimiriel’s interests while helping her don a clean chemise and then lacing her into the chosen gown. If the lady’s aunt was gifted in sewing and weaving and her mother had been a talented musician, but Rimiriel claimed neither of these for her own, what talents had the Gondorian fostered in her childhood? The answer—painting, drawing, archery and horsemanship—had come as a surprise to Éowyn at first. But she could not deny that the muscle definition she noticed while dressing the lady suited that of an archer and rider.

She speculated that Rimiriel must have been a fine horseman with equal talent for the bow to enjoy such sport. This was met with glinting eyes and a smirk that belied the Gondorian’s otherwise humble reply: “My skills are adequate.”

Her curiosity piqued, Éowyn had fished for more details to little avail. Rimiriel had a useful skill in which she managed to shift most questions back on the Rohiril. The younger woman had not noticed at first, so easily did the Gondorian bob and weave through a conversation, but now she was taking mental note of the tactic. It could be useful. She did not call the lady on her evasion; most of the questions Éowyn yearned to have answered were ones her uncle was also likely to ask. She would have the answers one way or another, and she could not blame anyone for not wishing to tell the same stories more than once.

After failing to convince Rimiriel to leave her hair hanging free, Éowyn plaited the soft curls—dark as freshly-tilled earth and so different from the Rohirrim’s shades of gold and yellow—into a single braid from the crown of her head to follow the line of her spine. The Rohiril then offered up her jewelry chest for the Gondorian’s perusal. Rimiriel had tentatively surveyed the contents before asking if any pieces were of particular value to their owner.

The question did not seem so odd this time.

Éowyn hesitated for only a moment before admitting, “Most of them I inherited from my mother.”

Rimiriel’s returned smile was small and sad as she gently shut the lid of the chest. “I have never preferred jewelry.”

A knock on the door shattered the wordless understanding passing between the ladies. At Éowyn’s call, a young servant girl entered the room and bobbed a quick curtsy. When she rose, her gaze fell on Rimiriel and held fast as she blinked owlishly, her lips parted in surprise.

Eowyn could not blame the girl when it was she who had perhaps done her job too well. The Gondorian made a stunning picture in the gown of deep purple velvet. An open collar emphasized the elegant lines of her neck and shoulders, while a fitted torso and sleeves accentuated the lady’s figure. Rimiriel’s natural grace and noble bearing made her appear more regal than any number of jewels could have.

As she surveyed her handiwork, Eowyn noticed the Gondorian fidgeting under such bold stares. She directed the servant’s attention away from her charge firmly, but not unkindly. “What is it, Henwyn?”

A flush rose in the servant’s cheeks. “Sorry, m’lady. Dinner is ready. Théoden King and Lord Marshal Éomer are waiting for you,” she stuttered.

Éowyn thanked and dismissed Henwyn before turning to find the Gondorian’s face had drained of color as she stared at the door. “Are you alright, Rimiriel?”

“Suddenly I am afraid,” the lady admitted quietly.

“Afraid?” Eowyn parroted. “Yesterday, the gossip-mongers compared you to the very fires in the deep pits of the earth. Where could this fear now be coming from?”

“Yesterday, I was focused only on being heard…there was no consideration of the aftermath.” Panicked eyes met the Rohiril’s gaze. “What if the king refuses to help my people?”

Eowyn cursed herself again for her foolishness. These were times of darkness and peril. A friend would not match a companion’s worry with teasing and dismissal.

“You cannot think about that.” The lady laid her hands on the Gondorian’s shoulders in what she hoped was a reassuring gesture. “My uncle is many things, but he is not cruel, and he is not unfair. State your case and trust him to judge it true.”

Rimiriel nodded, swallowed hard, but said no more, schooling her expression back into one of calm indifference. She stood with her back ramrod straight and her head held high as if she were preparing for her own execution.

The Rohiril knew better than to judge so quickly this time as she read the Gondorian’s severe demeanor for the defensive armor it was. Instead, she stepped to Rimiriel’s side and entwined their arms as she saw girls and young women do when they walked the streets, heads bent together as they giggled and shared secrets.

“You do not have to face this alone,” she vowed. “I am here with you.”

As they stepped into the hallways of Meduseld once again, Éowyn turned their path toward the king’s chambers. Still arm in arm with the Gondorian, she felt Rimiriel tighten her hold even as the tension in her shoulders lessened considerably.

“Thank you, Éowyn.”

The words were so quiet the Rohiril nearly missed them, informal and heavy with gratitude. The warmth they sparked in her chest felt nothing like pretending. Éowyn considered what she had observed in Rimiriel in their short time together: considerate but not patronizing, kind but not spineless, brave but not fearless. She could think of worse traits in a friend.

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine
A Spark of Hope

It is not like Éowyn to be late, Théoden mused. Then, taking a deep draw from the goblet in his hand, he reconsidered. Is it? Who am I to know?

She had grown into a woman before his eyes, and yet he had no memory of the change. Not for the first time in the past weeks, he cursed Grima Wormtongue under his breath. His mind and body had been all but stolen, and now his dear niece seemed a stranger to him.

As did her brother.

The king peered at his nephew across the table. The boy—the man, Théoden corrected himself—favored his father so greatly a quick glance found them indistinguishable. But he did not speak with the ease and familiarity that Théoden had shared with Éomund, who had been his brother in heart long before marriage had reunited the branches of the House of Eorl by law. The King had dared to hope for something similar for his son and nephew—one to wisely rule the realm and the other to bravely defend it. Alas, fate was a fickle mistress.

Dark days had hardened his nephew, no longer a foolhardy youth but instead a stern commander of his éored. Upon joining the table, Éomer had greeted the king with manners befitting a Marshal of the Mark, delivered reports on the comings and goings of Rohan’s riders, and then fallen silent as he focused on filling his goblet and savoring its contents.

It had not always been like this. How had they fallen so far?

In Meduseld, the midday meal had traditionally been a much more intimate affair compared to those held in the evening. Most often held in the king’s private chambers, it was an opportunity to connect with those held most dear. It had been only himself, his niece and nephew, and his son at the table, joined by one of his advisors on the rarest of occasions. In those moments, the weight of the crown was absent. He was a father and an uncle whiling precious time with those treasures closest to his heart. He would ask about their studies and activities, encourage Éomer and Théodred in their martial pursuits, and regale them with tales from his own youth. There had been joy, laughter, and warmth.

He had not realized that such a time had ended when first he invited Grima Wormtongue to the table. Else, he would have gutted the spineless snake where he sat and fed his entrails to the crows. He had been bewitched, and suddenly Grima’s counsel had become more important than his family’s attentions. The meals had become fewer and fewer as his son and nephew spent more and more time away from Edoras, until they stopped altogether. If only he had understood then that Éomer and Théodred’s distance had been born of Grima’s greedy manipulations and not their supposed plotting.

Once Théoden had regained his senses and Grima had been expelled, the king had fully intended to resurrect the tradition. But the battle at Helm’s Deep and its aftermath had kept them busy. And in any case, it had not seemed right to dine together knowing that Théodred would never join them again. Perhaps he was reckless to begin anew now, with an outsider joining the table once again, but it was already done.

As if on cue, the heavy door to his chambers swung on its hinges to admit Gamling. The trusted Captain of the King’s Guard offered a shallow bow before announcing his missing guests’ arrival.

Éowyn’s greeting was warm as she swept forward even before Gamling could finish his introduction. As if she needed introduction. She placed a quick kiss on the king’s cheek as he rose to his feet. “I hope we have not kept you waiting long?”

“It is never a chore to wait on you, my dear,” Théoden returned, clasping his niece’s hands between his own and offering a warm smile.

The king then sought his guest of honor. She still lingered near the doorway, watching the family exchange greetings with polite interest. Théoden had to look twice to be certain his eyes were not deceiving him. “Lady Rimiriel! Come, let me see if the hospitality of my house has treated you well.”

The Gondorian answered the king’s beckoning wave, crossing the room with brisk steps. Éowyn had done well in seeing to their guest. An elegant lady had replaced the mud-soaked urchin he had previously encountered. She swept into a graceful curtsy once she stood before him, her eyes respectfully downturned just so as she offered a stiff greeting. Appropriate in the Tower of Ecthelion, Théoden observed, but too formal for the halls of Meduseld.

As she rose, the king recognized the features of the House of Húrin in her face, as firm and resolute as the mountain city her family called home. But the lady bore the traits of more than just her father’s people. She smiled as she thanked him for his hospitality, and when she did her eyes sparked as if the fiery sun of South Gondor had been trapped inside. Théoden had seen such eyes before, in the faces of his own dearly deceased mother and sisters. With silence stretching between the realms for so long, it had been easy to forget that he himself still had kin in Gondor, distant and removed as they might be. Southern fire and Northern resolve had already proven a potent mix, Théoden mused as he remembered the conviction with which the young woman had previously addressed him.

He also remembered how that determination had teetered on the edge of desperation.

“You look well—much better compared to when last we spoke,” he observed with an approving nod. “How are you feeling?”

“Refreshed and well-rested,” Rimiriel confirmed, yielding to the king as he wove his arm into hers and guided her to the table.

“I am glad to hear it,” Théoden said, pausing to pull Rimiriel’s chair from the table. As she sat, he gestured across the table, where his nephew was dutifully aiding Éowyn. “You have met my niece, of course, but I have not formally introduced my nephew, Éomer.”

The Marshal nodded a plain, wordless greeting, which the Gondorian matched with a simple acknowledgement. Théoden supposed it was the best he could hope for, considering all circumstances. He was quietly relieved that neither took the opportunity to revisit the open hostility of the previous afternoon. While he did not know enough of the lady’s character to pass a fair judgement, he knew his nephew was not one to forget a perceived slight.

The king returned to his place at the head of the table and gestured for the meal to begin as Éomer reclaimed his seat at the table’s tail. The cooks had produced a simple meal of roasted chicken accompanied by stewed vegetables and fresh baked bread. A bowl of winter apples also stood by, tempting those who might crave a sweeter fare. Théoden encouraged everyone to fill their plates, taking satisfaction in Rimiriel’s own hearty portion. He was tempted to point out the needless formality as he watched her primly cut everything into tiny morsels and chew each nibble slowly but feared doing so risked causing offense. Instead, he left her to enjoy her meal as she pleased, engaging his niece and nephew in trivial talk concerning household affairs and goings-on across the realm.

“Tell me, Lady Rimiriel, how was your journey?” Théoden inquired only once his guest’s plate sat near-empty. “We did not have the chance to speak of it yesterday.”

“I am afraid there is little to speak of, my lord.” The lady took a long drink from her cup, averting her eyes from the company.

“I find that hard to believe.” The king’s face grew grim. “My servants reported that you were injured, but you refused a healer.”

“Scrapes and bruises heal on their own well enough—hardly worth a healer’s valuable time. Rest is often the most effective medicine, and you granted that in abundance.”

Her tone was dismissive, but this only served to heighten Théoden’s concern. “I have heard the southern road has grown dangerous. Were you attacked?”

An assault by brigands would explain the lady’s desolate state upon arrival, as well as why she had arrived with no supplies or escort. And perhaps also her reluctance to speak of it, Théoden thought. His blood boiled hot as he envisioned lawless men dishonoring the lady and murdering those meant to protect her.

“Only by nature itself, my lord.”

The king proved an attentive audience as Rimiriel recollected her journey to the Golden Hall, explaining how her supplies and weapons had been lost while crossing the flooded stream marking the border between their lands.

“You were fortunate to lose only that,” Éomer observed afterward. “Even strong swimmers have been lost when the Mering floods.”

Théoden nodded his agreement. “I am surprised the borderwatch did not warn you against crossing.”

“I encountered no one on my journey.” Rimiriel’s cheeks flushed pink. “Perhaps they thought none would be foolish enough to try.”

“The borderwatch changes posts every fortnight,” Éowyn pointed out. Théoden did not miss her reassuring tone as she smiled at their guest. “Perhaps you were just unlucky in that your crossing aligned with the guard rotation.”

“You speak of luck and good fortune, and yet I think crossing the border was the easier part,” the Gondorian ventured, her voice grave. “My maps and compass were lost to the river, and I had no way of knowing how far I had been swept downstream. I put the mountains on my left shoulder and kept moving, sure that I would find the road again eventually. By the time I realized it might have been wiser to backtrack along the riverbank to the road…”

Rimiriel trailed off, a faraway look in her eye as she swirled the contents of her goblet and took a deep drink. Théoden waited patiently. To cross the Eastfold directly was no small task, even with knowledge of the terrain; to relive such a journey in one’s mind would be equally exhausting.

Éowyn, however, was still young, and had not yet gained the forbearance that came with age. “But you did find the road, yes?” she pressed. “You made it here, after all.”

“Oh yes, I found the road.” Rimiriel’s confirmation was dry. She leaned forward in her seat as she eyed her audience. “As a child, I read about your lands: of wild horses tamed by brave men and battles fought with courage and honor. The books described grasslands and mountains, rivers, streams, stone fortresses and simple villages. None, however, mentioned the marshes, or how cleverly they hide within the seas of grass…”

Dread dropped into Théoden’s gut like a lead weight as he anticipated the rest of Rimiriel’s tale. She spoke of riding easily only to suddenly sink like a stone, her horse chest-deep in mud. She spoke of hours lost digging herself and her mount out of the bogs. Once, twice, three times. Her voice was calm and even as she explained how the final time had happened at night. The king, however, sensed the underlying fear as she recalled struggling against an unseen enemy through pitch darkness, working to free herself and her horse by touch alone. He imagined the panic of one who knows they are the only hope of a people and may be doomed, leaving the mission incomplete with none to speak of her fate. The Gondorian painted a vivid picture. Théoden could see it all as if he were the one collapsing beside his horse when they were both finally free, exhausted and desperate for rest. He could not decide if the lady was blessed by the Valar to be sitting before him now or had somehow incurred their wrath to have faced such peril in the first place.

“I awoke to creaking wagon wheels,” Rimiriel continued with a humorless chuckle. “We had nearly met the road less than a hundred feet away. I tried to wave down the driver, but he was already too far to hear me. I pushed Voronwё hard, and the road led straight here.”

Guilt weighed heavy in her voice as she finished. “My horse…how is he? I fear I have run him to his death.”

“He is recovering in our stables, road-weary but alive,” Théoden assured her. “You would find no better place to care for him.”

Clear relief smoothed the lady’s grave features as she declared, “I would like to see him after we are finished here.” Then, as if realizing her request had the sound of a demand, “If I may?”

Éowyn spoke quickly. “I can take you.”

“That is a fine idea,” Théoden agreed, nodding his approval. Above all else, the Rohirrim were people of the horse. They all understood the special bond between man and beast. And it had already been brought to his attention that the lady’s stallion was not an easy charge for his stablemaster. “Perhaps it would do well for both of you to see the other safe after such an arduous journey.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Rimiriel’s voice was sincere as she acknowledged the king with a bow of her head and then turned to the young woman seated directly across from her place at the table. “And you, Éowyn.”

“However, there is still more to discuss before you go,” Théoden said. “We must speak of the forces marching against your land.”

The king stood and reached for the pitcher of ale in the middle of the table. He took his time filling each goblet: first, his niece, then their noble guest, his nephew, and lastly his own. Rimiriel seemed to age before his eyes as he circled the table. Shadows darkened her eyes and her jaw hardened as muscles flexed beneath her skin, pressing her lips into a thin line. Not unaffected himself by the weight of the impending discussion, Théoden did not reclaim his seat at the table. Standing at its head, he took a long drink from his cup, setting his eyes on his Gondorian guest as he began, “This army from Mordor, what do you know of its numbers?”

“When I was ordered to ride north, reports on the enemy set their number at fifteen thousand orcs amassed in Osgiliath,” Rimiriel announced. “But that is only the beginning. At the same time as we learned of the wizard Saruman attacking your lands, our scouts began tracking Easterlings and Southrons moving through Ithilien toward the Black Gate. If those men have joined Mordor, the total force could be thrice as large.”

“And Gondor’s defenses?” Théoden asked, matching the lady’s straightforward demeanor. He wondered if the lack of emotion in her voice was a means of protecting herself from the pain of considering her country’s potential destruction. He could not blame her, if it were so. Either way, he appreciated her direct approach rather than meandering around just what it was her country was facing. Fifteen thousand orcs—such a force had not been amassed in many generations. And if they were to face the foreigners of the South and East as well—

“The garrison at Osgiliath numbers only five hundred strong, aided only by the Rangers of Ithilien, which number near three hundred. My brother Faramir commands them. In Minas Tirith, there are four thousand defenders at full strength. My father had not yet summoned the lords of the South and their men when I left. They could add another five thousand men to the count perhaps, but…”

The Gondorian’s voice cracked. She quickly hid her face behind her goblet and did not reemerge until it was emptied. The king did not miss the slight tremble to her hands as she returned her cup to the table. Her brow carved deep grooves in her forehead and her teeth worried her bottom lip. She clasped her hands together in her lap until her knuckles turned white as a long silence fell. Théoden noticed Éowyn shift, as if reaching under the table to offer comfort in gripping Rimiriel’s hand, but he could not tell if she responded. Despite the myriad of emotions playing across her face, her posture remained as unyielding as the marble statues he vaguely remembered from his childhood in Gondor.

Théoden spared a moment for Rimiriel to gather her thoughts before firmly pressing, “Please continue, my lady.”

She looked up then, holding eye contact with Rohan’s king. “If Osgiliath falls, the enemy will be free to besiege Minas Tirith and will have control of the river. Relief from the south will be cut off and the city will stand alone.”

Though her voice was stone once more, the lady’s eyes shone like smoky glass, proclaiming underlying fears left unspoken. My brother commands them—if Osgiliath falls—if my brother falls—

Théoden turned away as his mind conjured the image of his only son being carried into a barrow to sleep forevermore. He knew the pain and fear as well as his Gondorian guest. War brought death. Death brought sorrow and despair.

The king crossed to the room’s single window, clasping his hands behind his back and looking down onto the streets of Edoras. He pictured those streets running red with rivers of blood as the houses burned. He imagined his people slaughtered by invading orcs, crying out for help that would never come.

“An enemy numbering fifteen thousand at the least,” Théoden summarized in quiet horror, “against eight thousand at best, with those forces potentially divided between two fronts—”

“We defeated Saruman’s ten thousand Uruk-hai,” Éowyn noted bravely. “And there were fewer than three thousand of us then!”

“And we paid for our survival with many lives,” the king reminded his niece firmly. He turned from the window, looking to Rimiriel. “If I muster Rohan’s full force, I can hope for no more than fifteen thousand spears. We cannot best Mordor through numbers alone if they are joined by their allies as you suggest. We may have lost before we have begun.”

“Defeat may be our fate,” Rimiriel agreed grimly. “But sending no men to Gondor only postpones that fate for you and your people. The Dark Lord’s forces will not be satisfied with destroying my country. After Gondor’s farmlands are soaked with blood, after our cities are reduced to rubble or ash, after my people are slaughtered or worse, Rohan will burn. The Shadow of the East will sweep across Middle-Earth, murdering and pillaging until there is nothing left.

“Our only chance of turning the tide is a united front,” she declared, her voice swelling with a passion that was difficult to argue against. “Even if we lose the battle, is it not better to leave a legacy of hope and courage by fighting, rather than giving into despair and waiting for the slaughter to come?”

“And what do you know of battle?” Éomer demanded before his king could voice his own reply, levelling a glare at the Gondorian.

“Mind yourself, nephew,” Théoden warned as he returned to the table, recognizing the signs of an easily stoked temper while also sensing that his guest did not speak from a place of ignorance. “I fear you may assume too much.”

“It is a fair question,” the Marshal insisted. “Anyone can memorize scouting reports and deliver a message. Painting a pretty picture does not change the fact that you speak of war. Your words are worth nothing when the lives of our people hang in the balance!”

“What my brother means is—”

“It is clear what he means.” Rimiriel cut through Éowyn’s soothing tone sharp and quick, not sparing a glance toward her new friend. Narrowed eyes focused only on the Rohir with the deepening scowl. “You think me unqualified to speak of war, do you not, Lord Marshal?”

“Aye,” Éomer confirmed without hesitation. “There is more to a battle than whatever you read in your books. To think otherwise proves you foolish. War is the business of men, and as such requires discussion better suited to a Captain of Gondor.”

The Gondorian’s mouth turned down at the corners. “If Gondor had a Captain to spare, they would be here. Alas, you are left with me. Do not presume to know me so well as to educate me on the brutality of war, my lord.” A single brow quirked high as a scathing glare swept the Marshal from head to floor. “I daresay I know just as much about such horrors as you.”

“Lady Rimiriel has been sent by the authority of the Steward of Gondor.” Théoden’s voice was stern as he aimed the reminder at his nephew before Éomer could share what would certainly be a caustic rebuttal. “Wishing for a situation to change will not make it so, and you and I both know war is rarely ideal. Not chosen lightly are those who speak in the Steward’s name, and so I will trust his judgement.”

“Judgement and authority mean nothing on a battlefield unless they are tempered by practical experience,” the young Marshal returned. “You taught me that! If we are to properly plan an attack, then we need to know more than enemy numbers. We need to know the terrain, the defenses of both our allies and our enemies, supply routes—”

“Then it is fortunate that I was not chosen to come here simply because I am my father’s daughter.” Rimiriel’s voice cut through Éomer’s tirade as cleanly as a blade still hot from the forge. Its unshakable confidence called all attention to its owner, with the Gondorian surveying the royal Rohirrim with cool aplomb. Her demeanor suited a mountain’s icy summit, strong and unassailable.

"I may not be the warrior you would prefer for your discussions of strategy, but that does not render me incapable," she insisted. "As a child, I received an education inferior to none. I learned everything from the procedures of governing Gondor's people to the functioning of its trades and industries. I later grew into adulthood within the Houses of Healing. The skill and knowledge gained there led me to the garrisons of Gondor, serving those wounded in the fight against Mordor. I soon learned how unpredictable the battlefield can be and the importance of being adaptable. Under my brother's command, I have acted as a messenger and a scout, and even an extra bow or sword when the need arises.

“I am not here as the daughter of the Steward. I am here to speak with the authority awarded to one with first-hand knowledge of this conflict. I have both saved lives and ended them in service to my country and its people. I know my land: I know our defenses, how long our cities can outlast a siege and which regions are most vulnerable to attack. I know our enemies: how they think and move, their strengths and weaknesses. It is not pride that drives me to say that you could search all of Gondor and find few more knowledgeable about the varying aspects of this war.”

“But will that knowledge be enough to shift the coming battles in our favor?”

“I do not know,” Rimiriel admitted, meeting Éomer eye-to-eye as a beat of silence leant gravity to her words. “You asked what I know of war. I know that if you think a battle hopeless then you have already lost. I know that if we do not stand together then Gondor will fall. I know that once Gondor falls, all of Middle-earth will follow.” She turned to Rohan’s king, a pleading note creeping into her voice. “We may be too late for victory, but we cannot afford not to try.”

Théoden reserved his own opinion, intrigued by the exchange between his nephew and their Gondorian guest. Éomer’s mouth was still twisted in a grimace and his eyes were intense as they studied Rimiriel as if searching her very soul for any trace of deceit. He no longer watched her with the arrogance of one who thought their opponent unworthy, however. Instead, his deeply furrowed brow suggested he was seriously considering her words and weighing the value of her knowledge and experience.

Pride swelled in the king’s chest at the fact that his nephew was assuming an active role in the discussion with little prodding. Though the Marshal was rough, and his sense of diplomacy certainly needed refining, the seeds of a great leader were there. He had already proven himself on the battlefield and risen to the challenges of commanding his own éored, but now Théoden saw evidence that, given time and proper guidance, Éomer would establish himself as fit for Rohan’s throne as well.

“If we are to go to war on foreign land, the other Marshals will need to have as much information as possible,” the Marshal observed. Then, suddenly realizing he could be overstepping his bounds, he looked to his king. Théoden quickly nodded in encouragement, eager for his nephew to continue.

Bolstered by his uncle’s reassurance, Éomer fixed his attention on the Gondorian. “Even the most trivial insight could prove crucial on the battlefield. They will have questions and they will expect answers. You are certain you can provide them?”

Rimiriel did not hesitate. “Yes.”

Éomer nodded slowly before looking to his uncle once again. “Erkenbrand and Grimbold are assisting villagers in the Westfold. If we send a rider, they should be able to return by morning.”

“Then morning is when we will gather to discuss this further.”

“If you are calling your Marshals together, does this mean you are agreeing to aid Gondor?” Rimiriel glanced quickly between the king and his nephew. The confident timbre of her voice wavered, as if she feared allowing herself such hope.

“There is still much to discuss,” Théoden began diplomatically. “My advisors and commanders deserve the opportunity to give their own opinions on this matter.”

“That is not an answer.”

Perhaps the Gondorian was too astute for her own good. She and his nephew had that in common.

“I have enjoyed our meeting, Lady Rimiriel.” Théoden offered her a smile, though he made certain that the dismissal was clear in his tone. “Go. See to your horse and enjoy the hospitality of my house. It is yours as long as you wish.”

His niece knew him well enough to recognize the dismissal. Eowyn stood and swept toward the door. The Gondorian stood but did not follow. The king tamped down his ire.

“Was there something else, my lady?”

He expected her to demand a more direct answer or to reiterate how dire Gondor’s need was. A firm but polite rebuttal waited on the tip of his tongue.

Instead, Rimiriel gestured toward the table and the remnants of their meal. “These winter apples…might I have some for my horse? They are his favorite.”

A barked laugh escaped Théoden as he surveyed the lady where she stood: poised, polite, and awaiting his answer. He should have known to expect more from a noble of Gondor. They had always been a clever people, and this one in particular clearly knew this game well. Today, she expected apples—an innocent request he could not deny without painting himself the rude host. Tomorrow, she would expect an army.

“Who am I to deny a horse his favorite snack?” The king circled the table and collected two apples from the bowl, pressing them into Rimiriel’s waiting hands. “Let it ease your mind to see him safe and well-cared-for.

“If there is anything else you need, speak to Éowyn. She will ensure you are provided all you require.”

“Thank you, my lord. Until we meet again.”

Rimiriel offered him that low, elegant curtsey once more, and then she and Éowyn were gone.

“So it will be war, then?”

The words startled Théoden King from his reverie where he had reclaimed his seat, stroking his beard as he stared at the door through which his tenacious guest had withdrawn. The king looked to his nephew. The young Rohir probably thought his expressions well-guarded, but the uncertainty in his face was easier to read than any book. He would need to master that.

“What do you think, my nephew?”

Éomer blinked at the question answering his own, noting, “It is not my decision to make.”

“Perhaps not,” Théoden agreed, leaning forward in his seat. “But still I ask. Yours is one of the lives risked should we ride to battle, after all.”

Éomer hesitated only a moment longer. That was his nephew—bold, always ready to face a challenge. Such courage would serve him well. “I think you would not gather the Marshals to discuss this if you had not already decided your course.”

“Perhaps you are right”—Théoden poured himself and his nephew more ale— “I am afraid our guest may be correct. War has ensnared Rohan, whether I wish it or not. Is it better to ride out and meet it, or watch it destroy our neighbors while we await our turn at destruction? The answer seems clear, at first. And yet it is no small task to ask your people to face death in a foreign land.”

“We are loyal. We will follow whichever path you choose.”

That was a soldier’s answer—drilled into his nephew’s head from the moment he had been strong enough to swing a training sword. It was not a leader’s answer. It was not a king’s answer. Théoden sighed.

“That does not make the decision easier, my nephew,” he counselled. “In many ways, the choice becomes more difficult. Whatever the outcome, you have only yourself to blame. Your men? Your people? They are only following where you lead.”

Éomer considered this wisdom with the appropriate weight. The king watched him digest the words slowly, mulling them over with the grave expression better suited for a scholar than a warrior. The young Marshal was known throughout Rohan for his strength, courage, and passion. He was valiant and skilled, one of the realm’s best even considering his youth. But the traits Théoden considered crucial to his heir were those most often forgotten when his people praised the youngest of their commanders: he was a discerning and decent man. In time, these traits could be forged into wisdom, of that the king was certain. If only the Valar would give him enough time.

But for now, he took mercy on his nephew. “Pay no mind to me, Éomer. There is simply too much for this old man to ponder and scarce time for it. Whether we ride to war, what happens after should we be lucky enough to gain victory—”

“After?” Éomer parroted, his question clear.

The king had fully intended to dismiss the Marshal, but he supposed they could manage one more lesson, since it was Éomer initiating the discussion.

“We have been promised a renewed alliance,” Théoden observed. “But rebuilding something lost to time takes effort. It is more than bartering arms and goods. There would be long talks, perhaps trading of lands. And if an alliance is to truly last, it needs to be bound in blood.”

“There will be more than enough blood, I think, should we ride to war.”

“You are not wrong,” Théoden agreed with a deep chuckle. “But the people of Gondor prefer to seal their agreements with marriage. If I recall correctly, the Steward has two sons…though Éowyn is too strong-willed for such an arrangement. You, on the other hand, will need a queen if you are to take my place one day.”

The king’s heir choked on his ale.

“Me?” he spluttered, red-faced after several seconds of wracking coughs as he struggled to clear his throat. “Surely you do not mean Lady Rimiriel?”

“Do you find her so repulsive, nephew?” Théoden carefully schooled his expression into one of calm contemplation. Rarely did anyone have the opportunity to unseat Éomer so thoroughly. “I think her becoming in her own way. Willful, perhaps, and certainly proud, but you possess those traits yourself.”

The king watched with no small degree of mirth as the Marshal struggled to craft a diplomatic response. He was trying, at least. With a hearty laugh, Théoden finally abandoned the game and sought to reassure his nephew. Perhaps there would be three lessons this day.

“Fear not, Éomer. While it has not escaped my notice that none of Rohan’s women have both caught your attention and kept it, you are in no danger of being attached to Rimiriel. She is already spoken for.”

The king raised his right hand, bending his third finger just enough to call his nephew’s attention. He recalled, “There was a gold band on her finger. In Gondor, it is tradition for a betrothed couple to exchange rings to be worn in that same place. They are moved to the left hand once the union is final. The people of Gondor take the practice very seriously. They consider it a symbol of a husband and wife’s commitment to one another. My mother wore her ring until the day she followed my father in death.”

His nephew had that studious look about him once again. “I did not notice a ring.”

“A king must consider all details, even in small matters,” Théoden proclaimed, offering Éomer an encouraging smile. “But do not fret. You have spent your life training to lead warriors, not a court. You will learn these things in time. I foresee that one day you will be a strong, wise king, with none of my foolishness.”

“There are none who would dare call you foolish, uncle.”

“No? Perhaps they should,” Théoden said, his voice pensive. Seeing concern in his nephew’s face, however, he quickly shook off the shackles of self-doubt. “But I have kept you too long, Éomer. Go, send riders to gather the other Marshals. Tomorrow, we plan our war.”

Théoden, King of Rohan, studied Éomer, Third Marshal of the Mark, as he offered a shallow bow in farewell and took his leave. He watched until the doors closed behind his nephew’s broad shoulders, proudly upheld as if the weight of the kingdom resting on them was no more than a feather.

Théoden had borne the weight of his crown so easily, once upon a time. How had he fallen so far? Did it matter in the end?

Lady Rimiriel had spoken of legacy, of hope and courage igniting a spark that might be strong enough to repel the darkness of the East. Théoden King knew he was not the fire of which she spoke with such fervor. He could sense—in the way a horse anticipated a brewing storm or the trees foresaw the shifting seasons—that his time was drawing to its end. He was a dying coal flickering before the inevitable chill of winter.

But Éomer…the king smiled warmly as he considered his nephew. Éomer was flint rock ready to throw enough spark to set all of Rohan ablaze. He was passionate, courageous, and dedicated to his homeland. Théoden could face the cold of battle and death so long as his nephew stood ready to carry the realm in his stead. Éomer carried the hope of Rohan, and he carried it well.