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Chapter Text

Minas Tirith, the jewel of Gondor, crowning the White Mountains with walls of silver, pearl, and opal, gleaming in the light of the sun. The city stood as a beacon of light against the ever-encroaching darkness. Her people, her men, her solider, and her lords, all battling day by day to ensure the survival of Middle Earth.

Swift footsteps, pounding across the white cobblestones, bounding across the wide streets carved into the side of the mountain. The figure moved swiftly, on sure feet, honed by years of familiarity with the city. Citizens knew to make themselves scarce, shifting quickly out of the way, well-practised from the years of battles. Darting through the Forth Gate, they took a sharp right into an alleyway between two buildings, and began bolting up a narrow flight of stairs, taking them two, three, sometimes even four at a time in their haste.

They had been summoned.

Skidding out into yet another street not far from the Fifth Gate, they all but bounced off the side of a wagon, but barely slowed their headlong charge. Only another two streets to go. Hurdling over a stack of crates, a hasty apology was thrown over their shoulder as they went. Receiving little more than a grunt in response.

The citizens of Minas Tirith were well accustomed to the haste of Messengers.

Only one sharp corner stood between them at their destination. Their hand shot out, catching the edge of the stonework, and used their own momentum to spin, the movement sending their dark blue uniform flaring out behind them with the motion. Before all but jamming their heels between the cobble stones of the street, skidding to a halt.

Thankfully, the door to the Rangers Headquarters, was shut. Although the man stationed as a guard outside, did quirk his eyebrow at their abrupt appearance. But thankfully made no comment, seemingly used to such behaviour.

Straightening up, Messenger Rhosynel tugged once on her deep blue tabard to smooth it and stepped into the building. Her breathing, well accustomed to bursts of activity, was already evening out. Striding down the corridor to the Captain’s Office, she ran a quick hand through her hair, doing little to tame the wild golden-brown tangle.

The door to the office was closed. Unusual but not unheard of, no doubt a meeting that was desired to be private. Stopping just before the door, she hesitated a moment, muffled voices reaching her through the wood and iron.

“—word that was broken—”

“—at Imladris?”

“—rother has alre—”

It was easy to push the words out of her head as quickly as she heard them, they were not for her to know so she wouldn’t hold onto them. Raising her hand, she knocked sharply.

“Come in,” the reply came instantly.

With a swift and practised motion, Rhosynel opened the door, stepped inside, and dropped into a curt bow, even as the door swung shut behind her.

“You requested my presence, Captain Faramir?” she asked, straightening up on his acknowledgement.

Faramir wasn’t sat behind the desk, she could count on one hand the number of times she’d witnessed that. Instead, he was perched on its edge, leaning back casually, arms loosely crossed, more in a comfortable posture rather than defensive. Rich brown hair, almost black in this light, framed his face, as did a short, cropped beard that never quite made it to be fully fledged.  Silvery grey eyes smiled warmly at her as she stepped forwards.

“I did indeed, Rhosynel, and you came swift as ever,” he replied, and then gestured to his companion, sat in one of the chairs before the desk. “This is Mithrandir, you may know him as Gandalf.”

It was only then, that Rhosynel turned her attention to the other man. He was rising to his feet, even as she studied him intently. She’d only ever heard rumours of Gandalf, Mithrandir, or the Grey Wizard. He certainly looked the part, long grey beard, longer grey hair, floor length grey robes. And yes, there was a tall, grey, pointed hat and long wooden staff set to one side.

“Mithrandir, this is Rhosynel I was telling you about. She spent several years working with my Rangers and I, but ultimately took the path of Messenger,” Faramir was explaining to the wizard, and she was distinctly aware of the old man scrutinising her as much she eyed him.

She could almost see the questions in his eyes.

Quirking an eyebrow at his open curiosity, she inclined her head deeply to the wizard. “Well met, Gandalf the Grey,” she said, with as much formality as she knew how to muster.

“Well met, Lady Rhosynel,” he replied slowly, still eyeing her as through he could look into her soul. He did however, incline his head back slightly.

“Just Rhosynel,” she replied quickly.

“Well then, Just Rhosynel,” the wizard said, settling back into his chair. “Faramir claims you to be the best at your job.”

Raising her brows, she shot a glance towards Faramir, who grinned back good naturedly. “I certainly try to be,” she replied candidly, allowing her attention to fully settle on the wizard once more. “I’m the fastest runner and rider, I own the fastest horse and bird, so if its speed you need, then yes. I am.”

Admitting so was uncomfortable, she was confident in her own abilities, but marketing herself as such always felt… prideful. She was content to do her job and do it well, but convincing others of her abilities was something she avoided doing. No doubt Faramir had already explained his choice in her.

“And your fighting? How would you fare against the enemy?” the wizard asked.

She blinked.

There was a serious weight to his words, a heaviness that seemed to settle over the room. A finality that told her to answer cautiously.

“I wouldn’t,” she replied slowly but truthfully. “I do not fare against the enemy, because I do not encounter them.”

Truthfully, she avoided them at all costs, kept a sharp eye on the horizons, and was swift to detour if needed. One rider against orcs, was never going to be in her favour, no matter how fast she might travel. Orcs were relentless, and as such, would hunt her for sport.

Apparently, her answer gave Gandalf pause, as he remained gazing at her, grey brows furrowed in consideration. “Are you a coward then?”

There was no accusation in his words, but it still made her rock back on her heels. She’d been called many things, but coward wasn’t one of them. The scars that littered her body were testament enough to that fact.

“If I am a coward for avoiding danger, then yes,” she replied, voice becoming harder. “But that would be like saying a fool that walks into danger was brave.”

There was a slight snort of amusement from Faramir, who was shaking his head at her words, still smiling. “She is the right person for this job, Mithrandir,” he said, standing up straight and clapping a hand onto her shoulder as he moved around to the other side of the desk. “You wanted a fast rider, not a brave, or foolish, one.”

She couldn’t decide if that was a compliment or not.

“True,” Gandalf murmured, eyes still locked on hers.

Had he even blinked yet?

“How can I assuage you of your concerns?” she asked, getting a glance from Faramir. “A demonstration? Would you like me to recount previous missions?”

“No, no that will not be necessary,” the wizard said, and finally, broke eye contact with her. “Faramir has already sung your praises enough—”

She gave her Captain a bemused look, and he held up his hands apologetically.

“—and you have already shown how swiftly you move, in your haste to arrive,” Gandalf was continuing. “No, I require a swift rider, not a brave one. I need to send a missive to Bree.”

Bree.

That was damn near the opposite side of the world to Minas Tirith.

“I… I can do that. But it is a long journey,” she agreed with little hesitation, she had travelled longer and further before. “I would be required to leave for a few months,” she added, looking to Faramir.

“I’ve already cleared it with the Messenger Warden.”

Well, that solved that issue.

Turning back to Gandalf, she tilted her head, waiting to hear more on why this mission was so important. And found his eyeing her up again. It was a little unnerving, she had heard tales of the Grey Wizard, and didn’t fancy being on his bad side. But at this point she was feeling like a slab of meat in a butcher’s window, and he was considering if she was good enough to cook.

“I need you to ride to Bree, I would go myself, but I need to meet with an old friend and do not know how long I will be waylaid. Once in Bree-Land I would ask you to send your… bird, to a friend of mine and ask him to meet me,” the wizard explained, words coming slow, almost ponderous, as though he would change his mind at a moments notice. “He goes by Strider.”

What sort of name, was Strider?

“Will your bird be able to find one man, in the wilds?” Gandalf finished.

Immediately, Rhosynel looked to Faramir, and then the half-shuttered window behind him. The Captain visibly rolled his eyes, not very becoming of the Stewards son, but turned and pushed the shutters open, used to her antics.

Letting out a short sharp whistle, Rhosynel lifted her arm, protected by a heavy leather bracer, already covered in numerous small scratches. From outside, there was a shrill keen in response to her call, and a large, storm grey raptor shot into the room. Wings and tail flaring, the female goshawk landed on her arm with ease, their beak clacking expectantly in demand of a reward.

Rhosynel was already pulling a small cube of bloody meat from the pouch on her hip.

“This is Ilmara,” she said, feeding the goshawk and mildly aware that the wizard had jolted to his feet at the sudden entrance. “She is one of the Limroval of Mirkwood. I raised her from a chick, and she is more than capable of tracking down one man in the wilderness.”

“Ilmara,” the wizard repeated under his breath. “And just how did you get your hands on a Limroval chick?”

It wasn’t hard to miss the thinly veiled accusation.

“Elves of the Woodland Realm do not like to remain indebted for long. Especially to humans.”

Silence met her words, and it was an effort to look away from Ilmara, her pride and greatest joy, to face the Grey Wizard once more.

“Hrm.” The wizard hummed to himself, and then nodded. “Yes, yes I think you’ll do.”

She did not feel relieved at his words.

The remainder of that meeting had consisted of talking logistics with Captain Faramir and trying to wheedle out more details from Gandalf. The pair were both tight lipped as to the reason she was being sent to Bree, and she found herself being pressured into the utmost secrecy. Not something that she particularly enjoyed.

They did, however, allow her to use her own discretion if questioned about her destination. She knew of small villages and sparse hamlets she could name for cover if required, and it would be easier to keep her story straight if questioned, rather than trying to drag up memories of a hushed conversation in the Captain’s Office.

It seemed the pair were content to let her figure out much of the details regarding her travels, despite insisting that she set off as soon as reasonably possible. But when she had suggested the next morning, they immediately changed their tune, insisting she set out today.

Rushed exits were her least favourite way to start a mission.

Whenever she was rushed, it ended badly. Perhaps she lost her pack, or her horse started limping, or she was attacked, or any other number of situations that had happened in the past. She needed at least a few hours to prepare, and then a good night’s sleep to ensure she was suitably rested for the lengthy journey ahead of her.

But now it was an hour before lunch, and she was having to cram a hasty travel pack together. Rhosynel could only hope that she was packing everything she needed. If she was to travel fast and light, there was little need for additional items, which meant she’d have to choose carefully. The journal securely anchored on her hip rarely left her side, neither did the strips of parchment nor sticks of charcoal for writing short missives. Everything which would be carried in her pack or saddlebags, was up for debate. Even her sleeping roll would be at risk of her culling.

“How long will this trip be?” The familiar voice of Rhymenel interrupted her thoughts.

“Like I said five minutes ago, we have no timeline,” Rhosynel replied with only a slight trace of impatience.

Her sister tended to worry, a fitting outlook for a healer, but less so for Rhosynel’s line of work. She couldn’t spend every moment hyper analysing her choices, she had to make snap decisions and hope they ended well. Something that chafed endlessly on Rhymenel.

“I just, I’d rather have an idea,” Rhymenel sighed, approaching, and passed a clean set of clothing to her sister. “Even if it is vague.”

Trying incredibly hard not to roll her eyes, Rhosynel forced herself to pause and consider. “Two, maybe three months, depending on the roads.” She accepted the spare clothing, the only extra set she’d carry, and tucked them neatly into the saddlebags she always used. “Possibly longer, since I may have to wait at the other end.”

“Which is where?”

She gave her elder sister a bemused look.

“Right, right, you can’t say, my apologies,” Rhymenel replied, openly rolling her eyes skywards. And she was meant to be the older more mature one. “I shall have to bully it out of Captain Faramir himself at this rate.”

“Good luck with that.”

Lord Faramir was more jovial and personable, she thought, compared to his brother and father, but he was no pushover and wouldn’t be cowed by an irate sister trying to discover secrets. He’d humour Rhymenel, reassure her that Rhosynel knew what she was doing, and then politely steer her out of the office, all while making sure Rhymenel felt listened too. Albeit without telling her a thing.

“I will be fine,” Rhosynel reassured her, straightening up and clasping her sister’s hands in her own. “It’s no different to any other trip, just a bit hastier in leaving, is all.”

“I know, I know I just don—"

“Rhosyn!” A young boy barrelled into the room, toy sword in his hand, which was immediately jabbed into her right thigh, hard enough to leave a bruise. “Fight!”

“Ah! Betrayal!” she cried out, neatly toppling to one side in mock injury. “No! My best leg! However shall I ride again!”

“Faerhys, stop murdering your aunt,” Rhymenel said warningly, seemingly perfectly content to watch the eight-year-old try and batter her to death, as she made no move to stop the boy from leaping atop Rhosynel, battering at her bracers with the wooden sword. All while shrieking loud enough to put Ilmara to shame.

“Mercy!” Rhosynel cried out, between laughter and the odd wince. “Mercy my lord!”

“Only if you bring back a gift!”

“Oh so its bribery is it?” Rhosynel managed to roll onto her back, catching her nephew around the middle and holding him up in the air above her. His arms and legs flailing adorably. “Very well then, my lord, I shall find you the finest of gifts on my travels!”

“Good!”

He didn’t get chance to demand more, as his mother finally leant over and plucked him out of the air. And then offered a hand to Rhosynel, hauling her to her feet with practised ease.

“Hamasael will be sad to have missed you,” her sister said, tucking her son onto her hip. He was smart enough not to try and hit her. “Are you sure you can’t linger?”

Her husband was a cloth merchant, and frequently in the markets hawking his wares. Early mornings and late nights kept him busy, but she would try to see him before she left. Usually. This time was a little different.

With a sigh, she shook her head, collecting a pack of food rations and adding them to her bag. “Not this time, I have to be swift.”

“Are you going?”

Looking to the doorway, Rhosynel found her niece, Wennarys, stood on the threshold, the older girl was wringing her hands nervously. She’d never warmed up to the idea of travel, and always became anxious at her aunts leaving.

“For a little while,” Rhosynel replied, “is there anything you’d like me to bring home?”

“Yourself.”

Ever the diplomat.

For a twelve-year-old, she was astute, and far too wise for her years. But in this Age, the alternative wasn’t an option. She was already in training to become a healer like her mother and was learning first-hand what war could do to a man. However she had a stomach of steel, and didn’t shy away from blood.

Truly her mother’s daughter.

“When I’m in sight of the city, I will send Ilmara on ahead, so you know I’m returning,” Rhosynel said. Not quite a promise, but the intent was recognised. She’d learnt not to make promises long ago. “But it will be a few months yet.”

Stepping forwards, she drew the young girl into a hug, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Then turning back to her sister, she kissed the forehead of her nephew, before embracing her sister. Narrowly being missed with a wooden sword in the process.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” she said, picking up her pack and flinging it over one shoulder.

Heading for the door, she paused, glancing back to her family with fondness in her eyes. Leaving never got any easier, no matter how much she may revel in the freedom of the open road.

“Oh! Wait!” Rhymenel suddenly exclaimed, almost plonking her son on the floor, and moving swiftly to the kitchen. “I always forget, but here!”

A leather roll was pressed into Rhosynel’s hands, curious, she unrolled it, revealing five small glass jars. One of willow bark for her cramps, one of comfrey salve for inflammation, another of lavender, another of ginger for sickness, the last of Kingsfoil for headaches, and enough bandages and gauze to bind an army. Ever prepared her sister was, hopefully they would be of little use on this journey.

“I feel like you’re expecting me to face the foes of Mordor itself,” she said with a light laugh. “I travel west, not east.”

“Do not. Tempt. Fate,” Rhymenel warned, going so far as to poke Rhosynel’s shoulder with each word.

“Do I ever?” Rhosynel asked innocently, as she tucked the roll into the bag hanging from her waist and headed for the door.

“Yes!”

Rhosynel left her home laughing, hearing it echo back from her sister, as once again she left them behind.

The roads were open and inviting, stretching on to the horizon, a sweeping vista that never failed to make Rhosynel’s heart soar. She loved her family, she loved her home, she loved her city. But the open road was where her heart belonged.

After all, her mother’s Rohirrim blood was strong in her veins.

Minas Tirith offered security and comfort of familiar faces, it kept her loved ones safe, and provided her with security against the armies of Mordor. But her love of its gleaming white walls paled in comparison to the sense of freedom she had whenever she left their shelter.

Beneath her, Gwaedal tossed his head, mane flaring in the breeze which swept across the Pelennor Fields. He was eager to run, to stretch his legs after being cooped within the walls of Minas Tirith, she shared a similar sentiment. It had been a few weeks, since her last ride, and any longer than that and she started going stir crazy.

Further east she could make out the ruins of Osgiliath, its grey stones, ruined towers, and broken walls marred the landscape. But it still held some beauty, as ruined things often did. The road would lead her to its edge, but she knew the dangers than lurked on the eastern side of the river, and while she had faith in the Rangers stationed there to defend the west banks, she had little intention of challenging misfortune.

No, she had told the wizard she avoided the enemy at all costs, and she was right to do so. She had already considered the fact that if her answer had been different, another Messenger would have been sent in her stead.

Gandalf wasn’t looking for a warrior, but someone to slip by unnoticed.

Turning Gwaedal’s head west, away from the view of Osgiliath, she nudged him into a ground covering canter. This pace wasn’t sustainable for long, but that wasn’t the point. Rising slightly in the stirrups, she urged him, faster, and faster still. Until the pair were galloping across the fields towards The Rammas Echor.

The wind lashed through his mane, and her own wild tangle of hair. Her eyes streamed, skin almost burning from the flight of their passage. Far above was Ilmara, soaring as easily on the thermals with wide wings, as Gwaedal’s hooves rapidly covered the ground. As though sensing her attention, the goshawk gave a shrill cry. In response Rhosynel could feel a cry of her own bubbling in her chest, clawing to be released, until she finally gave a great yell of delight.

The three of them thundered across the plains, spurred on by one another’s exuberance. No second guessing, no looking back, only revelling in the path laid before them. This close to Minas Tirith, she could afford to let loose a little.

It would be a different story once out of sight of the gleaming city.

Rhosynel, Ilmara, and Gwaedal by InkedMoth (its me!)

Chapter Text

Travelling between Minas Tirith and Edoras was as familiar to her as the streets of the White City had been. The years she’d spent travelling from one home to another with her mother, father, and sister, had ingrained the landscape into her mind. Rhosynel half fancied she could navigate it blindfolded, although she hoped that talent would never be needed.

Even before the sun’s rays had begun to leave the sky, she’d sought out her usual stopping place when travelling west and was quick to picket and make camp. Less than a day away from the city, she risked a fire, but ensured to put it out before she bedded down. With Ilmara perched in a tree, and Gwaedal munching his way through a shrub, she had more than enough eyes looking out for her.

As predicted, the night passed smoothly with little disturbance, now with a full day ahead of her, she settled into a more familiar routine. Cautious, watchful, monitoring the road as she travelled, both ahead and behind.

Ilmara was invaluable in this, often flying a distance ahead, before circling back. But no cries of alarm went up, reassuring Rhosynel that the road was clear of danger. Once, another rider passed her, heading east, with a familiar uniform.

Another Messenger.

They didn’t linger, but upon recognising her own clothing, indicated the road was clear, and that she was unlikely to run into danger. She responded in like, their hand signals flashing as they passed one another at speed. If she had been camping, they would have talked more, but while riding, speed was prioritised.

The days passed smoothly, all things considered, although Rhosynel quickly discovered that she had left her length of rope at home, when attempting to set up a hasty lean to. The rain wasn’t heavy enough to be a problem, but she made do regardless, a pair of long straight sticks served her well enough to shelter her from the mizzling rain. The sooner she reached Edoras, the better, she could properly stock up then, rather than find out too late that she’d forgotten something else.

Travelling through the Eastfold brought a burst of nostalgia, familiar rolling landscapes, the odd spur of craggy rocks, the low-level scrub and brush that marked the land as Rohan.

It felt like returning home.

Having a mother from Rohan, and a father from Gondor, had caused some consternation between her parents, which was thankfully resolved by the time she herself was born. Evidentially, her mother had won the argument to remain in Edoras while she and Rhymenel were young, but eventually they returned to her father’s home in Minas Tirith, for formal educations and opportunities in work and love.

Rhymenel had fared well in that regard, earning a rank of Head Healer for the east wing of the House, and meeting her husband Hamasael when he’d been brought to her aid. He was a little older than her but had been ‘struck smitten’ by her ‘incomparable beauty’ and spent most of his time in the Houses of Healing trying to win her favour from his resting place.

And apparently succeeded, unless Rhosynel was mistaken as to the origin of their two children. No, they were happy, and sickeningly in love.

Herself, however… held little interest in the healing arts, and far more interest in the outdoors. Her father had pulled every string in his arsenal to have her try out for the Rangers when she expressed curiosity about their order. She held no royal blood of bygone days in her veins that she knew of, but was swift, quiet, and at home in the wilderness. His years as Falconer to the Lords and Ladies of Minas Tirith had evidentially paid off, as before that year was out, she was being put through trials and tests, sent out into the wilds, being taught to track, to hunt, to hide, and to kill. And yet…

And yet.

The limitations and constraints of the Rangers order, chaffed at her, like a bridle which was too tight, she strained against the rules and boundaries. She had seen more of Ithilien than her mother, father, and sister combined. But after four years within their ranks, after being privy to pain, suffering, and death, of her fellow Rangers, Rhosynel had broken.

Grief had torn her world apart, and left her hollow and numb.

So, she had left the ranks of the Rangers, seeking a role with the Messengers instead. Faramir’s good word for her certainly enabled the change in career with ease, he had advocated for her during the trials of training, and then it was his word that enabled her transition to Messenger. The word of the Stewards son held weight within the walls of Minas Tirith, even if he was the younger son.

Sometimes she worried that her father was disappointed in her failure, but he had never shown it. Only ever uttering praise and delight at her achievements and commiserating and comforting when she had suffered. Her mother, likewise, was eager for her to succeed within whatever path she chose and insisted on returning to Edoras to find her a fine and fast horse for her new role.

Gwaedal snorted beneath her, head tossing and setting the reins jingling. Almost as though he knew she thought of him. His motion brought her squarely back to the present. And the dark curl of smoke on the horizon.

With a twitch of the reins, he slowed to a trot, and a nudge from her heel had him stepping from the path. Steering away from the smoke, she guided him in a wide loop, avoiding the danger. There was a hamlet in this area, the farmer and his family had always been friendly whenever she passed by. She could only hope they got away in time.

Ilmara soared overhead, her wings tilting, angling further away from the smoke yet again, prompting Rhosynel to guide Gwaedal in her shadow. Whatever the goshawk could see, Rhosynel knew it was best to avoid.

The detour took the better part of a day, but whatever danger may have threatened her course, it was neatly avoided. There was no roar of orcs, no hail of arrows, nor snarls of Wargs on her scent.

A day being added to her journey was better than her head being added to a pike.

At that thought, Rhosynel touched the front of her tabard, and the sealed letter that rested within. She’d been told to keep it close, and if she feared being caught, then she was to destroy it rather than risk it falling into enemy hands. She’d confidently assured the wizard that wasn’t necessary, she’d make it to Bree with little issue.

She didn’t want to consider the alternative.

Cresting a hillock, a sigh of relief washed through Rhosynel, as the sight of a familiar thatched roof, wooden palisade, and rows of barrows came into view.

Edoras.

Still a full day ride away, but now in sight. Taking a moment to drink in the view, she scanned the land between her and the wooden wall. Clear of smoke, no black armour of orcs, no pikes and spears lying in wait, that she could see.

Eyes rising once more to the city, Rhosynel watched, even from her distance, as the gates opened, and a stream of riders flowed out. She couldn’t make out faces, she didn’t have the eyes of elves, but there was no mistaking an éored when they rode out.

They turned west, following the road she was bound to take. There was every chance she would catch up with them, but no guarantee.

Still, a force that size would draw attention, best she made use of the distraction and reach Edoras before nightfall. Nudging Gwaedal into a trot, they descended the hillock, and made for the security of the palisade walls.

The road rolled smoothly beneath his hooves; the gentle stride almost soothing to Rhosynel. It had been months since she last visited Edoras, despite it being so comparatively close. Her work often took her north, or sometimes south, but rarely west as much as she would desire. So Bree was a bit of a change.

Hours passed, she ate on the move, rather than risk losing sunlight, and just before nightfall, began the climb towards the main gates. A pair of guards flanked them, spears held at the ready, helms upon their heads, and eyes watching her every motion.

“Well met, I am Rhosynel, Messenger of Minas Tirith,” she greeted formally, quick to identify herself, lest they be unnerved by her approach as the sun set.

“Messenger Rhosynel,” the one on the left greeted, with a head nod. “Théoden King is taking no visitors.”

That… was not the answer she expected. Even if her missive was for him, she had fully expected to pass on news to the court of Rohan. Surely, they would want to know how the defence against Mordor fared?

“Actually,” she said slowly and cautiously, “I carry no missives for him. I am simply passing through on the way to the Fords of Isen. I was hoping to rest, myself and my horse.”

Patting Gwaedal’s neck for exaggeration, she watched as their eyes both flicked downwards to take in the fine-looking horse. And then watched, as their eyebrows rose, and shared a glance. Exactly as she knew they would.

Horses of Rohan were always familiar to the Rohirrim, no matter how long they may reside within Minas Tirith.

“Where did you—” the guard on the right, he sounded younger, started, but was cut off as the other stamped his spear.

“My mother, Rhysnaur, insisted I should only ride horses of our homeland.”

The answer she gave was like a beacon being lit. No longer was she a stranger from Gondor, now she had a connection to Edoras, a familial link which tied her to the land and the people. She could practically see the debate coursing through the older guard’s head.

“Alright,” he relented, “seek the guest house. Do not linger.”

“Understood, you have my thanks,” she was quick to reply, with a bow of her head to him.

Waiting patiently, the gates swung open, and she nudged Gwaedal forwards. He all but pranced over the threshold, apparently happy to be home, and wanting to show off. Keeping him under control with a light touch, she steered him through the twisting streets, until a familiar tavern and stable came into view.

Dismounting, she spent a while tending to him, checking over his hooves, his hocks, his back, and neck. No cuts, no scuffs to his silky brown fur, and no sign or stress or discomfort in his rich brown eyes. He’d fared well over the journey, but they were barely halfway.

Satisfied that he was comfortable and warm, only then, she headed into the tavern, and the comfort of hot food and soft beds.

Morning in Edoras was as beautiful as ever, she had risen early specifically to enjoy the achingly familiar views. Even going so far as to sneakily scale the palisade, and now stood leaning on the wood, and her eyes trained on the horizon in the direction of her second home. Her battered leather journal rested on the wooden walls, a slender piece of charcoal being dragged across the parchment with practised ease, as Rhosynel did her best to capture the likeness of the mountains so dear to her.

It was beautiful, the sun slowly climbing above the White Mountains, the golden light spilling across the grassland of Eastfold. She could follow the road with her eyes as it winded throughout the hillocks and hills, before vanishing into the shadows cast by the mountains above. The wind, while steady, wasn’t bitter. Even as it swept down from the White Mountains, across the rolling grassland, and into Rhosynel’s upturned face. Even the sun didn’t burn, bright, clear, and calm as it bathed the land it its light.

Only the smoke from Mordor in the far-flung distance marred the beautiful vista.

“Ma’am, you are not meant to be up here,” a disgruntled voice said from her left.

“Good morning Héobald,” she greeted, glancing over to the familiar figure.

He stopped mid stride and almost fell over. “Rhosynel?” he asked cautiously, getting a nod in reply. “Rhosyn! It’s been years lass, how’ve you been?” Héobald exclaimed, already rushing forwards, and embracing her.

Slightly more familiar than she had expected, but that was only fair. Héobald had been close with her mother, acting almost as an uncle to her and Rhymenel, helping them learn to ride, teaching them the history of Rohan. It was good to see him, and she allowed herself to hug him tightly back if but for a moment.

“I am well, uncle,” she said fondly once he released her, earning a grin for the familial nickname he’d had since she was a child. “Yourself?”

“Aye, well as ever,” Héobald replied. “Haehild has grown up and gotten married, two kids already can you believe it!”

“I have the same disbelief with Rhymenel, she had two and the eldest is twelve already,” she commiserated with him. “Goodness, I remember holding her just hours after birth.”

“Twelve? Twelve and she’s not brought the lass to visit?” he all but demanded. “You must bring her next time, all of them!”

“Her work in the Houses of Healing keeps her busy.”

“What’s your excuse then?”

There was no answer for that, so she just grinned at him.

“Likewise, I am kept busy,” she relented under his glares. “I’m leaving in half an hour, so cannot linger long.”

For a moment, she thought Héobald was about to protest, demand that she stayed and visit his kids, the grand kids. But then he nodded with a sigh. “Life keeps us all too busy, but you must visit us again next time your travel west.”

“I am travelling west now, so shall visit on my return.”

The moment his cheer vanished; she knew trouble lay ahead. “West you head?” Her nod of agreement only further drew out his pallor. “Nay lass, you can’t head that way, Orcs have been sighted to the west, not far from the Ford, an éored has set out to deal with them.”

Orcs, at the river. That wasn’t good news, not to a messenger who relied on swift and easy travel. She knew other shallow points she could ford at, but if orcs had been spotted, there was no telling how spread out they were along the riverbanks…

“I have little choice, but will take care,” she reassured, pushing the dread from her mind. “I’ll see alternate passage across the Isen, if I must.”

Héobald’s hand shot out, gripping her arm with alarming intensity. “You, be, careful,” he said, a familiar weight to his words. “Don’t tempt fate to fall on your shoulders.”

“Rhymenel told me the same.”

“She’s the smart one, clearly takes after her uncle.”

That made her roll her eyes, though not dismissively. Her family bore no blood relation to Héobald, but he seemed to think that didn’t matter in these things. Not that she minded, there was a common sentiment within Rohan that it took more than two people to raise a child, a whole village in fact. Héobald had easily proven this true, as not one of the kids under his and her parents care had gone wanting in life. No, it took a village, and she appreciated that.

“I will take care,” she said clearly, still not a promise but close. “And I will visit when I pass back to Gondor.”

He gave a tut, and rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue. Instead, the pair settled into comfortable silence, watching the wind ripple across the grassland beneath the city’s walls.

With Edoras behind, and the Isen ahead, Rhosynel felt like every sense had been lit aflame. Every rush of wind, every rustle of grass, and every rock in the road seemed to pose a threat. Orcs, at the Isen. And she had to get past the lot of them.

“Never make it easy on yourself,” she muttered, watching Gwaedal’s ears flick back as she spoke, before settling forwards again.

With an unbothered horse, and a contentedly soaring goshawk, Rhosynel allowed herself to relax, but only fractionally. If need be, the three of them would be off the road in seconds and out of view in under a minute.

The sealed letter resting against her chest seemed to burn.

Whatever the old Wizard was sending, had better be worth her risking life and limb.

Above, Ilmara gave a quiet whistle, and slowed her flight, coming to hover above Rhosynel for a moment, before gliding to the left. Trusting her bird more than her own eyes, she nudged Gwaedal off the road. Sparse trees concealed their movements, and before long she could hear the flow of water across stones.

Drawing to a stop just within the treeline, she sat in silence for a moment, listening intently. The wind shifted, sweeping down from the north for a naught but a second.

Metal on metal. Orcish voices and snarls.

From her distance she couldn’t tell if it was an argument, or a skirmish. She didn’t want to find out. Looking to Ilmara, the goshawk was already across the river, landing in a tree. Even as she watched, the goshawk fluffed up, and preened a feather through her beak.

The way was clear.

With a deep breath, Rhosynel and Gwaedal moved forwards. His long legs were unbothered by the current, even as it rose above his knees. Leaning forwards in the saddle, she kept her eyes upstream to the north, watching as keenly as Ilmara, urging Gwaedal to go faster still.

It took a moment to realise there was blood in the water.

Thick, black, vile, and oozing. Orc blood.

The moment Gwaedal was free of the water, she kicked him into a gallop, and the three were away. Any sound of battle was left far behind, any blood staining his flanks soon dried, and any fears of arrows finding their mark in her back, slowly faded the further west she travelled.

She would ride well into the evening, and only rest for a few hours, before pressing on for another day. Better to put distance between herself and the enemy, rather than risking them following her trail.

The setting sun glared against Rhosynel’s eyes, all but rendering her blind as it sank lower and lower. No matter that the sky was lit up in glorious crimsons, golds, saffron and ochres, she kept her head down and eyes on the path before Gwaedal’s hooves. Ilmara would alert her of any problems, she just had to keep riding straight and true.

Ahead, the endless plains stretched on before her, the North-South Road weaving between the downs, heather and gorse covering the rolling hills. Even as the cold of night crept upon her, Rhosynel kept riding.

If it wasn’t for the confirmation of orcs at her back, she would have enjoyed the view a great deal. But the sound of snarls echoed in her memory, spurring her forth.

Like all Messengers, Rhosynel had encountered orcs on occasion, she had fought them, and bore the scars of her misfortune. But with her avoidant approach, she rarely came across them in force. The few she had met were scouts, as individuals or pairs that had been sent on ahead of the main force. Their fights only lasting minutes, before she was once again moving.

Her brief time spent training with the Rangers had been considerably more dangerous, as they often tracked down larger forces and battled. But even then, she’d learnt how to fight in her own way. Rarely ever did she take a stand, instead she flitted through, circling, looping, doubling back. Her light blades were swift, and her strikes precise.

The last battle she’d fought within the Rangers ranks had damn near killed her. The scar was old and healed now, but still a stark reminder of what could happen if she slowed her pace even for a second. She refused to make such a mistake again.

It was only once the moon was high, that she dared rest, allowing Gwaedal to stop for a while. No fire on this night, not when its light would be spotted from miles away. Cold food, cold rest, with Gwaedal remaining saddled in preparation for a swift getaway. Ilmara seemed content to perch on the saddle horn and watch over Rhosynel as she fitfully slept.

The first light of the sun hadn’t broken through the clouds before she was up and riding again. Gwaedal’s steps had slowed, and she knew not to push him as hard, but still they rode, following the well-worn path as it wound through Dunland. Ilmara had given no sign of foe, so they would rest properly once evening came. But the day was still young, and the road still long. Tharbad bridge lay far to the north, and it would take several days more to reach it.

Settling into the saddle, Rhosynel was content to ride at Gwaedal’s pace.

(Wonderful art of Rhosynel and Ilmara by Jayniestxrk on tumblr!)

Chapter Text

For almost two weeks Rhosynel travelled, eyes to the horizon and her destination, ears pricked to any calls from Ilmara. It was smooth going, somewhat unusual, but not strange enough to set her on edge. Perhaps it was merely good fortune, or that the commotion at the Ford miles behind her were enough to distract any marauding orcs or other, more human, raiders.

There was no point in questioning it too much.

Eventually, the river Greyflood, appeared on the distant horizon.

The familiar ruins of Tharbad loomed into view, and Rhosynel drew Gwaedal to a halt on the outskirts of the ruined town. Much further ahead, she could make out the remains of the great bridge that had spanned the Greyflood. In a poor state, there’d be no way of crossing the ruins. Perhaps once, when it had first been broken by the flood waters, an individual could have picked their away across on foot. But now? Now one would need wings to span the gaping chasms, and wings Gwaedal did not have.

“Ilmara,” she called out softly, wary of rousing anything that may have sought shelter within the dilapidated and ruined buildings.

The goshawk glided down from above, wings and tail flaring as she landed on Rhosynel’s upraised arm.

“Ford,” she said to the bird perched on her arm. “Can you find me a ford?”

She got a tilted head in response.

Limroval were smart, but they had their limits.

“Crossing,” Rhosynel tried again, “get me across the river.”

This time Ilmara bobbed, giving a soft keen, before taking flight. Rhosynel followed her grey form as she soared higher and higher, before angling northwards.

North? The fork of a joining river would prove no safter than this rushing deluge before her. But if Ilmara had seen something, she would trust her keener eyesight. A few hours travel northward, following the riverbank to her left, lead her to the Swanfleet, a fast-moving river of meltwater, flowing down from the Misty Mountains.

Ilmara circled back, before leading her somewhat east, along its swollen banks.

A rickety series of planks had been laid across a narrower part of the river. Not ideal, but better than anything Tharbad had to offer.

Dismounting from Gwaedal, standing on the edge of the river, she hesitated, before turning back to him, and fully removing his bridle. His saddle was quick to follow, and she stacked his tack carefully to one side. The planks might hold, but should he plunge into the water, he needed the best chance of survival.

“Look at me,” she requested, smoothing her hand across his cheeks. “Follow, and be careful. I cannot afford to lose you,” she stated, gazing into his rich brown eyes, before kissing the white snip on the tip of his nose.

Then she turned, keeping one hand on his neck, and began making her way across the bridge.

Creaks and groans sounded from the planks below, the wood straining with the combined weight of horse and walker. Halfway across, Rhosynel found the planks had been reinforced on a large boulder, and she tested the footing warily. For people it would hold, but would the massive stone shift the moment Gwaedal set foot upon it? Taking a deep breath, she led him across. The boulder held its footing, and the pair were able to cautiously continue across the river.

Solid ground was a relief, but she couldn’t linger long.

Allowing Gwaedal to wonder, she hastened back across the Swanfleet, and gathered his saddle and bridal in her arms. The return trip was a little more cautious, the large saddle blocking most of her view of the planks, and a sharp slip caused her to squeak in alarm. Swimming, had never been her strong suit, and these murky rapid waters were not a suitable training ground to start learning.

But she made it, met by a concerned nicker from Gwaedal.

Resaddling him but only after copious amounts of praise, she whistled softly for Ilmara. The goshawk appeared quickly, landing on her arm with barely a sound.

“Good girl,” she praised, feeding her three chunks of meat in rapid succession. “Are you ready? We cannot rest yet.”

With a whisper of feathers, Ilmara took off, heading north-east once more.

Dutifully following in her shadow, she led Gwaedal across damp ground. It was almost marsh like in the fork of the rivers, difficult to traverse, but not impossible. After thirty minutes, her thighs were beginning to burn from the strain of yanking her boots free from sucking mud puddles.

And then, the Greyflood came into view again.

“Crossing!” she called up to Ilmara, watching as she once more angled northwards. Shifting direction, Rhosynel trudged along the banks, warily eyeing the waters moving thick and fast. Brown, muddy, choppy with white capped waves as they rushed over hidden stones. She did not fancy trying to ford that.

So when Ilmara landed atop a stark rock, and seemed unwilling to continue, Rhosynel turned to face the river with a deep sigh of reluctance.

Fording it was.

There was no way of telling how deep the river was, and as far as she could tell, Ilmara had no way of gauging depth, even with her hawk eyes. Which meant the only way to find out, was to try.

Taking a step forwards, she hesitated, squinting down at the riverbank. Hooves, footprints, scrapes in the mud, all leading into the river. She needed no Ranger training to recognise a crossing when she saw one. Eyeing the water anew, she was struck by how flat this section seemed. Both upstream and down was far choppier, rough wates, but this section was smooth.

Unfortunately, water wasn’t something she had much experience with.

“Looks like we’re getting wet after all,” she said apologetically to Gwaedal, climbing up into his saddle. “Go at your own speed,” she added reassuringly.

For a moment he didn’t move, staring down at the water, taking deep breaths. Then one step, two, three, and he was in.

The water rose rapidly against his legs, forming currents and whirls about him. Within seconds, it was touching his stomach, then higher still, soaking Rhosynel’s boots. There was a feeling of weightlessness, and with a jolt, she realised Gwaedal was now swimming across the Greyflood. There was the occasional thump, as though his hoof struck something, either the ground or stones.

With some alarm, Rhosynel realised they were drifting downstream, still in the calm water, but closing in on the rapids. Gently turning his head slightly, she urged him to fight against the current. The water was over her thighs now, forcing her to sit up straighter, least the letter hidden in her tabard get soaked.

“Come on, come on, you’ve got this, come on,” she found herself chanting under her breath. “Not much further, we can get there.”

With a burst of energy, Gwaedal lunged, kicking with more strength. And then his hooves struck, once twice, solid ground! Lurching and heaving, he all but hauled himself out of the waters and up the bank.

“Good boy!” Rhosynel cheered, relief sweeping through her, leaving her lightheaded in joy. “You did it, good boy!” She wished there was a tavern nearby, so he might be treated to a warm stable and as much hay as he could eat. Instead, there was moorland and wilderness.

“I will buy you six carrots, in Bree,” she decided out loud, “no, seven! Seven for the stars of Gondor.”

Gwaedal huffed beneath her.

“Ah true, you are of Rohan. So no carrots?”

His shoulders rolled, shortly followed by a full body shake, which almost launched her from the saddle at a very high speed.

“Alright! Alright have it your way!” she exclaimed, having to cling to his neck in a bid to remain seated. “Now come, it’s only a few days away now!”

Either her exuberance at surviving, or Gwaedal’s own joy, sent him into a ground covering canter. A sharp whistle had Ilmara rapidly catching up, content to fly alongside for the time being, powerful wing beats, and subtle tail movements allowing her to surf the stream of air caused by their passing.

Rhosynel would never tire of this feeling.

On the second day of riding across Cardolan, a figure appeared. A lone man, striding across the rolling hills, seemingly confident, if it wasn’t for the fact he paused at the top of each rise, and scanned around, seemingly confused.

Ilmara seemed unbothered, but Rhosynel was less keen on taking a chance. From the great distance she couldn’t make out much about him, but he was clearly armed. Sword on his hip, and the shape of a round shield on his back.

No, whoever that was, she had little interest in crossing his path.

Bree was only a day or so ride off, and while she had left the road when crossing the rivers, she knew better than to take unnecessary chances on strange men in the wilderness.

A soft whistle drew Ilmara back to her, and she led Gwaedal down into a shallow valley. They would take a longer approach, remaining lower down, in a bid to pass by unnoticed. For hours they wended their way through the hills, looping, doubling back, and retracing steps when needed. After almost three hours, she took the risk to climb a hill, and spent some time sitting atop it, scanning the horizon, and seeking a lone male figure.

Nothing. Either he too was in the valleys, or he was out of sight.

Reassured, she urged Gwaedal to continue. She had spotted smoke on the horizon, pale wispy woodsmoke. Chimney smoke. With any luck it was Bree, or it could be a farmhouse, but either way, it was the right direction.

It was only as the sun set, that she realised the lone figure may very well have been ‘Strider’.

Rhosynel did not turn back to find out.

The next day she pressed on, and by lunch time, it was beginning to sheet down with rain. Cresting a good-sized hill, she was met by the sight of a settlement far below. Dozens of houses, a few streets winding through them, and scattered farmland about it. Along with a wooden wall, built in the gaps between houses. Minimal protection, but probably enough of a deterrent for most ne'er-do-wells.

Clicking her tongue, they began the decent towards what she hoped was Bree.

Knocking at the door set into a large gate, she was met by an irate man, seemingly irritated she’d called him out into the rain and mud.

“Is this Bree?” she asked, over the sound of pouring rain.

“It is, what’s ya business?”

“I’m passin’ through,” she replied to his demands, easily slipping into a more casual accent. “D’you know of an inn I can stay at?”

“Aye, the Prancin’ Pony will do you well enough.”

She glanced to Gwaedal, his head almost resting on her shoulder.

“My thanks,” Rhosynel replied, tipping him a couple of copper as he let her into the settlement. He was quick to pocket it, and she led Gwaedal behind her as she trudged through mud-soaked streets. Ilmara was keeping high up, not interested in tangling with a settlement of men.

And Hobbits, apparently.

Smaller figures charged past, jackets and coats held above their heads.

While she’d delivered one or two messages to Hobbiton in the past, she’d never had much to do with the smaller folk. Hobbiton seemed polite enough, but these ones seemed hardier somehow, more accustomed to living alongside the tall folk, and gaining a similar attitude from being amongst them so long.

The Prancing Pony was easy enough to find, although the stables were less than ideal for a steed of Rohan. She paid the stable hand –a Hobbit– extra to keep an eye on Gwaedal, although she knew he’d kick up enough of a ruckus if anyone tried anything. He’d broken a horse thief’s arm once, back in Gondor.

It also didn’t take long to track down a carrot seller, although the burly man with scruffy dark beard seemed reluctant to sell seven. Especially since he was busy eating one raw. But she got them with no small amount of haggling, and returned them to Gwaedal, feeding him one after another with soft praises and compliments, reassuring him they wouldn’t be in the town for too long, and that no doubt the rain will stop soon.

With Gwaedal fed and warm-ish, Rhosynel retreated finally to the tavern.

The barman was more than happy to offer her a room, specifically one with working locks, so she’d not be disturbed. A hot meal, debateable quality ale, and she was all but ready for bed. But no, back out into the rain she went, finding a quieter corner, and whistling for Ilmara.

It took the goshawk a little longer to come, looking incredibly disgruntled about being called into the rain.

“I’m sorry, darling,” Rhosynel was apologising instantly. Reaching up and carefully hooking a small leather harness over her head, then doing it up around her wings. “But now I need you to find someone.”

The leather contraption was designed to be small and light, so not to hinder her flight in the slightest. Upon her back, resting betwixt her wings, was a small tube-shaped pouch. Withdrawing a rolled parchment from her pocket, Rhosynel slipped the missive inside, and ensured the leather was shut to prevent rain creeping in.

“Listen,” she said, making sure the Limroval was looking directly at her. “Strider.”

A soft chirp in response.

Stroking her chest once, Rhosynel launched the bird skywards, and she quickly vanished into the heavy rain, her storm grey colouration rapidly blending with the dwindling light.

And now, she waits.

The Prancing Pony, wasn’t too bad, considering the state of the rest of Bree. The barman was warm and friendly, more than happy to talk about local news and events, and she spent most of her day sat at the bar, listening to him, and some of the chattier locals. She’d learnt early into her Messenger training, that a couple of drinks would make almost anyone her friend.

But truthfully, she was only half listening. Her attention firmly resting on the door, and sole entrance to the tavern. Numerous people came and went, all with familiar colouring and mud splattered clothing that represented Bree and its inhabitants.

So when the door was opened, and a tall man slipped silently inside without fanfare, her attention remained on him. His hood stayed up, but she caught glimpses of long dark hair, and an unshaven face. Black clothes, cloak, hood, boots, all mud covered, and showing signs of wear and tear, but then also meticulous fixings.

Rhosynel knew a Ranger when she saw one, even if his clothing was starkly different to those of Ithilien. But what caught her eye the most, was his weapons, no other residents of Bree carrier so many weapons. And not ones that saw much use. A long sword on his hip, a short bow, and a knife in the top of one boot. No doubt more weapons were hidden on his person, she just couldn’t see them.

Her eyes tracked him over the rim of her ale mug, as he moved swiftly to the corner and collapsed in a seat, his back to the wall. For a moment he looked uncomfortable, but when the barman approached, he was quick to order a drink, before settling back, and lighting a pipe.

‘Strider is… a Ranger, of the north,’ Gandalf had said, weeks ago in the office of Faramir. ‘Secretive folk, he will be wary of you.’

It was time to find out just how wary they could be.

Politely disengaging from the riveting conversation of town politics, Rhosynel picked up her ale, and waltzed over to his table. Dropping heavily into the seat opposite him and setting down her mug.

“Eveni—”

“No thank you.”

She blinked.

“I’m not interested.”

Her eyebrows rose in disbelief, she hadn’t even said one word to him, and his eyes had never flickered away from watching the door. Well, if he was going to be so blunt, two could play at that game. Leaning back, Rhosynel draped one arm across the back of her chair, other hand resting on the rim of her ale, acting disinterested.

“Mithrandir sends his regards,” she said, quietly and without preamble.

The effect was instantaneous, the Rangers attention snapped to her, and the full weight of his gaze pinned her in place. It felt as though a weight had landed on her chest, forcing the air from her lungs in a low wheeze, leaving her more than a little alarmed. It wasn’t even like his eyes were a particularly stunning shade, it was just heavy.

If that was the weight of one look, she dreaded to think how heavy his words would be.

“You know Mithrandir?” he demanded, leaning across the table, pipe forgotten in one hand. “How?”

“I’m the Messenger he sent,” she managed to say, without stumbling over her words.

“The Limroval is yours?”

Ah, so he was familiar with Ilmara’s breed, she couldn’t decide if that was reassuring. “Ilmara, yes,” she managed to say.

“Then where is Mithrandir?”

The questions battered at her, much like the wind of the storm outside battered the walls of the tavern.

“Meeting with an old friend, he sent me on ahead to request your presence,” Rhosynel explained, releasing her ale, and reaching for the letting still tucked into her jerkin.

A hand clamped around her wrist.

She hadn’t even seen him move.

“Do you not want his letter?” she asked, feigning innocence, with a wiggle of her fingers.

As quickly as her wrist had been seized, it was released, and she cautiously pulled the letter free. She’d expected him to be wary, but skittish and paranoid was a surprise. It was tempting to draw this out, but no, she put him out of his misery quickly, passing the letter without preamble.

He looked down at the parchment like it was an adder, poised to strike.

Trying very hard not to roll her eyes at his paranoia, Rhosynel collected her ale, and slowly rose to her feet so not to startle him further. “I shall be at the bar, should you need a missive writing or to be sent back to Minas Tirith or anywhere in between, please don’t hesitate to ask,” she said formally.

With a curt nod to him, receiving none in reply, she turned and headed back to the bar.

“Prickly fellow, eh?” the barman greeted.

“Damn near bit my hand off,” she retorted good naturedly, settling back onto her stool.

The next morning greeted Rhosynel with sullen grey skies no different to the night before. Doing her best to shake off the sleep, she trudged downstairs, heading for the bar, and what would hopefully be a nice hot breakfast.

The Ranger, Strider, was still at the same table.

“Did you even sleep?” she asked, pausing as she went to pass his table.

The glare he gave was enough to keep her moving, but not without shaking her head at him. It would take more than a few heavy glares to put her off.

Returning to the bar, Rhosynel hopped up onto what was quickly becoming ‘her’ seat, ordering, and collecting a drink in rapid order. The ale was significantly watered down, which spoke more of the water quality in the area, than the quality of the ale.

“Sticking around a while, lass?” the barman asked.

“Possibly,” she replied, around a mouthful of hot bacon. “But not for long, maybe tomorrow morning I’ll set off.”

“Aye, well, it’ll be best to wait out the storm a little while…” he trailed off.

Rhosynel noticed his eyes flicking over her shoulder, but had no chance to react, as at the same time a hand landed on it.

“Gah!” she yelped, whirling around and knocking the hand free. She hadn’t worn her swords to breakfast, which was probably a good job, as Strider, was holding his hand up, looking somewhat apologetic.

“Apologies, Messenger,” he said, cautiously.

She noted the barman making himself scarce.

“You speak of leaving, did you not read the letter?”

It took her a moment to figure out what he meant, only sinking in when he held up the parchment between them.

“It’s addressed to you,” she said slowly, as though the answer was obvious, which to her and any other Messenger of Gondor, it was. “So, no. I have not.”

“Mithrandir has requested you remain,” he said, extending the letter, but she held up a hand, unwilling to read the words the wizard had written for this man. “He asks you join our journey to Rivendell.”

At that, she couldn’t help the wide-eyed confusion that settled over her. “Rivendell?” she repeated incredulously.

“It also goes by Imladris.”

An unhelpful clarification, mainly due to the fact she knew what Rivendell was. She had been there, once before, many years ago. Imladris, however, struck a chord. She’d overheard that name just before knocking, if they had planned for her to continue to Rivendell, why not tell her in advance?

“I know Rivendell,” she clarified, aware that the Ranger was expecting an answer. “I’m more confused as to why.”

“He does not say.”

Somehow that didn’t surprise her in the slightest.

“For how long?”

“He doesn’t say.”

Talking in circles already, great. Picking up her ale and plate of breakfast, Rhosynel nodded back towards his table in the corner. He took the hint easily, and lead the way, still with his hood up, and his weapons on.

“Alright,” she said, once he was sat with his back to the wall, and she was left exposed to the room. “What does, he say?”

For a moment Rhosynel expected the Ranger to not answer. She wouldn’t blame him, she didn’t make a habit of asking what was in private letters.

“Are you sure you would not rather read it?” he asked.

So it was a pause of confusion, than of not being willing to share.

“Messengers do not read the letters of others,” she stated. “They are personal, and not for our eyes. I would feel too uncomfortable.”

For a moment he didn’t answer, eyeing here with that same heavy gaze. But then he nodded to himself folding the letter and tucking it into a hidden pocket. “Mithrandir requests that we wait for the arrival of a Hobbit, one ‘Frodo Baggins’,” Strider explained. “Mithrandir intends to join us, in which case you are free to leave, but if he doesn’t arrive and it becomes perilous, he has asked you join in escorting the Hobbit to Rivendell.”

The name Baggins struck a familiar chord with her, but that was the least of her concern.

“Perilous?” Rhosynel repeated, a growing unease settling in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t do perilous, she avoided danger, Gandalf had specifically accepted her role as Messenger for that reason.

Or so she thought.

“I cannot say too much, for fear of listeners,” Strider continued, “but yes, the enemy has eyes and ears everywhere.”

That was not a reassuring statement.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Rhosynel spent a moment, just breathing, and trying to sort her racing thoughts into a semblance of order. She had assumed, perhaps wrongly, that this mission was a simple case of arrive, deliver, return. But it seemed to be shaping up worse than she expected. Sure, a detour to Rivendell was inconvenient, but she could travel south along the foothills of the Misty Mountains and back into Rohan, without too much of a delay. But to also be waiting on a Hobbit, and a wizard to arrive in Bree? It sounded like the set up to a terrible joke.

Just how long was this going to take?

(Wonderful Rhosynel and Ilmara by the lovely Fishing4Stars! Please take a look at their own fantastic fics!)

Chapter Text

It took about three days after the revelation that she’d was required to wait. Admittedly, Rhosynel had expected it to take far longer, but the three days afforded her a solid chance to rest, relax, and eat more hot meals than she had done for the past month. Although she was rapidly growing weary of watered down ale.

The Ranger Strider –she still had no idea what his actual name was– was not the best conversationalist, she’d check in with him in the morning, and then sit alongside him in the evenings while they ate. Otherwise, she left him to his own brooding devices, and Rhosynel got far more acquainted with the locals than she had ever planned.

After listening to one man lamenting about his wife’s affair for the second hour, she made her excuses and approached Strider’s table once more.

“So Agatha is planning to move out,” she said by way of greeting, as though it was the most riveting news ever. “Poor George is wondering where it all went wrong, but still refuses to accept that maybe he needed to do more around the house.”

The bemused expression Strider gave her suggested he was even less interested in this news than she was, but at least his gaze felt less heavy each time he glanced at her. Or maybe she was just growing accustomed to it. Either way, Rhosynel settled into her usual chair, back to the room, no matter how it made the hair on the back of her neck prickle uncomfortably.

“What about you?” she asked when he didn’t speak up.

“I have no house to do more around,” he commented dryly, and got a surprised snort from her, almost forcing ale through her nose.

“No,” she managed, after sneezing to clear her airways. “I meant have yo—”

“I know.”

Ah, so it had been a joke. Well it was good to know the guy had a sense of humour hidden somewhere under the layers of grime.

“As it is,” he was continuing, “we may have a development.” He was looking past her, not unusual, but this time instead of constantly scanning the room, he was locked onto a certain table.

It was tempting to twist around in a bid to see who.

“Not, Mithrandir, I take it? Since he’s not joined your brooding,” she asked.

“I’m not brooding.”

Rhosynel leant into his eyeline with the best disappointed expression she could muster, learnt after years of living with Rhymenel. And for her efforts, received the briefest flash of eye white in what was possibly the quickest eyeroll this side of the Misty Mountains.

“Some Hobbits, have arrived,” he continued like she wasn’t still judging him. “Four of them, which is more than Mithrandir, or I was expecting.”

Over the last few days, Rhosynel had learnt he knew more than he was letting on, but the Ranger was still infuriatingly tight lipped about just what was happening. So far she’d gleaned that he knew about the plan to meet with Gandalf, and had been waiting in the area specifically for such request. Also, that he knew of the Hobbit in advance, but other than that, he shared nothing.

She tried to not let it bother her. But Rhosynel was beginning to feel like she’d been intentionally left in the dark.

“Well,” she said, downing the last of her weak ale, “glaring broodily at them isn’t going to get us any closer to know if they’re the right Hobbits,” she said, setting her tankard down with a light clack. “Any names, that you’ve heard?”

“No.”

“Origins? Home names?”

“No.”

“Helpful,” Rhosynel sighed, sitting back and ignoring the weight of his glare. For a moment, she tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling, running her hand through the somewhat tamed mane of hair she owned. “Let me know if one heads to the bar,” she said eventually.

“Why?”

“So I can leave you to your brooding.”

More glares, easily brushed off from having spent three days subjected to them. He might be a Ranger, and he might always give off a slight air of danger, but he wasn’t a patch on Rhymenel’s anger, or her disappointment.

“One has headed to the bar,” he said several silent minutes later, relighting his pipe.

Without explaining herself, Rhosynel hopped to her feet, reaching for her tankard. When a hand enclosed her wrist, not tightly or threateningly, just slowing her motions and drawing her attention.

“What are you planning?” he asked, quietly, dark eyes intense from the depths of the hood he had never once removed.

“Getting another drink,” Rhosynel replied, “and,” she continued before he could glare some more. “Seeing if I can learn any names.”

His hand released her wrist, permission enough, that she collected the mug, and waltzed towards the bar. It was easy enough to add a slight sway to her step, and even easier to slide into a gap alongside the Hobbit now sat at the bar.

Even sat on a barstool, he barely reached her shoulder, a mop of curly hair atop his head, wide green eyes. He wore a wool cloak of dull green, and a light brown scarf was wrapped about his neck somewhat loosely. As far as she could tell, he was a regular Hobbit.

“One pint, coming up,” the barman said, sliding a huge mug into the small Hobbits hands.

“A pint!” he exclaimed; eyes as wide as saucers.

“Eyes bigger than your stomach?” Rhosynel asked casually, gesturing for her own half pint to be refilled. “That’ll fill you right up.”

“Oh no, miss,” the Hobbit replied eagerly, eyes still locked on the drink, “you see, Hobbits are unique. Our stomachs are considerably bigger than our outsides.”

“A useful ability to have!” she exclaimed, “goodness I don’t think I’d stop eating if I could do that.”

“Or drinking!”

“Indeed!” Rhosynel agreed, although the thought of more ale made her stomach turn unpleasantly. For a moment she lapsed into silence, allowing the young Hobbit, or at least what she thought of as being young, to take a few sips of his pint. Remarkably, he didn’t spill a drop. “Say, young master,” she began a moment later, “your accent, it’s not of Bree is it?”

“No miss, I’m from the Shire!”

“Oh!” she said, without having to fake her delight, “I visited once, beautiful place, even if I did get some funny looks.”

“Aye, tall folk aren’t known for coming by all that often,” he replied, looking up at her with a broad grin. “I’m Pippin!”

“Well met, Mr Pippin. But yes, I had a letter for someone, he lived at the top of a hill under a great old tree. Mr… Biggins?”

“Baggins!”

The grin that spread across her face was genuine, she knew the name had been familiar. It wasn’t a lie, she had delivered a letter once, and it had been a right pain to travel from Erebor to do so.

“Yes, Bombil Baggins right?” Rhosynel asked, incorrectly.

“You mean Bilbo? Nice fellow, grand stories of traveling, hated visitors?”

“That’s the one,” she said with a laugh. “Damn near snatched the letter and shut the door on me. Stuck his head out the window a moment later to say thanks and passed me a scone.”

“Oh that’s Bilbo Baggins for sure then!” Pippin replied taking another swig of the pint, and almost, but not quite, spilling it. “I’m actually here with his nephew, Frodo Baggins—” he gestured over his shoulder towards a table with three Hobbits, most of which were glaring in his direction, even as one with dark hair jolted to his feet. Her eyes flicked to Strider, who was already sitting upright, pipe forgotten. “You know he's my second cousin, once removed, on his mother's sid—”

Pippin, did not have the chance to finish, as said Frodo Baggins, slammed into his back at speed. The motion spilling Pippin’s drink all down his front.

“Steady on there Frodo!” he exclaimed, turning to his distant cousin, and accidentally catching him with his elbow.

Knocked off balance, Frodo stumbled backwards, tripping over Rhosynel’s own foot, and slammed into the floor, hands thrown in the air.

There was the brief glint of gold.

And then he vanished.

One moment Frodo was sprawled on the floor, the next he was gone. Needless to say, there was a strong reaction from the gathered patrons of The Prancing Pony. Shocked gasps and exclamations, people backing away in alarm, and several cries of fear. Rhosynel, was locked in place, only her eyes moved, looking up from the floor towards Strider. His seat was empty. Head snapping up, her eyes travelled across the common room with rapid efficiency, looking first to the main door, and then the windows, before turning to the stairs.

Was that the whisk of black cloak, vanishing up the steps?

“Pippin!” A voice chided in anger. “Why did you do that?”

“I didn’t do anyth—”

Looking down, Rhosynel was met by the sight of the other two Hobbits converging on Pippin.

“We’re trying to be unnoticed; you were yelling his name!” One was exclaiming, he had a larger build than the others, with blond hair and wide panicked eyes. “Where is he!”

“I think I saw him,” the other said, peering across the room, in the direction of the stairs. “With a human man, being dragged upstairs!”

“Oh no he doesn’t!”

The blond shot off, hastily followed by the other two, even snatching up a candelabra, and… a stool? But they took off at a fair speed, sprinting up the stairs in their haste to follow.

Well, that hadn’t quite gone as she’d expected, let alone the whole ‘Hobbits can turn invisible when startled’ situation. There was far too much to unpack there.

With a long-suffering sigh, Rhosynel pushed away from the bar, collecting her drink and Pippin’s, before picking up two of the food plates from the Hobbits table, balancing them on her arm. Taking her time, she ambled over to the stairs, trudging up them and listening to the sound of a door damn near being battered down. She hadn’t actually learnt if Strider slept, presumable he did, as apparently, he had a room in the tavern.

It took a moment, but the voices soon died down to something calmer, and only then did she knock politely on the door. There was a short pause, before it was yanked open, a sword raised to her neck in greeting.

“Really? Did you forget about me, Strider?” Rhosynel asked in amusement.

A second later and she realised he’d finally taken his hood down, even as he moved back and allowed her to enter the room. Loose dark hair, which could admittedly do with a wash, a short beard, and bright clear eyes. She supposed he could be considered handsome… if he washed up a little first.

“I’ve brought your drink, Pippin,” Rhosynel said, setting it down on the table. “And the remains of your meals,” she added towards the others.

They eyed her warily, although Pippin was quick to collect the pint.

“We will need to leave, in the morning,” Strider told her.

“But, Mithrandir?” she asked, voice low. The plan had been to wait until his arrival, and while she didn’t want to be waiting on the whim of a wizard, to leave without him was equally an issue.

“We cannot afford to wait,” Strider answered, “the enemy will be upon us soon.”

That was not reassuring.

Sleep, had not been easy. While Rhosynel had planned to return to her rooms, Strider insisted otherwise, and she ended up sleeping on the rug in front of the fire. Not comfortable, and neither was being jolted awake in the middle of the night.

The hellish shrieks that filled the air was enough to have Rhosynel lurching up from her bedroll, blade in hand and panic in her heart.

“They were once men,” Strider answered the Hobbits question quietly.

Nazgul.

She knew what they were, she knew the dangers they posed, she had seen firsthand the forces they controlled, and she was careful to avoid them ever since. The scar across her back ached, almost as painfully as the grief in her heart.

When morning finally came, she packed her bags alongside the silent Ranger.

“At which point, were you going to mention, the Nazgul,” Rhosynel said, voice quiet with anger. With a little more force than necessary, she crammed her sleeping roll into the pack. “You or Mithrandir.”

He glanced to her, and she pointedly refused to meet his gaze, buckling up the pack with a yank.

“You know of them.”

“My kin have been killed, by them.” Her words were harsh and bitter.

“As have mine.”

While she couldn’t argue with that, it did little to reassure her.

“Again, when were you going to mention them?” Rhosynel asked, straightening up. Turning to look him in the eye, she found him several inches taller than herself. If she tried, she could see over his shoulder, but it was a close-run thing. It almost surprised her, until she realised, he’d been sat down most times she spoke with him, or slumped somewhat, when he did stand, as though trying to avoid detection.

“I had hoped to reach Rivendell before they detected us,” he said, unbothered by her glares. The weight of his gaze had increased tenfold, without the hood concealing him. There was the urge to look away, to avert her gaze from him, but she held her ground, frowning up at him.

“How’s that working out?”

It was his turn to glare.

She swallowed, nervously.

“If you had not tripped h—”

“Me!?” she cut him off, voice rising loud enough that the four Hobbits glanced their way. “Do not try to pass this off as my fault,” she said, voice dropping back to a near growl as she took a step forwards. “If I knew those foul things were after them, I would never have stayed as long as I did.”

Despite her crowding him with glares and low snarls, he didn’t shift away from her, simply leaning his head back, before tilting his head to one side. “You fear them?”

“You don’t!?”

“I do, but I do not let it stop me from my job.”

There was a thinly veiled insult in those words.

“You, are a Ranger, I, am a Messenger,” she said crisply, glossing over the slight issue of her training amongst the southern Rangers. He didn’t know and she wouldn’t say. “Our jobs, are a little different.”

Not waiting for his reply, she picked up the pack, and slung it over her shoulder, leaving the room as swiftly as she could. Unfortunately, the Hobbits took it as a cue to leave, and the patter of oversized feet followed her down the stairs.

“If Gandalf arrives, please let him know we have set off,” she managed to say, somewhat crisply to the barman, without slowing her pace in her haste to exit the tavern. Reaching the stables, she was quick to lead Gwaedal from his stall, saddling him in practised and familiar motions.

“Are we riding?” she heard one of the Hobbits, possibly Sam, ask uncertainly.

“Yes.”

“No.”

Both Strider and Rhosynel answered at the same time, and immediately started glaring at one another again. Was he expecting to walk to Rivendell? The four Hobbits would never make it surely? It was a miracle they’d reached Bree! What if the Nazgul’s caught up, how were they meant to flee then?

“We walk,” Strider said, and left the stables.

“He, walks,” she said, to Pippin or Merry, still stood by her.

“I do not fancy trying to ride,” he said, confirming that it was Merry, his voice was more mellow than Pippin’s, more wary of the world, and of her.

“Remember that when you grow tired,” she commented, and lead Gwaedal from the stable.

Rhosynel had to admit, it took a long while for Hobbits to grow tired of walking, although Pippin had dutifully explained to her that it was because they never rode to begin with. The idea was foreign to her, not to ride over great distances was surely more draining, it was slower, less effective, and more uncomfortable. Riding was smart.

But then Pippin admitted they had rarely ever left the Shire, and it all made sense.

Once out of Bree’s walls, she whistled for Ilmara, and wrote a short missive, to be sent ahead of them to Rivendell. No doubt Lord Elrond there would rather be prepared for a Ranger and four Hobbits to turn up on their doorstep, with any luck, someone would be sent out to escort them back. For all its talk of being welcoming, it was a hard place to find.

Pippin, seemed fascinated by Ilmara, creeping closer as she was crouched on a rock, scribbling a missive as fast as it was legible. Strider had mentioned passing by Weathertop, and she made note of it, so any elf guards could find their route easier.

“What is that?” Pippin eventually, asked, once by her shoulder.

“Her name is Ilmara,” Rhosynel said, slotting the parchment role into her harness. “She’s a Limroval, of the goshawk variety.”

“A limerova?”

“Limroval,” Rhosynel repeated patiently. “An elvish breed, from Mirkwood. Her kind are bred for battle, missives, and hunting in that woodland.”

Launching Ilmara skywards, she glanced at Pippin. He looked wary. Then again, Ilmara was a large raptor, reaching almost two feet in length, and the Hobbits were three to four feet tall. She tried to imagine what a four-foot-tall raptor would look like to her and baulked at the idea.

“She’s well trained,” she reassured, “I raised her from a chick.”

He did not look convinced.

Before long, their group was traipsing through forests, climbing through undergrowth, until eventually, they found themselves slogging through marshes. Her boots were soon soaked through, and squelched unpleasantly each time she took a step.

Ahead, the dark-haired Frodo became almost stuck, sinking nearly to his waist, and struggling to pull herself free.

“Here,” she said, catching up and offering a hand. He was quick to accept the aid, yanking his feet free one after another. “If you want, Gwaedal will carry you across this marsh,” she offered.

There was a fearful glance to the horse.

“He is sure footed, and with me leading him, unlikely to bolt.”

“Thank you, I don’t think I nee—” His words were cut off as he took another step and sank up to his chest.

“Whoop, sorry about this,” she said, quickly letting go of Gwaedal’s reins, and hoisting the Hobbit out of the muck, trying to set him on a drier patch of ground. There was a jolt, low in her chest, and a horrible roiling sensation as she did so, as though she had eaten too much and gotten indigestion.

“Thank you.”

Frodo’s words drew her attention, and she pushed the sensation down with a swallow. “Of course, but I still apologise. I cannot imagine its pleasant to be manhandled.”

“You at least warned me,” he said, carefully hopping from one dry patch to another. “I do not fancy being sucked under this quagmire.”

“I doubt you’d go under, but no, it isn’t pleasant,” she agreed, aware that Strider had paused, looking back at her and the conversation with Frodo. “It would be far too like bathing in thick potato and leek soup.”

“That… is rather specific.”

“But not wrong?” she countered.

“No, no, you are regrettably right. Though it doesn’t smell half as nice.”

She grinned at his admission, pausing to yank her foot from a thick patch. “If you change your mind,” she jingled Gwaedal’s reins, “just say. I’ll walk alongside so you don’t fall.”

“Thank you.”

A voice piped up from behind. “Is that the same for us?” Pippin asked.

“For all of you,” Rhosynel said, looking back to Merry, Pippin, and Sam at the rear leading a pony. “You too, Strider,” she called ahead.

Already he had returned to leading the way, and his only acknowledgement was a wafted a hand in dismissal. But then on the next step, sank to the knees in the filthy water. She didn’t dare laugh at the way his shoulders dropped in defeat.

Chapter Text

Reaching Weathertop, Rhosynel couldn’t help but think it was an ugly thing. Well accustomed to the ruins scattered across Gondor and the view of Osgiliath she could see from the roof of her home, she was used to their faded beauty. Pale grey stones, weathered over the years to a silvery grey, they still managed to gleam when the sun hit them just right.

These ruins, were blackened and miserable.

Resting atop an outcropping of sheer rocks, the jagged walls and towers were almost reminiscent of a crown. If a crown could be corrupted by the weather. Strider seemed intent to rest there for a while, pointing out an overhang which would provide some shelter from the elements. But it still felt exposed, and obvious.

To the north were the Weather Hills, and to Rhosynel, a more subtle place to shelter. But since the Hobbits were looking to him for leadership, she didn’t bother trying to suggest otherwise. At this point, she was little more than an escort.

“Need a hand?” she asked, Merry, who had accepted a ride on the back of Gwaedal, after having his foot pierced by a nasty thorn. Strider had already tended to the wound, but she’d insisted he rest it for a few hours, and after a rocky start, the Hobbit had settled into riding.

Somewhat.

“It wasn’t this high up when I got on,” Merry said, hands fisted in Gwaedal’s mane, as he stared down at the ground.

Not wanting to injure the Hobbit further, Rhosynel moved Gwaedal towards a stone outcropping, the rough grey top came to just below the horse’s stomach.

“Better?”

There was a pause of consideration from Merry. “A little, thanks,” he said, starting to slide off.

“Hold onto the saddle,” Rhosynel was quick to instruct, one hand coming out to hover by his side, should she need to catch him. “Both hands, there we go. About six inches to go and you’re off.”

There was a slide, and a light bump, as Merry finally found solid ground beneath his feet. For a moment he remained on the rock, letting out a relieved sigh, before sitting and then sliding down once more.

“Is riding so bad?” she asked, as the pair, plus Gwaedal, headed back to the others.

“Well… No. But it’s far too bumpy,” Merry said, seemingly trying to come up with reasons so not to do it again. “I trust my own feet far more.”

“Understandable,” Rhosynel replied, “it takes years of training to trust a horse.”

“Years we do not have,” Strider interjected, dropping a roll down from his shoulder, and beckoning the hobbits forwards. “These are for you.”

Four swords.

Trying not to sigh at that, Rhosynel collected Bill’s reins, and lead the two horses around the base of Weathertop towards a lower and deeper alcove. Learning to trust a horse took years of training, but of course he would give swords to untrained Hobbits. They would have little chance to protect themselves, the blades being more for show than for actual self-defence.

It was a double standard; she was sure of it. But to say so would result in an argument she wasn’t interested in having.

“Keep quiet,” she said to Gwaedal and Bill, “keep safe.”

With a kiss to both their noses, she left the alcove and began heading back.

“Messenger,” a voice said damn near on top of her.

“Ah! For the love of—stop that!” she barked, flinching away from the rock Strider was perched atop. “I have a name!”

He quirked a brow at her, but made no comment as to her jumpiness. “I shall scout, watch over the Hobbits.” Hopping down from the rock, he made to move away, but was halted as she stepped into his path.

“Where are you going?”

“Scouting.”

“Strider,” she said, in much the same way she would say her sisters name when she’d been complaining too much. “I’m asking, which way you’re going, so I don’t stab you on your return.”

The sigh he gave was barely perceptible. “South, to the road, to retrace our steps a little way, and then back east and the way ahead.”

‘There, that wasn’t so hard was it,’ she thought to herself, not quite brave enough to patronise him out loud. “Alright,” she said instead, and stepped out of his path. “I’ll find somewhere to perch,” she gestured upwards to the ruins, “to keep an eye on the Hobbits and you.”

“I do not need watching,” Strider commented, moving past and rapidly vanishing into the gathering gloom, cloak billowing in a dramatic manner.

“No, you’re just not used to it,” Rhosynel muttered under her breath turning back to the ruins.

“I heard that.”

She winced.

It probably was a nice view from the top of Weathertop, she could just imagine the rolling hills, distant marshlands, scraggly forests, and winding rivers. Unfortunately, with how dark the night was becoming, there was little she could do but imagine.

From her perch atop ruined walls, Rhosynel watched as dark clouds drifted across the sliver of moon visible, alternating the landscape in a silvery glow, followed by sheer darkness, only to brighten fractionally once more. It was peaceful, she guessed, almost like she was back to travelling solo. Although she sorely felt Ilmara’s absence. A pair of hawk’s eyes would have been useful in this gloom.

The hours crawled by, each seeming slower than the last. By the time she realised that something in the landscape had changed, it was too late.

The silver of the moon had been lingering, its brightness throwing the landscape into stark relief. And all but concealing the small orange glow which came from below her perch. For the briefest moment, she caught a whiff of bacon, before there was raised voices. The orange glow vanished, and Rhosynel had the sinking realisation of what had just happened.

The Hobbits had lit a fire.

In time with her sinking stomach, a piercing screech rose through the night, jolting Rhosynel to her feet. In rapid practised movements, she withdrew and strung her bow in a swift motion, arrows already in hand. Moving silently, she shifted through the ruins towards the steps, hearing the rush of footsteps and anxious voices.

“Get behind me,” she urged voice low.

A small sword swiped at her in alarm, but it was easy enough to bat away from her stomach. They had no training, they’d barely even held the sword for more than a day. This was going to end incredibly badly.

“Miss!” Sam exclaimed, “I’m sorr—”

“Get, behind me,” she repeated, through gritted teeth.

They didn’t hesitate to do so.

An arrow was already nocked on her bow, as she crept from one ruined archway to another, eyes trained on the ground far below, and the mists swirling through the scrubland. It hung low and heavy, seeming reluctant to release the ground from its grasp. From up above, she had no sense of how deep the mist was. Would she see anyone approaching?

Her own heart thundered against the cage of her ribs, desperately trying to flee. She avoided danger, she didn’t take a stand against orcs, let alone Nazgul. She’d done so once before and paid the price. Every trained instinct was telling her to reach Gwaedal, and bolt.

She wanted to run. Wanted to flee. Needed to flee.

Another screech filled the air, causing the Hobbits to skitter and cluster anxiously behind her. Hands pressing to her back, shoulders pressed to her hips.

No. This time Rhosynel couldn’t run. She couldn’t leave the Hobbits behind, and Gwaedal wouldn’t be able to carry them all. She still didn’t understand why Nazgul were hunting these Hobbits, nor why Gandalf had requested she join them and Strider to Rivendell.

If she made it out alive, she’d be having stern words with Gandalf, wizardry be damned.

There was a flicker of motion in the mist below, five figures approaching from the south, from the road. Five, long black, robes, with swords drawn.

“Get you backs to something,” Rhosynel quickly barked over her shoulder to the Hobbits. “Swords up, you keep your feet moving. Understand?”

There was no answer, she didn’t expect one.

Shifting back, she drew back on her bow, back straight, eyes locked on the arches before her. At the first sign of movement, she’d shoot. If it was Strider, he better move fast. But she knew in her gut, it wouldn’t be him.

One breath, two. A shift of motion. Black robes, black sword.

Rhosynel released the arrow, and it shot forwards, slamming into the depths of the hooded robe. The screech it gave was enough to send her heart racing. Without meaning to, she took a step back, second arrow already nocked, angling towards another.

With all her training, she was a swift archer. But against five inhuman opponents who seemed to shrug off the arrows, there was little she could do. They closed in fast. Tossing her bow aside, she drew her short swords, belatedly wishing she had a shield.

She didn’t, but she did have an ally. Somewhere.

“STRIDER!” she bellowed, voice cracking from the strength of her yell.

If there was even the slightest chance the Ranger would hear her, she’d take it. If there was any chance he could come to their aid in time, she’d take it. Alone against five Nazgul, there was little more she could do other than pray he heard her voice echoing across the mists.

Hobbits to her back, there was nothing more she could do, other than brace for an attack.

And attacks came fast.

A strike towards her stomach, she parried away. A swipe downwards she managed to twist out of reach. A slash to her neck, blocked, but left her arms ringing from impact. Another thrust, towards her ribs, grazing across the leather belt she wore, but not finding its mark. Twisting away from yet another strike, the back of a metal glove hand struck her chest, bowling her over.

Slamming into the ground, Rhosynel rolled, twisted, and scrabbled to her feet, looking up just in time to see Merry and Pippin leap forwards. To give them credit, each landed a blow, but were easily shrugged off, not having enough force to do damage. They received the same treatment as her, being shoved away, the Nazguls intent on either Sam or Frodo.

“Keep moving,” she barked, to Pippin who was sent tumbling past her feet. “Don’t stop!”

With a burst of speed, Rhosynel flung herself forwards, slashing her twin short swords against the back of the lead Nazgul as it reached towards Sam. A bone chilling shriek filled the air, as she darted past. They whirled, sword raised, but she was too swift and escaped the strike.

Sam, terrified but brave, lunged forwards, his own blade stabbing into the lower back of the Nazgul.

He was not so swift to escape, and a back hand sent him spinning through the air to slam into a ruined pillar. Merry and Pippin rushed to his side, swords still drawn, trying to protect their fallen friend.

Frodo, was left exposed.

Darting forwards, Rhosynel tried to reach him, only for two of the black robed figures to block her way, herding her backwards. Flashes of steel, sparks as her blades parried blow after blow. To her left, she could make out the three Hobbits faring similarly.

But Frodo was nowhere in sight.

The lead Nazgul lunged forwards, his blade out. And a scream filled the air.

She couldn’t see Frodo, but he was hurt.

“Down!” barked a familiar voice, and Rhosynel dropped.

Stone slammed into her chest, knocking the wind from her lungs, as right on cue, Strider leapt over her. A sword in one hand and lit torch in the other. He lashed out at the one that had lunged, forcing the Nazgul back. Again and again, he rained down blows, forcing them back.

A panicked yell had Rhosynel scrambling, darting across the ground in the direction of the Hobbits, even as a Nazgul slipped past Striders defence. Frodo, somehow returned to them, was sprawled out, Sam all but covering him, with Merry and Pippin rushing towards them.

The Nazgul reached for Sam, just as Rhosynel slammed into its side, forcing the fell creature away, in a desperate bid to protect the Hobbits. Lashing out with her blades, she forced it back another step, and then a third. The more space she could put between it and the Hobbits, the more chance they had to survive, regardless of what may happen to her. Twisting and whirling she drove the foul creature further and further away from the Hobbits, a veritable storm of blades through the air.

There was a whump of flames, and a flaming Nazgul barrelled past, screeching horrifically as it went.

And entirely throwing Rhosynel off her rhythm.

That one distraction cost her, and an armoured hand slammed into the side of her head. Thrown back, seeing stars, her arms lashed out, trying to find purchase to steady herself. Only to instead, meet open air. Her heel caught on a fallen stone, and Rhosynel tumbled backwards, through the open archway. For a brief moment, she became weightless.

And then gravity sank its talons in.

Rock slammed into her shoulders, ribs, and thighs, as she tumbled downwards, bouncing across rubble, stone, and gorse. Until finally, with a slam and a crunch, her momentum stopped.

The moon was annoyingly bright, Rhosynel decided. And inconsiderate too, glaring into her eyes in such a manner. She had a long ride ahead of her, and it was doing her no good to be shaken awake before the sun was yet up.

“—iss, wake—”

There was a nagging voice, barely legible to her sleep addled brain. Why would Rhymenel insist she wake before the sun? Her sister knew she needed to rest before travelling.

“Miss Rhosynel! Wake up!”

That, was not her sisters voice. It was also not Rhymenel’s face, unless her hair had been cut short and curly, and her eyes had become green, or she had become a Hobbit.

Hobbits.

She jolted upright, and then yelped at the motion. Her ribs, back, shoulders, head, arms, legs, everything, burned. Burned like hellfire. It felt like she’d been trampled by a horse, although she knew Gwaedal would never do such a thing. Even as she thought that, the memories came flooding back.

Nazgul.

Looking around frantically, her head swam in an alarming manner.

“She’s hurt!”

Some distant part of her recognised it as Pippin.

“I am not surprised,” an annoyingly familiar voice said, “it was quite a tumble she took.”

Strider had survived then.

But what of the others?

“Frodo? Sam? Merry?” she asked, throat grating with the words.

“Alive, for now,” Strider replied, pressing a waterskin into her hands, she drank what felt like half of it in one go. “I need you to watch them, while Sam and I seek out Athelas for Frodo’s wounds.”

“Athaaelas.” Her tongue felt thick in her mouth, but her brain was beginning to catch up. The word was both unfamiliar and familiar, a confusing combination in her dazed state.  “I’ll watch.”

“Good,” he clapped a hand on her shoulder making her hiss in pain. “Sorry.”

And then he was gone.

Blinking, she looked around slower. Trees, a forest then. Three large stones forming a small shelter between them. Where were they? And how had they gotten there? Rhosynel sincerely hoped Strider hadn’t carried her, she couldn’t deal with that right now.

She looked to Pippin in confusion.

“Some place called Trollshaw,” he said, understanding the unspoken question.

The stones did have a troll like quality to them.

Merry was crouched between them, hands clasping Frodo’s, who was sprawled out and groaning. Gingerly moving forwards, she settled alongside, testing his temperature with the back of her hand. Clammy, feverish, his eyes were beginning to glaze over. There was a nasty looking wound in his shoulder.

If Rhymenel was here, she’d know what to do. If Rhosynel’s head hadn’t felt like a horse had kicked it, she’d have been able to help. Instead, it was taking far too much energy to focus, and she could only provide some semblance of reassurance to Merry and Pippin.

They kept asking her questions, questions she didn’t know the answer to. The minutes crawled by, each one punctuated by a groan from Frodo.

So at the sound of horse hooves, she was quick to lurch to her feet, half expecting Gwaedal to appear. But no, he was picketed with Bill to one side. Instead, a bright grey horse appeared through the trees, its rider quickly leaping down from its back, accompanied by Strider a second behind them.

Rhosynel had travelled enough to recognise an elf when she saw one.

“Let her through,” Strider was quick to say, and Rhosynel shifted aside watching as both he and the female elf dropped to their knees either side of Frodo. Sam arrived with a hasty jog. Strider applied a crushed-up flower, while the elf woman spoke in lilting tones, her voice sounding musical in the elvish language.

They were arguing, even as Strider scooped up Frodo and moved towards the elvish horse. While Rhosynel didn’t know what was being said, she recognised the motions to leave. Drawing alongside Gwaedal, she pulled his reins on, and retightened his girth strap. Horses of Rohan were fast, not as swift as elvish ones, but strong, hardwearing. He would keep up.

“You mean to get Frodo away,” she interrupted an apparently heartfelt moment.

“Yes, my father can heal him,” the female elf said.

Rhosynel’s eyes strayed to Frodo propped up in front of her on the saddle.

“Then I’ll distract,” she said, hauling herself up onto Gwaedal’s back, head thundering with the motion.

“You are injured,” Strider protested, even as she checked her pack for her weapons, which had thankfully been collected. “You may not make it.”

“That is a Messenger’s peril.”

“Rhosyn! Here!” Merry’s voice cut through, and he rushed over, holding up a bundle to her. “I do not know if a decoy will work, but I thought…”

“We’ll try regardless,” Rhosynel replied, collecting what seemed to be a rolled up sleeping mat, which had been wrapped with his cloak to form the loose shape of a curled-up Hobbit. Wheeling Gwaedal around, she looked to the elf, already prepared to flee, and the dazed Frodo she clutched in place. “My lady, on your mark.”

There was no hesitation from the elvish woman, kicking her steed into a leaping canter. Gwaedal needed no encouragement, digging his hooves in and launching after the pale white horse. Behind, she heard Strider shout something, whether it was encouragement or disagreement, it was lost to the wind.

It was a testament to how badly her head hurt, that it took a minute to realise what the presence of the elf meant.

Rhosynel whistled, hearing an answering cry from above, and relief flooded her chest. “Ilmara,” she called, seeing the elf woman glance back briefly, “lead us safely!”

“A Limroval!?” she heard the other woman exclaim, and her horse seemed to surge forwards once more. “To Rivendell, Limroval! To my father!”

The screech Ilmara gave was confirmation enough, the goshawk shot ahead of the two riders, weaving deftly through the trees, leading the way, to safety. And the two riders vanished into the forest ahead.

Chapter Text

Thundering hooves, one pair light and swift, the other strong and steady. Two horses streaking through the forest and underbrush, weaving between trees, a goshawk soaring overhead. Rhosynel couldn’t help but be surprised in Gwaedal’s ability to keep up. While she had every faith in his abilities, this was an elvish horse they were following. Realistically, they should have lost sight of her long ago.

Admittedly that happened occasionally anyway, such was the nature of riding through the forest. The elf woman seemed familiar with this route, while Rhosynel was sticking to more open areas. But always within a few minutes of her disappearance, she’d ride across the trail further ahead, only to vanish again.

For Frodo’s sake, Rhosynel hoped the elf wasn’t slowing her headlong sprint.

It had been night when they set off, and now the sun was climbing steadily higher in the sky. Beating down on the back of Rhosynel’s neck, she could feel the sweat sliding through her hair, burning her eyes with its passing. She already ached, with a horrific headache threatening to split her skull, and ribs which felt as though they had been cracked. Perhaps following the elf had been a bad idea. But each time that thought crossed her mind, she’d catch a glimpse of Frodo.

He looked to be at deaths threshold.

So Rhosynel gritted her teeth, and kept up the breakneck pace. Even when every hoofbeat sent ripples of pain up her spine and set her teeth rattling. Yes, she was injured, but Frodo was dying, and she’d not let her slowness have a hand in his death.

High above, Ilmara gave a screech, dropping down to shoot past Rhosynel’s head.

“My lady!” she called out urgently.

There was the flicker of a white horse, through the trees to her left. “I hear them.”

“Follow Ilmara!”

There wasn’t chance to answer, as dark shapes crashed onto the path behind them. Risking a glance over her shoulder, Rhosynel tried, and failed, to count how many were on their tails. It felt like dozens, mounted on black horses, their black cloaks and robes streaming in the wind of their passage. She knew that there were nine at most, but her heart seized in fear, visions of an army bearing down on her.

Forcing herself to focus on the path ahead, Rhosynel noted that the elf had drawn up alongside. “When they reach us, split,” the elf was saying, bright eyes locked ahead. “I will head to the river; the power of my kin may aid me.”

“I’ll take the road north.” Hopefully she could keep ahead of the Nazgul for long enough to lose them. “Good luck.”

Screeches and shrill cries sounded behind them, accompanied by heavy snorts from their black steeds, foam frothing at the horses’ mouths. The heat of their breath was almost on her back.

The elf woman caught Rhosynel’s eye and gave a nod.

Without warning, the pair split, Rhosynel angling northwards, while the elf headed more south. Branches and leaves whipped past over Rhosynel’s head, scratching at her hair and cheeks. Crouched as low as she could over Gwaedal’s neck, she kept the bundle of false-Hobbit close to her chest, praying the deception would be enough.

Hoofbeats remained close behind.

Risking a glance, she was met by the sight of three Nazgul still on her tail.

three, out of nine.

Hopefully the elf and Frodo could manage with the other six. Hopefully they could reach the river and ford it before being captured or killed. Hopefully she herself, could reach the border of Rivendell, without meeting a similar fate. Hopefully Frodo wouldn’t die.

Rhosynel couldn’t tell how long she kept riding for, the sun slowly passed its zenith, and began its lazy descent. Ilmara had not returned, so she hoped that meant the elf was still alive. Gwaedal’s neck was covered in sweat, dripping with the exertion of the run. But he didn’t let up, clearly understanding the threat to both their lives.

But eventually, even a horse of Rohan, must tire.

Slowly, painfully slowly, the three Nazgul began to gain ground on her.

For a moment, Rhosynel battled with the debate on how to continue. She couldn’t give up the bundle too easily, or they’d know. But to take too long, would risk her own neck. She’d never been one for acting, the fear they could now sense was for herself and Gwaedal, not for the bundle of cloak. Should she take a stand, or just accept the loss and keep riding?

There was little chance to react, as one moment she was alone and the next a Nazgul was stretching out its armoured hand towards her. With a jerk of the reins, Gwaedal lunged to the left, managing to escape their clutches. But a moment later and a second Nazgul closed in from that side.

They were herding her.

With a glance over her shoulder, no Nazgul was in view, meaning the third was no doubt streaking ahead to cut her off. A hand reached out again, barely grazing the bundle, but not succeeding.

‘The next snatch,’ Rhosynel decided, tightening her grip on the reins. It was a risky plan, hopefully Gwaedal would manage.

Again, the armoured hand stretched, closer, closer, and then latched on.

To her arm.

Fuck.

There was no chance to think, no chance to react, no chance to do anything. With a wrench that jarred at her shoulder, Rhosynel was dragged from Gwaedal’s back, barely managing to keep a hold of the bundle in her arms. Her panicked scream rang true, truly afraid, truly terrified of what may happen next.

Slamming into the flank of the Nazgul’s horse, her weight threatened to pull them both to the ground. The Nazgul may be strong, but with only one hand to grip her, she was still heavy. Leaving it two choices; drop her or be dragged down as well.

The gauntlet released her.

Horse hooves scraped her legs as Rhosynel tumbled to the ground, head tucking down and arms coming up in a bid to protect her already battered head. The ground hurt, slamming into her back, and the momentum of the galloping horses sending her rolling over and over and over again. It took far too long to slow to a stop, far too long for the world to stop spinning her about like a ragdoll.

If she’d really been carrying Frodo he’d have been crushed by now.

With Gwaedal out of reach, and the Nazgul circling about to run her down, there was no chance to recover.

It hurt to lurch to her feet, it hurt to start running, but Rhosynel did both knowing the alternative would hurt far more. The road they’d been following curved northwards along the edge of the forest, the trees would be her best chance of survival. She just had to get there. Hooves thundered towards her, rapidly gaining ground even as she scrabbled to safety. The bundled-up roll in her arms would only slow her down…

Would they stop chasing her if she left it?

The decision was taken from her, reaching the edge of the looming forest, her foot slipped across gravel and dust. Both hands slammed into the earth, the bundle she’d been clinging to tumbled free. With hooves right on her tail there wasn’t chance to gather it up. If anything, it might delay the Nazgul. Scrambling on all fours, Rhosynel abandoned the ruse, and threw herself between the trunks. It took a second to get her feet under her once again, but she was quick to throw herself forwards.

Behind, there was a frustrated whinny, and the sound of hooves sliding.

The one glance back she dared risk, revealed the Nazgul already dismounted, snatching up the cloak and sleeping roll. The decoy falling apart with ease.

A furious screech filled the air spurring Rhosynel on like never before.

But, now she was free to evade, now she could use every trick in her arsenal to lose the Nazgul from her trail. She could loop, lie in wait, double back, and more. Eventually they would stop chasing her, and return to hunting Frodo and the elf, but until then, she could run.

Rhosynel prayed that they had made it to safety.

The forest was cool, the great boughs sheltering the floor and preventing the sun from blinding her. With every step Rhosynel took pain rippled up her spine and lanced through her head. Her lungs burned with every breath, and her eyes ached so terribly. But she couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop running, couldn’t stop to catch her breath, couldn’t slow her headlong race through the forest.

Not when two Nazgul had decided to continue pursuing her.

Despite the twisting and looping path she wove through the trees, she still struggled to lose their trail. No longer a mad dash, it became a game of cat and mouse, darting from one form of cover to the next, jerking away from the arrival of her hunters, leading them in a chase. If she could only break their eyeline with her for a few minutes, she could go to ground and remain hidden for as long as possible.

Even in her frenetic running, she’d noted a couple of places that may serve as hiding locations. A heap of deadwood would be easy to squeeze between, a rotting log would be possible to burrow beneath, a patch of dense brambles would screen her from view. The only problem was that if the Nazgul saw her approach those locations, they’d simply wait, or tear it apart in a bid to reach her.

Or would they lose interest?

She chose not to find out.

The sun dipped ever lower, until finally the world was plunged into the muted hues of twilight. Beneath the forests canopy the footing became treacherous, and Rhosynel’s dashes became shorter bursts of speed. She knew her feet, trusted the strength of her legs, instinctively knew when to shift her weight, how to time her strides, where to place her hand when vaulting across a fallen tree. The twisting forests were no different to the twisting streets of Minas Tirith, not really. But with darkness encroaching, her pace slowed, and with a slower pace came the pressing need to stop.

She needed to rest, needed to stop running even if but for a moment.

The pounding in her head was a constant warning of what may happen, should she lose focus even for a second.

With darkness came the difficulty of keeping an eye on the Nazgul, their black robes and black steeds became little more than shadows. Flickers of movement between the trunks, the sound of hooves, the snarling hisses from within deep hoods.

But she could use the same darkness to her own advantage. The mottled green cloak about her shoulders was tattered after her repeated tumbles, but it was more than enough to conceal her brown-gold hair, and the stark white of her tunic sleeves. Flinging it about her shoulders, between one footstep and the next, Rhosynel all but vanished from view.

It took a few minutes to confirm that the hasty adaptation had worked. No longer sprinting, she crept from one tree to the next, taking her time not to scuff her feet or break any twigs, Rhosynel dragged up every Ranger trick of the trade she’d long since left to disuse, and did her best to become part of the forest.

It seemed to work, the sound of her hunters became more distant, until eventually, she felt safe enough to slip into a bramble patch. Chest pressed to the loamy earth, the smell of leaf rot and plant grown filled her nose with every ragged breath she forced herself to take slowly.

By the Valar she hurt.

Twice, the Nazgul approached her hiding spot, during which she tucked her face down and concealed any flash of pale skin or clothing she had. And twice, the Nazgul passed her by.

How long she spent slowly sinking into the leaf litter, Rhosynel didn’t know. But night had well and truly fallen when a distant screech rent through the night. Within the forest she heard two sets of hooves, wheeling their horses about, and heading south.

Either the elf and Frodo had made it, or they had been caught.

Sheltered by the brambles, Rhosynel counted a thousand breaths, before she dared move. Stretching out one arm, then the other, her muscles and bones seemed to groan in protests, as she slowly dragged herself further and further out of the thicket. Surely it hadn’t been this deep when she’d entered? Or had the haze that clouded her mind made the brambles seem less dense?

Breaking free, it was difficult to push to her feet, but she managed, steadying herself on a trunk as she breathed deeply, and tried to get her bearings.

The trees hid any stars, which was a problem.

Starting to move, Rhosynel did her best to find a clearing, she just needed to locate the Swordsman’s belt, and then she could orientate herself within the world. Usually she had a good grasp of where north was, and as such could figure out where to head, but with the two falls, the constant doubling back, and the morbid game of cat and mouse, her sense of direction had been neatly ruined.

A space in the canopy revealed itself, almost in time with the sound of hooves.

It wasn’t a conscious decision to press herself to a tree, but that was where Rhosynel found herself, back flat to the bark, eyes straining to see through the darkness. There, a dark shape shifted through the trees, moving slowly, pausing and tossing its head with a jangle of reins. Had the Nazgul’s departure been a ruse?

The horse stopped, head lifting and looking about, a white snip on its nose gleaming in the dark.

“Gwaedal?”

Her hoarse voice shattered the quiet of the night and was immediately answered by a nicker in greeting. Without the need for command, Gwaedal headed in her direction, his pace picking up as he caught sight of her, and all but pinning her to the tree as his head met her shoulder.

“Ow, ow, hello,” Rhosynel greeted, running her hands across his neck.

He was damp, but was it from sweat, or blood? She needed to get him to safety, she needed to reach Rivendell. Smoothing her hands across his shoulders, more dampness met her fingers, the saddle had been dragged into an uncomfortable angle, and upon inspection it seemed his bridle had broken, but he was alive.

It took a moment to haul herself up onto his back, turning her head skywards.

There, through the canopy, glinted the Swordman’s belt. With the chain of three stars in view, Rhosynel was able to turn Gwaedal east, and nudged him into a lazy walk. She couldn’t risk pushing him too fast, not when she didn’t know the extent of his injuries.

The only problem with the slow pace, was her own tiredness.

“Do you, remember Rivendell?” she asked the horse, voice barely above a whisper. “We visited with Mentor Malion, eight, maybe nine years ago?”

It had been early on in her training, the missive from Gondor to Lord Elrond had been an opportunity for Malion to show her the routes to the west of the Misty Mountains. The brief visit to the Last Homely House had been during mid-summer, and the sun had burned the back of her neck a shocking shade of red. But while Malion had delivered the missive, some aids had remained with Rhosynel and their horses, giving her a salve to smear across her burnt skin. Within a day the redness had faded, and after two, it was gone.

Rhymenel had been fascinated by the salve once Rhosynel returned home, and attempted to recreate the concoction, with mixed results. True she’d managed to create something to sooth burns from the sun, but hers smelt foul and looked horrific, but it had its uses.

Spilling out from the forest, the pair found themselves on the road once again, and Gwaedal turned south, plodding along steadily. The rhythm of his hooves, the gentle light of the stars, the quiet of the wilds. The calm contrasted strongly with her previous flight through the woods, soothing, encouraging her to relax.

“Remember the valley, Gwaedal?” Rhosynel forced herself to ask, as her head dipped in exhaustion. “Remember the green of the trees, with their leaves sheltering you from the sun? The sweetness of the apples they fed you?”

Gwaedal was a horse, and she very much doubted he’d remember, but at least it was keeping her awake… somewhat.

His head was hanging low, as he plodded along, he needed to rest, and so did she. Her vision was all but flickering, sparks of light seemed to dance across her eyes, pulsing in time with her heartbeat and the pounding in her skull.

Regardless of what had happened to Frodo, she needed to reach Rivendell.

The edge of the forest soon gave way to rolling moors. Allowing Gwaedal to choose his own way, she focused on remaining upright, and scanning the horizon for danger. It was getting too dark, either she needed to find Rivendell, or she needed to find shelter. She was almost afraid to sleep, the pounding in her head posed a threat. If Rhymenel was here, she’d have known what to do, but Rhosynel could barely focus on anything, let alone try to recall healing remedies.

“I said, who goes there?”

The impatient and alarmed voice cut through her mind, the tone suggesting it wasn’t the first, or even second, time they had asked.

“Messenger, Rhosynel,” she replied automatically, forcing herself to blink and look around. It still took two tries to find and look at the guard. An elf of undetermined gender, on their own horse, spear levelled at her chest, moonlight glinting off their amour.

How long had she been sat there staring blankly at them?

“Did, did the Hobbit make it?” she struggled to say.

The spear lowered. “Ah, you rode with the Lady,” they said, “she feared you had fallen.”

“I’m gonna, if I don’t ssstop soon.”

Her words felt slurred, thick in her mouth, as though she hadn’t chewed enough before speaking.

“Berion, watch the gate, I’ll escort her,” the elf said, looking past her.

The revelation that there was another elf behind her would have usually been alarming, but she couldn’t find the energy to care, or to look back. Instead, she nudged Gwaedal for hopefully the last time that night and began to follow the guard. They didn’t ride ahead of her, but stayed somewhat level, even as the path narrowed between rockfaces and cliffsides.

It took far too long for Rhosynel to realise they’d reached out and were lightly holding her elbow. Not restraining, but stabilising her.

Down the path, the dark obscuring the route as well as the view, the sound of water, leaves rustling in the breeze, the occasional hoot of an owl. It sounded peaceful, it sounded safe.

“Lady Rhosynel?”

It was an effort to lift her head. Small lights hung from the trees, barely illuminating a courtyard of some description. The guard, she really must learn their name, was now stood by Gwaedal, both arms lifted, one on her knee, the other her elbow.

“Lean towards me, easy now.”

Oh, she was in Rivendell.

At that realisation, her body seemed to crumple inwards, and she slid to one side. There were exclamations from others she’d not seen, and then several pairs of hands were lowering her to the floor. Someone touching her forehead, another calling out for something in elvish, rushing footsteps.

Blinking, she gazed up at the star-studded sky.

“Frodo?” she asked, getting a confused look from those closest. “The Hobbit?”

“He is being seen to by Lord Elrond,” someone explained. “Lady Arwen was able to get him across the ford just in time.”

“Help me upright.”

There was the sound of protests, and even some hands trying to hold her down, but she managed to bat them clumsily away, and eventually dragged herself upright. Doubling over, she pulled a strip of parchment, and her charcoal free of her hip bag, scribbling out a missive in what was possibly the worst handwriting she’d ever had.

“Ilmara!”

There was a faint cry of a raptor, and she automatically lifted her arm, almost knocking a bowl of water from someone’s hands as she did. A flurry of feathers and wings, a few startled gasps, and Ilmara landed on her shaky arm. It took three tries to slot the parchment into the pouch.

“To Strider,” Rhosynel instructed the attentive goshawk, “lead them here.”

Another flurry of wings, as she launched skywards.

Slumping over again, she had the brief sensation of being dragged, until her back rested against the edge of a bench. Someone helped her drink, the familiar flavour of willow bark tea, and then someone carefully sponged at her face. It smelt like plain water but stung like alcohol on cuts. She let them tend to her, let them fuss and worry at her chapped lips, scuffed skin, and deep bruises.

All while staring across the courtyard, and the narrow bridge that led the way into Rivendell. She would wait, wait for Strider, Merry, Pippin, and Sam. She would wait for them to arrive.

And then she would sleep.

True to her word, Rhosynel did not sleep, although it repeatedly tried to draw her into its welcoming depths. Her head would loll, her shoulders relaxed, and she’d slump slightly, before jolting upright with a start. Over and over, sleep tried, and failed, to claim her.

It was however, a bit of a surprise to jolt upwards once more, and realise the sun had risen.

The courtyard was near empty, only a pair of guards stationed to either side of the bridge, looking away thankfully, and a pair of legs, sat on the bench alongside her. It took a few more minutes to realise she was sat on the ground, a blanket wrapped around her, and a cushion lying on the floor next to her. Moving even just her neck was painful, giving a click and groan of protest. Eventually the figure came into view, the guard from the other night. They were sat somewhat casually, helm on the seat next to them, elbows resting on their knees, head propped up on a fist. Eyes distant and glassy.

“What time is it?” she croaked, one hand coming free from the blankets to rub her eyes.

There was an almighty jolt of surprise, and clank of armour, from the guard alongside her. She realised, belatedly, that they may have been sleeping, in the elven fashion. The look they gave her wasn’t angry, mostly surprised, and somewhat wary.

“An hour, after sunrise,” they said slowly, with a slight shake of the head. “How do you feel?”

A heavy question, one that made her pause and try to take stock of her body.

“Painful.”

Accurate, if not very descriptive.

“Lady Arwen came by to check on you, but you were… dozing,” they said, apparently deciding her answer was enough. “She said the pair of you rode from Trollshaw?”

Lady Arwen… Rhosynel hadn’t realised that the elven woman was Lord Elrond’s daughter. Would it have changed anything if she had known? Probably not, if anything she would have been more insistent about joining her and Frodo.

“Trollshaw, yeah. Before she reached us, we were at Weathertop.”

“That is… a few days ride from here,” the guard said slowly.

A few days? She’d only thought they’d ridden for a day, maybe two at the most, but with how unfocused she was and how battered her body was, it could have easily blurred together. “Maybe, for a normal horse,” Rhosynel said, trying to brush it away, “Gwaedal is from Rohan.”

Moving stiffly, she untangled herself from the blanket, and with much protesting of joints, stretching of muscles, and grumblings under her breath, hoisted herself up and onto the bench alongside the guard.

“What’s your name?”

“Callondir.”

“Thank you, for stopping me from falling off Gwaedal,” she said.

“I… I mean you did,” they replied, looking at her in confusion and concern. “That was very much a thing which happened, right here.” A gesture at the courtyard.

“I meant up there.” It was her turn to gesture, upwards towards the cliff path. “And I distinctly recall you telling me to lean towards you.”

For a long moment Callondir said nothing, looking at her in utter confusion, the most perplexed expression on their face. And then finally, they spoke again, slowly, clearly, and toeing the line between patronising or concerned.

“You leant the wrong way.”

There was no good answer to that, Rhosynel couldn’t remember than happening, and decided promptly that she could go without recalling it. So instead, she fell silent, eyes returning to the cliffside path once more. Trying to ignore the fact her cheeks were burning in embarrassment.

It took a moment, but eventually Callondir turned way with a huff of supressed laughter.

For a while, the pair sat alongside one another in silence, watching the leaves gliding through the air, tumbling with grace and motion she could only wish to match. Golds, yellows, oranges and crimsons, the colours of autumn swirled across the courtyard, kicked up by small gusts of wind.

Somewhere in the distance, a harp was being played, a soothing melody.

“Do you plan on remaining here until Strider and the Hobbits return?” Callondir asked abruptly. “Or shall I have a maid show you to a room?”

“I’d rather wait,” she was quick to reply, she couldn’t rest until she knew they were safe.

All of them.

They nodded, more to themself than her, and rose fluidly to their feet. “I’ll have some food sent out to you,” Callondir said, collecting their helm. “If you do require anything, just ask.”

“Alright, thank you, again.”

With a polite nod, they were turning and heading into the buildings behind her. Turning her neck proved to be too painful, so she was content to just let them leave without tracking their progress.

Should she seek out Frodo? Should she enquire into his wellbeing? The others would want to know the moment they arrived.

The next time a maid came by with more willow bark tea, she asked after the young Hobbit, and was told that Elrond was still tending to him. A lengthy recovery was in progress it seemed, how long would it be until Frodo recovered? Would he recover?

Rhosynel pushed the thought from her mind with a harsh shove.

He would survive, she was sure of it, she couldn’t cope with the alternative, no matter how briefly she’d known the Hobbit. He had to survive, she couldn’t bare to think the efforts to save him had been in vain, couldn’t bare to have the weight of his death on her shoulders.

The hours crawled by, time seeming to slow within the valley, leaves falling in slow motion, those passing her bench almost gliding. It would be very easy to lose track of time in a place like this, had she been here a day? Or six? It couldn’t have been that long, Strider would arrive shortly, with Merry, Pippin, and Sam in tow.

Rhosynel kept waiting. Waiting, and waiting.

Once more the sun set, and once more fitful sleep claimed her against her wishes. It didn’t last long, being jolted awake by an achingly familiar screech.

Ilmara!

Her hawk landed on her knee without bidding, shuffling closer and pressing herself against Rhosynel’s stomach. A new missive, written in reply on the back of the one she sent. Strider’s handwriting was surprisingly neat, considering he seemed allergic to civilisation, reassurance that they were making good progress, and would arrive soon. Dutifully, she passed on the good news to the next maid, who took it to Lord Elrond with any luck.

Dawn soon crept across the valley, joined by a minor commotion. A guard rushing down the cliff path, and into the courtyard. Instantly she was on her feet, but they shot past with little interest in her, but she recognised the haste of a messenger. She could feel it in her chest, Strider and the others weren’t far off.

As predicted, a small group gathered at the courtyard, unfamiliar elves, maids and aids, and a familiar face amongst them.

Lady Arwen was quick to approach Rhosynel and Ilmara, now on her shoulder. “They are on the border,” she greeted without preamble, and paused, one hand coming up to lightly touch Rhosynel’s temple. “Why have you not had this seen to?”

“My lady,” Rhosynel started formally, only for the title to be wafted away with an elegant hand, “I haven’t even slept yet, let alone seen to myself.”

The concerned expression on Arwen’s featured dropped into one of disappointment, making Rhosynel feel like a scolded child.

“I will once they arrive, and I know they’re safe,” she continued quickly, mainly to dispel the elf’s concerns or demands. “I wouldn’t be a good Messenger if I didn’t make sure my deliveries arrived,” she added wryly.

That got a laugh, light and airy, a startling change to the events of the past few days. Arwen patted her arm gently, as her attention returned to the bridge and path beyond.

Within the hour, a guard appeared, leading Strider, and three smaller figures, along with a pony, down the switch back. Beside her, she felt Arwen let loose an anxious breath, and move forwards, fingers digging into Rhosynel’s arm as she was pulled along in her wake.

“Estel,” Arwen called out in relief, and Rhosynel could only watch in disbelief as Strider rushed forwards to Arwen’s outstretched arms.

“Miss Rhosyn!” Smaller voices exclaimed, and her legs were slammed into by Merry, Pippin, and a bleated moment later, Sam joined them.

“You made it, you made it,” Rhosynel found herself repeating, sinking into a crouch to hug them better. “I was so worried. Frodo is being seen to by Lord Elrond, I haven’t seen him myself, but I’m sure the Lord will let us know when he is out of danger,” she explained swiftly, seeing Sam’s eyes searching the crowd. “Are the three of you well?”

“Oh we’re fine,” Merry replied easily.

“Strider wouldn’t let us stop other than to sleep,” Pippin was quick to lament. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to eat lunch while running?”

She did, and it wasn’t easy, let alone for Hobbit so passionate about good meals.

“Nothing more than bruises for us, miss,” Sam said, with a firm nod, no matter how his worried eyes continued to scan the elves and the courtyard, clearly seeking out his friend. “If, if you’ve not seen Mr. Frodo, how do you know he’s okay?”

Rhosynel didn’t have an answer for that, but thankfully someone else did.

“My father is doing everything he can to aid Frodo,” Arwen’s voice said from above the three Hobbits and crouched Rhosynel. “He’s a healer, and has been drawing out the poison of the wound. But come, let me find you all some rooms to rest and recover in.”

Rhosynel didn’t miss the pointed look that was thrown her way. Rising to her feet, and feeling her thighs burn in protest, she began following the Hobbits, who were flocking in Arwen’s wake, peppering the Lady with a dozen questions already. Questions about Frodo, about her father, about the flight to Rivendell, about the valley itself. The elf seemed more than happy to answer their questions, gesturing to things and places of interest as they walked.

“How do your fare?” a familiar voice asked from by her side. Strider, pacing alongside her elbow, eyes scanning her face in concern. “Have you slept?”

“Does it look it?”

There was the faintest trace of a smile to his face, either amused, or holding back a comment on her appearance. Either way she was tired of people fretting over her and had half a mind to tell him off for worrying, she didn’t need him scoldin—

“You did well.” His words promptly knocked those thoughts from her mind. “Arwen said you kept up, and even lead a few away from her, at great risk to yourself. Thank you.”

“I…” Blinking, she tried and failed to find the appropriate words to say. “Of course.”

For a moment she thought he was going to clap her on the shoulder again, but instead he pressed one hand over his heart with an inclination of his head, and abruptly turned off down a corridor. More dazed and confused than ever before, Rhosynel trailed after Arwen and the three Hobbits, towards what was hopefully a soft bed.

Chapter Text

Darkness whipped about her, streaming like smoke. Wind lashing through her hair, yanking at her cloak and tabard, fingers snatching and grasping at whatever they could reach. The force of the wind made her eyes stream, burned her cheeks and nose, forced to screw her eyes up, she tried to raise her hand and provide some sort of relief.

The motion sent her tumbling, and with a horrified lurch, Rhosynel realised she wasn’t facing a storm, but falling through one.

A scream of panic forced its way from her throat but was snatched away just as quickly by the invisible talons of wind. It clawed at her, dragging her downwards with such speed she felt as though her skin was being flayed from her bones. Through the storm clouds Rhosynel tumbled, throwing her arms out in a bid to regain some semblance of control. For a brief moment, her spinning slowed, allowing her a hasty glance around.

Below, far below in the roiling clouds, was a slight glimmer of gold.

But there was no chance to recognise what it was, as a new gust of wind slammed into her side, flipping her over and renewing the tumbling fall. Something whizzed past her, almost catching on her shoulder. Another, and another.

Branches.

Trees.

Rhosynel screamed in terror, in response the ground rushed up to meet her headlong fall and she threw her hands up to protect her face as th—

“MISS RHOSYN!”

With a lurch and strangled yelp, she jolted upright, shoving herself backwards and almost toppling from the bed.

“Miss Rhosyn, Rhos, it’s us!”

The terrified expressions of Merry filled her vision, he was kneeling on the bed, hands outstretched towards her, while Pippin was on the floor, as though he’d been knocked back by her motions. A second later and the door was flung open, a harried serving elf already demanding to know what was going on.

“A nightmare,” Pippin said, from his seat on the floor. “She was screaming.”

Clutching her chest, Rhosynel tried to slow her breathing, the pounding of her heart was clawing its way up her throat, leaving her feeling sick and lightheaded. The aching in her temple and ribs pulsed in time with her heart, sending flecks of light dancing across her vision, and sparkles flickering through her chest.

“I’m okay,” she managed to gasp. “I’m okay.”

“No offence miss, but I don’t think you are,” Merry said pointedly.

“Nightmare, just a nightmare.” She looked to the elf, holding up an apologetic hand, and then quickly lowered it when she saw how much it shook. “I’m fine, or I will be. Sorry.”

For a brief moment she though the maid was going to refuse to leave, but then she nodded. “I’ll bring you all some tea.”

“Thank you.”

The door was already closing.

“Pippin, did I hurt you?” she asked, leaning over the side of the bed to help him up.

“No I’m fine.”

“Damn near smacked him in the face, you did,” Merry replied tartly, sitting back on his heels now that Rhosynel wasn’t as frantic. “What was all that about?”

“Nightmare.”

“Clearly.”

For someone so small, he held a lot of sarcasm. Apparently the short answer wasn’t enough for him.

“I was falling from Weathertop, again.”

It was the closest thing to the truth, she was falling, and it was night. But the fall had been too long, far too long to be Weathertop. She couldn’t remember how she came to be falling, only that she was plummeting though a storm. Her chest tightened.

“Nasty business, that,” Pippin commented, settling alongside Merry. “We thought you were dead, when we reached you.”

Wrinkling her nose, Rhosynel tried not to imagine how that must have felt.

“But Strider seemed convinced you were still kicking, hoisted you up onto your horse, and off we went.” The younger Hobbit was continuing easily enough. “It was the funniest thing, you’re dead to the world, but instantly gripped onto his mane, and rode well enough. Although we did stick Merry on with you, just to keep you steady.”

“Pippin,” Merry said warningly.

“Thank you, Merry,” Rhosynel said to Merry, trying to put an end to Pippin’s chattering. Although her shakes had subsided due to the distraction. “I’m sorry for waking you two.”

The shrugs they gave suggested it was understandable, their rooms were alongside her own, with Sam’s slightly further along. But apparently, he was able to sleep through the sounds of screaming. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.

They had been in Rivendell for three days since the Hobbits and Strider’s return. Frodo was out of danger, Elrond had done all he could, and now it was up to Frodo to sleep the injury off. While Rhosynel also had been able to bathe, have her wounds seen to, seen to Gwaedal and the myriad of small nicks and cuts he’d collected, and then she slept the sleep of the dead. But finally, the trauma of the past week was catching up.

A soft knock at the door heralded the arrival of hot soothing tea, and the three sat in near silence, without even Pippin’s chattering, sipping at the fragrant liquid. It smelled like the start of a summer storm, the freshness before the rain fell and the thunder rumbled. The scent of the open road with a cool breeze sweeping through. Rhosynel had no doubt the two were suffering with their own disturbed sleep, but at least they weren’t waking and apparently attacking others.

“You sure you’re okay?” Merry asked several minutes later. His concern was touching.

“Other than being battered and bruised, yes, I think so.”

And it was true, she was only battered and bruised. Her neck while sore was still working, and her collection of bruises were aching but not dangerous. Perhaps the scrapes and minor cuts could have been worrying, if it wasn’t for the salve that she was plied with to keep the injuries free of infection and inflammation. The only true thing of concern, was the gash to her temple, extending from her left eyebrow, back somewhat into her hairline, and ending above her ear, and a single cracked rib. But the healers had taken a good look and patched her up best they could. It wasn’t the worst injured she’d ever had, and while it would leave a scar, she already had enough of them to be unbothered by a new one.

“I’ll be fine, although the dreams may continue for a few days,” she added, seeing their sceptical looks. “You may find yourself waking too.”

“Oh I already have,” Pippin replied, downing his drink casually.

“If it bothers you, you can come wake me, I won’t mind,” Rhosynel offered, taking a sip.

“And get clouted again? No thanks!”

Her snort almost sprayed the bedsheets with tea.

Rivendell was as quiet and beautiful as she remembered, even her brief visit so many years ago had left an impact, and it was almost a relief to find it unchanged. The world was harsh, but within this hidden valley, a peace washed over her each morning.

A gown had been lent to her while her clothes were cleaned, and while not something she’d usually wear, it was pleasant, soft, silky, and moving like liquid. A soft stormy grey. It gave her the illusion of being elegant, something she’d only experienced a few times before now.

The hem of the gown swept across the flagstones as she wondered from garden, to corridor, to garden again. Each view took her breath away, plunging waterfalls, still lakes, flowering shrubs despite it being autumn, and the colours of leaves changing before winter. Even the buildings held such beauty she often found herself standing and studying them, following their sweeping curves, the twisting carvings, the ornate rooftops.

Rhosynel could almost imagine living there, but whenever that thought crossed her mind, her heart would lurch anxiously, unwilling to settle.

It was beautiful, but she longed to set off once more.

Ilmara frequently settled on her shoulder, sharp claws light and careful against her skin, feathers fluffed up and doing a good job of warming her neck and ear on that side. It seemed the Limroval needed the rest too, only feeling comfortable by Rhosynel’s side.

She made no move to dissuade her.

So when Ilmara abruptly took flight, Rhosynel was quick to follow her flitting path through the corridors and gardens. It was a surprise to find herself at the entrance courtyard, stood up on the steps, watching as a small group made their way into Rivendell.

Elves.

But not of Rivendell, no she recognised those colourations, their clothing more greens and muted browns rather than the rich browns, reds, and oranges of Rivendell. Blond or red hair, rather than the darks she was currently surrounded by.

Mirkwood elves.

Even as she watched, Ilmara reached their leader, and landed on their outstretched arm.

“Unexpected,” an unfamiliar voice said from by her shoulder. “I did not expect visitors from Thranduil’s domain.”

With a slight jolt, Rhosynel twisted about to find Lord Elrond gazing pensively towards the elves of Mirkwood. “My lord,” she managed to say through her surprise with a slight bow. “Apologies for not meeting with you sooner.”

He stood tall, easily dwarfing her, wearing a rich brown robe, topped with a thick cloak to ward off the slight chill in the air. His dark hair fell in shining waves, and his eyes were fixed on the descending Mirkwood folk.

“No need,” he said, with a gentle hand raise, stilling her words in her throat with an absent glance to her. “Ilmara introduced herself well enough, and by extension, you. Although she seems more interested in them, currently.”

“She was born in Mirkwood.”

“Then she knows them as kin.” And with that odd statement, he began to approach the now dismounting visitors.

Despite trepidation in approaching uninvited, Rhosynel very much wanted to reclaim Ilmara, so hastened along in Lord’s shadow.

“Legolas,” Lord Elrond greeted warmly. “To what, do I owe this pleasure?”

It was an effort not to step on the hem of her borrowed gown, head snapping up and staring towards the group of elves that had approached. Now Rhosynel was closer, it was unmistakably the prince. Long blond hair held back with simple braids, shockingly blue eyes, and finely made travelling clothes. And, for now, Ilmara perched on his raised arm.

“Lord Elrond,” Legolas greeted with an inclination of his head. “My apologies for the unexpected visit, my father sent me. I was not aware you’d acquired a Limroval since my last visit?”

“She’s mine, your highness,” Rhosynel interjected, somewhat awkwardly.

For a brief, alarming moment, she became the sole focus of all the elves gathered there. Each of them sizing up the human who wore elvish clothes, knew who the prince of Mirkwood was, with a nasty gash on her temple, and a black eye to boot. To claim ownership of a Limroval, was quite a statement, and hopefully one they’d not contest.

The smile that spread across the prince’s face suggested he –unfortunately– remembered who she was. “Rhosynel,” he greeted with another inclination of his head, “I should have guessed, considering all of our Limroval are accounted for.”

In other words, every other Limroval in Middle Earth, since as far as Rhosynel was aware, she was the only human to currently care for one. Ilmara was the sole bird not to be within Mirkwood or the elves possession, something she had no doubt chaffed on them at time.

Lord Elrond was looking at her, she tried to ignore the assessing gaze boring into the side of her skull.

“Although currently she seems to prefer me,” Legolas added, looking back to Ilmara with a smile. The goshawk certainly seemed content, which meant Rhosynel’s intention to collect Ilmara and leave the lords to their discussion, wasn’t going well. “Perhaps I smell of home.”

And then the prince extended his arm, with a word in Sindarin, Ilmara was quick to leap the gap between the pair and settled once again on Rhosynel’s shoulder. With a murmur of thanks, she was quick to scoot back, away from whatever discussion the lord and prince were to have. But not without sketching a hasty bow first.

She didn’t get far, as her name was called.

“There were dwarves, just behind Legolas’s group apparently,” Elrond continued once she paused her retreat. “Would you be able to send Ilmara out to them, to find out their intentions?”

“Of course,” she replied without hesitation, “I’ll draft a missive and bring it to your study to check, before sending it?” she offered quickly.

“That would be good, thank you.”

And with that dismissal, Rhosynel hastened away before she could be scrutinised any more by the other elves behind the prince who were watching her curiously.

It took all of fifteen minutes to draft a quick missive, short and to the point, as she knew dwarves preferred to be. All it asked, was who they were, what business they had at Rivendell, and if they would like to be escorted to the hidden entrance.

Taking the scrap of parchment, and Ilmara now wearing her harness once more, she reached the doorway to the study.

“—escape of this creature is not ideal,” Elrond’s voice was saying.

“Our best trackers are attempting to find his trail, but we are stretc—”

Rhosynel knocked on the doorway before she could hear any more and entered on Elrond’s command. “The missive, Lord Elrond,” she said quickly and as professionally as she could manage. He and Legolas were both stood by the balcony, and she stood uncomfortably alongside as Elrond scanned the writing with sharp eyes.

“A little blunt, but I suppose that’s their style,” he said eventually. “Very well, send it out, and please bring me the response once it arrives.”

“Of course, my lord,” she replied, rolling it single handedly and slotting the parchment into Ilmara’s harness. With a chunk of meat, and stroke of her chest, she was off through the balcony’s arches, and winging her way in the direction of ‘dwarves’.

Not the best directional command, but she was smart enough.

Following the lead of the Limroval, Rhosynel was quick to sketch yet another bow instead of a curtsy, and escape though the door to the office. Whatever the elves were discussing was nothing to do with her, and she was quick to push the words she’d heard from her mind.

“Miss Rhosyn! Miss!”

Dragging her eyes up from the pages of her sketch journal, Rhosynel watched with some entertainment as Merry and Pippin all but tumbled over one another in their haste to cross the courtyard to her side. It was a small miracle that they managed to stop before crashing into the stone bench she was settled crossed legged on, but manage it they did.

“Can I… help you?” she asked with an amused smile.

If the pair weren’t spending time with Sam, or checking in on the still unconscious Frodo, then they were getting underfoot about the entirety of Rivendell. Rhosynel had soon lost track of the startled exclamations she heard from various locations, not to mention the sheer number of times they’d snuck up and startled her.

To actually be warned of their imminent arrival was a nice change.

“There’s a new human!” Merry hastily explained, while Pippin took the journal out of her hands and started packing it and the charcoal away –but not before oohing over the sketch of the buildings– and wrapping the leather string about it to keep it closed. “Come see, come see! You can tell us who he is!”

“I don’t know every man, woman and child, thank you,” Rhosynel replied, even as her hands were grabbed, and she was somewhat gently yanked along with the pair. “What makes you think I do?”

“Well you might not know him-him,” Pippin replied, hands landing on her back to push her along faster, prompting Rhosynel to gather her borrowed skirts in one hand least she snag the hem and trip. “But maybe you know someone that knows of him?”

“That’s not how it works.”

“Sure it is! We can’t go anywhere in the Shire without bumping into someone that knows someone that knows us!”

Merry’s reply was cheerful enough that she didn’t have the heart to suggest that was because the Shire was considerably smaller than Gondor. The strong likelihood was that this human was from the local area, perhaps a North Man, or someone from Bree that sought out Lord Elrond’s assistance in healing. But for her to know of them? It was very unlikely.

Regardless, she put up no resistance to the pair dragging her along, knowing that to do so, would just result in them dragging the poor man over to meet her instead. And that would be far more awkward. No, it was best to comply, dutifully admit she had no idea who this person was, and then be reluctantly left to her own devices until they’d interrogated the man enough to learn about him. And, she had to admit, she was a little curious as to who this new human was too. Thankfully it didn’t take long to be steered in the right direction, but Rhosynel hadn’t quite expected the pair to plant their hands in the small of her back and shove her into corridor ahead.

The sound of tearing fabric was loud, as her boot caught in the hem of her borrowed dress.

It was only through the swiftness of her feet, that Rhosynel managed to turn the fall into a stumble. A stumble that came to a sharp end as something collided with her stomach. With the breath driven from her lungs and pain sparking from her ribs, it took her a moment to process what had just happened.

There was an arm, hooked about her waist, an arm that had prevented her fall, an arm which was very much attached to a human man. Jolting, her eyes snapped to the man’s face –and then had to lift a few more inches higher– only to freeze in alarm.

Rhosynel knew that face.

For a brief heart stopping moment of confusion, she thought Captain Faramir had come to Rivendell. But then she blinked, and the details came into focus. Older, more weather worn, taller. Dark hair falling to just above the collar of his fine tunic, a short close-cropped beard adorned his chin, while his furrowed brows shadowed dark grey eyes. Eyes that were currently scanning her face with something worryingly akin to concern, especially as they landed at the stitched cut across her brow and temple, widening slightly in alarm.

A black surcoat reached his ankles, vibrant red tunic painstakingly embroidered with gold, and fine cloak lined with fur about his shoulders. While a large round shield hung at his back, accompanied by longsword, and a familiar horn resting at his hip. All of him, from his skin to his hair to his finely made clothing, was weather worn and travel beaten. But it would take more than rough travel to render him unfamiliar.

Why, for all the gold in Erebor, was Lord Boromir son of Denethor, in Rivendell?

“Are you alright, my lady?” he asked.

Captain Boromir’s voice was deeper than she remembered, not that she’d spent much time talking to him. But at his voice, Rhosynel’s senses snapped back into her body. With little more than a jolt, she straightened up, backing off in alarm. His head tilted, clearly confused by her behaviour. Did he recognise her? Did he know who she was?

Of course not.

Why would he expect to see the Stablemaster’s daughter turned-Ranger-turned-Messenger in Rivendell of all places? Why should she expect to see Boromir in Rivendell of all place—oh son of an orc, she’d overheard Faramir say his brother had set off, within the same conversation of Imaldris being mentioned. But apparently connecting the dots was far beyond Rhosynel’s intelligence at that moment. Had Boromir already set off by the time she was called to that meeting? How in Bema’s name had she missed him on the road?

Not that she would have wanted to spend a month travelling with him.

“My lady…?”

Oh by the Valar she’d just been staring at him blankly.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she blurted.

With all of the very little grace she could muster, Rhosynel dipped a hasty curtsy. And promptly bolted.

“Wait, do I know y—”

Whatever he said was lost to Rhosynel as she rounded a corner and broke into an outright sprint, flashing past the two –now three– Hobbits that had been lying in wait for her to report back.

It was possibly an overreaction, but she’d only encountered the Captain a handful of time back in Minas Tirith and hadn’t particularly enjoyed any of them. Usually, he’d been towed along to whatever Ranger business Faramir was seeing to, and had either a bored expression or a disgruntled frown on his face. She’d kept well clear of him, too intimidated to do otherwise.

And now she’d made a stunning impression by running away from him.

If he ever figured out who she was, she’d be thoroughly reprimanded. And then he’d tell Faramir the moment he returned to Minas Tirith. She couldn’t decide if Faramir would find it hilarious or not. Hopefully her old Captain would see the humour in it.

Hopefully.

It was that afternoon that Ilmara returned from seeking the dwarves, although ‘returned’ was possibly a little hasty, due the fact that Rhosynel hadn’t actually seen her yet. Or at least Rhosynel assumed it was her calling from above the valley, rather than some random buzzard. She could barely make out Ilmara’s shape through the canopy of golden leaves obscuring her view of the sky.

Letting out a shrill whistle, she heard Ilmara reply, sounding like she was coasting overhead. Was she having trouble finding the valley through whatever glamours shielded it from view or was she just having trouble spotting Rhosynel below the trees? Heading towards a more open area, she whistled yet again, hearing a louder cry in response.

“Who is he then?” Pippin asked, trailing along in her footsteps.

“A Lord, of Gondor,” Rhosynel answered shortly, not taking her eyes off the sky, as she gave another swift whistle.

“So you did know him!”

Merry sounded like he was accusing her of lying, which was a little presumptuous, but not inaccurate. She just didn’t expect to know the human man, it was through sheer fluke alone that she did.

Rhosynel’s head was still spinning in alarm.

“Well what do you know about him then, miss?” Sam asked.

Rhosynel wasn’t entirely sure as to when he’d turned up, no doubt when she was busy making a fool of herself. Reaching the more open courtyard, Rhosynel shielded her eyes from the autumn sun, and gave a long loud whistle.

Finally, finally, Ilmara all but dropped out of the sky, and Rhosynel barely lifted her arm in time to provide a place for her to land.

“He’s… the brother of my previous employer,” Rhosynel answered finally, smoothing her fingers across Ilmara’s chest with quiet praise. “I rarely had reason to speak with him. His being here… is a surprise.”

“It looked it, you ran away like a cat with its tail on fire!”

The withering look she gave Pippin did little to wipe the grin from his face.

She’d done her best to keep her head down after the Hobbits had humiliated her, but with Ilmara calling, she’d been forced to abandon her hidey-hole, and seek out the Limroval. Lord Elrond was expecting a response from the dwarves, and it seemed to have returned. And so, she was subjected to this interrogation.

“What’s he like?” Sam pressed.

Sighing she withdrew the parchment from Ilmara’s pouch. “I had little to do with him,” she replied honestly. “We didn’t really move in the same social circles. He’s a lord, I’m just a Messenger.”

The majority of Lord Boromir’s time had been taken up with the soldiers, or his father. And as such, there’d been little overlap. Faramir had brought him along to Ranger events, and while Rhosynel had spoken with her Captain, she’d had very little need to speak with the elder brother. In fact, she could count on one hand the number of times she’d been in the same room as him for more than a few minutes.

Boromir had always seemed… austere.

“Yes but surely you’d kno—”

“Master Hobbits,” an unfamiliar voice called out from the edge of the terrace, a serving maid promptly distracting the three. “Master Frodo has just awoken.”

The speed at which the three Hobbits bolted from the courtyard actually ruffled Rhosynel’s hair and Ilmara’s feathers. Not that she could blame them, the tension she’d been carrying in her chest, loosened finally, and she heaved a sigh of relief.

Four days was a long time to be unconscious.

She’d give them space, and perhaps seek out Frodo later in the evening.

In the meantime, Rhosynel had work to do. As suspected, the missive was from the dwarves, a glance revealed their familiar blocky writing, so akin to the runes they carved into their halls and weapons. Despite the glance, she took in no words, the missive was not for her to read. Automatically, her feet shifted, heading for the direction of Elrond’s study. She was becoming increasingly familiar with the layout of Rivendell, at this rate she’d be able to navigate it in the dark.

With a sharp rap on the doorframe, she entered on his call, and found a familiar face sat before his desk.

“Mithrandir!” she exclaimed, a little rudely, in surprise.

The grey wizard was quick to focus on her, and then rose to his feet in greeting.

“Just Rhosynel,” he greeted likewise, “so you made it in one piece then?”

“Barely,” she replied, gesturing to her temple as she stepped past him. “Lord Elrond, the reply from the dwarves.”

“Excellent thank you,” the elf was quick to accept it, and seemed content to read in silence while she spoke with Gandalf.

“We would have waited for you in Bree, but the Nazgul…”

“It seems our avoiding the enemy can only get us so far,” Gandalf mused.

Ah yes, the reason she’d been hired, the reason she was so annoyed at not being informed about the rest of his plan for her, and the reason she’d nearly lost her life to a Nazgul again. The flicker of irritation that curled through her chest was small, but it still took a moment to quash it down.

“When I travel alone, avoiding the enemy is easy,” she replied levelly, surprised by how calm she sounded. “But when others are brought into the mix, I can’t abandon them. Let alone when they’re Hobbits in apparent need of protection from Nazgul.”

Perhaps her voice hadn’t sounded as calm as she thought, judging by his brows furrowed pensively.

“Forgive me, for not mentioning the Ring Wraiths,” Gandalf replied, “I was uncertain as to how far they’d managed to travel, and dared not mention them within Minas Tirith, least my words were overheard.”

That gave Rhosynel pause, confusion flickering through her, but there was no chance to question why, as Gandalf was continuing.

“Strider has told me how you dealt with them, while Faramir had mentioned your protective habits,” Gandalf said, stiffly sinking back into his seat. The motion made her blink, he seemed unwell. “I would have made it to Bree to relieve you of your burden, but my meeting did not go as planned.”

“Were you injured?” she asked, concern lacing her voice.

“Only as much as yourself.”

He certainly did bear a similar scrape across his brow, although not so deep as to need stitching like hers. What had happened to the old wizard, to result in such injuries? If it was the meeting that didn’t go as planned, then just who had he met with that would dare attack a wizard, let alone succeed in injuring him?

Too many questions bubbled in her mind, all quickly squashed down. Rhosynel didn’t need to know, so she certainly wouldn’t ask. Gandalf was watching her closely, and something told her he knew she wanted to ask about his meeting.

“Well, I hope you’re also able to recover, while here,” she said instead, with a polite incline of her head. Looking to Lord Elrond, who’d been watching the exchange with a curious expression, she waited to be dismissed.

“Actually…”

Elrond’s voice made her hesitate. Looking between them, she found the elf and wizard looking at one another. Even from the outside, it was clear that several questions and answers were being sent, just through their eyes. An unnerving ability.

“With representatives of elves, dwarves, and men all coinciding within the walls of Rivendell,” Lord Elrond began, “I think it would be prudent to conduct a council, once the dwarves arrive tomorrow.”

Rhosynel didn’t understand why she was being told this. So remained silent.

“It would be useful if you could join, and recount your experience at Weathertop, should it be required.”

Ah, so she was to testify about the influence of the Nazgul. Rhosynel supposed it made sense, they were dangerous beings, and would pose a great threat to all races of Arda. Her first-hand experiences, both during and before Weathertop, would stress their danger.

“Of course, my lord,” she said, sounding more confident than she felt, one hand reaching up to lightly touch Ilmara’s chest in a comforting motion. “In the meantime, if you have need of Ilmara, please let me know.”

“I will, thank you.”

She was quick to take her leave, but soft words from Gandalf reached her ears.

“I do not believe she’s yet felt its effects, or at least, is unaware of the rin—”

A sinking feeling settled into Rhosynel’s stomach as she strode through the silent peaceful halls. This council was just about the Nazgul wasn’t it? She thought that was what the elf lord had meant, but now, now she was uncertain as to what this council would entail…

Chapter Text

The courtyard was quiet when Rhosynel arrived, Elrond and his aids already seated, talking quietly between themselves in the musical language of elves. A ring of chairs sat around a short stone plinth, left bare of any coverings or items. A great tree arched up from behind Elrond’s seat, one she felt bore some semblance of importance, although she hadn’t leant much elvish history to know how.

Apparently, she was ahead of the crowd, the empty seats deterring her from fully entering the courtyard, instead waiting beneath the terraces roof, speaking softly to Ilmara who had since settled on her shoulder again. Although the Limroval had taken to clacking her beak each time she sighted the Mirkwood elves around Rivendell.

Such a thing happened once more, as Prince Legolas and his companions arrived. He stopped alongside her while the others headed into the courtyard, claiming chairs, and leaving a space for their prince.

“The pair of you are well?” Legolas asked, reaching up to stroke Ilmara’s chest feathers, his hand unnervingly close to her own face. “Your wound is healing?”

“We are and it is, your highness” Rhosynel answered dutifully, “the healers keep applying some paste, and while it itches terribly, the wound does seem to be healing quickly. I keep meaning to ask what it is, I’m sure my sister would make use of it.”

“She’s injured regularly?”

That made her laugh, a quiet sound least she drew attention. “No, she’s a healer in Minas Tirith,” Rhosynel replied quickly when the elf prince tilted his head in almost a birdlike manner.

“Ah, well my guess would be Athaelas, perhaps mixed with water from the spring here, it is said to have healing qualities,” he said instead, still stroking Ilmara who was clearly enjoying the attention, despite Rhosynel’s own discomfort at the proximity. “I could ask for yo—”

“No, its fine,” she said, slightly too quickly for politeness, “I’ll ask. But thank you.”

Rhosynel half expected to be scowled at for her interruption, but instead received an amused smile.

The sound of heavy boots made them look down the corridor.

“Ugh, dwarves.” The Prince muttered under his breath, in a very unprincely manner. “I’ll take my leave.” With an exchange of head nods, he was quick to make his way to the other elves already seated.

“Lass,” one of the dwarves barked, as the group stomped up to her, heavy boots leaving marks on the polished wooden floors. Possibly intentionally. “Is this the council place? All looks the same to me.”

“Good day, Zabdân,” she greeted formally, and as one the eyes of the dwarves landed heavily upon her. “Indeed it is, you’re right on time,” she replied, trying to keep a smile off her face. “I’m glad you were able to arrive in time.”

“You sent the bird?” the oldest, with a shock of silvery grey hair, demanded, eyes on Ilmara.

“I did, this is Ilmara. We’ve often run messages to Erebor, I am a Messenger,” she explained. “It is always a joy to visit the halls of Erebor and meet with your kin.”

For a moment there was no change in expression, but then a younger dwarf with thick red hair and beard, broke into a grin. A deep chuckle in his chest, as he shook his head. “She gave us quite the fight lass, dropping outta the air at us.”

“Ugh, elves,” another dwarf, muttered under his breath in a very dwarf like manner. The small group trudged in together, seeming unwilling to be separated within the elven halls, giving her nods as they passed her one by one.

It was something she’d never say out loud, but the two races were far more similar than different. Both were prideful, both skilled in their own crafts, and both adored beauty albeit in different forms.

The next footsteps were more familiar, announcing Gandalf and Frodo’s arrival.

“Frodo, Mithrandir,” she greeted, “how are you, both?”

“Better,” Gandalf was quick to answer. But Frodo was slower to reply.

“The wound aches,” he said, in that soft gentle voice she’d come to associate with him. “Lord Elrond seems to think I’m improving, he insisted I join the council almost as soon as I awoke, but I’ll need to rest.”

“Well I’m glad you’re with us once more,” Rhosynel said, reaching out a hand and resting it on his good shoulder in a comforting motion, “you’ll be righ—right as rain in no time.”

A surge of vertigo had her stomach roiling, almost making her wobble her up, and it was only by swallowing harshly that Rhosynel managed to fight down the rising nausea. She could feel sweat prickling her brow, even as she heard him thank her, and then pass and enter the council, aware of Gandalf giving her a very strange look as he walked by.

Pressing a hand to her stomach, she tried to ignore the queasy feeling, especially as more footsteps approached.

“Messenger.”

“Strider,” she greeted, taking a guess at who it was, as she took a deep breath of cool air. “If you insist on calling me by my job, I shall have to start calling you ‘Ranger’ instead,” she chided, turning to greet him.

Someone had convinced him to bathe by the looks of it, but the result was… odd. Instead of looking well-groomed and presentable, he just looked uncomfortable in the velvet doublet he wore. It had her frowning at him, earning a perplexed eyebrow raise in return.

“What?”

“You look less comfortable now you’re clean,” Rhosynel said frankly, “do you not agree with civilisation?”

“Something like that.”

His words drew a snort of laughter from her and to her surprise, he smiled in turn.

Before she could interrogate Strider as to just where he’d been hiding within the halls, the sound of heavy footfalls had the pair glancing over to the newest arrival. Catching sight of the last person to enter, their amusement quickly being wiped from both their faces.

Lord Boromir.

The nausea returned, although this time it was from anxiety, rather than whatever else was wrong with her. And with a start, she realised that Strider had rapidly entered the courtyard, seemingly wishing to avoid the Steward’s son, did they know one another? Regardless, his little vanishing act effectively left her alone with Lord Boromir.

‘Traitor,’ she thought a little bitterly, only to fix a neutrally pleasant expression on her face. “My lord.”

Rhosynel was still reeling from the fact Lord Boromir had turned up at Rivendell. Why on Arda hadn’t Faramir mentioned that detail? If she’d known, it would at least prepared her for the shock of stumbling across him. Travelling half the world away, only to find the Son of the Steward, who’d have thought it.

“You again,” he replied, sounding somewhat surprised by her mere presence. “I did not expect to run into you here of all places, my Lady.”

Run into. She’d done just that the previous day.

“I’m certain I know your face,” Lord Boromir was continuing, and her said face promptly decided to flush. “But I cannot place you…?”

“I, I’m a Messenger of Gondor, my lord,” she replied, keeping it short. “I’ve delivered letters to your father at times.”

“Ah then you have me at a disadvantage,” he said, and then held out his hand to her, “Captain Boromir.”

“Messenger Rhosynel,” she replied, reaching out, she grasped his hand to shake it.

Only to blink as he bowed over her hand.

“May I ask why you’ve been invited to this council?” he asked, straightening up, and Rhosynel managed to wipe the alarmed expression from her face in time. He was eyeing her with no small amount of curiosity, and it left her feeling uncomfortably exposed.

“No idea,” she replied slightly too frankly as it earned her a furrowed brow, even as she returned her hand to her side, and trying very hard not to flex the fingers of that hand. “Only Lord Elrond is privy to the reasons behind his decisions.” For a moment, she thought she was going to be questioned some more, but thankfully the sound of Elrond’s voice rose up, an ideal distraction. “Shall we?” she asked, gesturing to the courtyard.

Lord Boromir eyed her for a moment, with an expression that she couldn’t decipher. But then nodded, turning to enter the courtyard.

A sigh of relief left her, and she stepped forwards to lean against one of the pillars to the courtyard. True there were a couple of empty seats left, but they were on the far side of the courtyard, either hemmed in between Gandalf and the elves, or the dwarves and Boromir. Her own self-consciousness meant she was reluctant to go striding across the courtyard, even when Gandalf tried, and failed, to catch her eye.

No, she was far more comfortable on the outskirts of this meeting, observing.

Whatever it may be truly about, as over the past few days Rhosynel had come to realise it extended further than just the Nazgul. There had been hushed whispers, she’d seen people of importance speaking quietly, and stopping when she passed. If Rhosynel had been a paranoid individual, she’d have assumed they were talking about her, but that wasn’t the feeling she got.

They didn’t want to be heard talking about it. Whatever it was.

“Strangers from distant lands,” Elrond began. “Friends of old. You have been called to this meeting, to answer the threat of Mordor. Called, I say, though I did not call you to me. You have come, in the nick of time, by chance as it may seem, yet it is not so. Middle Earth stands at the brink of destruction.”

For a moment he fell silent, and Rhosynel thought her stomach couldn’t sink any lower. This was far more serious than she thought. Destruction? Mordor? Already she could tell she was out of her depth.

Something brushed against the back of her skirts, and she flicked them away from whatever branches were snagging at them in irritation.

“No, stay still,” she heard a familiar voice whisper from behind her hips.

“Pippin,” Rhosynel hissed through her teeth, “you’re not meant to be here.”

“Hush, they’ll hear you.”

Biting her tongue against the retort in her throat, she forced herself to remain silent, to listen to Elrond’s words. Rather than the shifting of the Hobbit using her backside as a hiding spot.

“Bring forth the Ring, Frodo,” Elrond said, gesturing to the plinth.

What did Frodo have to do with this? Why hadn’t she questioned his arrival at the council more? Why had Strider been so desperate to get him to Rivendell?

Why hadn’t she asked more questions to begin with?

Frodo seemed so small, compared to the others gathered, having to raise onto his tip toes to set something atop the already small stone plinth.

A familiar glint of gold in the sun.

Rhosynel’s stomach gave a horrible lurch, the brief sensation of weightlessness, the terror of falling. Nausea, anxiety, fear, all roiled in her chest. All because of… a ring?

“Sauron’s Ring!” Legolas exclaimed, “the Ring of Power!”

Understanding settled on Rhosynel’s shoulders, making her sway in place. She would have stepped back, back, away from the Ring, away from the council, away to take her leave without being seen. If it wasn’t for a small voice near her hip saying.

“The what?”

The rest of the council meeting did not go well. Not with the elves and dwarves arguing, not with Gandalf speaking in the Black Language, not with Boromir trying to claim the wretched thing for Gondor, not even with the revelation that apparently Strider was Aragorn son of Arathorn, and apparently, heir to the throne of Gondor. It was probably the hardest to reconcile the scruffy brooding Ranger, with the idea of him being a king…

It also didn’t go well, when Frodo stepped up, announcing he would carry the Ring. Then people were promising aid, and next thing she knew Sam, followed by Merry and Pippin, burst from their hiding places. The look Gandalf gave her suggested the old wizard thought Rhosynel had smuggled all three of them in under her skirts, something she’d be sure to set right once this dreaded council was over.

But by the time it was over, she had a thumping headache instead.

As the council began to disband, and the since proclaimed ‘Fellowship’ followed Elrond to his study, Rhosynel finally took her leave. For several minutes she found herself stood in her room, hands to either side of the wash basin, staring at herself in the polished mirror. The urge to vomit had since died down, but the general sense of unease and discomfort had built to near intolerable levels.

She needed to leave. She had to leave. She had to get out of this place. She had to go home, to her sister, her nice, her nephew, her brother-in-law. Hells, even to the cat.

Panic almost overtook Rhosynel, as she threw her belongings into her pack, even going so far as to change out of the dress and into her usual uniform.

“Ilmara come.”

The bird obediently landed on her shoulder, quick to settle down. Picking up her bags, she slung them over her other shoulder, and began the now familiar route to Elrond’s study. Only to hear a cacophony of voices coming from within.

Of course. The Fellowship was discussing what to do next.

“I still think I should go in the Hobbits stead,” a voice was saying.

“I know, Glorfindel, but this is a mission of stealth, rather than power,” Elrond responded curtly, apparently having gone over this matter before. “Instead, I would ask that you travel—”

Having heard enough, Rhosynel knocked sharply on the frame, and stepped into the study without waiting for an answer.

“Ah, Rhosynel,” Elrond seemed almost relieved for the interruption. “Glorfindel, we can continue this discussion later.”

“By your leave, Lord Elrond.” A tall elf bowed, his hair wasn’t so much blond, as white gold, almost glowing in the low light levels. If he was annoyed, he managed to keep it from his voice. He turned and headed past Rhosynel, flashing her a polite smile as he went.

Even by elven standards, he was beautiful. Far too pretty. Unfairly so.

Kicking those thoughts from her mind, Rhosynel headed towards the group clustered around a beleaguered Elrond. He was sat at his desk, fingers rubbing at his temples. To one side was Strider –or Aragorn– and to the other was Gandalf. Boromir seemed to have had his hands planted on the desk at some point, looming over the elf lord, but had since straightened up. While Gimli and Legolas were attempting to murder one another with their eyes, each stood on opposite ends of the desk.

The Hobbits, however, were scattered about the study. Frodo inspecting books, Sam trailing along behind him eyeing the exquisite carvings across the walls. While Merry and Pippin seemed to be investigating the various contraptions scattered across tables and shelves. Even as she passed, Pippin dropped something, the clatter far too loud in the stillness her arrival had caused.

“My lord,” Rhosynel greeted Elrond as she stepped up alongside Boromir, pointedly not looking at him, despite how his eyes bored into the side of her head. Painfully aware that the room was now silent, all eyes on her. “Now that the council is over, I wanted to come by and thank you for your generous hospitality. You and your kin have been incredibly welcoming and kind to myself while under your care, but now I must beg your leave to return home.”

For a moment, the elven lord blinked up at her, apparently taken aback by her unusually polite manner. Strider seemed to think likewise, as he rubbed at his chin to conceal a smile.

“I-You, are most welcome, Rhosynel,” Elrond finally said, rising to his feet, and reaching across the desk to clasp her hands in his. “If you ever find yourself this side of the Misty Mountains again, please know you are always welcome at this Homely House.”

There was a power, behind those words, and something told her it would be much easier to find Rivendell the next time around.

“Thank you, my lord,” she replied with a genuine smile, bowing slightly over his hands. “I have no doubt my family are sorely missing me. But before I go, do you require any missives to be delivered on my route home?”

“I do, indeed, have a request of you,” he said, releasing her hands, and looking to Gandalf. Yet again many words passed between them, and a slow sinking sensation began once again to settle in her stomach, Rhosynel prayed the request was just a missive. “The Fellowship will set out in December,” he began explaining, taking his seat once more with an elegant flick of his robes. “I would ask you delay your departure and join them until the Misty Mountains have been passed, before you separate and return home.”

Every coherent thought fled her brain at his words, leaving her stranded, staring blankly at this elven lord. Watching, as her chance to leave, rapidly slipped out of her grasp.

“I… what?” Her voice was little more than a croak.

Elrond seemed unconcerned by her brief inability to speak. “That way I can be informed once they have reached the edge of my influence,” he explained easily, “if your Limroval is able to travel back and reach me, that is?”

“I. Yes. She could. But I—” she cut off, and blankly looked at Strider as if he could help.

“I believe Rhosynel would rather go home,” Strider-Aragorn commented dryly.

She gestured a weak hand at him in agreement.

“Ah well of course,” Elrond said, unfazed. “Once the mountains are behind you, you may do as you wish.”

“December,” she repeated back at him. It was October. They wouldn’t leave for months.

There was a confused pause. “Yes…?”

Ah. He was an elf. Her limited experience with them told her that a couple of months would be little more than a blip to him.

Interlacing her fingers into a tight fist, Rhosynel pressed them to her lips. Fighting back everything she wanted to say. Or scream. Or cry. She could talk this out, she could convince him to let her go. Hell, if she rushed, she could go home, spend a week there, and then return, all before the Fellowship set out. Not that she would return. No, she needed to put this entire thing behind her as far as physically possible. Maybe Warden Malion could assign her to Gondor for missives? Dol Amroth was supposedly beautiful at this time of year…

“I. I would rather leave now. My lord,” she managed to say without too much sourness to her voice. “I need to return home, to my family.”

There was a sigh from Elrond. “I understand—”

“Do you?” she interrupted. Far too sharply.

‘That was the wrong thing to say. Fuck,’ the alarmed thought streaked through her mind, but it was too late to take the demand back. Her sharp tongue had just severed her chance of freedom with two impulsive words she should have known better to keep caged behind her teeth.

The frosty glare Rhosynel received would have made her quake in her boots, but then she had once been glared at for getting in the way of Denethor. No, the mortal man scared her far more than this healer elf did. Even if Lord Elrond was stronger and more powerful, his power was alien to her, too vast and intangible to her fleeting mortal form. No, Denethor’s power, was more… real.

“I do,” Elrond said levelly, and she had the distinct impression that she’d lost any chance of weaselling out of the situation. “I am asking to retain your service as Messenger. To travel with the Fellowship for a short time, and then you may go your own way from them. Once you’ve passed the mountains, or until Gandalf sees fit.”

Two things became apparent to Rhosynel in that moment, one being that she could easily end up roped into travelling further on the whims of a wizard who already rarely told her anything about what he planned for her. And the other being if word reached Warden Malion, that she point-blank refused to do her job, as requested by none other than Lord Elrond, she’d be kicked from the Messenger services before she’d have chance to protest.

In other words, Rhosynel was trapped.

Inhaling long and slow, Rhosynel felt Ilmara shift on her shoulder, picking up on her discomfort. It took every ounce of training, of her years delivering bad news to powerful lords, to wrestle her emotions from her features. Heartbeat by heartbeat, the irritation, fear, frustration, slid from her expression. Until finally, her face was empty of all emotion. Rhosynel lifted blank eyes to him and nodded in agreement. She couldn’t let them know how angry she was, no, it was better to become a blank slate, rather than let her emotions show.

“Understood. My Lord.” The words were ground out, heavy as stone as they fell from her lips. Hands now tightly clasped behind her back, knuckles white with the force of keeping them steady. “Do you require anything else of me?”

“Not currently, thank you.” The wariness clear in his voice.

“By your leave, Lord Elrond.”

Without an answer, Rhosynel gave a curt bow, turned on her heel, and strode as quickly as was polite, from the study. Ignoring the weight of every eye resting on her back.

Almost the second Rhosynel left the study, she felt caged, trapped, imprisoned by the walls of Rivendell. A horrible feeling, a feeling of powerlessness, a feeling of having her fate decided for her.

As much as she adored the Hobbits and could banter with Strider, there was no part of her that desired to join the Fellowship on this Quest.

What she wanted to do, was return to her sister, to her family. By the Valar she missed them so much, and any hope of seeing them again had just been plunked out of her hands, by an elven lord that had made her decisions for her.

It chaffed.

Quite without meaning to, Rhosynel found herself storming through the corridors of Rivendell, utterly consumed by the need to move, to pace, to run, to try and find some semblance of freedom even as it slipped from her grasp. Whirling around one corner that she knew lead for the stables, she almost broke into a sprint but drew up short at the sight of the too-pretty, blond elf.

He was stood in the corridor, arms tightly folded, glaring out of the arched windows. At her abrupt appearance, he twisted to face her sharply. For a moment the two stared at one another, but then he smiled, and the corridor noticeably brightened.

“Not the answer you hoped for?” he asked, eyes so bright and clear they almost sparkled with the light of the stars.

“No.”

Even to her ears it sounded rude, petty, almost childish in its petulance. But Rhosynel was past caring what the elves of Rivendell thought of her. Anxiety bubbled and clawed inside her chest. Dragging its talons across her ribs, twisting itself around her heart, forcing itself up her throat until she wanted to scream. To scream so loud the entire city would come running.

“I feel much the same.” His answer gave her only the briefest pause, but he was watching her with an air of caution, as though he could sense that she was close to snapping. Although that wasn’t a great feat, considering how it felt like her skin was vibrating with the need to move. “What do you need?”

The question was disarming but didn't quell the monster coiled within her chest. Fighting against its influence, she tried to find an answer that wasn't tears of frustration.

“To run,” Rhosynel managed. It was an effort to speak, jaw working and clenching between words. She didn’t intend to run away, just run for the sake of running, to feel free. Unrestrained. Unfettered by the burden of her job. “Is there anywhere, in the valley, I can ride my horse. Since apparently, I will be trapped here for some time.”

“No.” The answer was not what she needed to hear. “However, I believe I would be sufficient enough protection, should you wish to leave the valley and ride across the moors for a while.”

Blinking, she tried to process his words.

The moors. Outside of the protective walls of Rivendell and the hidden valley. Wide open ground. Nothing but the heather, rolling hills, sky, and the wind. And one elf who she was beginning to sense had more to him than met the eye. An escort was not ideal, but the lingering threat of Nazgul, and the aching wound on her temple, convinced her otherwise.

“Yes. That sounds good.” The tightness in her chest loosened somewhat as Rhosynel agreed. “Thank you.”

“Very well then, please, follow me,” he said, turning with a beckoning motion, a smile which shifted from cautious to welcoming, on his too symmetrical face.

Blindly, Rhosynel began to follow. She knew not where he led her, but it didn't take long for the smell of straw and hay to reach her, the scent of oiled leather, horses, and manure. The stable greeted her as they crossed a large courtyard. It took but a moment to locate Gwaedal, as he stuck his head out of his stall and gave a shrill whinny at her approach. She hadn't seen him for a few days now, she had clearly been missed.

Saddling him swiftly in the courtyard, she abandoned her packs and belongings, as she swung up into the saddle. She was itching to move, to run, stretch her soul and Gwaedal’s legs with a mad sprint across open ground. This valley was becoming suffocating. A cage of autumnal hues.

The elf, Glorfindel, if she remembered correctly, appeared, leading a horse. It too, gleamed white, almost golden, even in the midday sun. Its bridle and saddle glimmered, as though it had jewels inset to the leather. The elf easily mounted up in a familiar gesture.

“Do you match the horse, or does the horse match you?” she found herself asking, as he began to lead the way once more.

“This is Asfaloth,” he said, patting the proud horse’s neck. “And yes, I suppose you could say we are well matched.”

With a gesture, Glorfindel lead the way, riding up the switchbacks and out of the valley. The rolling moors laid out before her, with nary a cloud in the sky. Also just as eager, Ilmara took flight from Rhosynel’s shoulder, with a great cry of joy to be free once more.

The moors above the hidden valley were just as expected. Wide, open, with a large, vaulted sky, stretching on beyond her view. The urge to fly into a gallop was strong, even Gwaedal was tossing his head eagerly, but Rhosynel restrained herself, waiting until Glorfindel had risen in his stirrups, and fully checked the surrounding area.

“I see no evidence of orcs, nor of Nazgul,” he announced almost five horribly long minutes later, “you should be free to roam.”

“Thank you,” she said, lightly nudging Gwaedal’s flanks.

The speed at which he lunged forwards, took her by surprise, and for the first time in her life, she was nearly unseated from her unpreparedness. Clutching his mane as well as the reins, she allowed Gwaedal to find his own rhythm, streaking across the gentle rolls, hillocks, and mounds.

Wind streaming through her hair, Rhosynel carefully shifted her weight, lifting herself slightly out of the saddle for a smoother ride. Eyes already starting to stream, she finally let her emotions overcome her. Hopefully, the force of the wind would disguise any true tears, be it from sadness or anger. It didn’t matter, because now she was riding, she was free. Even as she felt her lips curl back from her teeth in a snarl, chafing against the strings of fate she’d found herself entangled in without her consent.

More than anything, more than fear, anger, depression, or irritation, Rhosynel was beyond all else, frustrated. More powerful figures than her were dictating her life without discussing it. She was used to following instructions, but the Messenger Warder, and even Captain Faramir, knew that she worked best when following an outline but under her own discretion.

If Elrond had just asked, or if Gandalf had explained his request further. None of this would be happening. Instead, Rhosynel was told, or left to find out, the freedom of choice was wrenched from her grasp. Wrenched from her grasp the moment she’d left Minas Tirith on this multi-faceted errand.

And that was something she was not comfortable with.

For once, the scream bubbling in her chest, wasn’t elation at the open road ahead. But of anger. And she could do little to hold it back, it was like asking the wind to stop blowing, or for a bird to stop flying.

She finally gave in and let loose a scream that had been building in her chest since Bree. Gwaedal’s ears went back in alarm, and Ilmara swooped away. Away from Rhosynel. That was upsetting, but the animals couldn’t understand the depths of human emotion, not truly. So she screamed, letting it out, where no one would hear.

Or almost no one.

“Lady Rhosynel,” a voice called, and a gleaming form entered the corner of her vision. Even with Gwaedal in a flat-out sprint, the elvish horse drew alongside with ease. The pair, both horse and rider, still gave off an unearthly light, which seemed to outshine even the sun, though it did not burn her. “Are you well?”

The look she shot his way, was less of a glare and more of an unspoken answer.

‘What do you think?’ she tried to convey. ‘Who would be screaming, if they were well?’

It must have worked, as Glorfindel nodded, easing his horse back slightly, letting Rhosynel lead. His presence dropped to just behind her shoulder, but no further. Allowing her a semblance of privacy, even if his light gave away his location.

She didn’t know how long she rode for, but the sun had begun to dip, although the sky was not yet filled with colours or encroaching darkness. But eventually, slowly, her looping sprints slowed, further, further still until the pair were trotting, and then walking, until they came to a stop atop a hillock.

Rhosynel had no concept of where she was. It was still familiar, but at the same time so alien compared to her homelands of Gondor and Rohan. There was the faint consideration, that Glorfindel had no doubt been herding her, whenever she strayed too far from Rivendell’s borders. But she was too tired to care much.

In the silence, Rhosynel found herself glancing to the male elf, sat alongside her.

“Do you know much, about…” Her voice trailed off, aware that she was no longer sheltered within the walls of Rivendell and its protective glamour. “About what the Hobbit carries?”

Otherworldly eyes glanced her way, a brief flash of starlight, before they returned to gazing across the moors. “I know of it,” he admitted eventually, “it is not a pleasant thing.”

The casual statement was enough to make her snort softly. Not a pleasant thing indeed.

“It, it makes me feel sick, when I’m near, or when I touch him.”

Since the council, Rhosynel had considered the effects she was feeling, when too close to Frodo. It was like she had learnt the name to a poison she hadn’t known she was consuming, only to discover it everywhere she looked.

“That’s good.”

Blinking, she turned fully to look at the elf. Eyeing him anew. Seemingly unbothered, subtly confident in himself, and his own strength, there was a wisdom to his eyes, even if he seemed young. By elven standards that was.

“How?” she asked, a loose coil of anxiety tightening about her heart once more. “How is it good? I cannot aid or protect him, if I fear him.”

For a moment Rhosynel thought she wouldn’t receive any more from him. But then there was a barely perceptible sigh, and Glorfindel turned fully to face her, Asfaloth shifting too.

“It is a good thing,” he began, as she sat a little straighter to attention. “Because its power repulses you. If it didn’t… if you felt yourself being drawn to it instead, then you should be afraid.” His words were contradictory, she was afraid of it now, but it was good, only when she was drawn to it, it became bad? “Its power is corruptive,” he stated frankly, “it simply hasn’t found a hold on you, yet.”

Yet.

The word hung heavy on the air.

“Will it…?” Her voice was quiet, reluctant to ask, and even more reluctant to know.

“Someday. Maybe. But hopefully not before you can take your leave of the group.”

Rhosynel very much wished to be reassured by his words, but instead it only left her growing increasingly worried. Worried for the others, worried for Frodo, for Sam, Merry, Pippin, all of them. If any one of them became drawn to the Ring, what would happen? What would become of the one enthralled by its power?

What could she do to help, against a thing of such might?

Rhosynel had no answer.

Chapter Text

Two months, two months to sit and wait within the halls of Rivendell. Rhosynel didn’t even last to the end of the week before she was pacing anxiously. She had started trying to avoid the rest of the Fellowship, feeling uncomfortably on the edge, like she wasn’t meant to be there. She hadn’t volunteered, she hadn’t offered to join. She’d been told to.

And that chafed.

It felt like glances were thrown her way every time there was a meeting to discuss plans. As though the others didn’t think she belonged either. So Rhosynel remained on the edge of the group, by the walls of meeting rooms, avoided them at meals, and kept to herself in any down time they had.

But there was little relief to be found in being alone.

It probably shouldn’t have come as a surprise then, to enter her rooms two weeks after the Council, and find all four Hobbits setting up camp within. It was testament to her confusion that she didn’t just turn around and wonder off again.

But something gave her pause.

One, two, three, four… five Hobbits?

“Uh, do you mind?” Rhosynel asked in confusion, eyes skipping across those gathered and snagging on an unfamiliar face. Grey hair, bright eyes, cheery smile, and a somewhat passing resemblance to Frodo, if she squinted.

Her room was now strewn with trays containing a variety of breakfast items, the vanity now sported a tea set, and all five of them had taken up various seats and perches to sit and eat their second –or third– meal of the day.

“Ah Rhosyn!” Merry greeted exuberantly, “crumpet or scone?”

“Neither, what are you all doing in my room?”

“Muffin it is!” Pippin announced, already collecting said muffin, and setting it on one of the beautiful plates they used in Rivendell, along with a handful of what looked like winter berries.

“I’ll get you some tea,” Sam announced, hopping off the bed and making for the tea pot.

“Come sit, come sit,” Frodo was adding, already reaching over, and almost upsetting his own plate of food, to snag her hand and drag her closer. Her stomach roiled at the proximity, but still she allowed herself to be reeled in, until she was all but pulled down to sit on the foot of the bed alongside him. “This is my uncle Bilbo, he’s been staying with the elves.”

Bilbo, hadn’t she delivered a letter to him from a dwarf in Erebor?

“I believe we’ve met, if only briefly,” Rhosynel said carefully, as Sam deposited a teacup and saucer into her hand, and the plated muffin landed in the other. “I once delivered a letter from… a Master Dwalin of Erebor?”

“Oh!” The elderly hobbit threw his hands up in the air with such gusto that he nearly upset his cup of tea across the nice plush chair he’d claimed as his seat. “Your horse ate my nasturtium!” he exclaimed, “I was going to enter them for the Flower Festival the next week!”

“Gwaedal would do nothing of the sort,” she protested, albeit weakly as he very much would. “It must have been someone else. Perhaps a mischievous nephew.”

“Mr Frodo would never!” Sam protested.

“And anyway,” Rhosynel pressed on, attempting to steer away from the impending argument over who –or what– ate Bilbo’s flowers. “Why, exactly, are you in my room with all this food?”

“Oh well its elevenses,” Pippin said matter-of-factly.

“I gathered that, but why my room?”

There was a short pause from the group, all five falling silent in such a way that Rhosynel instantly became suspicious. Just what, were they up to?

“Well, you see,” Sam started slowly, “the chefs weren’t all too pleased with our… liberating the deserts.”

“And we’re close enough to our rooms that we’ll hear if anyone comes looking for us,” Frodo was quick to continue, “but, no one will think to check here.”

“Except me,” she pointed out.

“But you’re not going to rat us out, right?” Merry asked in concern.

“Are you?” Pippin added, eyes going wide.

No, she wasn’t, but they didn’t need to know that. So she sipped at her tea, as though weighing up her options. “So here’s the problem,” Rhosynel started slowly, gently setting down her cup in what she hoped was a sombre manner. “By using my room, you’ve implicated me in this crime, so now I have two options.”

The four seemed frozen in alarm.

Bilbo gave a bark of laughter loud enough to make them all jump after the sombre attitude she’d taken on. “Oh you’re in for it now lads,” he laughed, looking far too amused by this development, “she’s gotten the measure of you!”

Perhaps she had, perhaps she hadn’t, but Rhosynel liked to think she was somewhat familiar with the antics of the four-turned-five Hobbits. They were, after all, remarkably food motivated.

“Either I speak with the chef, turn you all in to the guards, and hopefully clear my name,” Rhosynel continued before the others could protest too much, drawing out the sentence as much as possible, “or, I tell you my favourite snacks, look the other way whenever you liberate them, and deliver me the goods.”

“Ah,” Merry said knowingly, “a businesswoman as well. Excellent, it’ll be a pleasure working with you ma’am.”

“So what special items do you require?” Pippin added.

“Pastries, specifically those with that creamed cocoa power filling from the south,” Rhosynel replied instantly, “failing that, some more of these muffins and scones.”

Frodo made a great show of withdrawing an invisible quill and scrawling a note within an invisible book.

“So,” Sam started slowly, as though to double check what had been decided. “You’re not going to turn us in?”

“As long as you don’t make a mess of my room and clear up the evidence afterwards, I don’t see why I should,” Rhosynel shrugged one shoulder, selecting a scone. It was dainty enough to finish in one bite, so she snagged a second for good measure. “Although I’m sure if you just asked, they’d be happy to provide more food for all of you.”

“What and spoil the fun? No thanks,” Frodo replied in amusement.

Outwardly she was grinning, but inwardly, Rhosynel considered the fact she was implicating herself in their stealing too. But there was the lingering feeling, that this food-related-heist was less to do with the Hobbits rigorous meal regime, and more to do with simply keeping her company…

She’d be lying if she said it wasn’t appreciated.

The cold weather made it hard for Rhosynel to escape from the claustrophobic halls, the gardens slowly being buried in a layer of snow. It was only because of Ilmara that she ever went outside, the goshawk needed to fly, and was becoming more agitated than even Rhosynel. Not to mention Gwaedal cooped up in the stables was going to break out at this rate.

No, the three of them were designed for the open road.

As beautiful as Rivendell and the valley was, which she’d now extensively explored, it was still a cage, no matter how beautifully decorated and welcoming it may seem.

She’d taken to training within an inner courtyard that had been cleared of snow. The guard who’d found her on arrival, Callondir, was her somewhat reluctant partner. The elf was fast, too fast for her to realistically train against, but they were willing to slow their motions, allowing her to release pent up energy. The familiar pattern, going through the motions time and time again, helped somewhat to keep her in shape.

Callondir’s blade seemed to sweep almost lazily through the air, but despite its apparent slowness, Rhosynel had to hasten her movements to block. It was a testament really, to their level of control, their ability to slow their speed, so that instead of Rhosynel losing a head, she actually blocked in time. It was a relief that she wasn’t truly fighting the elf, as they could kill her swiftly and easily. She’d have been dead before she knew what hit her. As it was, Rhosynel almost felt bad for Callondir, it must be like sparing with a child, having to be mindful of their actions.

“You have an admirer,” they commented, eyes flicking past Rhosynel’s shoulder as they parried one of her own strikes.

Rhosynel didn’t look back, but her nose wrinkled at the comment.

Whoever had decided to watch their sparring, Rhosynel would rather they didn’t. Twisting about Callondir, she lashed out at their back, only for her blades to be batted away once more. But the movement gave her chance to scan the courtyard and find this watcher.

Only to wish she hadn’t.

“Ugh, Bema really?” she muttered quietly, earning a snort from Callondir.

Her twisting strike had enabled her to learn who watched.

Lord Boromir.

Why did it have to be Lord Boromir of all people, to hover in the archway to the courtyard? His arms folded and brows furrowed as his eyes tracked her movements. His head tilting whenever she twisted and wove, she knew her fighting style wasn’t much like those of Gondorian soldiers, but it suited her own build. Did he think it unsuitable? Was he judging her every step, wondering how she’d ever keep up with the Fellowship? It was unnerving, being under such scrutiny, the weight of his gaze was almost palpable, resting heavily on her shoulders.

Not ideal, when she was trying to be swift in fighting an elf.

It was still a shock to have travelled half way across the continent, only to find the Stewards son also there.

“Focus,” Callondir reminded her, thankfully keeping their voice down so not to make it obvious. Had they slowed even more for her to keep up? She hoped not.

Gritting her teeth, Rhosynel renewed her attacks, all but battering away at the taller faster elf. Twisting back and forth to avoid their own blade, striking out with both blades at different angles, forcing Callondir to keep moving least they be struck.

“Alright now you’re showing off,” Callondir laughed, as Rhosynel twisted about narrowly missing their ribs.

“You’ll know if I show off,” she retorted.

“I doubt that very mu—”

They didn’t get to finish that statement, as Rhosynel shifted her grip on one sword, grappled Callondir’s shoulders, and slammed her hip into theirs. Neatly twisting and launching them up and over her hip to land with a crash and no small amount of what could only be elvish profanities.

“You were saying?” Rhosynel asked, now stood over them, hands resting on her hips and head cocked in amusement. And then held out a hand to them, an offer of aid.

“Where on Arda did you learn that?” they demanded, accepting her hand, and being hauled upwards.

“I have a lower centre of gravity than almost everyone I spar with,” she replied with a shrug, stretching her arms out since Callondir showed no sign of renewing their attacks. “You learn to use it against them.”

But Callondir was looking over towards the archway, and Rhosynel reluctantly glanced that way too. Lord Boromir was still stood there, but his arms had fallen to his sides, and his expression had shifted from analysing, to curious. Only for his eyes to widen somewhat at the realisation they were looking towards him.

“Berion!” Callondir called out.

Behind Boromir, an elf doubled back, coming to the archway. “What?”

“This one’s kicking my ass, come spar so I can breathe,” Callondir all but demanded.

“Wait what?” Rhosynel asked in mild alarm. She’d barely managed to convince Callondir into sparing, let alone some other elf she didn’t recognise. But they changed course easily enough, stepping past the frozen Boromir, into the courtyard and eyeing her critically.

“Really, Callondir?” Berion asked, looking over to the other, “if this one can beat you then you’re slippin—”

Not one to let such comments slide, with a twist, Rhosynel lashed out with one blade, the leather-bound sword slamming into his breastplate heavily enough to push him backwards.

“Rhach!” Berion swore, staggering backward. “The hell was that?”

“A strike,” Callondir laughed, even as Rhosynel grinned.

There was something akin to a wordless snarl, and then Berion was lunging for her. With a bark of laughter, Rhosynel darted away, parrying his own strike, and twisting out of range.

“So you’ll spar?” she asked, still shifting as Berion all but started circling her. “Or would you rather not risk it?”

Yet more profanity, even if Rhosynel couldn’t speak elvish, she could recognise the rhythm and pattern of words. Even if it did flow like music, rather than the harsher Westron or guttural dwarfish curses she was used to.

“You’ll not win, if I do,” he warned, already accepting the leather strips from Callondir and beginning to bind his blade. “I won’t be going easy on you, unlike some.”

“A little rude, but not untrue,” Callondir relented.

Grinning, Rhosynel settled into a ready stance, only to belatedly realise the archway was now empty. Good. If Berion was to actually fight her, she didn’t need witnesses to see any embarrassment of hers.

“Mind out!” Callondir called out.

Rhosynel jolted, blades rising to catch the descending sword in the V of her blades. With a twist of her hips, she sent his strike wide, and lashed out with her own sword, only for it to be blocked just shy of his neck.

“You’re not meant to warn me, you know,” she said, through gritted teeth.

“Probably not best to take your head off, I imagine your lot would be a little annoyed with us,” Callondir replied from their spot to the side of the courtyard. “It’s Berion’s fault anyway, attacking your back like that.”

“She left it open,” the older guard growled through his teeth, lunging with a beautifully timed strike, that Rhosynel barely twisted away from. “I just took advantage.”

“They’re, not, my, lot,” Rhosynel barely managed to reply, blades flashing through the air as she parried strike after strike from Berion. She was starting to think he had a grudge against her, with the ferocity of his strikes, she was only managing to deflect thanks to her two blades. If she’d had one, she’d have lost a few fingers by now.

Twisting about his blade, her wrist struck the back of his elbow as her foot lashed out to tangle in his feet. He tumbled, hitting the ground with one shoulder, and easily rolling back up to his feet with minimal effort.

“Ugh that would have worked if you were human,” she grumbled, shaking her arms out and settling back into a ready position.

“You won’t be fighting humans for much longer,” Berion retorted.

“I rarely have,” Rhosynel shot back, ducking below one strike and managing to clip his side with her blade. The leather wrappings about the blade rendering the slice to a mere thump. “Strike!”

Unfortunately, the elbow that slammed into her back in response, had Rhosynel sprawling out on the floor.

“Fuck,” she swore, almost biting her tongue with the impact, already starting to push to her feet, only to freeze at the sensation of a bound blade against her neck.

“Do you yield?” Berion asked.

With her feet gathered beneath her, it was easy to launch herself forwards –the bound blade dragging a line across her back– arms wrapping about his legs and bowling him over backwards. The startled yell from the guard was satisfying enough, almost as much as the crash of armour as he slammed onto his back. Rhosynel twisted about, abandoning one blade to get a lock on his arm, second blade at his neck.

“Do you yield?” she asked back, grinning down at him as he tested the grip on his arm. True he could break free, but only at the cost of a dislocated shoulder.

“Do you?” she heard Callondir ask, a second before their own blade landed against her neck.

“That’s cheatin—”

“Get off of her, lads, or your blood’ll decorate my axe!” barked a voice, the sheer volume making all three of them jump in alarm.

Head snapping around, Rhosynel was met by the sight of Gimli all but storming into the courtyard, axe already drawn. All three of them moved in tandem, Callondir’s blade flicked away from her neck to level at the dwarf, while Berion was quick to roll to his feet, his own sword rising. Rhosynel swiftly lurched to her feet, but less defensively so, and more to move forwards towards the dwarf lord.

“Lord Gimli there’s no need for that,” she said quickly, hands coming up in a pacifying gesture as she physically positioned herself between the dwarf and two elves. “We’re sparring, that’s all, no need for alarm.”

“I heard a curse, and I find you, being ganged up on!” Gimli retorted, still glaring past her, and judging by the heft of his axe, still itching to swing it at one or both.

“Yes, they were ganging up on me,” Rhosynel said quickly, having to shift her footing to maintain her position between Gimli and them. “Because I was winning.”

Judging by the protests behind her, the two guards disagreed with that statement.

But that same statement had Gimli dragging his eyes away from the elves and fixing her with a sceptical eye. For a moment she expected him to question her abilities, something she was used to no matter how it may chafe at times. But then his eyes landed on the cut to her temple. Almost hidden by his beard, a smirk pulled at his mouth.

“Sounds about right,” he commented gruffly, and his grip relaxed on his axe.

A glance over her shoulder told Rhosynel that the two elves had settled into less wary stances as well.

The tension that had been creeping along Rhosynel’s spine and shoulders, loosened at that subtle motion. The dwarf was no longer out for blood, no doubt it had just been the confusion of hearing cursing, and then finding her with a sword to her neck, that had riled him up. Thankfully not beyond reason, good, now no one was at risk of fighting.

“Would you spar with me?” she asked the dwarf lord, “these two are more interested in winning than playing fair.” A jerk of a thumb over her shoulder erased all misunderstandings of just who she was referring to.

Gimli’s bark of laughter thankfully drowned out any protests from Callondir and Berion, but he was quick to heft his axe back up again. “Aye lass, I’ll play fair with you.”

“Excellent, Berion give me your leathers so master Gimli might bind his axe,” Rhosynel was quick to turn back to the two, a grin on her face. Leather strip gathered, she passed them to Gimli and waited patiently while he bound the keen edge of his blade. “Even when they do play fair, they’re too swift for me,” she explained to him, “they’ve been having to slow their motions and that’s not ideal.”

There were some grumbles from Berion, who she suspected hadn’t slowed his attacks half as much as Callondir had, but they were settling to the far side of the courtyard, apparently unwilling to leave her alone with the previously irate dwarf. Their own misgivings, rather than hers.

Collecting her fallen blade, Rhosynel settled opposite Gimli, knees lightly bent, eyes fixed on him and the way he too settled into position. A lower centre of gravity would be difficult to work against, not to mention his broader arms and legs that lent themselves to stability and strength. There’d be no tackles or trips performed here, which meant she’d need to rely on speed and swiftness.

An easy thing to do, for a Messenger.

At no clear signal, the pair lunged for one another, Gimli’s axe swinging low to high in a powerful upward motion, which had Rhosynel twisting to one side to evade. Her own lunge was batted away by the haft of his axe, leaving her arms ringing and fingers tingling just from that glancing blow.

A jab towards her legs had her hopping back a step, and then darting to the left both blades lashing out towards his back, only to slam into the axe handle. Hissing through her teeth at the rapidly growing numbness to her fingers, Rhosynel backed off again, beginning to warily circle Gimli, who simply pivoted in place, axe at the ready, eyes narrowed as he watched for her next motion.

He didn’t have to wait long, Rhosynel feinted left, spun right, and lashed out as she passed, the tip of her blade dragging across the leather gauntlet on his arm, leaving a long thin scratch.

Apparently that was enough to get him chuntering.

“Stop flitting about like an elf! Stand and fight!”

Rhosynel proceeded to do the opposite, swiftly whipping about, all but spinning around him, both blades raised and aiming for the back of his shoulders. There was a grunted curse, as he lurched away, and spun towards her, axe swinging straight for her stomach.

Both blades met the axe, barely halting its path.

He was shorter, which meant Rhosynel couldn’t lock her arms to prevent the axe from striking, but at least she turned the rib breaking strike to more breath taking. The wheeze as the air left her lungs was strangled, and possibly sounded worse than it felt, considering how Gimli’s eyes widened in alarm.

But even as he opened his mouth to speak, she locked his axe against her hip, so his grip was uneven and lost its strength, and twisted, the edge of her bound blade coming to a stop just beneath his ear, the tip lost in his mane of red hair.

“Ha!” barked Callondir, “she did the same thing she did to you, Berion.”

A glance revealed the guard punching their fellow on the shoulder.

“That, is cheating, lass,” Gimli grumbled as she stepped back away from him.

“I’m still breathing,” she said, albeit while gasping for breath, “so I’m alive enough to retaliate.”

“If it was a battle, you’d be dead.”

“Dying,” she corrected, gesturing to Berion who all but launched the waterskin at her head, “still able to retaliate, no matter how brief.”

“I doubt that very much,” Gimli sounded, and looked, unconvinced.

Rhosynel reached up to the neck of her tunic, yanking it down and to one side, flashing a vicious scar across her collarbone. “The orc who gave me that, would disagree.”

“Durin’s beard lass, that’s a bad one,” the alarm coloured his voice, but was shrugged off as Rhosynel drank deeply from the waterskin. “How the blazes did that happen?”

“Orc ambush, he thought I was down but learnt otherwise,” she replied, offering the waterskin and being turned down. “Want to go another round, or would you rather not?”

There was a pause of consideration, either the other for another round, or the fact she’d pointedly avoided the full story on how she’d gotten the scar. It wasn’t one she tried to hide, but neither did she enjoy the querying looks and questions it garnered.

Perhaps once he was less hostile around elves, she’d tell the full tale.

“Aye, another round, I know how you move now,” he replied, shifting into a ready stance.

Rhosynel was quick to mirror him, and even quicker to realise he had gotten the measure of her. The first swipe was to her legs, forcing her back a hop, the second swung about for her hip, only to feint at the last second, and the third was less of a swing and more of a jab. But she was quick, shifting and twisting in time to his strikes, but rarely having chance to close the distance.

Hopping back a step, Rhosynel took a risk, and lunged forwards, fully entering into Gimli’s reach, blades coming down towards his shoulder. It was a surprise to realise he wasn’t about to defend against the strike, which turned to alarm as the head of his axe hurtled towards her legs.

The flat of the blade –as he’d turned it at the last second– slammed into her right thigh, just above her knee. The motion had her legs tangling, and Rhosynel toppling.

“GAH fucki-ow!” she yelped, landing with a crash.

“So that’s how to bring you down, I’ve got to go for the legs,” Gimli commented, but was immediately returning his axe to his hip, moving over to see how she fared. “Did I cut ya?”

“No, just –ow– tried to break my leg,” Rhosynel retorted, pushing herself to sit upright, gingerly massaging her thigh and stretching her leg hesitantly. The muscle was already burning, no doubt she’d have a nasty bruise come morning, but it felt like everything was intact. Just battered.

“We can’t be having that now,” he replied, “you’d not be able to come with us, with a broken leg.”

“Oh no what a shame,” Rhosynel replied dryly, and rolled to her feet, collecting her blades. “Can I tempt you into trying again?”

There was a muffled snort from Callondir.

It wasn’t a genuine suggestion, but the way his brows dropped into a scowl suggested it had been taken as such. “None of that now,” he chided, “you’d have not been foisted into this, had they not thought you’d be of benefit to the Fellowship.”

That was… neither reassuring nor dishonest.

But at least she wasn’t the only one that thought she’d been forced into it. She’d not had much chance to speak directly with Gimli, other than fleeting comments and the occasional shared eyeroll during meetings, but he seemed stalwart and determined to see the quest through.

Letting out a sigh, Rhosynel began to remove the bindings from about her blades. Her leg was burning even just standing still, so more sparing wasn’t high on her activity list.

“Perhaps so,” she agreed, as Gimli followed suit with his axe, “but Messengers don’t tend to travel in groups. My speed of travel will be far from what the group manages.”

“True, but you’ll know routes that we don’t.”

Also a fair point. Rhosynel had the sense that he’d give a solution to any problem she posed, a mildly annoying habit of the dwarves, who seemed to naturally fall into the role of problem solvers.

“Perhaps you are right, master Gimli,” Rhosynel agreed, turning the thought over and over in her head. “Perhaps I can help find the quickest and safest routes. Even if our destination is Mordor.”

The dwarf seemed pleased that he’d found the solution for her, even if Rhosynel was less certain. Perhaps she could be useful, perhaps this could be her purpose within the Fellowship. Even if the destination was the foulest place in Middle Earth.

It became a routine, meeting with Callondir and Berion, Gimli frequently joining the three, but only ever sparring with her. Often, but not always, Rhosynel could feel a heavy gaze boring into the back of her skull, something she was quickly learning to ignore. If Lord Boromir wished to comment, he’d have to speak up.

 Sometimes the Hobbits would join, and she’d try to teach them some of the basics, but she was no tutor, and left their actual training to the elves. Other times Legolas would put her through her paces, seemingly less worried about breaking her, like Callondir was.

Gandalf and Aragorn did not opt to spar, no matter how much she may have nagged Strider in a bid to find someone on her level of fighting. And while he often watched, she didn’t have the courage to challenge Boromir. No, the son of Denethor was inheriting his father’s frown, and Rhosynel didn’t want to learn if he’d gained the same wrath.

During the month of November, Rhosynel made an effort to involve herself more. The others had been reassuring in their encouragements, no doubt similar words were passed between one another, as though having to convince themselves that this quest was possible, and worth it.

So Rhosynel forced a brave face, and did her best to join the various meetings. Oh she’d always attended, but typically hung back, content to lean against the walls, listening to the plans rather than attempting to offer her own suggestions. There was a lot of discussions over what ifs, worries and concerns over encountering the enemy, and what they should do if that happened.

The route had been decided early, heading south to the gap of Rohan, and then a straight shot past Minas Tirith, over the Andúin, and then north alongside the mountains bordering Mordor. As to how they’d get into Mordor… that remained to be seen.

It was this meeting, which Rhosynel did her best to pay close attention, still reluctant to voice her own opinions.

“Rhosynel,” Strider said, the shock of him using her name for once left her staring blankly at him in confusion. “If we wish avoid the roads, what route would be best?”

Oh, he actually wanted her input.

Pushing away from her spot by the door, Rhosynel stiffly moved forwards until she’d joined the main group pouring over the map. The map focused on west of the Misty Mountains, Eregion, and further south to Enedwaith and Dunland. If they were making for the Gap of Rohan it was a fair distance. But not impossible.

“Remaining close to the foothills of the mountain will be most efficient. The hills there are reasonably smooth and rolling, while the crags can provide shelter or even full caves should we need to hide,” she explained, tracing a line from Rivendell to the outskirts of the mountains, then began a southward route. “Follow their line until this spur above Caradhras Pass, after which head westward slightly. The Glanduin will be difficult to pass at that time of year with the snow melts, but I discovered a simple bridge on my route here. The horses will be able to cross there, rather than risking a swim.”

There was a snort from the Gondorian lord interrupting her explanation, and despite her trepidations concerning him, Rhosynel lifted her eyes to frown in his direction. What, exactly, was so funny about the horses risking a swim?

“We won’t be taking horses.”

The wizard’s words drove all thoughts from her mind.

“Pardon?” Rhosynel blurted in disbelief.

There was a subtle movement as Aragorn shifted his weight away from her.

“We will not be riding,” Gandalf repeated, almost casually, eyes on the map and the route she was halfway through tracing, “they will be too obvious, and we have no time to teach the Hobbits.”

“I can have them riding by the end of the week,” Rhosynel shot back.

“They will still be too obvious,” he repeated, finally lifting his eyes. Gandalf’s brow furrowed into a frown at the sight of her own expression.

“They’ll be faster, we can evade our enemies better.”

“But not his spies.”

As far as Rhosynel was concerned, they were one and the same. But for them to be walking along the western edge of the Misty Mountains was insane. Surely they’d at least collect horses from Edoras and ride the rest of the way? Surely? But even as she thought that, the look in Gandalf’s flint grey eyes told her no. They would be walking. All the way to Mordor.

Dread settled in the pit of Rhosynel’s stomach.

“Regardless,” she started, voice measured and controlled so not to sound hysterical at the idea, “the speed they’ll provide will be more help than hindera—”

“No,” Gandalf cut her off, the single word sharp enough to sever her trail of thought.

Rhosynel’s mouth snapped shut sharply enough to catch her tongue. The taste of copper flooded her mouth at the same time anger roiled through her chest. It took every ounce of training, of her years delivering bad news to powerful lords, to wrestle her anger from her features. Heartbeat by heartbeat, the irritation, anger, frustration, slid from her expression. Until finally, her face was blank and empty of all emotion.

Rhosynel straightened up from leaning over the map, folding her hands behind her back as she ceased her directions. Her opinion wasn’t needed apparently, so there was no point in providing advice, since it was to be ignored.

It was Aragorn that moved first, leaning forwards to tap the spot her fingers had been resting not moments before. “South to Carahdras, then south-east, from the bridge at Glanduin?” he asked, clearly trying to return to the topic at hand.

Rhosynel turned blank eyes to him and nodded in agreement. She didn’t dare speak, the blood from her tongue coating her mouth would show too much reaction. She couldn’t let them know how angry she was, it was already proving difficult enough to keep her face blank and her hands loose. Let alone trying to moderate her voice. No, it was better to become a blank slate, rather than tell a wizard he was an idiot for trying to walk to Mordor.

There was a barely perceptible sigh from Strider, apparently realising that she was done with the meeting.

A few of the others were looking between them, eyes flicking from Rhosynel, to Gandalf, and then over to Aragorn. Frodo’s worry was almost enough to have Rhosynel reassuring him, but it was only the fact that Gandalf’s grey eyes hadn’t left her face, that kept her in check.

So much for finding a purpose within the Fellowship.

“We may not be taking horses but all of the equipment we require will slow us down,” Lord Boromir said slowly, eyes still on the map, “perhaps a pack horse will be of some use?”

Gandalf’s eyes finally left their scrutiny of Rhosynel and turned to him, eyeing him almost warily, apparently braced for an argument.

“Bill was a good un,” Sam piped up, apparently eager to seize the change of topic. “Nice an’ calm, didn’t even panic with the Nazgul situation.”

“Perhaps you’re right, Lord Boromir,” the wizard relented.

Somehow, that mild agreement, chaffed far more than any full argument would have. Anger roiled about Rhosynel’s chest, forcing her to inhale slowly and deeply. She wouldn’t react, she couldn’t react.

“Rhosynel, since you’ve worked with horses the most, could you see how Bill fares?” Strider again, clearly trying to salvage some of this meeting. “Perhaps arrange for some new tack from the elves?”

Almost the moment she met his eyes, Aragorn glanced over her shoulder and back again, the briefest flicker of his eyes, almost easy to miss. A dismissal? Or giving her an excuse?

“Sure,” she managed to say, lips barely moving, all too aware of the blood from her tongue.

“Let us know how he’d do, when you return,” Strider added.

An excuse given. An opportunity taken.

It was easy to nod curtly, step back from the table, and then with a swift pivot on her heel, Rhosynel left the desk, and headed for the door. Steps steady and controlled, hands still loosely clasped behind her back, looking almost casual.

It wasn’t until she’d left the study, that her façade slipped. Hands flexing and curling into talons repeatedly, the only motion she’d allow herself to show. By the Valar she was so tired of being talked over. Sure, it happened to the others as well, but they had all elected to join, and she hadn’t. So when her advice was asked and immediately dismissed, it left her wondering just how much she was really needed.

But Elrond wanted her to report on their progress and had foisted her into this situation.

The sigh of frustration that left her was little more than a growl. She’d return to her rooms so she could spit the blood out of her mouth and rinse the taste away, and then she’d head to the stables to begin her inspection of Bill. At least it gave her something to do, and then no one could complain she didn’t do the tasks given to her.

“Rhosynel!” a voice called after her, making her shoulders jolt in tension.

Immediately her hands dropped limply to her side, face smoothing over into her neutral mask. It was an effort to look over her shoulder and was met by the golden blond hair of Legolas hastening down the corridor to her side.

Apparently she wasn’t even trusted to carry out her inspection of a single pony.

The elf prince drew alongside her, and Rhosynel resumed her walking, trying to fend off the frustration. And trying to ignore the feeling of his eyes scanning her face.

“We realised the stable hands may not speak Westeron,” he said by way of explanation a moment later, as they walked, not that she’d asked. “I offered to join you.”

That much was obvious.

It also necessitated a response. It was difficult to keep the grimace from her face, as Rhosynel swallowed the blood in her mouths. “Thanks,” she said stiffly as they stepped out into a courtyard. “I don’t speak much, if any, elvis—”

His hand latched onto her shoulder, pivoting her towards him abruptly, making Rhosynel narrowly miss re-biting her tongue, but then his other hand landed on her jaw to hold her head still, and she lost any trail of thought.

“Why is there blood in your mouth?” Legolas asked sharply, all but prizing her mouth open as he leant over her, eyes wide and filled with concern. “Are you injured? Again?”

The strangled noise Rhosynel managed wasn’t very informative, not least because she couldn’t speak. His fingers were pressing against her jaw in such a way that it was difficult to move her jaw, but the pressure wasn’t painful. Just annoying.

“Your tongue is inflamed, what happened? You weren’t out of sight for more than a minute,” he was saying, brows furrowed as he peered into her mouth.

With a sharp shake of her head, Rhosynel managed to jostle herself free of his grip for a moment. “Would you stop trying to stick your fingers in my mouth!” she snapped, batting his hands away as the elf once again reached for her. “I bit my tongue, okay? Its fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I noticed.”

“What happened?” Legolas repeated, ignoring her attitude, one hand still on her shoulder so she couldn’t escape just yet. “Why would you bite yourself that badly?”

“So I wouldn’t say anything stupid to that, that… wizard.”

Apparently she could make anything sound like a curse with enough frustration.

The tension fled Legolas’s shoulders, making Rhosynel realise just how worried he had been. Had something else happened within the meeting after she left? Surely he wasn’t so worried about her mouth bleeding? That would be ridiculous, he barely knew her enough to be worried over something so trivial.

“Alright, with me,” he sighed, the hand on her shoulder beginning to steer her back into the halls of Rivendell, and very much not in the direction of the stables.

“This isn’t the way to the stables,” she said as such.

“No it’s to the healers, since apparently you like to injure yourself.”

“I do not!” Rhosynel protested, attempting to dig her heels on, only to be sent skidding along the polished wooden floor instead. “But if I didn’t, I’d probably have gotten cursed for what I’d have said.”

Not that she knew if wizards were capable of casting curses.

“He can’t curse you,” Legolas replied answering her unspoken theory as he steered her about a corner. “Although I’ve no doubt the argument would have come close. It would have certainly made that meeting more tolerable.”

“For you maybe.”

“Why’d you hate him anyway?”

“I don’t hate him.”

The sceptical look Legolas gave her was answer enough.

“I just,” Rhosynel faltered, trying to figure out how she did feel about Gandalf. And then firmly dug her heels in, making Legolas sidestep lest he crash into her. “I was employed to run a missive to Bree for him,” she said by way of explanation, “and when I get there, it turns out he needs me to remain in Bree until some random Hobbits turn up and Valar knows how long that would take. And then, it turns out Gandalf requested I travel with Strider and the Hobbits to Rivendell, which he also neglected to mention during the meeting he employed me,” she continued, having to force her voice to remain steady.

The elf prince tilted his head to one side in a remarkably bird like manner, brow furrowing at her words.

“Both of those things I could have done with knowing about. Then it gets worse, by the fact he completely neglected to mention the fucking Nazgul.”

She watched, as realisation dawned on Legolas’s face, eyes widening in alarm, even as his lips contorted into a grimace.

“Maybe he didn’t know about the Nazgul, but he should have mentioned it at least,” she pressed on, the words coming thick and fast now the dam had been breached, arms folding tightly across her chest. “I’ve encountered them in the past, I understand the danger surrounding them. So to find out he’d ‘neglected’ to mention them, hurts. Because I would have utterly refused to carry his missive had I known they were a risk.”

“Then it sounds like it’s a good job he didn’t mention them,” Legolas said. Immediately Rhosynel was protesting, little more than noises of anger and frustration rather than actual words. “Or else the realm would be a few Hobbits short by now.”

Her mouth shut with a click, narrowly missing the cut on her tongue as she did so.

“Yes,” Rhosynel agreed, with only a small amount of reluctance. “I’m glad I was able to help them but… now I’m being forced into this quest, like I’m a piece in a boardgame rather than my own person. Every choice since Bree has been taken out of my hands.”

“You don’t enjoy having your freedom taken away.”

“Does anyone?” she shot back. “If I’d offered like the rest of you did, it wouldn’t bother me. But no, I was asking to go home, and got lumped in with you lot instead.”

“Thanks,” the Prince of the Woodland Relam said dryly.

Exhaling in a huff, Rhosynel dragged her hands over her face, grimacing as her fingers grazed the near-healed cut to her temple. Yet another souvenir from her unexpected encounter, she could add it to her collection.

“I’m fine, I don’t need seeing to,” Rhosynel said pointedly but gently, trying to change the topic. “Shall we see to Bill?”

For several long heartbeats, Legolas watched her, eyes scanning across her face, dropping to her hands clenching into fists at her side. For a moment, she feared he’d press on with his questioning, or the insistence that the healers needed to look at the cut to her mouth. But then his expression relaxed somewhat, nodding his head more to himself than her words.

“Alright, lead the way.”

The relief that swept through Rhosynel, had no right to be so overwhelming.

Bill the Pony was absolutely fine, looking hale and hearty and more than capable of trekking all the way to Valar Damned Mordor. She still found it absurd that they weren’t to ride, and was still agitated at Gandalf for shooting down her objection so bluntly. She hadn’t lied when she claimed to getting the Hobbits ride-capable within a week, over exaggerated maybe. But not lied.

Instead, for reasons unknown to Rhosynel, the idea was batted aside as though it was a nuisance.

She’d taken to wondering the halls, pacing restlessly in circles about the passages of Rivendell. The need to move was far too strong to be contained to one room. She’d already enquired about Glorfindel and riding once more, but it seemed that Elrond had sent the elf on some sort of mission, so here she was slowly being driven insane by the walls about her.

Within those walls, it was like a dam had burst. Suddenly there wasn’t enough time to prepare, they had to be ready, soon. One moment Rhosynel had been anxious to go, the next, fearful to leave. The coiled serpent of anxiety that had settled into hibernation, once more reared its head. Soon they would be leaving, and then who knew what would happen next. More than anything, she wanted to return home, to her sister and the children. To her familiar bedroom, her belongings. Her own clothing.

That was all Rhosynel wanted. To return home.

As the time to leave drew steadily closer, her restlessness increased to near unreasonable levels. The inhabitants of Rivendell had grown used to her wonderings, but now there was a frenetic energy to her stride, whisking down the hallways, the long skirts of her borrowed gowns hissing across the smooth wooden floors. Even when she did pass others, Rhosynel limited herself to head nods, but rarely spoke, and apparently her expression deterred others from trying to speak with her. No matter where she walked, which corridors she travelled or rooms she passed by, it seemed like the preparations were underway for their quest.

It wasn’t that she was angry, although no doubt her scowl suggested that. It was just that she had never felt so trapped in her life.

So she moved, she paced, she strode through those all too familiar halls. Long legs covering the distance rapidly, at this rate her borrowed silk slippers would be worn to shreds, and a groove would be worn into the corridors of Rivendell. Rhosynel was doing everything she could to burn off her restless energy. With only mild success.

“Messenger!” a familiar voice called out.

Barely slowing her pace, Rhosynel turned her head just enough to see who hailed her. Dark hair, dark clothes. Strider. It was an effort to keep the grimace from her face, but she forced her steps to slow, forced herself to stop her stalking of the corridors.

“Rhosynel,” he greeted, drawing alongside her. Decked in his Ranger garb, he’d either just returned, or was about to set out, although judging by the dirt, he’d returned.

“Strider,” she replied, voice sounding flat.

“Still pacing?”

“There is nothing else for me to do, so yes.”

“There is perhaps, something to do,” Aragorn started, “the formal meal for the Fellowship is tomorrow night. Will you join us?”

A knot of anxiety tightened in her chest.

“Is this a request, or an order?” Rhosynel asked levelly.

“A request.”

“Then I—”

“From Frodo,” he cut her off, but not unkindly. Her mouth shut with a click of teeth, even as he continued. “Will you join?”

For serval strides the Ranger eyed her, as though he was chewing over something to say, or trying to ascertain the truth behind her words. Rhosynel kept her eyes fixed forwards, she would consider it, and in all likelihood, she would attend the meal. Even if she left at the earliest opportunity.

“It would be good to see you there,” Aragorn said carefully.

“I’ll think on it,” she managed to say. She’d consider it, if only for Frodo’s sake.

Thankfully that was the end of the conversation, as Strider politely, and with no small amount of awkwardness, disengaged from the conversation, and went his own way. For a few minutes she continued her slower rate of pacing, before turning abruptly on her heel, and heading directly towards the guest quarters.

Within minutes she was there and knocking lightly on the partially open door to Frodo’s room.

“Come in?”

Stepping into the room, Rhosynel found him sat on the large bed, flicking through a book with the familiar elegant script of elvish writing. She hadn’t realised he could read elvish, but then again, the Hobbit had seemed fairly at ease in Rivendell, compared to the others.

“Rhosyn, are you alright?” he asked, sitting upright, and closing the book.

“As I can be,” she replied, noncommittally. She didn’t want to burden him with her own frustrations, so was careful not to voice her annoyance in his presence. Although she had the impression the Hobbit was fully aware of how annoyed she was but was too polite to bring it up himself. “Strider said you’d like me to attend tomorrow’s meal?”

His nose wrinkled, but he didn’t disagree. Perhaps the request was meant to come from Aragorn rather than Frodo. “I thought it might be nice,” he said quietly, “I know we’ve had elevenses with you, but I thought maybe…”

“I’ll come,” Rhosynel replied, and found herself fiddling with the cuff of her borrowed gown. “I’m just… anxious, around the others… Shy isn’t the right word, but it’s not far off.”

Avoidant more like. Reclusive. Withdrawn.

But not shy. She was anything but shy, usually.

However Frodo was nodding, either to himself or her. “I know that feeling. How about you sit with me and the others?” She instinctively knew he meant the three other Hobbits. Possibly four if Bilbo was to join. “We can be a buffer between you and the others then, Sam’s been doing that for me, as it is.”

That had Rhosynel tilting her head. Frodo could be cheerful, bright, lively, and outgoing, but also overwhelmed at times, had the other Hobbits been shielding him somewhat? If she’d attended any other meal, she’d have learnt more of the group’s dynamics, but having avoided them so much left her at a disadvantage.

“That would help, thank you,” Rhosynel replied, her grin felt slightly forced, but she did mean it, she did appreciate the suggestion. It was just her anxiety wouldn’t let her rest.

The bright smile Frodo gave her told her that she was more than welcome.

Chapter Text

One week. One week till the Fellowship set out on their quest. One week until the protective walls of Rivendell would be nothing but a memory, the hot food, warm beds, and common comforts would soon be missed, and eventually forgotten.

Months of waiting had been leading up to this. The endless waiting, pacing, and biting her tongue during meetings. And now there was only a week left, and Rhosynel was regretting not having bolted without notice after the council meeting. It was little more than a fantasy at this point, the idea that she’d gotten out without being noticed, by now she’d be back home, comfortable and safe, and blissfully ignorant of what was going on.

But that was a lie.

Rhosynel had been at the council, she’d heard what Elrond had said. She’d seen the Ring, she’d learnt what the armies of Mordor had planned.

No, she would have returned home, and then been slowly consumed by fear and dread. Fear, not knowing what had happened to the Hobbits, and dread, of the impending doom of mankind. She might not want to be a part of this quest, but at least this way she knew what was going on…

So, Rhosynel had laid out and poured over her equipment and belongings so many times, she was fairly certain she knew every crack and crease in her leather pack. She knew exactly how much rope she carried, how sharp her blades were, where her whetstone was kept, where the spare arrows heads were tucked, where her waterskin would hang. She had so many parchment strips and sticks of charcoal, that she could have written missives for an entire city. Not to mention her personal belongings, a battered leather journal tucked into its pouch that would rest on her hip, as well as the leather roll holding vials of herbal remedies from her sister.

Over and over again she’d double, and triple checked that she was ready.

And not once did it help lift the tight feeling in her chest. At this rate she was going to be driven insane just from waiting.

A knock at the door to her room had Rhosynel jolting in surprise, looking around from her bed, where each and every item she may or may not need had been carefully laid out and arranged. It was neat and precise and spoke more of her fears than any words could.

“Come in,” she called, wondering what food the Hobbits had pilfered this time.

It wasn’t a Hobbit that entered, but an elf.

“Lady Arwen,” Rhosynel exclaimed, unable to hide the surprise from her voice. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything is fine,” she replied in that soft and gentle voice, “I was—are you not yet ready?” she asked, elegant brows raising in surprise. “My dear the meal is in fifteen minutes!”

The formal leaving meal, where every elf, man, and dwarf, would be invited to attend. The non-negotiable meal, where Strider had outright told her to attend, albeit on behalf of Frodo. She’d almost refused if it wasn’t for the Hobbits. They were the only reason she was attending this blasted meal, and here she was, having forgotten.

“Fifte—oh shit,” Rhosynel swore, getting a startled laugh for her curse, even as she lunged for the gown draped across the chest at the foot of her bed. “I’m sorry, I lost track of time!” she explained, moving behind a changing screen and quickly stripping out of her tunic and breeches.

“I figured as such,” Arwen replied, and Rhosynel could just about see her approach the bed and inspect the items laid out, carefully picking up one sword and giving it an elegant spin, testing its weight and eyeing the quality of the blade. “I presumed you’d either forgotten, or had chosen not to come at all,” she said, with a pointed glance over to where Rhosynel was reappearing, setting the blade back down.

“Possibly both.”

That earned her a considering hum, but no scolding came from the elegant lady. Arwen wore a glimmering gown of turquoise, it caught the light streaming through the windows, making her almost glow in the golden light of the setting sun. Her black hair had been pulled back from her face, held in place with a silver comb, her ears accented by elegant cuffs with dangling silver chains.

A vision of serene elegance.

And a stark contrast to Rhosynel’s own ruffled state of being. Wearing yet another borrowed gown, this time in a rich midnight blue, with golden accents, Rhosynel felt like a child, wearing her mother’s clothing in a bid to look mature. It wasn’t helped by the wild tangle of hair which rarely allowed itself to be tamed. Reaching up, she split her hair into three sections and began to drag it into a braid.

Only for a pair of light hands to still her motion.

“Sit,” Arwen said.

Somewhat reluctantly, Rhosynel sank onto the stool before the vanity.

A moment later, a brush was being pulled through her hair, carefully teasing out the tangles, smoothing out the waves, and somewhat taming the mess. There was only so much the elf woman could do, after years of wind torn travels, infrequent washes, and rare brushings, Rhosynel’s hair wasn’t exactly in good condition, but Arwen didn’t give up in her attempt to tame it.

“Your hair is such a beautiful colour,” the elf said quietly, setting the brush down and beginning to twist strands back and out of Rhosynel’s face. “Like honey.”

Rhosynel barely managed to restrain herself from snorting. Her hair had rarely been referred to as beautiful, or honey, before. The usual words were ‘wild’ and ‘mess’, albeit said teasingly by her sister. They had the same hair after all, even though Rhymenel’s was far better cared for.

“Thanks,” she managed to say stiltedly instead, “the gold is from my mother.”

For several minutes there was nothing but the sound of a boar bristle brush being pulled soothingly through Rhosynel’s hair. So soothing, that her eyes felt heavier.

“So, are you going to try convincing me this is worth it?” Rhosynel broke the silence.

“No,” Arwen replied easily. “I think you’ll have heard enough pleasantries and reassurance to last you a lifetime by now.”

She wasn’t wrong.

“Are you aware that my father has the gift of foresight?” Arwen asked.

“No,” Rhosynel answered slowly. Truthfully, she didn’t know much about foresight, it could have been a myth for all she knew. “Has he… foreseen something?”

“Very little of the Fellowships route is visible to him, but that is not unusual. Foresight isn’t all knowing,” Arwen replied, head tilting in the reflection of Rhosynel’s mirror, as though considering what to do with her hair. “But he has admitted to me, that he’s seen no sign of you within the few visions he’s garnered.”

The speed at which Rhosynel’s head whipped about was enough to jar her neck.

“I don’t remain with the Fellowship?” she asked, voice far too sharp, far too hopeful.

Was she able to go her own way? Did she do something wrong? Did the others grow tired of her arguing and send her away, did she even leave Rivendell at all? Perhaps they reached Edoras and she was released of her duties? Or… perhaps she was injured or killed early on…

“It’s not all knowing,” Arwen repeated, clearly a bid to warn Rhosynel of getting her hopes up. Hands turning Rhosynel back to face the mirror once more and taking a few silvery pins from a draw. “But neither did he predict your arrival to Rivendell, not even after Ilmara’s arrival to inform him of your route to Weathertop.”

Rhosynel could only stare at her in the mirror, face as blank and confused as she felt.

“You, are somehow hidden from his sight,” Arwen said, sliding the pins one by one into place, and lifting her eyes to meet Rhosynel’s in the mirror. The pair watched one another for a long moment, Rhosynel having the sense that the elves’ words were significant.

“You’re going to have to explain how,” Rhosynel relented a moment later, “prophecy, foresight, predictions, I hold very little knowledge about them or their significance.”

Arwen smiled, her face brightening with that simple motion, and Rhosynel’s heart lurched. To be the focus of that smile was… warming. She could understand how the poets and authors could wax lyrical of the elves.

“If you’re hidden from father, you may also be hidden from others, others who work for the Rings owner.”

Sauron.

“Somehow,” Rhosynel said slowly, trying to turn her head and having it promptly pushed back into the correct position, “my inability to be ‘seen’ doesn’t reassure me.”

“I thought you’d had enough of reassurances?”

Rhosynel snorted, drawing a laugh from Arwen that made her stomach flip.

“No, I feel that your being here, being involved, has some significance we’re yet to discover,” she continued, apparently unaware of the effect of her laugh, “perhaps it’ll just be through finding the safest routes, or perhaps you’ll make one small change that effects the course of this story.”

Another pause, as Rhosynel tried to process her words.

“Is cryptic talking an elf thing, or a foresight thing?” she asked eventually, “because I have no skill in riddles and that’s what you’re speaking in.”

Another lilting laugh, but then the elf patted her shoulder. “I’m finished.”

Ah so she was to be left bewildered and confused by the lady’s words for the rest of the evening. Great.

Tilting her head, Rhosynel briefly inspected herself in the mirror, four elegant twists, leading back to join into one braid, which rested atop the rest of her loose hair. It was simple, but nicer than just a braid.

“Thank you,” Rhosynel said quietly, “both for the hair, and the… riddle.”

“You’re most welcome.”

Taking one last breath, Rhosynel joined the elf, and allowed herself to be led towards the dining hall. She would try to enjoy the evening, she would try to relax, enjoy the food, the company, and the conversations, no matter how out of depth she felt.

The Hobbits had been quick in towing her and Arwen to the meal.

Allowing herself to be dragged through the corridors, allowing herself to be led into the dining room, Rhosynel even allowed herself to smile at their enthusiasm, and insistence that she sit with them. Unceremoniously, she was all but pushed into a seat at a round table, Frodo claimed the seat alongside her, making her stomach roil at the proximity to the Ring, while Sam sat alongside him, with Merry and Pippin taking the chairs to her right.

With only six seats at their round table, it came as a slight surprise to see Legolas settling directly opposite her, alongside Merry and Sam. Behind him, another round table was being claimed by Gimli and Boromir, as well as a collection of elves of Rivendell, which Gimli looked thrilled by, but he wasn’t alone, as one of his kin was quick to claim a seat. Glancing to the main table, she was met by the sight of Elrond, Arwen, Aragorn, Gandalf, and a few others she wasn’t familiar with. All around them were other tables, some with Mirkwood elves, a handful of dwarves, and then the majority of Rivendell seemed to have turned out for the event.

The hall was beautiful, with arching columns about its sides, leading up to a vaulted roof. Glimmering lanterns were places artfully amongst greenery that draped from the rafters and across the banisters of the balconies. Considering most of Rivendell was open to the elements, it was a surprise that it never became so bitterly cold.

There was a speech, naturally. With Elrond waxing lyrical but managing to say nothing about the Ring, or Mordor, or the quest, and very little to do with the Fellowship either. Rhosynel found herself staring down at her hands, running her fingers across the embroidery on her sleeve, or picking at her nails. She should have trimmed them up better, or put any effort into her appearance, rather than rushing it.

“You made it then,” Legolas commented, once the speech was over.

“I had little choice in the matter,” she replied, with a fond frown down at Frodo. He grinned up at her. “It seems these four, think I only ever eat when they’re there to witness it, and as such think I have been woefully underfed since arriving here.”

“You are too thin,” Merry said helpfully.

“I am average, thank you very much.”

Apparently, her words weren’t the right ones, as the four smallest members of the Fellowship seemed intent to make her the largest. Piling food on her plate until it threatened to roll of the edges, and it took her batting away their hands and covering the plate with her arms, for them to stop.

Something which amused Legolas no end.

“You look like a hawk mantling over its prey,” he commented.

“It’s effective.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”

For some reason that gave Rhosynel pause, had her words come off too defensive? Was she reacting to general comments as though she was waiting to be attacked? There was no reason for her to be on such a defensive mindset, no one here was her enemy. Taking a breath, she focused on her too-full-plate, and began picking her way through it.

It was good, fresh, and hot, the meat was tender and cooked to perfection, while vegetables had been roasted evenly. Potatoes with crisp edges, carrots and parsnips rolled in honey, peas which had been cooked with butter and mint. The meat seemed to be game bird, paired with fruity jellies which enhanced the flavours. Even the wine was nice, usually she preferred ales or ciders, but this was elven wine, light and delicate but full of flavour and not unpleasant on her tongue.

It was also far too easy to drink.

Unwilling to make a fool of herself, once Rhosynel realised how quickly her glass was emptying, she made an effort to slow down in drinking the wine. It was bad enough that she’d been avoiding everyone for so long, she couldn’t, wouldn’t, get even so much as tipsy on this wine. No matter how nice it might be.

However the Hobbits seemed to have no issue with doing so, Merry and Pippin quickly became boisterous, although that was par for the course. While Sam and Frodo didn’t get drunk, they certainly were quick to laugh and encourage whatever shenanigans Merry and Pippin were getting into, which currently seemed to be convincing Legolas of all sorts of weird and wonderful things.

“Oh yes it’s a well know tradition within the Shire,” Pippin was saying, in a voice Rhosynel had become accustomed to as his ‘make it up as I go along’ voice. “Midsummer Eve, everyone empties their house onto the lawn in the morning to deep clean, then, you have to get all your furniture and belongings back in the house before nightfall. Anything left on the lawn if free game for your neighbours to claim.”

“That, doesn’t sound, right,” Legolas said slowly, looking perplexed. “Surely you risk losing heirlooms or items of importance.”

“Well that’s the thing!” Merry interjected, always quick to back up Pippin’s hijinks. “It gives you the chance to consider what’s truly important to you! Is it your antique collection of books which you cherish most, or your favourite armchair? I had to make the choice and lost a very fine rocking chair one year.”

“And I gained a very fine rocking chair that year,” Frodo interjected with a remarkably straight face.

Legolas, who had been looking more than a little sceptical, raised bewildered eyes to Rhosynel. As though she was an expert in Hobbit traditions.

“We have a similar version of this tradition in Minas Tirith,” she said, lying outright without missing a beat. “Only instead of furniture, it’s all our clothing.”

“All your clothing, miss?” Sam asked, mildly concerned, but playing along.

“All.” Rhosynel raised her brows and dropped her voice in a conspiratorial whisper, as she leant forwards, and to her amusement found Legolas leaning closer in morbid curiosity. “It’s either a very entertaining day, or very harrowing. If you catch my drift.”

The elf gave a strangled noise at this suggestion of impropriety.

“But, as a Messenger,” she was quick to continue, “I’m usually able to make excuses and get out the city during The Baring.”

Apparently struggling to keep a straight face, Frodo snorted into his glass of wine. And Legolas’s look of horror immediately morphed to one of amusement. “You are toying with me,” he accused them, still sounding a little unsure.

“Are you calling us liars?” Rhosynel asked in mock offence.

“Yes.”

She didn’t have a good answer for that, so just grinned at him over her glass of wine. “I’m sure you’ll find out eventually,” she said, “we’ll probably reach Minas Tirith around midsummer, you’ll be able to experience The Baring first hand.”

His eyes narrowed, and then much to her horror, he turned away, leaning back to look over his shoulder to the table behind him. “Boromir, do you partake of the Midsummer tradition in Minas Tirith?”

At which point, Rhosynel sorely wished she had the Ring, if only to put it on and turn invisible, if but for a moment. However the Hobbits were all grinning over at the Lord and nodding at him behind Legolas’s back.

“Of course,” Boromir said slowly, having been pulled out of his conversation with Gimli. He looked equally suspicious and curious, but apparently willing to play along with the Hobbits tomfoolery. “Although with more ceremony and less… enthusiasm, than the lower levels.”

The mental image of Denethor and the other high-flying lords ceremonially removing all the clothing from their wardrobes and persons, was enough to have Rhosynel downing the last of her wine glass. Anything to try and scrub that mental image from her mind. Even as the Hobbits all cracked up laughing, unable to keep up the ruse much longer, and leaving Legolas looking thoroughly confused.

Thankfully the arrival of desserts was enough to distract the Hobbits from their teasing of Legolas. Sweet treats piled high on platters, tarts, buns, sugared dough balls, cakes, pastries, fruits, and more. Having already been pressured into eating far too much food, the option of all these sweet items was enough to make Rhosynel feel mildly queasy.

Not that she had much choice in the option, as yet again the others loaded her plate up.

Carefully nursing her second –or was it third?– glass of wine, Rhosynel was feeling possibly the most relaxed she had in weeks, although the slight fuzziness creeping along the edges of her brain, deterred her from consuming any more of the pleasant drink. No, she would make this half last, and then be sure to drink a lot of water before bed, least she woke up miserable and regretting everything more than usual.

Naturally the Hobbits had other plans, as Merry and Pippin were currently arguing over the lyrics of a drinking song they both seemed to know. Or not, as the case may be.

“No no no, its ‘till the sun comes up and the beer goes down, and we dance to the strings around and round’,” Merry was arguing.

“That’s not it,” Pippin replied, a scowl of concentration on his face. “When the moon is bright and the stars alight, the whiskey keeps us warm all through the night.”

There was a groan from Sam. “Lads, that’s the same song.”

Apparently, his words gave them pause, as the pair briefly fell silent, frowns on their faces, mouthing along to the words currently running through their heads. It was entertaining, to say the least, as Rhosynel watched their dawning realisation, her head propped up on her fist.

“Do you know any drinking songs?” Frodo asked her in the silence of concentration.

“Not off the top of my head,” she replied truthfully. “My job lends itself more to walking or riding songs, and I don’t get drunk enough to sing any drinking songs.”

“We may have use of walking songs soon enough,” Frodo commented, possibly the closest to ‘work talk’ they’d gotten. “How does yours go?”

“I’m not a singer,” she replied honestly.

“You can’t be as bad as these two.”

Unfortunately, that comment caught the attention of the other Hobbits, and all four began badgering her for the song. She should have known it was dangerous territory, Rhosynel had quickly learnt that they enjoyed music, signing, and dancing, seemingly taking any excuse to celebrate.

“Fine! Fine! But if it hurts your ears, you have no one but yourself to blame,” she relented, throwing her hands up in mock despair, well aware that they wouldn’t let her weasel out of this so easily. Taking her wine, she took another large mouthful, before clearing her throat a couple of times. Not giving herself chance to get embarrassed, Rhosynel took a shaky breath and started the one she knew best.

“Home, home, is where I go,

With the sun on my back and my feet on the track,

Back to the place where horses roam.

Home, home, is where I go,

With the stars above and the moon ahead,

Back to where my soul is blown.

Home, home, is where I go,

With the Hall ahead and the wilds behind,

Back to my love who waits for me,

Home, home, is where I’ll be.”

The moment she fell silent, the Hobbits seemed delighted by her short rendition, clapping along and repeating after her. Already eagerly asking if there were more verses, but Rhosynel felt awkward enough as it was. Let alone continuing to sing.

“No, no,” she deflected their requests, “that’s all you’ll get from me. My voice isn’t made for singing.”

“All voices are made for singing, and yours is not the worst I’ve heard,” Gimli piped up from the neighbouring table. Apparently his attention had been dragged over by her poor attempt at singing.

“See!” Pippin exclaimed loudly. “Gimli agrees!”

“He’s not wrong,” Boromir added to her embarrassment, her head all but whipped around to stare at the Gondorian lord currently sipping his wine, “training and talent have nothing to do with it.”

But Rhosynel was reeling from their comments. She couldn’t have carried a tune in a bucket, her voice sounded hoarse, with the tendency to crack it she attempted any higher notes. It was a voice that was suitable for nights in a tavern, or singing her sister’s children to sleep, but certainly not suitable for polite company.

“So will you keep singing?” Sam pressed, apparently unwilling to give up.

“Only after a considerable amount of wine,” she retorted, taking a sip of said wine.

“Waiters, more wine please!” Frodo called out.

She nearly sprayed the table with her mouthful.

However, her choking on the alcohol was enough to distract and change the subject, and Rhosynel had no intention of steering it back in the direction of songs or singing. No, she had embarrassed herself more than enough for one evening.

Settling back in her chair, she was more than content to sit and listen to the others chatter amongst themselves. It was almost pleasant, like a family meal. There were the boisterous members, the quieter ones, those who could handle their drink, and those that grew louder with it. Sipping at the last of her wine, Rhosynel eyed the door, debating if she could make her excuses and leave for the rest of the night. It was dark, but then it was winter and darkened not long after mid-day and being within a valley only exaggerated that.

No, she’d made the effort to join, and now Rhosynel couldn’t quite bring herself to leave. There was a warmth, a comfort to the casual conversation and good-natured teasing, something she had been sorely missing during her self-imposed isolation.

A small kernel of regret settled in the pit of her stomach.

Thankfully the majority of the meal was over and done with, and a few individuals were beginning to move around and mingle. It had escaped Rhosynel’s notice before sitting, but there was a clear patch of floor to one side, and she realised with sinking horror that there were no doubt plans for dancing. Something she had little interest in attempting while tipsy. Three glasses of wine were making her a little lightheaded, she should have been more cautious, but it was easy to get lost in the conversation with the Hobbits, and before she knew it, she’d finished off a third glass.

Mentally berating herself for drinking more wine than she would usually, Rhosynel cautiously rose to her feet. She had every intention of slipping away and returning to her rooms. She’d remained for the meal, that was the mandatory part, there was no way she’d remain for the dancing too.

“Rhosyn where are you going!” Sam exclaimed, and drew attention directly to her.

“I’m tired, Sam,” she said with a rueful smile. “I’m going to retire for the night.”

Immediately there was a minor uproar from the gathered Hobbits, protesting that the night was still early, that there was more food to eat, that she hadn’t even danced yet. However, Rhosynel was well accustomed to her sister and her children trying to convince her to do things she didn’t want to do, so she barely batted an eye, standing with a wry smile as the Hobbits came up with increasingly elaborate reasons for her to stay.

But eventually she held up one hand. “No, I’m going to bed, you four enjoy the night, and try not wake me when you return,” she said with a grin, aware their singing would wake the entirety of Rivendell.

“But surely—”

Merry’s protests were cut off by the scrape of chair legs on the wooden floor. Blinking through the fuzzy edges of her mind, she found to her alarm Boromir rounding the table towards her.

“My lady—”

“Not a lady.” To give him credit he barely blinked at the interruption.

Standing up straight, his hands loosely clasped behind his back as he looked down at her. “May I escort you to your room?” Boromir asked, sounding incredibly formal.

The surprised silence that settled across both Rhosynel’s brain and the table of Hobbits, was notable. All of them looking at the lord in bewilderment. Which meant it took several heartbeats too many, to realise he was giving her an escape route from the Hobbits demands.

“Huh,” she said with all the wit that three glasses of wine and an uncomfortable formal event could give her, “sure, although I can’t imagine why it’s necessary.”

There was a huff, hopefully of amusement, from the Lord. “Not necessary, just polite.”

There was no argument against that.

So Rhosynel did, turning to the Hobbits and bidding them goodnight with far less convincing on their part, before weaving through the crowd. Thankfully the elves, and the dwarves, were less demanding in their attempts to make her stay. Although she was not so close to Legolas and Gimli than she was with the Hobbits. Exchanging short goodnights with Gandalf, Aragorn, as well as Elrond and Arwen, was suitably awkward, and it was a relief to take her leave.

Only to become awkward once again, as Boromir offered his arm at the doorway to the corridor. For a moment, Rhosynel hesitated, before cautiously reaching out and resting her hand in the crook of his arm.

Polite? Yes.

Uncomfortable level of proximity? Also yes.

“I thought you may need an escape,” the Lord quietly admitted once the hall was behind them.

Rhosynel blinked in surprise at the charitable gesture, or was he just using it to excuse himself as well? Possibly even both.

“I adore them, but the Hobbits can be… a lot,” she admitted and was rewarded with a muted chuckle. “Although I am actually tired.”

She’d expected to be all but dragged along in the Lords own need to get away, but he moved at her pace, even when Rhosynel paused to better gather her skirts in one hand. He seemed content to let her lead the way, the exposed corridors were cold, but allowed a view across the night blanketed valley. Although the heat that seemed to radiate from Lord Boromir helped negate the chill. Spots of light in lower gardens gave faint illumination, although the moon and stars were providing more than enough silvery light on their own. On the way to the guest houses, whenever they passed through open areas, her head was tilting back to gaze up at the stars and half-moon.

It was beautiful, peaceful and serene.

There was no intention in Rhosynel’s mind to settle down any time soon, but now the eve of their departure was looming, she found herself reluctant to leave somewhere so peaceful. No, she wouldn’t stay, no matter how tempting the calming effect of Rivendell was, she knew she’d soon grow too restless within its walls. Better to set out with the Fellowship and return to her family and loved ones in Minas Tirith.

“My la—Rhosynel?”

Despite the fact she was still leaning on Boromir’s arm, his voice made her jump, having been lost in the constellations above.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, “you must be wanting to get going.”

“It’s not that,” he was quick to reply, sounding concerned, “you’re starting to shiver.”

Blinking, Rhosynel attempted to reel her senses back into her body, rather than the skies above. Yes, he was right, she was growing cold, a slight tremble to her arms and shoulders. Valar she always forgot how the northern cold chilled her far quicker than was fair.

“You’re right,” she agreed, how long had he been stood silently letting her indulge in gazing at the sky? “That’s enough stargazing for tonight, no doubt I’ll have more chances later.”

“If you wish to remain, then take my coat.”

It was tempting, but it was growing late, growing cold, and she was growing tired. Thankfully they weren’t setting off in the morning, but a couple of days later. She needed to rest; else she’d be exhausted even before the quest began.

“Tempting but no,” Rhosynel said managing to keep the reluctance out of her voice. “It’s better to get some sleep, we’re going to need it.”

With that she started moving again, and he kept pace once more, escorting her through the halls until they reached the entrance to the guest quarters. Walking with him hadn’t quite been comfortable, the occasional lurch in her chest whenever she recalled just who’s arm she was leaning on. But it had been calming, simply walking alongside one another, in silence, stopping to admire whatever had caught her attention. Would Rhosynel have done this without three glasses of wine, probably not. But he’d made a polite offer to escort her back, and she lacked the social skills at the best of times, to reject his offer without causing offence.

“Will you be returning to the hall?” she said, slowing to a stop outside of her door.

“No, no I think I will retire too,” Boromir replied, confirming her suspicion that the offer hadn’t entirely been altruistic, as he glanced towards a window and the darkness beyond. “We need the rest like you said.”

“Well, thank you, for the escort, although I still don’t really understand it,” Rhosynel said with a grin.

That earned her a soft chuckle, and the barest flicker of a smile, before it was schooled into yet another serious expression. “I imagine if I’d not escorted you, we’d have found you frozen solid in the garden by morning.”

Giving a bark of laughter, Rhosynel turned to her door. “Then thank you for ensuring I don’t freeze to death,” she said, unlocking her door and bumping it open with her hip. “Goodnight, Lord Boromir.”

“Goodnight, Lady Rhosynel.” The instinct to correct him was strong, but she resisted, as he inclined his head, and headed back down the corridor.

Her room was cool, the windows ajar, and Ilmara settled on the sill, feathers fluffed, and head tucked down as she slept soundly. Untangling her hair didn’t take long, and it took even less time to shuck off the gown, managing to drape it carefully rather than leave it crumpled on the floor.

The maids had already come through as all her equipment had been stacked neatly to the side of her room, rather than strewn across the covers. Said covers, were toasty and warm, thanks to the arrival of a clay bottle full of hot water. So while the air was cool, the covers were warm as Rhosynel crawled within, and soon surrendered to the lure of sleep.

Chapter Text

Gwaedal, as ever, was delighted to see her again. She’d visited him each day, but rarely had chance to ride him thanks to the snow and confines of the valley. And each visit seemed to have him asking if it was time to leave. Nosing at her hands, nudging her towards the door, eyes on freedom and ears forwards to anticipation.

And every time, becoming disappointed when she left without him.

He couldn’t understand, no matter how often she explained it in soft words, no matter how she tried to sooth his own restlessness with grooming and treats.

But soon she’d be leaving him, for who knows how long. And Rhosynel’s heart ached at the thought. She’d ridden him since he was young, spanning almost ten years together, he was strong and fast and trustworthy, there was barely any need to speak when they rode together, knowing and understanding one another. If she was to ride any horse to Mordor, it would be Gwaedal, fleet of foot and brave of heart.

Instead, he would be left in Rivendell.

“He’ll be well cared for,” a voice said from outside the stall.

Rhosynel jumped, twisting around, her shoulders tensed at the familiar face. Apparently, Lord Boromir and Sam had come to collect Bill and prepare him for the journey ahead. Her stomach twisted in anxiety, in a few scant hours, they’d be leaving.

“I know,” Rhosynel replied, somewhat shortly, as she turned back to Gwaedal, running the brush along his neck once again. “But he’ll not be with me.”

“I must confess,” the Lord pressed on, and Rhosynel tried not to sigh in frustration that her alone time saying goodbye to Gwaedal was being interrupted, “when I suggested a pack horse, it wasn’t Bill I had in mind.”

The brush sweeping across Gwaedal’s neck juddered slightly in its path, causing the horse to toss his head in irritation, more telling than Rhosynel’s own reaction. He’d been thinking of using Gwaedal as a pack horse? It would have been mildly insulting, if it wasn’t for the ulterior motive behind the suggestion. If Gwaedal were to carry their equipment… she could have taken him with her. They’d have passed the mountains and she’d have been released and free to ride…

“There’s nothin’ wrong with Bill!” Sam stood up for the little pony quickly.

“I didn’t say there was, Master Gamgee,” Boromir placated, and she caught the fond smile he gave Sam, “just that Bill would enjoy his time in Rivendell far more than a Messengers horse would.”

Something of her emotions must have shown on her face, as Boromir was turning to Sam and gently chivvying him along further into the stable. “Come, let us get Bill ready.”

And left Rhosynel at peace with Gwaedal.

Her throat felt tight, eyes prickling with the threat of tears. Setting aside the brush, she ran her hands across Gwaedal’s cheeks and neck instead. The thin cuts he’d received from his flight from the Nazgul had healed invisibly, no doubt thanks to the elves and whatever paste they’d been applying. He looked fit, healthy, and utterly cooped up.

It would be a long time until she saw him again.

“Behave,” she warned quietly, hearing the others begin to tack up Bill further into the stables. “You will be well cared for. Arwen has promised to bring you apples, and I’m sure the other horses here will keep you company.”

Was she reassuring him, or herself?

“I’ll come back for you,” Rhosynel managed to say, about the lump in her throat. “I promise.”

Gwaedal gave a soft nicker.

And with a kiss to the white snip on his velvety nose, she forced herself to turn away from her companion, forced herself to push down the tears, and forced herself to approach the others with Bill. She could help here, she could help with the pony, no matter how he wasn’t her own horse.

Bags packed and repacked, weapons checked and rechecked. There was nothing left to do, other than leave. Stood in the room which had become both her haven and her cage, Rhosynel gazed around. The pale-coloured wood, the arching windows, the little balcony that had become Ilmara’s perch. The comfortable bed was what she’d miss most.

Shouldering her pack, she encouraged Ilmara onto her wrist, and left.

The cluster of Hobbits welcomed her quickly as she joined the group. Frodo looked sick, his wound now healed as much as it would, but a slight grey tint to his face. Sam wasn’t faring much better, the knuckles of his hand turning white as he gripped Bill’s lead rope. She wasn’t the only one fearing the departure.

Slowly, the crowd of elves grew, as more and more residents of Rivendell attended their departure. But despite the crowd, no voices broached the silence. It was almost oppressive in its heaviness, and Rhosynel found herself wishing for someone, anyone, to disturb the air.

Only for her stomach to sink as Lord Elrond stepped forwards. “The Fellowship of the Ring,” he said sombrely, and immediately avoided looking into his eyes. “Go now, with the blessings of elves.”

The group looked to Frodo, who took a hesitant step, and then another, and another, until one by one they filed through the arch, and began their long walk.

There was no elation in Rhosynel’s soul at the prospect of this journey. No running of feet, bounding across the ground. Her heart didn’t soar as they reached open air. No screams of frustration, or joy. Nothing but a heavy weight settling moment by moment on her shoulders, with each step she took, it increased, until it felt like her limbs were becoming leaden.

Each step took them further from safety, further into the wilderness and unknown.

Turning her eyes skywards once more, Rhosynel gave a low whistle, and was greeted by the familiar sight of Ilmara soaring high above. In response, the goshawk dipped lower in the sky, and began leading Rhosynel’s steps. It was a familiar and easy habit to fall into, trusting that Ilmara could see much further and alert her to danger.

Quite without thought, Rhosynel’s steps lengthened, striding swiftly across the moorlands of gorse and heather. Safe in the reassurance that Ilmara wouldn’t lead her wrong, Rhosynel lead the others across the rolling landscape, with the Fellowship at her back, it was almost easy to forget about them. For a brief while, she became the sole traveller, just like any other missive run, she followed Ilmara and trusted her feet not to fail.

And it would have continued in such a way, had a voice from behind not called out.

“Do not stray too far ahead, Messenger,” Gandalf’s voice rang out across the landscape.

There was a jolt to her step, almost stumbling, but instead coming to a sharp stop atop a small hillock. A glance back revealed the others, some two hundred feet back. Not as great a distance as she’d thought she’d gained, but still enough. Gandalf and Aragorn were in the lead, while the Hobbits were strung out in a row, with Legolas, Gimli, and Boromir keeping a keen eye on them.

“You’ll not lose me,” Rhosynel answered as neutrally as possible, despite how much she might want to lose them, “Ilmara will not guide us wrong.”

Any grumbles he may have given, were lost in the distance.

Waiting patiently for them to catch up, she waited until they were around fifty feet behind, before turning back to the route ahead and continuing. Albeit with less of a stride. It chafed, the urge to run to bound across the moors was strong, but with the voices on the wind following her every step, it wasn’t possible to lose herself to the freedom of travel.

“Let me know, when you wish you make camp,” Rhosynel added, some minutes later.

“Can your bird lead us to a tavern?” she heard Gimli speak up.

“When there’s one within a hundred miles of us, yes!”

His laughter was enough to sooth the annoyance of being reined in, if only for a short while. The pace was still far too slow for her, if it had been a missive she carried alone, she’d have scarcely stopped for meals, even alternating between jogs and walks to hasten her route.

“How far do we have to go?” one of the Hobbits, possibly Sam, piped up.

“For forty days we will hold this course,” Gandalf answered. “We will head south, and make for the gap of Rohan, before we turn east.”

Despite the mention of her birth-home, Rhosynel felt no excitement.

Forty days. Forty, days. If she had Gwaedal, she could have made it inside of a week, maybe two if she dawdled. On foot she’d have managed it inside of a month. Forty days was an outlandishly long time to travel on foot. She held her tongue. The sense of not belonging had faded at the start of December, but now it crept back intently. Determined to alienate her from the True Fellowship. Rhosynel was just an imposter, and Arwen’s mention of not being within her father’s vision was a harsh confirmation.

It was only once the sun crept ever close to the horizon, that she was given new orders.

“Rhosynel, can your bird find a camp?” Aragorn asked.

“No but I can,” she replied, already beginning to step it out further, “I won’t be long.”

There was the sound of protests, but she was already bounding away, long legs clearing the scrubby bushes, propelling her forwards and up a hill. Dropping to a crouch before she reached the summit, Rhosynel scanned the horizon for a moment, before rising to her feet and scanning for a suitable location.

A copse of trees, just to the east, nestled between the hillocks.

A whistle to Ilmara, and the pair were heading for the trees, a sharp hand gesture had the Limroval approaching the trees, flitting through them with the agility her breed gave her, wings flaring open, and snapping shut to navigate the dense tangle of branches. No cries of alarm, nor shouts of men or orc. On Ilmara’s safe return, Rhosynel turned around and began heading back to the others.

“There’s a copse, not far east,” she greeted, “Ilmara has scouted it, no one resides within.”

Why was Gandalf scowling? Why did Aragorn look irritated? What else was she meant to do? They needed somewhere to camp, so she’d found a suitable location, what more did they want from her?

“Lead the way,” Aragorn said, sounding resigned.

It was incredibly tempting to turn and run again, but she didn’t, whatever had annoyed the apparent leaders, she didn’t want to antagonise them that badly. So Rhosynel turned, and began walking at a more sedate pace, no matter how the back of her head itched with their eyes on her.

By the time the trees came into view, the sun was beginning to truly set, lighting the sky in a myriad of golds and yellows, but not yet the deeper reds of dusk. It gave them enough time to get situated, a small campfire, spreading out their bedrolls, and resting their aching legs from the long walk.

A hand clapped on her shoulder, and she almost leapt out of her skin at the motion. “Will you join me in hunting?” Stri—Aragorn was asking her.

“Oh, sure,” she replied, quick to gather up her bow, and giving a light whistle for Ilmara to come join her.

It was easy enough to follow in the goshawks shadow, the pair creeping through the sparse plant growth, moving carefully, checking their steps, bows held at the ready. Minutes passed, as she kept her eyes fixed on Ilmara, Rhosynel watched as she switched from a glide, into a circling flight.

“Ahead, a little to the left,” she instructed, feeling more than seeing as Strider sank into a crouch, bow drawing back. Moving a little to the right, she followed suit. And then gave a short sharp whistle.

Ilmara plummeted out of the sky, and an explosion of feathers filled the air. A burst of movement, grouse scattering in all directions. She fired one arrow, then another, and a third, only to miss on the fourth. However, three large round birds had dropped, although one still flapped weakly. Moving quickly, she closed the distance, and was quick to cut its neck with her hunting knife.

It didn’t take long for her to tie their feet and had a brief argument with Ilmara as she tried to collect that one. Finding her stray arrow was a little harder, but it soon appeared in Strider’s hand as he approached.

“I have three,” he greeted, passing the arrow over.

“Same, and Ilmara has one,” she replied, tucking the arrow into her hip quiver.

“She’s welcome to it,” he commented, watching as Rhosynel finally wrested the bird from the goshawks grip. “Now,” his words seemed to become heavier. “What’s going on, with you?”

Ever muscle in Rhosynel’s body attempted to lock up. Biting back a noise of frustration, Rhosynel straightened up, as Ilmara took flight. “What do you mean?” she asked, feigning innocence.

It did little to dissuade Aragorn, arms loosely folded, eyes fixed on her. He made no move to start back to camp, even as the sky shifted darker. He just watched her. Waiting for an answer.

The childish part of her refused to speak, but the adult part won out.

“I’m going to need you to clarify, what you mean,” she said carefully. It wasn’t avoiding the answer, but knowing what needed to be addressed, rather than spilling her heart.

“You’ve barely spoken,” he said, “little more than grunts, or nods. You’ve ran on ahead of the group, and barely look at anyone. Why?”

To her, the answer was obvious.

“I’m scouting the best route,” she answered slowly, “that’s my role, is it not?”

“You’re a Messenger, so I’ve no doubt you know the best routes,” Aragorn started, “but you’re not a Ranger, so scouting ahead risks yo—” His words cut off as Rhosynel made a noise in the back of her throat, quite without meaning to. And then his eyes narrowed. “If you have something to say, please do.”

“I’ve been a Messenger for ten years,” Rhosynel started slowly, minding her tone least Strider reacted negatively, “but before that I was a Ranger within Ithilien, serving under Captain Faramir, from the age of eighteen to twenty-four.”

Silence met her words, as Aragorn simply stared at her. Brows furrowed, shadowing his eyes, but then slowly shifting, rising into a look of surprise. Admittedly the surprise didn’t last long, quickly replaced by an odd mixture of chagrin and annoyance.

“You didn’t say,” he said quietly.

“I shouldn’t need to,” Rhosynel replied honestly, but not harshly, “I do not know your entire history, and you don’t know mine. But most Messengers of Gondor have some wilderness training, either from time spent in the military, the Rangers, or even those who joined our ranks independently. So no, I didn’t say.”

“It would have been useful to better know your skill set.”

“Have you asked Lord Boromir? Legolas? Gimli?”

“No… but I have known Legolas for many years and knew of Gimli and Boromir,” he replied, brows dropping to a frown again. But there was a pause, and Rhosynel sensed he wasn’t yet finished. “However, I did see you fighting the Nazgul, and heard of the way you lead them away from Arwen. So perhaps I should have guessed you were accustomed to danger.”

“Generally I try to avoid it,” Rhosynel said, collecting the birds she’d shot down, and turning back towards camp. “Which is why Gandalf hired me, and why I’m so confused of his insistence I remain here. You all volunteered; I was not given that luxury.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her words. “You didn’t strike me as a being petty.”

“You, do not know me well enough to assume anything,” Rhosynel countered. “I’m petty, I sulk, I do things out of spite, but I’m also loyal once I’ve given my word. So I’m joining this group, but I do not need to be happy or involved to carry that out.”

“You worry the Hobbits.”

“The Hobbits worry for everyone, even Bill.”

That poor pony was going to be dragged to Mordor.

“You worry us,” Strider said instead, “all of us. We’ve all noticed how you avoid contact and keep to yourself. Do not think it goes amiss. Do not think we don’t care.”

Annoyance lanced through her chest, making her jaw clench. “I am not meant to be here,” she found herself repeating her worries that Arwen had only confirmed. “So I’m sorry, Strider, if I’d rather have returned to my family, if I’m not eager to trapse across the realm. But I don’t think any of us are, really. I’m sorry if I’m worrying you and the others, but I need time to acclimatise to the fact my future was decided for me.”

His head tilted, scrutinising her with an uncomfortable intensity. It was easy to forget that he was the heir to Gondor, especially when dressed in Ranger garb, but his eyes, his bearing, his attitude, it all seemed so clear now that she knew.

“You are trying to make Gandalf want to dismiss you,” his words sank in with a lurch, entirely too close to home. “Being miserable won’t change the course of your path—”

“Your, path.”

“—and you can say you’re not meant to be here, as much as you want,” he continued as through she hadn’t interrupted. “But the truth is this. The Hobbits would have died, either one or all of them, if you hadn’t protected them at Weathertop. If you hadn’t been there, Arwen could have died, if you didn’t lure the Nazgul away to protect her. That was your aid that helped.”

There was no answer to that, so Rhosynel kept her mouth shut. She’d nearly died, twice, because of her need to protect. But it was different now, there were two human men, a wizard, an elf, and a dwarf, now aiding the Hobbits. What was her use, to act as mother hawk? Keep them corralled, keep them fed? She had little intention of becoming a mother any time soon; it wasn’t her responsibility to keep them all in check.

“You’re brooding.”

His words made her choke in surprise.

“You, are the brooder,” she managed to say, and stepped past him. “I, am a sulker.”

While the talk with Strider hadn’t done much to change her outlook on this whole quest, over the following days Rhosynel began to involve herself more. Telling herself it was only for the Hobbits sake, not her own. She remained at the head of the pack, but not so far ahead as to be out of ear shot, and was quick to return when called, or to help the Hobbits when they struggled. She sat with them in the evening and laid her sleeping mat out closer to the others.

It was surprising how much they tried to involve her. Not in everything, she kept to herself during the decision makings, and didn’t offer her own opinions, unless asked. But Gimli began encouraging her to spar once more and was noticeably less axe-happy. He was short but strong, easily using his weight and lower centre of gravity against her, something she wasn’t used to, but she was swifter, able to dart out of reach and loop around. Her strikes mainly struck his back and shoulders, something which annoyed him to no end.

“You are not dishonest,” he protested as once again she clipped his shoulder with the flat of her blade. “Stand and fight me!”

“And lose a leg again? No thanks,” Rhosynel replied, hopping back as he swung for her. “You can stand and fight, I will stay alive, thank you very much.”

The yell he gave was startling, as was the rush as Gimli surged forwards, one arm hooking around the back of her thighs, and physically lifting her like she weighed nothing. Biting back a shriek of surprise, she battered at his shoulders in a bid to make him let go. And he did, all but dropping her to the ground, and the haft of his axe planted on her chest.

“Strike!” he proclaimed.

“Strike,” she replied, the flat of one blade tapping at the back of his knee. And grinned.

“That doesn’t count.”

“Only because you don’t want it to,” Rhosynel replied, accepting his hand and all but being yanked up off her feet. She was constantly taken aback by how strong he was, she’d never had chance to properly spar against dwarves, no matter her visits to Erebor.

“My turn!” Legolas announced, hoping down from his perch, and Aragorn was quick to take his place in keeping watch. The forest around them was sparse, allowing minimal cover, but not enough to relax.

“Let me breathe!” Rhosynel protested, barely having picked up a waterskin.

“Not with you,” Legolas clarified, and faced Gimli. “You.”

Rhosynel made herself scarce, quickly joining the Hobbits in a bid to get away from the already bickering and fighting elf and dwarf. A stick of roast meat was passed wordlessly to her as she sprawled out between Sam and Boromir, something she accepted gladly.

It was entertaining to watch, she had to admit. Gimli seemed for less inclined to hold back against the elf, routinely swiping at his legs, cursing up a storm. Legolas was almost too fast to keep track of, darting in and out of reach, occasionally planting his feet and trading blows, before scoring cuts across Gimli’s chest.

“Why’d they hate each other?” Pippin asked, munching through an apple.

“Elf vs dwarf,” Merry replied, “their races have a rivalry.”

“I know that, but why?”

His question was met by shrugs. Hobbits were well known to keep out of other species business and politics, more than happy to remain within the Shire’s borders.

“D’you know?” Sam asked her.

“If I did, I’ve forgotten,” she replied honestly, and looked to Boromir. “Do you?”

“My brother was the scholar not I,” he admitted with ease, “but I recall him speaking of the strife over a Silm—”

He was cut off be an almighty yell and clank as Gimli landed on his back.

“That doesn’t count!” the dwarf protested, struggling to sit up.

“Only because you don’t want it to,” Merry called out, earning hoots of laughter from the Hobbits and a snort from Rhosynel.

Surprisingly, Legolas held out a hand to Gimli, who looked close to refusing it. But a glance at the watchers clearly cowed him, and he reluctantly allowed himself to be pulled up.

“Get some rest,” Aragorn announced, hopping down from his perch on a tall rock. “We have a long way to travel tomorrow, there is not much cover, so we’ll not camp till we reach the trees again.”

That didn’t sound encouraging.

But there were no protests, as the others began packing away their belongings and settling down to get some sleep. With Legolas claiming the first watch, the elf hopped up onto the rock outcrossing that had been sheltering their campsite. Slowly, silence began to settle, other than the disgruntled grumbles of the party less used to sleeping on rocky ground.

Despite her best efforts, sleep eluded Rhosynel’s grasp.

It seemed like ever since Weathertop, her nights had been plagued with dreams of falling, of chasing, of being chased. The trauma of the Nazgul clearly leaving a mark on her unconscious mind. Not idea when trying to rest during travelling.

It seemed that no sooner than she’d shut her eyes, there was an uncomfortable lurch in her chest, as though falling out of bed. Consciousness was a struggle to grasp, as despite the unpleasant feeling, it seemed the waking word would just out of reach. Lost, just beyond her fingertips, reaching blindly into the all-encompassing darkness. It would have been easier just to fall further into sleep, if not the sensation of weightlessness. Caught between waking and sleep, Rhosynel fought to make sense of the dreams, fought to find purchase, fought to find a grasp on reality.

Apparently her reaching was real, as a sharp pain lanced through one hand, and Rhosynel lurched into the conscious realm, shoving herself upright with a sharp inhale.

A small stone had lodged beneath a fingernail.

The furrows in the dirt between her sleeping mat and Frodo’s, wasn’t encouraging. Had her thrashing woken anyone? A quick glance suggested no, other than Legolas at least. Through the gloom, she could make out the gleam of pale hair, still atop his watching post. Even as she squinted in his direction, there was movement, the lifting of a hand and beckoning.

He’d seen.

With a quiet sigh, Rhosynel untangled her mottled green blanket, returning it to the role of cloak, and climbed to her feet. Stepping past Frodo, the other Hobbits, and Gimli, with near silent steps, she approached the rock Legolas was perched upon.

“Want company?” she asked.

“You’ll not see much.”

Shrugging, she held up one hand, and was promptly hauled upwards to settle atop the rock alongside the elf. Shoulder to shoulder, the rock wasn’t huge, meaning his shoulder was pressed to hers, but she didn’t shift away. He was warm, and the early spring nights were still bitterly cold at times.

Legolas was right, she couldn’t see much, but her eyes were slowly adjusting, and her ears were sharpening. There was a tawny owl giving soft hoots somewhere within the copse of trees, the occasional rustle of small rodents, the soft crack of a larger twig. While Rhosynel could hear the movement, she couldn’t make out what caused the noises, but with no reaction of alarm from the elf, she took it to mean it was simply nocturnal denizens out on their nightly routines.

The air was cool, and she dragged the cloak tighter about her shoulders.

“You still have nightmares, I take it.”

Legolas’s words were quiet enough that she almost missed them.

“They had stopped, mostly, for a few years,” she admitted, resting her chin on her knees and staring unseeingly into the forest. “But they’ve returned, since Weathertop.”

Her words were met with a considerate hum, but no more from the elf.

She’d suffered with a few nightmares during her brief stay in Mirkwood. Dreams of snarling orcs, a twisting labyrinth of trees, laughing elves, and screeching hawks. But they’d just been nightmares. She could wake from them and brush them off, but these new dreams… They were a mockery of the dreams in her youth, back when she was carefree and unburdened. Dreams of flight, dreams of soaring.

Now all she dreamt of, was falling.

“I had a thought,” Legolas said, some time later, once the moon had shifted position in the sky. “Would like me to teach you Sindarin?”

“What for?” The confusion lacing her voice was genuine, trying and failing to follow the elf’s train of thought.

“Ilmara knows it, you’ve trained her well, but Sindarin is what her ancestors and soul knows.”

“Alright,” she agreed cautiously.

Even in the gloom of night, she could see the way Legolas’s face lit up, telling her it was the right answer, apparently, he was eager to share some of his culture. He was quick to start explaining words, and even their origins, to her, repeating patiently when she mispronounced words.

“Rhevia,” Rhosynel repeated for what felt the hundredth time.

“Revia,” Legolas repeated, she wasn’t looking at him, but could hear his grin. He made the word sound light, almost musical, she just made it sound like a sneeze.

“Reevia.”

“Better!”

She grinned despite herself. “And that was ‘to fly’?”

“Yes fly, or if you wish her to be fast, ‘Revia feir’,” he explained.

“Reevia feir… Alright what about,” she paused, considering the directions she’d usually give Ilmara. “Hide, or flee.”

“Drega, would probably be best.”

“Dreaga, drege, drega,” she repeated quietly to herself a few times, rolling the word across her tongue. “Drega, alright.”

It was a little overwhelming, but Rhosynel tried not to let her hesitations show. Listening to anyone talk passionately was enjoyable, hearing the excitement in their voice, their own views, and unique takes. And while she knew little about Sindarin, she could recognise that Legolas genuinely wanted to share it with her.

Hopefully the others weren’t being too disturbed by her poor attempts, but no one had spoken up, not even Gandalf who was propped up closest to them. She didn’t look his way often, but once she thought she caught the glimpse of flinty eyes watching the pair.

“Oh, what about dive?” she asked, sometimes it was needed, when trying to hide.

“Hm, dive… I don’t think there’s a direct translation,” Legolas mused. “Perhaps danna would be the closest.”

“Daana,” she repeated, trying to get the inflection right. “Danna.”

“It means to fall,” he explained.

A chill raced down Rhosynel’s spine, and she suppressed a shiver, least it made him ask if she was okay. She didn’t need to think of falling, not when those dreams still forced their way into her resting hours.

So when Legolas offered the next word, she was quick to grasp for it, anything to distract her a while longer.

Chapter Text

True to his word, Aragorn drove a hard pace the next day. When they set off, Rhosynel had tried to scan the path ahead, standing atop the rock Legolas had taken watch on, hands around her eyes to shade them from the rising sun. Nothing, nothing but the jagged rocky ground, low gorse, scruffy looking brambles, and shrubs.

The trees, wherever they were, would be hard to reach.

By mid-morning, her thighs were starting to ache from the hasty jog, and by noon, the Hobbits were flagging badly.

“Come now,” she said gently, touching Frodo’s back as once again he slowed to a stop. The lurch in her chest at the proximity to the Ring was becoming almost familiar, but thankfully easier to dismiss. “We’ll break for lunch soon, then you can catch your breath.”

There was barely a reply, other than his shoulders sagging.

“Pass me your pack,” she tried instead, “let me shoulder it for a while.”

The glance he gave her was somewhat wary. Ever since learning the truth of the Ring, he’d become cautious towards offers of aid. But she knew better than to try and help with that, no she could carry his pack, and make his travel easier that way instead.

“Alright,” he said eventually, slowing their steps, he shucked off the straps, and passed it to her. It was light, the Hobbits didn’t carry the heaviest equipment.

Pulling it over her own shoulder, Rhosynel tried a reassuring smile. “At least I can’t insist you ride Gwaedal, anymore,” she said, getting a huff of laughter. “And I don’t think Bill can carry much more.”

The pony was trudging dutifully along, piled high with food and supplies.

“No marsh here though,” he said, breaking into a cautious jog.

“No leek and potatoes either.”

This time he laughed, it sounded unfamiliar from his mouth, she couldn’t recall him laughing since they had left Rivendell, or before.

Up ahead, she saw Gandalf glance back, and slow his steps.

“Maybe when we break for lunch,” she said, timing her words so Gandalf would catch it. “We could raid the supplies, and see if we can find any, to make soup with.”

“I’ll ask Sam,” Frodo replied, flashing a slight smile at her. “I don’t think he’d mind putting one together, what about you Gandalf? Any foods you miss?”

“A roast hog,” he announced drawing alongside them.

Rhosynel didn’t miss the sceptical glance her gave her.

“I’ll speak with Ilmara, I’m sure she’ll do her best to find one.”

“No time to cook it though,” Frodo lamented.

“Then I’ll drag it behind me, set ablaze and still burning.”

Another slight laugh.

“And alerting every enemy to us,” Gandalf warned, missing the joke.

“I’m sure they’ll enjoy a hog roast too.”

“Are we having a hog roast!?” Pippin exclaimed, overhearing.

“Please, stop talking about food,” Merry lamented. “I’m starving.”

Since she was trotting along at the back of the pack for once, Rhosynel had the delight of watching the hog roast news progress to the front of the pack. And the even more entertaining result of Aragorn throwing up his hands in defeat.

“Fine!” he exclaimed to something Gimli had said beyond her range of hearing. “We’ll stop here then, get some rest, and fill your stomachs,” Aragorn said, already dropping his pack to the floor.

It wasn’t a bad place to stop really, slightly more open, with several rocks forming a neat ring to perch on. Low gorse and bramble bushes surrounded the open area, as they fanned out, finding their own spots to settle into.

Sam, quick as ever, got a fire going and began cooking up a hearty fried lunch. Thick cut bacon was soon crisping, alongside a handful of tomatoes, diced onions joined, sizzling away, and he added a generous amount of garlic. The rich aroma set her mouth to watering as Rhosynel settled on a slightly raised rock.

Pulling out her journal while they waited for lunch, she set to sketching the view from their stopping point. Grand mountains rising in the distance, the rocky crags in the foreground. It was a habit she’d taken to in her years of travel, marking the places she’d been, and how often she passed by. A shelf, back home, was filled with similar leather-bound pages, detailing the people she’d met and the places she’d stopped.

It kept her hands and mind busy, much like the others settled into their own routines. Boromir had taken to training the Hobbits, but his larger build was poorly matched to their small frames. He was, however, considerate. Quick to encourage, gentle to correct, and fast to apologise. Even as she watched, he nicked Merry’s hand. Instantly he stopped, apologising with such sincerity that Rhosynel couldn’t help but smile.

Which quickly turned to laughter as Merry and Pippin ganged up, bowling him over and wrestling him to the floor. They may be smaller, but their lower weights meant they could knock the tall folk off balance with ease. Demonstrated, as Aragorn tried and failed to split them up, only to crash down alongside Boromir.

Rhosynel was laughing so hard that her eyes watered and sides ached.

The only one that wasn’t laughing at the sight of a Lord and King being pummelled by Hobbits, was Legolas, stood to the edge of the group. Eyes to the sky, as he tracked something. Automatically, Rhosynel checked to Ilmara, finding her hunting a little way off from the group, wings hovering, and head locked in place.

“What is that?” Sam asked to the group, seeing what Legolas was staring at.

Squinting against the light of the sun, Rhosynel tried to find the source of his attention. A dark cloud was drifting, and it took far too long to realise it was moving against the wind.

“Crebain! From Dunland!” Legolas yelled.

“Hide!”

The group exploded into action, Aragorn kicking dirt over the fire snatching at Frodo’s shoulder. Gandalf hastening to hide, the Hobbits scattering. Rhosynel hadn’t encountered Crebain before, but she’d heard tale of them, and knew to follow suit. Even if she didn’t know how birds could be dangerous. Snapping her journal closed, she frantically gathered her belongings, shoving them into her pack, and trying to hide any evidence she may have left behind.

She’d barely snatched up her waterskin, when a pair of strong arms wrapped around her waist and hauled her backwards. For a brief moment, Rhosynel became weightless, before crashing to the ground, the momentum rolling her under a gorse shrub, thorns snagging at her clothes and hair.

Her tumble had not yet stilled, when someone skidded under the sparse cover, all but landing atop her. Rhosynel gave a muffled yelp of pain, belatedly realising that Boromir of all people was now covering her entirely, eyes locked to the sky. He was heavy, his mail shirt digging into her arms, the leather jerkin he wore pressed to her own, sword pommel digging painfully into her hip.

A flurry of wings sounded, and his arms came up to cover her head hiding the brown blonde of her hair, his own head ducking down by hers. His breathing against her neck was laboured from the burst of activity, matching her own anxious gasps.

There was the distant call of a hawk.

“Ilmara!” Rhosynel whisper-exclaimed. “Shit!”

There was little chance to react, as with a cacophony of bird calls, the dark cloud shot over the area they’d begun to make camp in. The rushing of thousands of wings, the harsh caws filled the air. Instinctively she flinched, tucking her face down, into Boromir’s shoulder, feeling his hand on the back of her head, holding her in place as they hid the pale flash of their faces against one another’s shoulders.

A shrill keen she was familiar with pierced through the Crebain’s calls.

Twisting best she could, Rhosynel could only watch as Ilmara dove through the swarm and landed with a crash. Falling prone, her wings extended. Painfully still.

It was only the shift of his weight which alerted her to his plan, Boromir started to lunge forwards, and she barely managed to snag the collar of his jerkin, yanking him back down. They didn’t dare speak, but Rhosynel shook her head at him. Ilmara was not worth breaking their cover for. The confused look he gave her was understandable enough, he’d clearly seen how important the goshawk was to her, but there was no way to explain.

The Crebain, circled a few more times, seemingly trying to find them. Perhaps they had spotted the group at a distance and were trying to locate them now. A few swooped low, cawing directly above Ilmara, testing her.

No one broke cover, and eventually, the black cloud of feathers shot skywards. Either losing interest or trying to lure them out.

For a moment, nothing happened, she held her breath, aware of Boromir doing the same atop her. And then he exhaled, very slowly, prompting her to do the same. The tension left her in a rush, making her sag, running a hand over her face, the other still clinging to the neck of Boromir’s jerkin.

“Lady Rhosynel, I’m so sorry,” he said quietly, looking from Ilmara, to her, the sincerity in his voice surprised her.

“Its fine, she’s trained,” she said quickly in a bid to reassure him, he just looked bewildered. “Watch.” She gave a low whistle, aware the Crebain may still be in range.

Ilmara’s head popped up, followed by a quick wing flap, as she came to her feet. Looking around and apparently unable to locate Rhosynel, she remained stood in the middle of the campsite, looking confused. Ruffled, but unharmed. Even as they watched, she gave a soft caw, and bounced across the ground as Legolas appeared. The elf was scanning the sky, but did stoop briefly, so Ilmara could leap onto his arm, and shuffle upwards to rest on his shoulder.

“She, she’s not dead?” Boromir asked in clear confusion.

“No, just trained well,” Rhosynel replied, patting his shoulder in reassurance.

The breath left him in a huff which ruffled her hair, shoulders sagging, and almost crushing her against the rocky ground as he finally relaxed. “And you?” he asked, quickly looking to her, “are you alright?”

At such close proximity it was difficult to actually focus on him, which was possibly a good thing as the concern in his voice was echoed by his eyes.

“I, am fine,” Rhosynel managed to say, turning her head slightly in a bid to not be so close to his face. Clearing her throat awkwardly, drawing his attention to her face and the flush in her cheeks. “But do you mind getting off me?” she asked, trying to word it as politely as her discomfort allowed, avoiding any and all eye contact. “Only it’s getting rather hard to breathe with you pinning me down.”

To say his face turned red, would have been an understatement, as between one blink and the next, Boromir’s cheeks matched his finely made crimson tunic. His mouth shut with a click, but to her surprise he didn’t scramble away in a panic, but carefully extracted himself, going to great pains not to accidentally elbow or kick her. She appreciated it, but she wasn’t breakable, one nudge would not shatter her bones.

Eventually, he made it out, and stopped, turning back, and holding out his hands. Rolling onto her stomach, Rhosynel reached out and grasped the offered aid. Stone, dirt, and root, scraped across her stomach and chest, but she was neatly dragged free, and up onto her feet as though she weighed nothing to him. She supposed she did, almost, he was far taller than herself, and used to wielding large blades and shields. She might be tall for a woman, but she was also thin and wiry, with little need for heavy garments or weaponry.

“Thank you,” Rhosynel said genuinely, “for you concern of both me and Ilmara.”

“Of course.” The answer was blunt, only made more so as he turned smartly on his heel and strode away towards Aragorn.

Blinking in confusion at the abrupt departure, she dusted herself off, and headed towards Legolas, quick to greet the pair and reassure Ilmara that the threat had passed. The Limroval was a little dusty, but showed no sign of injury, a relief, since Rhosynel didn’t have the skills to heal her.

“You’re okay?” Legolas asked, “I’m sorry I couldn’t reach you in ti—”

“Its fine, Boromir threw me into a bush,” she replied, as Ilmara fluttered onto her own shoulder. Pressed to the side of her face in clear anxiety.

“He what.”

“Threw me, into a bush.”

The perplexed expression on the elf’s face was entertaining, until she heard Gandalf’s voice.

“The spies of Saruman,” he exclaimed. “The passage south is being watched.”

Her heart sank.

“We must take the pass of Caradhras!”

And then it plummeted.

The ensuing argument was enough to make Rhosynel regret ever agreeing to ride to Bree. She’d been frustrated before, and then resigned herself to following in the footsteps of Aragorn, but now she had actual experience with the suggested route only to find herself all but ignored. They had begun climbing, and while the skies were clear, the snow was already covering their ankles. It wasn’t yet dangerous, but they still had to watch their step.

“At this time of year it will be all but impassable!” Rhosynel exclaimed, hand coming up as she gestured towards the mountain they were now walking towards. “The snow will obscure the route, even horses cannot ride across,” she continued, when no one spoke up. “I know this, I’ve tried! It’s covered in three feet of snow, with winds which will freeze your skin! It would be hard in September, let alone December!”

Still the wizard marched on, doing his best to stride across the snow.

Aragorn, however, seemed willing to at least answer her. “It has been a mild winter,” he countered, “no doubt the snow will be melting even as we speak.”

“The ground is still frosted when we wake,” she shot back. “The pass will not be passable until at least march.”

“Not a very good pass then, is it,” she heard Pippin quip behind her.

It took a great deal of effort not to glare back at him. He was not the source of her frustration, but Gandalf was refusing to look back, or meet her in this discussion. At this rate her anger would bubble over and subject someone to her wrath.

“We should head for Moria,” Gimli puffed around his pipe alongside her. “My cousin Balin would give us a warm welcome!”

The mines also held little attraction to Rhosynel, dark caves, stretching through the gut of a mountain, it was something she dreaded. But at least they would be passable. Unlike the pass in winter. She’d travelled Caradhras before when still travelling with Mentor Malion, she knew how dangerous it was, the path barely wide enough for two people to travel abreast. It was a good thing they were walking rather than riding, as Gwaedal’s footing had been precarious at best and she’d resorted to leading him rather than risk riding.

Bill, wouldn’t do them any good on the pass, it was a miracle he’d not been spotted by the Crebain. She dared not bring that up too.

“We will not be able to cross,” Rhosynel tried again, forcing her voice into a calmer state, trying not to sound as desperate as she felt, “even if the snow is melting, the ice will make the stone treachero—”

“We are taking the pass!” Gandalf finally barked, whirling around with a slam of his staff. A burst of wind came from the strike, and she barely threw her hands up in time, staggering back from the effects of the magic. “That is final. Rhosynel.”

And with that, he turned back and stormed on.

Rhosynel didn’t.

Her feet remained anchored, staring after him as the Hobbits overtook her, followed by Gimli and Aragorn. Legolas at least gave her a sympathetic look as he went by. Frustration coiled and writhed in her chest, wanting to lash out. Clearly the others could sense it, as they just avoided her eyes.

They would have listened to her if she was Ringbearer.

It was a harrowing thought, one that flickered through her mind in an attempt to find purchase on her thoughts and her heart. She was half tempted to indulge in the idea for a moment. Or would have, had a hand not landed on her shoulder.

“Lady Rhosynel?” Boromir asked, drawing alongside, and stopping too.

“I’m not a lady,” she said mutely, shaking her head in a bid to banish the treacherous thoughts. “I’m a Messenger. I travel. I know this pass. Why won’t they listen to me?” She looked to him helplessly. “This will not end well.”

His hand, resting on her shoulder gave a reassuring squeeze. “Perhaps we will have you lead the way then,” he suggested, trying to be supportive.

“That will do us no good,” she countered, forcing herself to take one step, and then another, her feet seemed to drag furrows through the snow. “The snow will be past our waists, the wind will drive us back, the snow will blind us, or freeze the Hobbits solid. This will take days to cross.”

There wasn’t much more he could offer, but Rhosynel appreciated that he listened to her chuntering as they trailed after the others. Admittedly she was ranting, but it was also loosening the tightness in her chest. At least someone was listening to her, even if they could do nothing to change the course of the Fellowship.

“We should just go to Rohan,” she was continuing almost ten minutes later. “I could talk to the stablemasters into giving us the fastest horses. I’d get to Mordor within the week!”

“You know the stablemasters of Rohan?” Boromir spoke up finally, surprise tinging his voice. “I didn’t realise.”

“My mother, Rhysnaur, was from Rohan, I grew up there, she was stablemaster before we left.”

“I thought you were from Gondor,” he asked, gesturing to her scuffed uniform and the tree embossed into the leather belt.

“I am, my father Tholcred was a falconer from Gondor, we moved there in my teens,” she explained quickly, aware that her history was a little muddled. “I travelled back and forth between them for years too, I blame that for my reluctance to settle.”

“And not your naturally flighty temperament?”

The noise of protest Rhosynel made caused him to laugh. Which only make her blink in confusion. Since when she had been comfortable talking with Lord Boromir? Even in Minas Tirith she’d gone to lengths to avoid him, he’d always seemed so severe and rigid, and she had far preferred speaking with Faramir. And in Rivendell it had been equally as awkward, her own surliness preventing any chatter. Then again, it hadn’t been long since he’d flung her under a shrub, and then half crushed her in a protective manner.

“Wait,” Rhosynel suddenly said, “are you distracting me?”

“Perhaps.”

Automatically, her hand shot out, the back slapping into his chest. A startled whomp of breath left him before he laughed once more.

For a moment the pair fell silent, trudging across the slowing steepening flanks of the Misty Mountains. From where she was stood, she couldn’t hear any discussion from the others, but Aragorn and Gimli had flanked Gandalf, and seemed to be also arguing.

If the wizard changed his mind now, she would know it was just her voice he ignored.

Behind the three, Legolas was doing a good job of keeping the Hobbits on track, the smaller folk were easily distracted, and Sam kept stopping to point out some plant or animal to the curious Frodo. While Pippin just seemed incapable of walking in a straight line, only kept in check by Merry snagging his cloak or scarf to pull them back.

Despite the route ahead, she found herself smiling.

No, she may find herself increasingly frustrated towards her circumstances, but the longer she spent with the Hobbits, the more protective she felt herself becoming. She didn’t want to be here, but she’d go to the ends of the realm to ensure the Hobbits survived.

As though the world had decided to test her thoughts, she watched, as first Frodo stumbled, and then slipped, bare feet losing grip on the snowy ground, he began tumbling.

Her own feet were moving before her brain had registered what was happening, lunging forwards. Hands reaching out to grab him, reaching out to halt his tumble, reaching out to save him and the Ring from rolling the rest of the way back down the mountain. Just ahead of Frodo, Aragorn was whirling, already far closer, and leaping after Frodo. As Aragorn managed to snag Frodo’s cloak, Rhosynel’s course shifted, aiming further down, acting as a barrier between the Hobbit and the sheer cliff he was heading for.

The three tumbled to a stop, Frodo slamming into her ribs, supported by Aragorn who did a good job at not falling over Rhosynel’s legs.

“Are you alright?” he was asking the Hobbit.

There was a nod, but then Frodo’s hand shot to his chest and neck. Grasping, finding nothing, and looking around in a panic. With a sinking realisation, Rhosynel realised she felt no nausea. No rising panic or disgust. Nothing.

The Ring, was gone.

“Boromir?” Aragorn’s voice broke through her confusion, and her head snapped up to stare intently up the mountain side.

A glimmer of gold, hung on a chain, swinging gently from Boromir’s grasp.

“—such a little thing,” he was saying, slowly, ponderously, eyes entirely locked on the Ring finally in his grasp.

“Give the Ring to Frodo, Boromir,” Aragorn said, voice surprisingly level.

There was a blink of confusion from Boromir, as he looked up. Puzzlement flashing through his eyes, before focusing on Frodo. And then he jolted, striding forwards, hand extending out to Frodo with ease. “Of course, I care not.”

Frodo damn near snatched the Ring, yanking the chain back over his head. With Aragorn’s aid, they waded through the snow to rejoin the others, Frodo shooting anxious glances back towards Boromir.

“Lady Rhosynel, are you alright?” Boromir’s voice distracted her, and a hand appeared in her vision. “You moved quite swiftly, despite the snow.”

Fighting back her concern, she reached up, allowing him to haul her out of the drift. “I’m used to travelling through it,” she said, trying to sound calm, sound normal, like she hadn’t just watched him gazing at the Ring with the hunger of a starving man.

“I am not, Gondor rarely receives such deep snow.”

The snow wasn’t even that deep, but she could understand. The climate of Gondor was significantly warmer, and it rarely snowed any deeper than a foot.

“Well, then I’ll endeavour to catch you too, when you slip,” Rhosynel replied airily.

“I do not think that will be necessa—” His foot slipped out from under him, in almost the exact spot Frodo had taken his tumble. However, Boromir didn’t go far, her hand already grasped around his upper arm, an amused expression on her face.

At least he had the good sense to laugh.

It was a struggle, to smile back, as a heavy feeling settled in her gut. Boromir was being affected by the Ring. Aragorn and the others would watch over Frodo, but she would keep watch over Boromir. Rhosynel could only hope he was not yet enthralled by it.

Chapter Text

Biting winds and freezing snow pummelled the mountain pass relentlessly, as though attempting to tear down the very walls of Caradhras. The narrow walkway that constituted as a path was already buried beneath depths of snow, Rhosynel’s legs and thighs ached abominably, burning with the effort of forging her path, but didn’t burn enough to melt the snow hindering her progress. As though to add insult to injury, a pair of long slender legs passed by, atop the snow.

Of course, the elf could walk on snow. How utterly unfair.

At least she wasn’t at the head of the pack now, no, Gandalf was leading the way, striking out at the snow with his staff, and doing little to move it. She was almost glad she’d relinquished her bid to scout the fastest routes, as forcing a path through the snow was difficult enough with it already been broken up. Aragorn was just ahead of her, Frodo wedged beneath one arm, and Sam below the other, a similar image mirrored behind Rhosynel, with Boromir trying to aid Merry and Pippin. And then, bringing up the rear, was Gimli, towing the ever-patient pony, Bill. Legolas however seemed content to wonder back and forth, checking on their progress as he went.

Biting down curses, Rhosynel tucked her head down, forging on. If they had only just listened to her, they wouldn’t be forcing their route through unyielding snow. Why hadn’t she tried harder to explain? Why hadn’t they just listened? What did she need to do to make them listen?

Ilmara, tucked into the crook of her arm and pressed against Rhosynel’s chest, let out a soft keen of discomfort, no doubt picking up on Rhosynel’s annoyance. And while she may have been a Limroval, even she wouldn’t be able to fly for long in this storm.

Voices tried to fight their way above the storm, Aragorn insisting they turn back, that the Hobbits would freeze. Gimli quick to offer the mines of Moria, but Gandalf stubbornly insisted they continue. It wasn’t until her head thudded against Aragorn’s shoulder, that Rhosynel looked up. Demands to know why they’d stopped, already forming on her lips, only to die as she beheld the brewing storm ahead. Deep purples and blues threaded through thick grey clouds, flickers of white and blinding silver laced through them rapidly.

It looked unnatural.

Even as that thought formed, a voice echoed through the sky. Deep, powerful, and sourceless. In response, Gandalf was raising his staff and voice to the sky, but he sounded so small in comparison. Whatever he was trying to achieve failed, as the ground shuddered, loosening pebbles and stones that pelted their heads and shoulders as they fell.

“He’s trying to bring down the mountain!” Someone shouted above the rising wind.

A flash of lightning spiked across the sky, turning her vision white, even as a rumble of thunder so deep she felt it more than heard, echoed throughout the mountains. The others were arguing, but their voices were drowned out by another crack of lightning, striking the mountain far above their heads.

One moment she was keeping her head down against the storm, the next, a cascade of snow and rock crashed into her back and shoulders.

Thrown forwards, her arms shot out in a bid to break her fall, all but launching Ilmara into the wind. But instead of snow-covered ground slamming into her arms, they met nothing. With a lurch, she became weightless, and by the force of the avalanche, Rhosynel was flung off the mountain.

Snow, stone, sky, storm whirled and spun around her. Her shoulder slammed into solid rock, flipping her once again as gravity clawed at her desperate to seize its prey. And then an almighty yank. Her arms were damn near ripped from their sockets as she jolted to a stop. Gasping for breath which never seemed to return, Rhosynel looked around.

A sheer cliff of stone on her left. And open, endless sky to her right. Her feet kicked, trying and failing to find purchase against the sheer rockface, even as she craned her neck painfully. Her bag was over her head, one leather strap snagged on a sharp spur of stone. The only thing preventing her from falling to her death, was a single, thin, piece of leather.

snk

That thought had barely crossed Rhosynel’s mind when there was the sound of breaking fibres. Snatching wildly with numb fingers, she barely managed to draw her hunting knife. The handle felt clumsy in her numb fingers, difficult to hold and easy to lose.

Snk

Sssnk

Lashing towards the wall, the blade of her knife slammed into the stone, seeking any crevice and fissure she could find.

SHNK

The strap of her bag snapped, and she dropped.

With a choked scream, she jolted to a stop two feet lower as her knife held, wedged between cracks in the stone. Judging by the numbness of her fingers, she only had minutes or even seconds, of grip left within them.

“Ilmara!” she yelled, voice whipped away by the wind. But she heard a faint cry in response, and a grey blur flit past the corner of her vision. “To friends! Na mellon!”

The gohawk shot upwards.

Even against the roar of the storm, she could hear voices.

“—ee her bird, over—”

“—this way!”

“Here!”

“Rhos, miss Rhosyn!” she heard, just as a couple of pebbles skittered past her head. “She’s here!”

Squinting against the snow, she could make out the curly hair of Pippin, peering over the sheer drop of the cliff face. He was quickly yanked back and replaced by a panicked Aragorn.

“Rope!” she yelled upwards. “Hurry!”

Just as quickly as he appeared, the Ranger vanished from view again.

Around the handle of her knife, her fingers were awfully numb, the flesh turned red by the biting wind. It felt as though the snow and ice were gnawing at her grip, urging her to let go. To fall freely. A rope tumbled downwards, narrowly missing her. Reaching out with her left hand, Rhosynel strained trying to reach it, trying to grasp her only chance of survival.

It was too far away.

With a curse, she dropped her hand, eyeing the knife above her head, wondering if it could hold her weight if she were to swing. She could use the momentum to launch herself, to grab at the rope. But what if she missed?

The void called alluringly.

There was no chance to try, as the rope hummed, and a figure dropped downwards. Abruptly slowing, they seemed to glide to a stop alongside her.

Aragorn.

Her snow numbed fingers betrayed her, and her grip was lost.

His hand lashed outwards, seizing the shoulder of her tabard, and yanked Rhosynel towards him. Her own hands reached out, as she slammed into his side, arms wrapping around his waist in desperation, face pressing into his ribs, eyes screwed shut against the near miss.

“I have her! Pull!” She heard him yell, his hand still gripping her tabard.

A jolt, and then they were being hauled upwards. More than once her shoulder or back slammed into the cliff side, scraping across stone and ice. Rhosynel could feel Aragorn doing his best to kick at the wall and steer their ascent, but she was in no position to help. The cold was biting fiercely at her now, the storm trying to claim its victim, trying to prevent the escape of its prey.

Something snatched at her, another pair of hands, grabbing her shoulders, hauling her upwards and into a freezing pillow of snow. Away from the fall, away from the grip of gravity. A babble of voices passed over her head. She could hear her name, could hear them asking if she was okay. Too much for her to follow. The cold was seeping into her, shudders wracking her body as it struck her core.

She was so cold. So cold.

“—cave—further back—shelter—”

A pair of arms scooped under her legs and shoulders and hauled her up to rest against someone’s chest. “Hold on a moment longer,” the familiar voice of Legolas said reassuringly.

Rhosynel didn’t have the strength to reply.

Shudders and shakes wracked her body, like the walls of a cabin trying to withstand the force of a storm, as she clung desperately to consciousness. Rhosynel had travelled enough in winter to know that sleeping when this cold, was little more than a death sentence. So even as Legolas had jogged through the snow with her in his arms, she’d forced her eyes to remain open, even if she’d long since given up on truly seeing.

So at which point they had reached a narrow cave, or set up a small fire, was beyond her knowledge.

Regardless, the warmth of the fire was welcoming, either she had crawled there, or been placed so close, that the heat almost burnt her face. Muffled voices sounded around her, barely able to piece the fog filling her mind.

Blinking, she jerked her head, trying to dispel the chills effects. From her position so close to the fire, she could only make out the Hobbits, also clustered close to the flames. Frodo looked half frozen to death, but he had Pippin on one side, and Sam on the other, their cloaks almost forming one blanket. Merry looked less worse for wear, but he was still bundled up in his own cloak, trying to keep his hands and fuzzy feet warm.

“Merry,” she croaked, one arm lifting slightly, and beckoning.

He was quick to approach. “Miss, are you alright?” he asked, face full of concern for her own wellbeing.

No, was the truthful answer, but not the one she’d share. Instead, Rhosynel pulled on his shoulder, and tucked him snuggly against her side, the tattered remains of her own mottled green cloak sweeping around to cover his shoulders. It wasn’t much better, but keeping body heat close was an improvement, no matter how minor.

There was a brief look of confusion from the other three Hobbits, but with no clear decision voiced, they were quick to shuffle and rearrange. Within moments, she had four Hobbits pressed against her ribs. Merry and Pippin on one side, Frodo and Sam on the other.

For a brief moment, Rhosynel realised that she had indeed become a mother hawk, corralling her chicks beneath her wings. It didn’t take long for their shared shivers to start subsiding, the combination of fire and body heat quickly dispelling any remaining talons of cold.

Talons of cold.

Ilmara.

“Ilmara?” Rhosynel asked abruptly, head jerking upright.

The light in the cave had changed, the fire now low, and the Hobbits snoring quietly.

“Here,” Legolas’s soft voice replied from somewhere just outside of her vision. But he quickly moved into view, crouching so she could see the goshawk perched on his shoulder, feathers fluffed, and no doubt keeping his slender elfin ear warm. “She sought us out on the path.”

“Good,” she managed to say, throat feeling dry. “She’s trained to.”

“I know,” Legolas replied with an amused look.

Limroval were from Mirkwood, after all.

“The others?” she asked, the cave did seem awfully quiet.

“Aragorn is scouting the path down,” he replied with a glance towards the entrance. “Gandalf is smoking. Boromir and the dwarf… well.”

He was looking further into the cave, making Rhosynel crane her neck as much as she could without disturbing the Hobbits.

Gimli was sprawled out, looking content with his head pillowed on a rock, and snoring deeply. His legs stretched out and neatly pinning down Boromir’s own legs, who looked less than thrilled to be hemmed in by an uproariously snoring dwarf. It was very hard not to laugh at the look of annoyance he gave her.

Instead she gave him a sympathetic grin, nodding down at the Hobbits around her.

Both pinned in place by loud snorers.

“Is there a plan?” she asked Legolas cautiously.

The eyebrow he quirked at her was a little concerning, especially when paired with an outstretched hand testing her forehead for temperature.

“Frodo has opted to take the path through Moria,” he said, releasing her head, and settling a little more comfortably onto the ground before her. “Something you seemed less than keen on, but were swayed by Gimli’s description of the fires and food there.”

“I… don’t recall that.”

“You were pretty out of it, the chills were affecting you I imagine.”

It was still worrisome, especially since she loathed the idea of travelling below ground. Rhosynel had never visited the mines of Moria, but the idea of tunnels beneath the mountain were enough to make her shudder.

True, she had visited the halls of Erebor on more than one occasion, but that had never felt like the weight of the mountain was pressing down on her shoulders. The vibrancy beneath the mountain, the people, the culture and conversations, help mitigate that feeling. No, the halls had been too open, to grand and dizzyingly large, to have a negative effect on her.

Mines, on the other hand. Long twisting tunnels with low roofs, rough walls, uneven floors, and the constant risk of cave-ins. That was her worst nightmare.

“Get some rest,” Legolas said, when she hadn’t responded for a moment. “We won’t travel until morning.”

A glance at the cave mouth told her nothing, the swirling mass of grey and white made it impossible to tell what time of day it was. Trying not to grumble like a petulant child, Rhosynel shifted her weight slightly, freeing a leg which had gone numb, as she leant back against the cave wall some more. Her eyes were already growing heavy, eyelashes brushing against her cheeks as she began to relax into sleep.

Frodo’s head shifted against her shoulder.

Something gave a lurch in her chest, making her inhale sharply, eyes snapping open and staring unseeingly into the cave as the weightlessness threatened to overtake her once more. But no, she was sat on the floor of a cave, with the four Hobbits tucked against her sides.

But in her cold addled state, it hadn’t occurred to Rhosynel just how close the Ring was.

Her heart pounded in her chest, almost painful in its intensity. Frodo was right there, pressed against her side. She could almost imagine the Ring, hanging from its silver chain about his neck, shifting with his movements until it touched her ribs.

The only barrier protecting her from it, was the thin material their clothes.

Stomach twisting in disgust, Rhosynel forced herself to close her eyes, breathing deeply, and trying to push down the impulse to panic. She’d never come so close to the Ring before, not since learning of its true nature, and sheer fear was threatening to overtake her. But she couldn’t move, not without disturbing the Hobbits, and they needed to rest.

If she did sleep, it wouldn’t be restful. Not now.

Morning came all too soon, and while she had slept, it hadn’t aided her recovery in the slightest. The effects of the Ring still roiled in her chest, not lessening, but settling into something bordering on familiar. That was a disconcerting thought, the idea she was growing comfortable with the Rings proximity. Glorfindel’s words still weighed heavy on her mind, that the Ring hadn’t found purchase on her, yet.

At some point during the night, Rhosynel had slumped over onto one side, and had awoken pinned in place by all four Hobbits, who seemed more than happy to use her shoulder, ribs, hip, and thigh, as pillows. She wouldn’t have minded so much, if she hadn’t been jolted awake by Sam’s elbow connecting with her jaw.

“Good morning,” an amused voice said, and she squinted up at an entertained Boromir.

“Stop mocking and help me,” she grumbled.

“As the Lady wishes.”

But Boromir was true to his word, carefully rousing Sam first, followed by the others. It was only once Pippin sat upright, that she was able to move, gingerly stretching her arms, then legs. The joints popped and clicked in protest at sleeping on a rough stone floor, as she pushed herself into an upright position.

There was still a frightful chill in the air, her sides and back feeling especially cold.

Squinting down at herself, she was met by the sight of a torn shoulder to her tabard, accompanied by several tears and slashes to her cloak, and the sleeves of her tunic. Judging by the breeze she could feel, the back of her tabard was no better. Not the best situation when halfway up a frozen mountain.

“Do you need a hand?” Boromir asked, said hand was extended down to her, as Rhosynel was still sat on the floor, gathering her cloak into her hands as she tried to assess the damage.

Pulling her mottled green cloak off, she held it up, eyeing the large tears through the fabric with no small amount of alarm. Long tears, small tears, wide and thin, the cloak was little more than a bundle of rags held together with loose threads. The sight of it so torn and damaged threatened to bring tears to her eyes, something she blinked back harshly.

If his cloak was this bad, what condition was the rest of her clothing in?

“Rhosynel?”

Looking up, she found Boromir watching with some concern. Had her eyes welled up more than she realised? Sharply breaking eye contact, she did her best to deflect.

“Are my clothes shredded?”

Apparently her question caused some consternation, as there was a confused noise from the lord still stood in front of her. Pushing to her feet, she turned her back towards him, and his confusion became somewhat strangled in alarm, prompting her to look back over her shoulder.

Boromir’s face had turned somewhat red, eyes fixed on a point below her shoulder blades. But his brows were furrowed in concern. It seemed to take some effort, but he looked up to meet her gaze. “You’ll not make it down the mountain in that state,” he said slowly, “your tabard is barely holding on, and your tunic isn’t faring much better. You should change.”

A sensible answer, if not for one problem.

“My pack went over the side.”

“Ah…”

Forcing herself to breathe steadily, Rhosynel twisted her arm, feeling at the gashes to her tabard, and the skin below. Only to hiss as her nails scraped across grazes. “Oh and I’m bleeding. Wonderful. Perfect. Lovely.”

Thankfully, her thick leather belt had held up against the cliff side battering, along with the equipment that hung from it. The sturdy leather pouch kept her messengering supplies, her journal, and the small medicine kit that Rhymenel insisted she travel with. Not to mention her short swords anchored at her lower back, and the quiver of bow and arrows that sat at her hip, although now several arrows short. So at least she hadn’t lost everything over the side of the mountain. Taking the medicine kit, Rhosynel withdrew the small jar of salve. Barely larger than her thumb, but a little went a long way.

“Are we ready to go soon?” Gandalf asked from by the entrance.

“Rhosynel is without supplies and is injured,” Boromir answered before anyone else had chance to speak. “So not just yet, no.”

“You’re bleeding, again?” Legolas all but demanded.

“Don’t say it like I make a habit of this,” she shot back. “It’s not my fault I fell off a cliff.”

“No one said it was lass,” Gimli interjected, preventing any arguments.

But Legolas was rising to his feet and approaching, inspecting her back. “Is that salve?” he asked, seeing the jar she held. “Aragorn’s scouting so I’ll see to your wounds, shirt off.”

The squawk that left her was echoed by Boromir, pointedly turning on his heel and moving away. But, Rhosynel wasn’t so proud as to reject the aid. She’d barely be able to reach her back, and had no concept of where the grazes were, there was no point in wasting the salve with her blind flailing.

Moving towards the back of the cave for the illusion of privacy, it took a moment to get situated. Sat on the floor, with her knees drawn up to her chest and arms wrapped tightly about them. The frosty mountain air was far too cold on the exposed skin of her arms and back, and with just her linen bralette it left her absolutely freezing once again.

Legolas knelt at her back, carefully smoothing the salve across the worst of the grazes. It stung but didn’t quite burn enough to counter the cold air, although her embarrassment was doing a fair job at that. She ended up pressing her face down against her knees, mainly because it would hide her grimaces, but also to hide the redness colouring her face.

By the Valar she hated having to rely on others at times.

“This has healed well,” Legolas said quietly.

The words made Rhosynel tense even before his fingers ran across the one she dreaded most. A long ragged scar, starting at edge of her right shoulder, curving down across her back to stop at the bottom of her left ribs. His light touch had her jolting as though stung, although the elf was quick to retract his hand, clearly seeing her reaction.

“Are you ever going to share how you got it?”

For a moment Rhosynel considered not answering, but that would only lead to concern and more questions.

“Probably not,” she said, forcing to speak past the lump in her throat, face still pressed against her knees. Eyes screwed shut.

“Alright.” A simple answer, clearly accepting her reluctance and not pushing the matter. “I’ve done with your back, but there’s a couple of cuts on your arms, do you want me to do those as well?”

“Please.”

Lifting her head, Rhosynel extended her arm, allowing the elf to turn it back and forth as he smoothed the save into the grazes. “I don’t think they’ll need bandages, but the salve will help protect them a bit,” he explained, “your tunic is pretty much ruined, but your tabard is holding on a little better. Probably because it was made of stronger fabric.”

Without her pack, there wasn’t much she could do to improve on the situation.

Almost as though hearing her thoughts there was the crunch of boots on stone, and Rhosynel lifted her eyes just enough to see Boromir approaching. The lord was carrying a bag in one hand, and a bundle of fabric in the other.

“How’s it looking?” he asked, stopping a short distance away.

“Bad,” Rhosynel said, at the same time Legolas said, “good.”

“Her cuts are minor and will heal fine,” Legolas added, finishing with the salve, and recorking the jar, passing it back to her. “That cloak it ruined though.”

“I’ll stitch it later,” she replied tartly, slipping the salve back into her hip pouch. “But I have no spare clothing to descend the mountain in.”

“Well, one of those things, I can help with,” Lord Boromir said, holding the bundle of fabric out towards her. “And the Hobbits raided the supplies, so while it’s not your pack, it’s a pack.”

Blinking, Rhosynel sat up a little straighter –albeit while keeping her knees up to her chest for some semblance of modesty– and accepted the supplies from him. Shaking out the fabric, it revealed itself to be a deep blue-black tunic, although it was large enough that she could have worn it as a nightgown. But it was intact, and it would be enough.

The bag was simple, less of a pack and more of a sack with rope straps, but yet again it would be enough to carry what she needed.

“We’ll leave you to dress,” Boromir added, jerking his head to Legolas.

The pair moved away, and Rhosynel threaded her arms into the tunic, pulling it over her head with a slight grimace at her aches. It was little more than a tent, hanging off her frame, and with a neck wide enough to risk falling from her shoulders. But a set of laces at the neck helped mitigate that problem, pulling on the remains of her tabard and her leather belt strapped on over the top helped curb the billowing.

Gathering up the tattered remains of the cloak, she dragged it about her shoulders regardless, unwilling to leave them behind just yet. The remains of the old Ranger’s cloak had lasted her this far, and would last her further when she got chance to patch it once more. Its remains, and the remains of her previous life, weren’t so easy to be rid of.

The route down from the mountain pass was a little easier, the snow already broken up from their trip skywards, but it still took longer than she would have liked. Trudging yet again behind Aragorn, although this time Boromir insisted on walking alongside, clearly putting himself between her and the sheer drop. Rhosynel wasn’t likely to take another dive, but she appreciated the gesture.

But finally, they reached more level ground again.

Picking up her pace, Rhosynel slogged through the calf high snow, rapidly covering ground as she attempted to catch up with Aragorn. Easier said than done when he had half a foot of height on her, and longer legs to boot. Maybe that was why he went by Strider, because he couldn’t amble.

“Aragorn,” she said, when she’d almost caught up with him.

He slowed, with the briefest of glances back to her, but the slackening of his pace allowed her to finally catch up, and then match his pace a little easier.

“I wanted to say thanks,” Rhosynel said, getting straight to the point, “for saving my life. Again.”

“Again?” he asked instantly.

Withdrawing one hand from the warmth of her armpits, she tapped the fresh scar to her temple. “Weathertop, you didn’t have to drag me out of there, or throw yourself over a cliff to save my neck.”

For a moment there was no response, the pair forging a route through the snow back down the side of the mountain, and hopefully reaching the foothills sooner rather than later. The snow beneath Rhosynel’s feet threatened to twist her ankles with its shifting, and she suspected it was only due to her sturdy boots that she didn’t.

“You’re… welcome?” Aragorn said slowly, as though unsure as to the correct response. “But it’s not like I’d have left you in either situation.”

“I imagine it was tempting at Weathertop.”

For a brief moment his mouth twisted into a smirk but was rapidly smoothed away. “Tempting maybe, but I wouldn’t have,” he admitted, “you knew of the Nazgul and feared them –for good reason– I’d have not left you or anyone to that fate if I could help it.”

“Still, thanks.”

“It helped that you could still ride Gwaedal, although I suppose riders of Rohan are incapable of falling from horse back.”

“Oh we fall off all the time, we just get back on before anyone notices,” Rhosynel replied, and earned a huff of laughter for her efforts. “But Gwaedal wouldn’t have let me fall, he’s smart, he got me to Rivendell when I was barely conscious.”

“I’m sorry you had to leave him behind,” Aragorn said quietly.

Shrugging one shoulder Rhosynel kept her eyes on her feet and the route before them. “One rider amongst nine walkers wouldn’t have benefitted anyone,” she said slowly, willing herself to believe her own words, “best to accept my place as a tenth walker and be done with it. I’ll head to Edoras after Moria, then ride to Rivendell and get him back.”

“Elrond will be delighted to see you again so soon.”

The strangled snort of amusement that left her throat wasn’t polite.

From there the rest of the walk was spent in silence, or at least quietness. Once free of the snow, Rhosynel lifted her eyes and kept close eye on the horizons. It hadn’t been far from this place that the Crebain had almost discovered them, the thought of the flock finding them once again was unnerving, with such open ground there was little place to hide or shelter.

A low whistle had Ilmara soaring overhead, leading them lower into the foothills, Rhosynel instinctively adjusting her steps to follow in the goshawk’s shadow. It earned a glance from Aragorn, but no complaint, but it came as a surprise when he also adjusted course to follow whatever route the Limroval deemed best.

As the sky began to dim, with still no sign of cover, Rhosynel began to get restless.

“Legolas! How do you say camp in elvish?” she called quietly back over her shoulder.

“You do realise I also speak Sindarin, right?” Aragorn asked.

“Never mind Legolas!” Rhosynel apologised, hearing a distant grumble, “Aragorn how do you say camp in Sindarin?”

One of his remarkably brief eyerolls flashed across his face. “Echad. It means to sit out.”

“Ilmara!” A keen from high above in answer. “Echad!”

It didn’t take long, her wings shifting on the breeze and angling towards the mountains, no doubt her keen eyes had spotted somewhere that would do. Or just a particularly nice tree to perch in during the night. Rhosynel was never sure how much the Limroval understood her instructions, sometimes it was remarkable, like able to find a crossing at the river on the way to Bree, but was camp too abstract? Would she understand it meant a suitable place to settle over night?

Apparently so, judging by the overhang in a rockface Ilmara led the group to.

Barely a cave and still far too exposed, it was situated part way up the cliff, a narrow path leading to it, and evidence of old fires within. It would do, provided they didn’t light a fire and kept a keen watch during the night. The group was quick to lay out sleeping mats, although Rhosynel still lacked hers, but with at least one person on watch they’d be able swap over and share mats should it be needed. Although the shredded cloak she stubbornly continued to wear was too poor to function as a blanket, but it would help conserve some body heat.

“Get settled, I’ll take first watch,” Aragorn instructed after the cold meal had been finished.

Rhosynel had something to attend to, before sleep could come.

Dropping down alongside Gandalf, she didn’t miss the wary look he gave her. Only confirmed as he spoke up around his pipe. “Here to gloat?” he asked, bitterness clear in his voice.

“No,” she replied honestly and quickly, knees raised, elbows resting on them as she leant back against the wall of the cave, head back, staring up at the slowly arriving stars. Rhosynel took a moment, sorting through the words in her head before she’d dare speak. “Once a plan is made its hard to change course,” she said slowly, “I understand that. If the southern gap of Rohan is too dangerous, then we need to find another route through the mountains.”

There was no response from the Wizard. She didn’t expect one.

“I… I would seek your council on the maters of magic, and history,” she continued once it became apparent he wouldn’t speak up. “Much like I would consult Legolas on Mirkwood, or Gimli on caves. Aragorn about the north, or Boromir on the armies of Gondor. Or even the Hobbits on meals.” There was a quiet huff of amusement from Gandalf at that. “I am a Messenger, a well-travelled one. So I won’t ask you to do anything ridiculous like blindly follow me, I’d ask you to at least consider my advice on routes. I don’t know why I’m here, but I can, prove useful.”

It was only then Rhosynel broke off her gazing to the stars, looking towards Gandalf and finding his flinty eyes fixed on her. The clouds from his pipe, the only evidence he was breathing, and not turned to stone. For a moment, the pair eyed one another, weighing up one another, turning over her words and considering them. But Rhosynel was the first to break eye contact, looking away and pushing to her feet, intending to seek out the spare bedroll and rest her battered body.

“I will consider your words, Messenger,” she heard him say quietly, making her look back. “And I hope you soon realise your purpose here.”

His words gave her pause; did he know why she was here? Besides Elrond’s request of her missives, she wasn’t meant to be part of the Fellowship, she knew that. But Gandalf seemed to think she would prove useful, somehow. Apparently she’d be left wondering, as the wizard elaborated not further.

“Goodnight, Mithrandir,” Rhosynel said instead, turning away.

Chapter Text

Freezing snow pelted her face and eyes as the storm raged about her. Throwing her hand up to protect her face, Rhosynel gritted her teeth in stubborn determination, free hand clutching the neck of her tunic and the silver chain beneath it. They were halfway across the mountain pass, they could do this, she was sure of it. She wouldn’t have led the Fellowship this way if she hadn’t believed they’d make it. Strong gusts of wind battered her back and forth, and she shifted, trying to plant her feet more securely. But there was no grip, no solid ground beneath her feet, nothing but open air.

Her chest lurched and her head snapped up. Greeted by the sight of the narrow ledge rapidly vanishing above her. The wind whistled and wrenched at her hair as she twisted around. She was falling again, and this time no pack, rope, or knife, would be enough to save her.

Moving more on instinct, than conscious choice, she spread her arms and legs, increasing the resistance against the wind. Much like she watched Ilmara flare her wings during a dive. Her fall shifted from tumbling, to almost gliding, the wind now working with, rather than against her.

Something shifted, far below, a strangled voice on the wind, a flash of a face.

Frodo? Was it Frodo who plummeted beneath her? Panic surged through her chest, and on impulse she snapped her arms and legs together with little conscious choice. Rhosynel plummeted into a dive. Tears streamed against her face, blurring her vision, but she could just make out a face, far below, their hands reaching up towards her desperately. Gritting her teeth, she willed herself to fall, fall faster, dive quicker.

Stretching out one arm, she reached desperately, grasping for his outstretched hand.

She was so close. She could save them.

Blinking, the hand came into focus. As did the Ring of gold, sat within their palm.

With a jolt Rhosynel lurched upright from her sleeping roll, only to find her arm reaching out towards nothing. Snapping it back against her side, she looked around wildly trying to muffle her heavy breaths, worried that any yells may have woken the others. No one moved, Gimli, Gandalf, and Boromir all snoring. Legolas sat cross legged, eyes closed, hands in his lap. And the four Hobbits were still, clustered together alongside her own space.

With a sinking realisation, she realised Frodo was closest to her. Almost in arms reach.

Trying to hold down the rising panic, Rhosynel moved as quietly as possible, rising to her feet, and stepping gingerly out from the various prone bodies. Pulling her tattered cloak tighter about herself, a light sound of movement had her looking up.

Strider, sat at the entrance to the alcove, pipe in hand, crown of smoke lingering about his head. Her feet carried her towards him without conscious thought, and she found herself settling alongside him, looking out across the treetops that lead down and away from the mountain side they’d sheltered at the base of. It was a good spot, lifted above the forest floor enough to be less noticeable, but with a clear view across the foothills.

“You should be sleeping,” he greeted quietly.

“Nightmare.”

That earned a nod of understanding. Pulling one knee up to her chest, the other leg hanging from the ledge, she rested her chin atop it, gazing out across the stretching plains. Unconsciously mirroring his own position.

“How far, till Moria?” she asked after the minutes crept by, and her heartbeat settled.

“A day, at most,” Strider replied, “we’ll reach the gate by nightfall.”

There was the echo of a distant howl, far enough off to not cause alarm.

“I’ll send Ilmara, before we enter.” The mines would be no place for a Limroval. “Lord Elrond will want to know how we progress.”

Aragorn gave a muted hum of agreement, seemingly content to puff at the pipe.

A question was nagging at her. Had been, for days now. But this fresh nightmare had only cemented it within her mind. Rhosynel already knew Boromir was drawn to the Ring, it was easy to see, if hard to accept. And while she felt no great desire to take it, time and time again she’d found herself alongside Frodo. Sometimes it was while they walked, she’d find herself pacing in his footsteps, or walking silently alongside him. When they would stop to make camp, she’d realise unexpectedly, that she’d settled close to his place. And just now, waking with an outstretched hand, and Frodo almost within reach.

No part of Rhosynel looked forwards to entering the mines, but it was too late to protest. Not when she had even agreed in her cold-addled state. Not when Frodo, the Ringbearer, had made the choice. They followed his choices so easily it almost chaffed. But no, she’d fight down her rising anxiety, and follow, as she had been doing for far too long.

She wouldn’t have gotten into this mess, had she been Ringbearer.

A worrying thought.

“Do you…” Rhosynel trailed off as quickly as she had started, aware of Aragorn glancing her way. “Do you feel, a pull. Towards it?” she forced herself to continue, even if she was reluctant to name the object of her worries. “I didn’t. At first. It made me feel sick to be near, but now that feeling is fading slowly. Instead, I find myself being drawn towards Fr-him. Towards it.”

She didn’t dare look at Aragorn, and kept her eyes firmly locked onto the stars, even as he studied her profile.

“Yes.” His answer gave her such relief that she let loose a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. “But not yet strongly.” There was a pause, and he finally looked away from her, allowing Rhosynel to sneak a glance back at him. His clear eyes were unusually shadowed and pensive. “The pull is slight, but it’s there. As long as I’m conscious of it, I don’t fear it. As long as I remain aware of how it may try to sway me, I can fight back against it.”

A sensible answer, somewhat reassuring. Rhosynel would just have to be more aware of her surroundings, and her actions. It would take some doing, but she was strong willed, she could manage. Surely.

“Get some rest,” Aragorn said, still looking to the horizon.

Nodding mutely, she rose to her feet, and padded silently back towards her sleeping roll. Even as she lay down once more, she found her eyes landing on Frodo’s small sleeping form. With a small amount of effort, she rolled over, making the conscious decision to turn her back to him. If she could resist the Pull, maybe the Ring would lose interest in her, and focus elsewhere.

But who would she rather be affected by it?

A still dark lake filled the valley, leaving only a narrow strip of shore for the Fellowship to pass along. The waters were murky, concealing their depths with jealousy. Perhaps, in the hight of summer, they would look inviting, but in the rapidly fading light of day, it looked dark and unwelcoming. What faint light of the moon and stars graced its surface was rapidly drowned within its depths, devoured by the abyss that hid beneath the surface.

The group was careful as they made their way further into the valley. Gandalf and Gimli led the way, the dwarf happily talking to himself, or anyone in earshot, of what grand welcomes they would be given, how his cousin would host them, with great halls, roaring fires, and good company. Those descriptions were almost enough to comfort Rhosynel, but not quite. They would still be underground, beneath the towering mountains, and thought of all that rock, stone, and ice, crushing down upon her shoulders was enough to make her feel unwell.

No, the open air was where she belonged.

Perhaps she’d be pleasantly surprised, perhaps Moria would be equal in warmth and grandeur to Erebor. Perhaps the darkness would be banished by lamps, mirrors reflecting the light, glimmering jewels and polished walls. Or perhaps it would be a mine, dark, dank, low ceilinged, and unbearably cramped.

Eventually, something about the sheer rock face changed, and the group came upon a pair of trees. They looked normal, at first, until Rhosynel realised they were half merged with the stone, growing thick and strong, but entirely flat on the sides pressed against the cliff. She’d never seen trees grow in such close quarters with stone, and was glad when Gandalf came to a stop, so she could study them more. Running her fingers across the cool smooth bark, she tried, and failed, to find the seam between wood and stone. There was none, not even a crack for her nails to scrape along, as though the very wood of the trees had been carved from stone.

“Are they stone?” she muttered quietly to Legolas, who was also inspecting them curiously.

“No.” The answer was instant enough that she couldn’t doubt him. “They are ancient, and somewhat petrified. But no, they are real, they whisper of harmony between elves and dwarves, and sing of many eons of history.”

Rhosynel raised a brow at him, earning a nonchalant shrug from the elf.

“The doors of Durin,” Gandalf said reverently, drawing her attention away from the thoughts of singing trees and harmony between rivals. As far as she could tell, there were no doors, only a fine carving across the smooth stone between the two trunks. “Itidin, it mirrors only star and moonlight,” the wizard continued, running his fingers across the carving, before looking up towards the cloud studded night sky, almost expectantly.

Exactly on cue, the cloud shifted, revealing the gleaming moon, bright, large, and full.

A neat party trick.

A ripple passed over the rock, revealing lines of gleaming silver and white. An arch, twisting vines and patterns, with elvish runes. Odd, considering it was a dwarfish door, but perhaps that was the harmony that Legolas had spoken of. Almost instinctively, she touched her fingers to the glow, half expecting it to transfer to her fingertips. But no, it remained smooth and cool and attached to the stone.

“Speak friend, and enter,” Gandalf said, nodding to himself. “Ah, just speak the password and we will be permitted to enter!” Shaking the sleeves of his robe back, he levelled his staff at the door, and pressed the wood to the centre of the carving, taking a deep sombre breath. “Annon edhellen, edro hi ammen!”

The powerful words echoed throughout the valley, and the doors remained shut.

“Oh, that was very impressive,” Pippin commented wryly. “Now what?”

“Now, I use your head to knock them open,” Gandalf retorted.

“Play nice,” Rhosynel muttered to herself, hearing a sigh of frustration from the wizard. “I’ll draft a missive to Elrond while you think.”

As she settled amongst the roots of one tree, she was vaguely aware of Gandalf apologising to Pippin for his briskness. The Hobbits seemed unbothered, brushing the apology off with his usual cheer, and seemed willing to leave the wizard to his musing, wondering off to bother Merry instead.

Pulling her journal free, she first drafted out what she wanted to say, aware of the others settling in to wait as well. There wasn’t a huge amount of news to tell Elrond, mentioning the Crebain, their change of plan to travel over the mountains, Saruman’s influence over the storm. Now they were taking the mines. Content to puzzle over the words, she scratched lines out, rearranged words, and managed to trim the message from almost a hundred words, to a mere thirty. It was like a little logistical puzzle and gave her something to do while Gandalf muttered and cursed under his breath.

‘Crebain from Dunland have diverted our path, Gandalf believes gap of Rohan no longer an option, attempted the Pass of Caradhras to no avail. Ringbearer has elected to take the mines of Moria.’

Short, simple, and to the point. Satisfied that she had condensed the message, but it was still understandable, Rhosynel took out a thin strip of parchment, and began writing it out properly. It was a good job she kept her messenger supplies on her hip, rather than in her pack, or else she’d have been unable to send anything back to Rivendell, not unless the others had writing materials on hand.

There was the distinct plip of a stone hitting water, prompting her to look up from the missive. Merry and Pippin were amusing themselves, trying to strike a piece of flotsam bobbing in the lake. All they needed was the summer sun, a blanket, and a basket of food. It would be almost an idyllic spot to picnic at.

Further along the shore, Aragorn was reassuring Sam that Bill would be safe, as they turned the pony loose and encouraged him off. The mines would indeed be no place for a pony, and for once Rhosynel felt relieved that she’d not been permitted to bring Gwaedal. It had been hard enough to leave him behind in Rivendell, but there he was safe and secure. Bill, on the other hand, would have to contend with the distant wolves they’d heard the other night.

“Wait, it’s a riddle,” Frodo suddenly exclaimed, jolting Rhosynel from her thoughts as he hopped to his feet, eyes on the door. He looked remarkably excited by the idea of a riddle. “Speak friend and enter, what’s elvish for friend?”

“Mellon,” Gandalf said ponderously.

There was a crack of stone, and gentle rumble, as the door revealed itself to them, slowly swinging open, or at least one side did, as the other became jammed on a rock. A foul smell rolled forth, no doubt all the stale air that had been trapped within the disused entrance, but it wasn’t encouraging.

“Oh well done, laddie!” Gimli said in delight, “we shall have a fine welcome!”

Whistling for Ilmara to come join her, Rhosynel packed up her journal and writing tools, leaving only the parchment strip in her hand. Ilmara, still high above, gave a shriek.

And didn’t descend.

One moment Rhosynel was frowning up at the Limroval, the next, Frodo was being dragged past her across the ground. A long thick something snared around his ankle.

If the Hobbits screaming hadn’t jolted her out of her confusion, the guttural bellows of some horrific beast did. Lunging forwards, Rhosynel snatched for Frodo’s outreached hands, and missed by the narrowest of margins. Fingers skimming across his palm in a mockery of her dreams, as he was hoisted into the air.

More yells, barking orders and scrambling feet. The twang of a bowstring cut through the air with a whistle of its arrow, and Frodo dropped. Another tentacle snatched him back up, only to shudder and buckle as Aragorn slammed his blade into its base.

Her own blades lashed out without conscious choice to join the fight, slicing through another writhing appendage before it could latch onto her wrist. Another guttural bellow, and Rhosynel found… a face. Wreathed in tentacles, eyes massive and entirely black, teeth bared in a hungry snarl. How in the hells had it known to snatch up Frodo? Had the Ring called to it, was the Ring drawing attention to the Hobbit? Could she protect him if she got the Ring away from him—

There was a yelp, as Frodo fell through the air, only to land near perfectly into Boromir’s arms.

“Into the mines! Quickly!” Gandalf yelled above the commotion.

With Frodo safe, Rhosynel turned, lunging towards the other three Hobbits, arms spreading in a bid to scoop them all up, keeping herself between them and the thing at her back. Something heavy and wet struck her shoulder, but failed to find purchase as she darted swiftly from its reach.

“Move!” she barked.

The Hobbits were scrambling, hastening for the entrance to Moria, as a shrill keen cut through the air. Whistling once more for Ilmara Rhosynel pressed forwards, they would head in deeper, get out of reach of the water beast. Overhead Ilmara shot into the mine, quickly landing on Rhosynel’s upraised arm as the group shifted out of reach of the beast.

There was an almighty crack.

Dust showered down upon them, pelting them with shards of rock and stone.

“Its bringing down the cave!” Aragorn yelled in warning.

Fuck.

Swiftly rolling the missive with one hand, she slotted it into the pouch between Ilmara’s wings. “Rivendell, Elrond!” she commanded urgently, launching the hawk in her haste.

There was a louder crack, followed by a heavier shower of dust. And then another, worse than before, clouding the air with stone and thrashing tentacles.

“Fly! Ilmara! Reevia feir!” she found herself yelling, “find me over the mountains!”

The Limroval darted towards the open doors. Her wings her agile, and her flight swift, easily darting first one way, then the other, in a bid to avoid the tentacles still stretching. A boom filled the air, followed by rumbling of stone.

“FLY! REEVIA!”

Stone struck her shoulder making her stagger, but Rhosynel’s eyes remained locked on the goshawks frantic flight. She was almost out, Ilmara was almost free of the cave, just a moment longer. Someone yelled her name and something –someone– slammed into her waist, forcing her backwards.

A cascade of stone fell where she had just been, even as she slammed to the ground, protected by another body and upheld shield. The cloud of dust which followed had her choking, coughing as it forced its way into her mouth and lungs, coating her in a fine layer of grit. Tears streaming down her face from the dirt in her eyes, she blinked furiously up at a familiar face.

“Are you alright?” Boromir asked between his own coughs.

“I—Did she make it?” Rhosynel twisted, trying to see past him in the near pitch darkness. “Did anyone see? Did Ilmara make it out?” Her voice cracked with panic, and she clamped a hand over her mouth, still sprawled on the floor, staring at the piles of rock and stone baring their escape.

“I think she did,” someone, Merry? Sam? said, “I saw her head straight up. At least.”

The goshawk wouldn’t aim skywards if she couldn’t see the sky, surely? She must have made it. The energy left Rhosynel, and her head thudded back against the stone, eyes staring up at the rocky ceiling. She could convince herself that Ilmara had made it. She could tell herself that she was free.

Unlike them.

The crushing weight of being trapped, settled in her chest, making it tight, constricting. She could hear the others talking, discussion something in worried voices. Boromir was crouched alongside, shaking her shoulder, but Rhosynel was too busy trying to fend off the rising panic in her chest.

The way was blocked. There was no way out. They were trapped under the mountain.

“Are you alright?” Boromir asked again, climbing to his feet, and half helping, half hauling Rhosynel up to her own.

A nod, not trusting her tongue to lie for her. “You?”

“As I can be.”

That was anything but reassuring. Had he been injured, in his bid to tackle her clear of the cave in? He shouldn’t have put himself in harms way, not for her, the others needed his shield far more than she did. If Boromir had been injured or worse… Her stomach roiled at the thought, of the idea that her own foolish actions could injure any one of the Fellowship.

Swallowing, Rhosynel tried to take stock of their conditions. Looking around at the others and the area before the now shattered doors, dozens of skeletons swam into view. Lit by the sickly white light of Gandalf’s staff.

Old, dusty, cobwebbed, and very clearly, pierced by arrows.

“Orcs,” spat Legolas, inspecting an arrow.

“This is no mine, it’s a tomb!”

That didn’t go down well, the Hobbits becoming agitated at Boromir’s words. Nor did it help the thrashing fear and anxiety in her chest. Swallowing thickly, Rhosynel moved forwards, gathering the Hobbits into one group, tucking them against her, doing her best to shelter them from the grizzly view. She could protect them from this, she could distract herself from the dread, she could protect them.

Bodies lay scattered across the floor. Propped up against one another, collapsed on the stairs, or slumped at the foot of the wall. They had been trapped, and then slaughtered.

“I want to go back,” a quiet voice said, from around her hips. “I want to go back.”

Raising helpless eyes, she was met by the sight of Gimli dropped to his knees by one of the bodies, a cry building in his chest. Aragorn was quick to comfort him, even as Gandalf heaved a sigh.

“We have no choice left to us,” the wizard said, voice heavy with finality. “Be on your guard, there are worse things than orcs in these mines.”

Chapter Text

The route through the mountain was not easy, all hope that they’d be welcomed by Gimli’s kin was dashed, further and further from their reach, as they travelled deeper and deeper into the mines. The number of dead was staggering, and Rhosynel soon had to give up in her bid to protect the Hobbits from the grisly view. There were just too many bodies.

Unfortunately, that left her with no distraction.

The rough walls felt as though they were pressing in, and she soon found her steps slowing, her arms wrapping around her chest in a bid to find some comfort. Eyes down, fixed on her feet, rather than the all-encompassing darkness.

By the time she realised she’d fallen behind, it was too late.

Panicked gasps tore from her throat, barely muffled as Rhosynel clamped her hands over her mouth. She couldn’t let them hear, couldn’t let the others know she was losing her grip. No, she wouldn’t let them know how much the caves bothered her, nor the crushing weight in her chest. The mountain seemed to rest on the back of her head, pressing slowly down on her. It felt like her spine was crumpling, as she folded in on herself.

Something clattered behind her.

Whirling around, she squinted into the darkness. A useless motion, her human eyes too weak to see through any form of darkness. She couldn’t see a thing. But there was something within the gloom, something shifting, she could hear the faintest of scrapes, the pad of feet near silent, the rasps of heavy breathing. Alarm spiked through her chest at the sensation of being hunted.

“Rhosynel?” A voice asked directly next to her.

Leaping almost a foot in the air, she whirled, arm coming up to strike.

Legolas caught her elbow with ease, and she could just make out the amused expression on his face, as the last light from Gandalf’s staff slowly faded.

“You fell behind.”

“I heard something move,” she replied, pulling her arm free of his hand and gesturing.

Stepping past her, the elf remained close, head shifting back and forth, eyes tracking something she couldn’t make out.

“There are some rats,” he said eventually, “feasting on the bones and flesh of—”

“Ew stop.”

There was a soft chuckle from him.

It hadn’t sounded like rats, too large and too heavy padding steps, at odds with the scurrying of tiny feet. The breathing too, had been large, rasping and dawn out. Not to mention the feeling of being hunted. Rhosynel was no stranger to foes trying to hunt her or her kin, the hair prickling at the back of her neck was testament to that, years spent with the Rangers learning to trust her instincts.

But Legolas couldn’t see it –whatever it was– so perhaps it had moved on?

Blinking, it dawned on her that the light had entirely faded. Leaving the pair in pitch darkness. And her effectively stranded. Apparently also realising that, Legolas took her hand, hooking it into the corner of his arm. “Stay close, I will lead.”

Not like Rhosynel had another option, but she allowed him to steer her path. Not complaining now she had a walking companion, the feeling of being hunted quickly fading.

“You don’t like caves,” he said some paces later.

“No. I don’t like being trapped.”

Feeling him nod in agreement more than seeing him, she couldn’t imagine the elf enjoyed being underground either, even if he was keeping it together better than she had. At that thought, she dashed her free hand across her cheeks. Hopefully the others would mistake it for dust and dirt, rather than tears, no matter how harshly her heart pounded still.

They rejoined the group quick enough, as Gandalf was looking puzzled at a junction. Three large arches, the central one had steps, while the other two continued on the same level as far as she could tell. Apparently, the wizard couldn’t recall the correct route. Rhosynel own instincts were suggesting the one with steps, leading them up and out to freedom, but then it could just lead higher and deeper into the mine.

“Wondered where you’d gone,” Sam greeted quietly, passing her a hunk of bread.

“I heard a noise behind us, but Legolas said it was just rats,” she replied, settling as comfortably as she could manage while being trapped. “How are you doing?”

“Rough. You?”

“Rough.”

The pair shared a muffled snort, as Rhosynel tore into the bread without enthusiasm.

“But really,” Sam said after a moment had passed, voice still low and laced with concern, “are you okay?”

It was tempting to lie, but there was no point.

“I hate caves,” she freely admitted, “I hate been trapped, so underground without being about to see the sky? This is… a nightmare.”

Admittedly it wasn’t anything like her current nightmares, but the dark dank corpse filled mine would be plaguing her for some time after they escaped. If they escaped.

“I don’t think anyone would enjoy this sort of thing,” he agreed, nose wrinkling as he glanced around. “‘cept maybe Gimli, but even this place… it’s… lifeless.”

Even where they’d settled to rest, bodies were visible, sprawled out and decaying. But she had the sense he’d not meant people and souls, when calling it lifeless. There was no sense of movement, no change in the air, no sense of life. Just stone, darkness, and more stone. The only plant that would grow down here would be mushrooms, and even they’d struggle to find a hospitable patch of not-stone to grow in.

The conversation lapsed, but it was a relief to sit and rest in near silence for a while. Quite subdued conversations passed between the others, along with wordless exchanges in the form of glances and passing of food. But Rhosynel found herself repeatedly reaching up to her shoulder, expecting to find Ilmara’s soft feathers, and being greeted by empty air instead. It felt alien to be away from her, like she was missing a limb.

“Get some rest,” Aragorn’s voice instructed from the gloom some minutes later, “until the way becomes clear, we can progress no further.”

Rhosynel exhaled near silently, dragging her hands through her hair over and over again in anxiety. Rest wouldn’t be easy, not within this prison of stone and corpses, not with the weight of a mountain resting on her chest, not with her fears for Ilmara hanging over her like a storm cloud, not when she couldn’t feel the breeze on her face or the sun on her skin or the light of the sk—

“Hey miss,” Merry’s voice cut through her spiralling thoughts with shocking ease, his hand shaking her shoulder. “We’ve found a flat spot to sleep on, only a couple of bones rather than a full skeleton too.”

And without waiting for an answer, he seized her hand and dragged her further along the path towards a smoother patch of ground. Already the others were setting up a little camp, spreading out their bedrolls and clearing the space of any pebbles or bone shards. Much like they would at any other campsite beneath the trees. It was a flat spot, tucked to one side of the three archways, the wall curved about, forming a shallow alcove that gave a semblance of protection. Or at least it felt less exposed.

With amused glances from the others, Rhosynel found herself being rather unceremoniously, pushed into the centre of the ring, and all but bullied into settling on the ground.

At which point the machinations of the Hobbits became clear.

“It’s very unfair for me to be your pillows, when I lack one of my own,” she protested, albeit weakly as the four arranged about her. It seemed she’d set an expectation when descending the mountain, not that she’d complain too much, it was reassuring to have all the Hobbits within arm’s reach.

“You’re not our pillow,” Sam countered, “you’re our hot water bottle.”

“Of which I also lack.”

“That’s cause we’re your hot water bottle,” Frodo pointed out. He had a point, as the combination of four Hobbits tucking in against her sides was much warmer that laying alone.

“I doubt the others will appreciate me claiming all four of you for my own.”

“You’re welcome to them,” Legolas commented dryly, settled with his back to the wall and legs neatly folded. No sleeping roll, presumably she was borrowing his once again. “All of you are far too fidgety for my liking.”

The elf wasn’t wrong, the Hobbits did shift about and grumble in their sleep, clearly still not used to the lack of comfortable beds. But by now, Rhosynel was fairly used to it, her own fidgeting was enough to distract from that of the Hobbits.

“Gandalf will be keeping watch,” Boromir announced, joining them in the alcove, “he wishes to ‘ruminate on memories of what once was’.”

Pippin muttered under his breath something that sounded remarkably like ‘doesn’t have the faintest idea’.

Shaking her head, Rhosynel attempted to settle down, the tatters of her mottled green cloak would be a poor blanket against the chill of the cave. She’d still not had had chance to begin patching it, and the light within the cave wouldn’t be enough to see by when stitching. She’d have to ask Strider to borrow his sewing supplies, she’d already made note of him patching his own clothes, surely he’d be willing to spare some thread? The mine was cold, and her cloak was shredded, the random shivers that wracked her body would make it difficult to actually relax, even with the warmth of the Hobbits.

The quiet mutters and grumbles of the others was a gentle background noise as Rhosynel tried to ascertain which part of her cloak had less holes and therefor provided the most warmth. She could hear Merry and Pippin speaking with Boromir in the familiar tone they used to convince the big folk to do things for them, could hear Aragorn speaking with Gimli who’d become quieter and quieter the further into Moria they travelled, could hear the hums of consideration from the distant Gandalf.

“You’re far warmer than Rhosyn,” Pippin was saying.

The use of her name caused Rhosynel to glance up, blinking owlishly in the gloom at the odd sight that greeted her, cloak held half up. The incredibly tall lord of Gondor was being steered about by Pippin, which considering how much bigger the Lord was apparently a four-foot-nothing Hobbit could move him with ease, towards the last free sleeping roll.

Alarm jolted through Rhosynel as Merry shifted to one side freeing up the sleeping roll he had claimed. She shot him a wide-eyed glare, wordlessly demanding just what he thought he was doing. Merry’s grin was not reassuring. But there was no chance to protest or demand answers, nor to move away, as Boromir was unceremoniously pushed into the empty gap. Noises of protest dying on his lips as he landed on the ground alongside her, despite the gloom Boromir met her eyes over the Hobbits heads, in what she could only describe as an uncomfortable grimace.

“Apologies,” he said quietly, looking somewhat awkward, even as Pippin and Merry began to make themselves comfortable, and Boromir shifted automatically to give them room. “It seems they wish to use me as a pillow.”

“Hot water bottle, technically.”

The lord blinked at her response, but then a grin spread across his features. Even in the gloom of the mines, his smile was bright, corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. But with a shake of his head, Boromir settled fully onto the sleeping roll.

“If that is to be my purpose for the Fellowship, then so be it,” he commented quietly. “What of you? The cold ailed you on the mountain, do you need anythin—”

“I’m fine,” Rhosynel replied, slightly too quickly. “I have Sam and Frodo as my hot water bottles, I’m sure they’ll be enough.”

There was a pause, as though Boromir was weighing up her words, or possibly just eyeing the tattered cloak and her borrowed tunic sceptically.

She would be fine.

She would.

Maybe if she repeated it hard enough, she’d believe it.

“Very well,” he relented, “but if you have need of anything, please do let me know.”

Not trusting her voice, Rhosynel nodded, feeling the blood start to colour her cheeks. Rhosynel made a mental note to give a stern talking to all four of the Hobbits once they escaped the mines, and were out of earshot of an amused Ranger, chuckling dwarf, and grinning elf. Even Gandalf was watching the entire performance with something akin to entertainment.

“Goodnight,” she said instead, and promptly rolled onto her side, not so subtly putting her back to the Gondorian Lord. Not to mention the other Hobbit-free members of the Fellowship. Trying to ignore the fact she could feel her blood colouring her cheeks.

There was an awkward clearing of a throat, and then she felt Boromir shift onto his side, his own back to hers. Already she could feel the heat radiating from him, rapidly banishing the cold that had been slowly seeping into her bones. Whatever shivers and chills had been plaguing her, were quick to fade.

“Much better,” she heard Frodo mutter.

Cracking open one eye, she fixed him with her best withering glare.

He grinned back, and tucked up against her side, head pillowed on her shoulder, even as her arm automatically draped across him. Pulling Frodo closer without conscious thought.

It was an improvement, not that she’d admit it.

Surrounded by warmth, Sam and Frodo tucked against her front, the heat from Boromir against her back, the quiet snores of Merry and Pippin on his other side. Despite being trapped, despite being buried in the roots of a mountain, Rhosynel found the tension leaving her body. Within minutes, her eyes grew heavier, and for once she made no bid to fight the call of sleep.

Waking up was… disorientating.

Blinking furiously, Rhosynel tried to take stock of just what was going on. There was warmth, all enveloping, surrounding her and preventing the panic that threatened to encircle her heart at the memory of just where she was. She could smell something, something warming and familiar, some sort of herb or spice not that she could put a name to it. Gingerly shifting her head, soft fur and thick velvet met her cheek, making Rhosynel frown in confusion. She didn’t own a blanket this fine, and certainly wouldn’t have brought it to a mine of all places.

A faint glow was coming from behind her, oddly pale and casting eerie shadows across the stone carved walls and halls of Moria. There were flickers of movement across its light, and the sound of quiet voices speaking. With a lurch, she realised Frodo was gone, only Sam remained tucked against her stomach. Shifting carefully, she started to roll onto her back, but made it less than halfway as her shoulders bumped against something.

It took far too long to recall that Boromir was directly behind her.

At which point she realised what the familiar smell was, and what the blanket draped across her was. Had Boromir put his cloak over her? Or had one of the meddlesome Hobbits taken it upon themselves? Another careful shift, and she had her answer. The cloak was draped across herself and Boromir. And Sam, which ruled him out of the mischief.

Oh she’d be having words with Merry and-or Pippin.

A sleepy grumble from Sam made Rhosynel freeze in place, unwilling to disturb his rest. It was a miracle he was still asleep with her movements, but, pinned in place by him, it was easier to remain still. She’d let him rest, no matter the discomfort to herself, nor her concern for the lack of Frodo. She could hear his voice from the direction of the light, hear him speaking softly with Gandalf.

“I wish the Ring had never come to me, I wish none of this had happened.”

Frodo’s voice sounded plaintive, distressed but not yet upset. The heavy burden he’d claimed was clearly weighing on him, and Rhosynel’s heart broke at the sorrow he’d been concealing from the others.

“So do all who live to see such times,” Gandalf was replying gently, “but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide, is what to do with the time that is given to us.”

There was some wisdom there, but Rhosynel struggled to see it. Frodo was exhausted, and Gandalf could only offer him words of comfort, but not actions. Annoyance flickered through her chest at that thought. The urge to protect Frodo, to shelter him, to save him, was strong, but how could she protect him from his own choices? She couldn’t carry the Ring, no matter how she wished to free him of its weight. But what else could she do?

They were still talking, even if Rhosynel had tuned them out, debating on snatching a few more hours’ worth of sleep, when there was a surprised exclamation from Gandalf.

Immediately she was moving, quickly supporting Sam as her reaction jostled him from his sleep. The heavy cloak slid from her shoulders as Rhosynel sat upright, looking towards the wizard with concern. Her abrupt motion had caused Boromir to start, also lurching upright with a soldier’s alertness –unless he’d also been awake– jolting both Merry and Pippin from their own sleep.

Around them, the other three members of the Fellowship were rousing from their rest, snapping to the ready and scanning the area for signs of foe. No enemies greeted them, but a pleased expression on Gandalf’s face did.

“It’s that way,” the wizard announced, gesturing to furthest right of the three tunnels they’d stopped alongside.

“Him rem’mber?” Merry mumbled still half asleep, rubbing at his eyes and face.

“No, no the air is just fresher,” Gandalf reassured. “If in doubt, always follow your nose!”

His nose.

Rhosynel dragged a hand across her face at the thought of relying on her nose to navigate the length and breadth of Middle Earth. True it might find her a tavern or lead her away from a cesspit, but she doubted it would help her remember the route from Dale, or the correct street in Aldburg.

Climbing to her feet –with a brief glance towards Boromir who seemed equally confused as to what was going on with his cloak– she stretched, hearing a series of clicks from her spine. All about her the rest of the Fellowship was mobilising with practised ease. Sleeping mats were rolled, supplies were stashed away, meagre breakfasts handed out, and cloaks returned to their rightful owners.

“Did you sleep well?” Gimli asked as she pulled her hair back into a tail.

Something about his voice, about the forced innocence gave her pause, fingers still entangled in her hair. Turning her head, Rhosynel narrowed her eyes at the dwarf, busying himself with his pack, his axes, his helmet, anything to avoid actually meeting her eyes. No matter the fact she could clearly see his grin beneath his bushy red beard.

It wasn’t hard to put cloak and dwarf together and find the answer was mischief.

“You little—”

“Are we ready to go?” Aragorn’s voice interrupted her building accusation.

Gimli was quick to hasten away, chortling to himself as he darted towards Gandalf at the head of the Fellowship. She would have expected it from the Hobbits, possibly even from Legolas, but for Gimli to be up to no good… Grumbling under her breath, Rhosynel dragged her pack on.

It didn’t take long for everyone to be ready, Gandalf was quick to lead the way once again, Gimli hot on his heels and the rest of them stringing out behind the pair. The arched roof of the corridor they took was high enough above Rhosynel’s head that even reaching up her arm she wouldn’t have been able to touch its peak. The stone walls were smooth and well cut, a glossy dark material that almost glimmered as Gandalf’s white light passed across it.

Had she been in reach of Gimli, she’d have asked him what the stone was. Albeit only after interrogating him about the cloak shenanigans, not that she’d have been able to with Boromir pacing along at her back. Thankfully, not attempting small talk.

The path seemed to have a slight downward angle, only noticeable by the increased pressure on the balls of her feet, along with a subtle twist to the right. Rhosynel would have preferred it to be leading upwards, but within these mines she was considerably out of her depth. No longer could she find the quickest path, the swiftest route, instead, Rhosynel found herself in the midst of the pack, trailing along in Aragorn’s shadow, with Boromir, Legolas, and two of the Hobbits at her back.

She missed the sky.

On they walked, on the path descended, on it twisted and wove through the gut of a mountain. With her arms wrapped about her chest, Rhosynel barely removed her eyes from the back of Aragorn’s shoulders, trusting the Ranger to lead her out of this hell, and to avoid any hazards. So determined was she to ignore the weight of the stone surrounding her, that it came as a surprise to realise something had changed.

Stone brushed the top of her head, nothing more than a light graze against her hair. It was enough to make Rhosynel flinch away from whatever spur of rock had dipped lower, only for her shoulder to strike solid stone. Another jolt the other way, and she made it no further, more stone halting her movements.

The corridor had narrowed drastically.

“Fuck,” she breathed, panic threatening to overwhelm.

Aragorn was already stooped, but she didn’t miss the glance back towards her at her quiet exclamation. His face in shadow as Gandalf’s light failed to spread through the cramped conditions. “Are you well?”

“I don—”

“The path here narrows,” Gandalf’s voice prevented a response, oddly muffled and indistinct. “Part of the corridor has collapsed, but I believe it to be passable.”

Quite without meaning to, Rhosynel dug her heels in.

There was a thump as Boromir collided with her back.

“I’ll take a look, mind yourself,” Gimli answered. Noises of movements, noises of hobnailed boots on stone, a grunt from the dwarf, and the absolutely horrific noise of metal and stone. “Tis narrow indeed!” he exclaimed almost sounding pleased, “lower your staff a touch—ah yes, I believe I see the end! One moment.”

More noises, indistinct and distant enough that Rhosynel couldn’t make heads nor tails of what was going on. All she could hear was the scraping of stone, the grumbles and grunts of the dwarf forcing his way through whatever gap she couldn’t see. It took far too long, dragging on and on and on until Rhosynel could barely hear him.

“—eached the other—” the faintest sound of Gimli’s voice came through, broken and fragmented, “it’s about— but then— shouldn’t be too—”

“Ah good,” Gandalf said, sounding as though he’d also not caught half of the words, “go on Frodo, Sam, I’ll be at your backs.”

More movement.

Swallowing thickly, Rhosynel tried to press down on the rising panic as the light from Gandalf’s staff began to dim, slowly fading second by second. And then, darkness. Her breathing was too loud, echoing in the cramped space, threatening to drown her senses. She couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t do this.

There was the sound of metal striking stone, and a spark of light near blinded her.

“This will only burn for a few minutes,” Aragorn was saying, crouched over what seemed to be a scrap of fabric with a small pile of sawdust in its centre. “Step over it carefully, we need to keep moving.”

And with that he was off, moving forwards, all but hunched double, and heading towards a narrow rift. Gandalf had been right in saying that the corridor had partially collapsed, the roof was ragged and torn, the wall on the left had buckled, leaving a narrow fissure between the rough stones and smooth wall on the right.

Aragorn didn’t even hesitate, slipping into the gap, his dark clothing rendering him all but invisible as he plunged into the void, and vanished.

Rhosynel didn’t move.

“—osyn?”

It felt like the walls were closing in, weighing her down, pressing on her shoulders, crushing her chest and restricting her lungs, her vision entirely consumed by the narrow gap illuminated by the flickering tendrils of flame at its foot.

“Shit, she’s frozen.”

She could hear the words, could tell they were directed to or about her, but Rhosynel couldn’t find the words to reply, couldn’t find the air to draw into her lungs to speak. Her fingers curled into her own arms, nails digging into the thin fabric of her tunic, threatening to break her skin and draw blood.

“Forgive me for this.”

That was the sole warning she got, before Boromir gripped one of her shoulders, and all but flattened her to the wall. Panic lanced through Rhosynel’s chest, a strangled noise of fear forcing itself from the cage of her teeth. Only to cut off sharply in shock, as Boromir squeezed through the narrow gap between her and the opposite wall. The leather of his surcoat dragged across her front, snagging on her tabard, stooped so close that his beard grazed her forehead. But a second later, and Boromir was past with a soft apology, seemingly intending to leave her behind.

There was no chance to catch her breath with the panic descending, as his gloved hand seized hers, and started towing her forwards. Instantly Rhosynel dug her heels in, prompting Boromir to glance over his shoulder at her terrified expression and to the others at her back. “Merry, Pippi—”

“We’ve got her!” Small hands found her other hand, clinging onto her. Pushing her forwards.

“Legolas?”

“Keep going, I’m right behind you.”

Already Boromir was turning to one side –her hand still ensnared in his larger one– and starting to squeeze into the horrifically narrow gap. Despite digging her heels in, Rhosynel found herself both dragged and pushed towards her worst nightmare, towards the void before her.

“No, no, please, no.” Pleading words fell from her lips as desperate as a caged animal fighting for escape, but with both the Hobbits and Legolas pushing her along, there was little she could do to fight back without potentially harming one of them. “Please, pleasepleas—”

“Rhosynel!” Boromir all but barked, voice sharp and commanding, sounding enough like a Captain to make her stiffen to attention, “if I can fit through here, you certainly will.”

“And if you get stuck!?”

“Then you’ll have to push,” he countered, and in the dimming light of the tiny fire Aragorn had left with them, Boromir grinned at her, “a good excuse to kick me, I imagine.”

Oh she’d be doing more than kicking him if she managed to get through this hell.

Screwing her eyes shut, Rhosynel took the deepest breath she could manage, and stopped fighting. Blind she may be, but she could still feel how the space about her narrowed. It was possibly worse, keeping her eyes closed, as she couldn’t see how the walls and floor had shifted or buckled, but at least it meant she couldn’t see the stones inches from her nose.

“Mind your step here,” Boromir warned, his hand squeezing hers, and a moment later she found rubble beneath her feet. “And your head, here.” She did her best to duck, not that she could go far.

Boromir was speaking, words of encouragement or of warning, she couldn’t tell which. Merry and Pippin were chuntering away about anything and everything, creating enough noise that she could almost ignore the scraping of stone across her body.

“I’m sure Moria must have been very nice once,” Merry-or-Pippin commented. “Like an extra-large Hobbit hole.”

“Doubtful,” Legolas commented dryly.

“Oh I don’t know, a carpet, a couple of nice squishy chairs in front of a fireplace, it’ll be like being back home!”

With smooth stone pressed to her back, and rough broken fragments snagging at her tunic and tabard, Rhosynel could easily imagine what was happening. Even now, if she inhaled too deeply, her chest scrapped across stone, but exhaling had her breath rebounding from the stone before her.

“Ah, I see Gandalf’s light,” Boromir said, and the relief that coloured his voice suggested that the current situation was far beyond his comfort too. “We’re almost ther—”

Quite without meaning to, Rhosynel sped up, pressing to Boromir’s arm in her eagerness to escape the rift. He gave a noise of surprise at this sudden intrusion, but apparently sensed her desperation, as his own movements sped up.

Between one step and the next, their group spilled from the narrow space.

Stumbling, Rhosynel fought to find her feet once again, fought against the disorientating contrast of sheer open wide space after been trapped and confined for so long, and quite without meaning to, pushed away from Boromir’s attempt to support her. Gasping, she kept moving, staggering away from the corridor, away from the others asking what was wrong, her stomach roiling and chest heaving for breath. A stone pillar met her palm, and she dropped to her knees at its base, one hand pressed to her chest as she doubled over.

She was out, she was out, she was out. She’d made it through.

She was, admittedly, still under a mountain.

There were voices discussing what to do next –or discussing her overreaction?– she didn’t care to know which. The cave in couldn’t have been more than fifty feet long, but it had stretched on for an eternity. At least she hadn’t had to crawl, or squirm along the floor on her stomach. No, she’d been able to stand up reasonably straight, and walk reasonably normally. The others must think her a fool for reacting so strongly to a narrow gap.

“Lass?” Gimli’s voice, his heavy boots approaching, an equally heavy hand landing on her shoulder. “You got through it, we’re on the right path now, there’ll be no more squeezes.”

“Squeezes?”

“The term we use for tight spaces like that,” he explained, “sometimes called a boulder choke, but those usually require clearing before you can pass it.”

“Choke is apt,” Rhosynel replied grimly, forcing herself to sit upright.

And then froze, staring upwards.

“I know gal, I know,” Gimli said proudly, patting her shoulder heavily as he gazed fondly across the vista. “Welcome to Khazad-dûm.”

Towering pillars, stretching further, further, further, until she lost sight of where they ended. The roof likewise was, lost beyond the boundary of light. Thick, strong pillars, supporting the entire weight of a mountain. It was easy to imagine the halls filled with torches, gleaming in the firelight, filled with voices and discussions of the dwarven folk, the cheers, greetings, roaring fires, and friendly welcomes.

The hall would have been grand, had it not felt quite so empty. What Rhosynel would have given, to visit the mine when it bustled with life and light.

…There was light, distant and faint, a pale glow that slanted across the floor of the hall.

“Is that, is that moonlight?” Rhosynel asked, confusion lacing her voice, trying to fight down the hope that rapidly built in her chest.

A set of wooden doors, and through them spilled silvery moonlight, cascading across the polished black stone. At their feet lay corpses, riddled with arrows and in clear indication of a fight.

When had she climbed to her feet? When had she started to follow Gimli as he hastened across the hall? She could hear the others behind, rushing to catch up as the dwarf broke into a run. Half a pace behind him, Rhosynel slid to a stop, eyes darting about the room seeking the source of the moonlight, the way out, the window or door that would provide an escape from the mines.

Her eyes were dragged upwards to the light, the promise of freedom, and followed it higher, higher still, to a narrow slit, cut into the stone. A long shaft led up and out of the room, too high and too steep for them to use.

False hope.

A wail rose from Gimli, a heart wrenching sound that dragged her attention down from the narrow shaft to him. He was on his knees, before a slab of stone, head bowed in sorrow and despair. Blinking, the content of the room came into focus. Bodies. Dozens of them, heaped and piled from some long since passed battle. Skeletons, bones, corpses, ruined weapons and armour strewn about the roo—it wasn’t a room, it was a tomb.

Gandalf had moved forwards and was dusting off the tombstone, eyes roving across its surface and the runes carved there. “‘Here lies Balin, son of Fudin, Lord of Moria.’ He is dead, then. It's as I had feared.”

All about the room were more corpses, orcs or goblins, intermingled with a vast number of dwarves. Balin was dead, their bid to reclaim the mines may have worked for a short while, but orcs had taken over, and forced them back. A last stand in this small room.

“They have taken the bridge and the second hall.”

The wizard had found an old book, its pages crinkling and crackling as he leafed through it, reading out fragments as he went.

“We have barred the gates… but cannot hold them for long.”

More bodies, more skeletons, almost filling the room. She could barely move without snagging on a bone, or axe, or armour.

“The ground shakes… drums in the deep.”

Rhosynel’s fingers slid though her hair and balled into fists against her scalp. The sooner they escaped this entire place, the better.

“We cannot get out, a shadow moves in the dark. Will no one save us?”

Turning away from the grisly room, Rhosynel pressed her hand to the stone of the doorway, eyes on the larger space of the hall, no matter how it was shrouded in darkness.

“They are coming.”

Whatever had happened in Moria had happened long enough ago that the bodies were mostly rotted away. Surely their group could make it through unseen and unheard?

“We cannot linger,” Legolas urged quietly to Aragorn, “we have to move on.”

She was inclined to agree, they needed to leave and quickly. Whatever Legolas was sensing prickled on the edge of her own awareness, a glance to the men revealed the same wariness. Aragorn’s hand was straying to his sword, eyes scanning the room, while Legolas was absently checking his quiver and Boromir’s hand was on the baldric supporting his shield. Whatever was about to happen, they could all sense it. Perhaps it was the lingering echo of Gandalf’s reading, or some foul essence that saturated the room.

They needed to get out. They needed to leave.

Now.

An almighty clattering and clanking lanced though the air like a bolt of lightning. Twisting about in alarm, her hands going to her swords, Rhosynel was met by the sight of a guilty looking Pippin, and Gandalf rounding on him.

“Throw yourself in next time!” The wizard barked at the Hobbit. “Fool of a Took!”

“Gandalf!” she exclaimed in no small amount of horror at his words. They were all on edge, all distressed, all anxious, but that was no way to speak to the youngest member of the Fellowship. “How dare you say such a thin—”

Gandalf rounded on her with frustration in his eyes, and Rhosynel’s mouth snapped shut with a click of teeth. It was an effort to force herself to hold her ground, force herself to meet the irate wizard’s eyes. How dare he speak to Pippin like that, how dare he threaten him in such a manner! And how dare he become annoyed that she’d leapt to the Hobbits defence, of course she was going to protect him, be it from orcs or wizards!

But before Gandalf could start scolding her, he froze in place, flint grey eyes widening in alarm. A second later and Rhosynel heard why.

Drums.

Drums in the deep.

They couldn’t get out.

They were coming

Chapter Text

The echo of distant drums reverberated through Moria, rumbling through the corridors, ascending through the mine shafts, and billowing out into the grand hall. The rolling noise building and building, like thunder in a summer storm as it swept across the land, the drums of war swept towards the tomb they stood within.

“We need to leave,” Rhosynel urged.

“We’ll not make it out before they reach us,” Aragorn countered, “help me bar the doors!”

The doors which had been barred once before. The doors, made of wood and iron, pierced and broken, rotting on their hinges. What good had the doors done to protect the dwarves that had died within this very room? What good would the doors do to protect them? To protect the Hobbits? To protect Frodo?

Rhosynel wanted to run.

But she couldn’t do so without abandoning the others, so instead she snatched up spears, pikes, swords and shields, hauling them to the doors, passing them to Aragorn and Boromir as they hastened to blockade the doors. It was flimsy, it wouldn’t last, it wouldn’t hold. They knew that already, so she passed them anything loose, and prayed to the Valar it would help.

The moment before they slammed the doors shut, Boromir risked a glance, only to jerk back sharply as an arrow narrowly missed his head.

“They have a cave troll,” he warned.

It was said so dryly that Rhosynel almost though he was joking, if not for the grim look in his eyes and the feathering of a muscle in his jaw. The panic in her chest kicked up a notch, but she shoved it down, she had to focus.

“Let them come!” Gimli cried out, leaping atop the tomb, an axe in both hands, and eyes locked onto the doors. “There is one dwarf who yet lives!”

She wasn’t sure if it was mania or sheer defiance, but somehow his words were rousing.

“You four, with me,” Rhosynel instructed, rapidly moving towards the Hobbits, gathering them up and herding them towards the back of the room as though she wrangled Hobbits for a living. “Listen to me,” she said, dropping to a crouch before them, “you keep moving, you don’t stop for anything or anyone. You, keep, moving. I’ll try and protect you, but if you must run, hide, trick, trip, or kill, you do so. If I fall, you keep moving, if anyone here falls, you keep moving. Understood?”

She sincerely hoped that no one would die, but if they did, she needed to know the Hobbits wouldn’t be next.

Four ashen and anxious faces nodded.

There was no chance to give false reassurance, as jabbering snarls echoed from outside the door, joined by hundreds of feet pounding across the stones. Running, running towards their flimsy defence. She could hear them coming. Lurching to her feet, Rhosynel put her back to the Hobbits, drawing her bow in sweaty palmed hands, and settled into a half crouch.

With an almighty crash, the doors were slammed into, rattling its hinges, showering the entry way with splinters, rust, and dust. For a moment, their hasty barrier and braces seemed to hold against the incoming tide.

Loosing arrows as fast as her fingers allowed, it quickly became clear that they were outnumbered. Dozens of orcs threw themselves at the narrow doorway, only a few fell to the arrows she, Aragorn, and Legolas shot. No matter how fast she drew and released, if one orc fell, another two orcs would force their way forwards.

There was the sound of breaking hinges, and the doors shattered.

Slamming her bow back into its empty quiver as the first of the orcs came within reach, her two swords all but leapt into her hands, just in the nick of time, as a harsh black blade descended towards her. Catching it in the V of her swords, she shoved the orc back and slammed her boot into its chest, following up with a downwards slash of both blades.

It gave a garbled shriek, and dropped.

Another orc, another strike, another kill. Again and again she fended off the attacks, tried to stand her ground, tried to keep between the worse of the orcs and the Hobbits, tried to protect them the best she could.

She couldn’t let them reach the Hobbits, couldn’t let them reach Frodo, couldn’t let them reach the Ring.

Curved short sword in each hand, batting away strikes, lashing out with a kick or a shove when needed, doing everything she could to protect those smaller than herself. It was hard, her usually fighting style was more… swift. Darting back and forth, using the landscape and its surroundings to her advantage. But in this room, there was nowhere to run, no way of ducking and hiding.

Instead, she was once again forced to stand her ground.

A plan that didn’t last long.

With a roar, the cave troll made itself know, barging into the room, a long chain attached to a spiked collar around its neck. The orcs were jeering, hooting and hollering as the Fellowship darted too and froe beneath its wrath.

“Miss!” One of the Hobbits cried out, alarm and fear colouring their voice.

“Get ready to run,” she barked, not daring to glance over her shoulder, not daring to take her eyes off the orcs trying to crowd them.

It was difficult to keep track of both the troll and the orcs, but she was aware of the giant presence, aware of how the others dodged or attacked. It wouldn’t take long for it to reach her and the four Hobbits. Almost as though it had heard her thoughts, the great beast staggered back from a swipe Aragorn gave, and its beady eyes fixed on her. Somehow, it seemed to know where to head next, and immediately started in their direction, was the Ring calling to it?

It wouldn’t get it –nor Frodo– not if Rhosynel could help it.

One lumbering step, another, another, the closer it came the more out of her depth Rhosynel felt. She’d seen trolls at a distance, but up close was something else. The sheer bulk, the power in its movements, muscles rippling under leathery flesh, the softer skin of its stomach. A potential weak spot.

Holding her ground, Rhosynel braced as the great mace swung high.

“Go!”

The Hobbits scattered.

Rhosynel didn’t move, not until she saw the Hobbits flee in either direction, not until she knew they were no longer behind her. Waiting until the mace began its descent, she darted forwards under its arms, her swords raised. Piercing its flesh wasn’t easy, but she managed, dragging both blades across its gut, a shallow cut, but still a cut. Thick black blood sprayed into her face for her efforts. It gave a great bellow, even as the mace slammed into the ground where she had just been stood, chips of stone flying every which way.

She didn’t wait for it to reel from the attack, already darting away.

“Good one lass!” she heard Gimli bark.

A grin stretched across her face, bared teeth in a mockery of a smile.

With the Hobbits now scattered, Rhosynel was free to run. Years of training, years of being on the move, years of relying on nothing but the swiftness of her feet and the swing of her blades, all came into play. Rhosynel wasn’t one to stand her ground, she never had been. Instead, she moved swiftly, flitting through battles, weaving her way around opponents and friend alike. Her blades were sharp, her timing was good, so she used it to her advantage. Circling the room like a gust of wind, never stopping for a moment.

Ducking away from an overhead strike, she lashed out, catching the creature in the neck. Even as they staggered, she was moving, heading for the next target, its snarls sending spittle and blood flying every which way. A thrust took it in the chest, and she left it gasping on the floor.

Cries and yells filled the room, but so far not one of her kin had fallen. She was careful to keep half an eye on them, as she moved and whirled. Aragorn and Boromir fighting in tandem, as though they had trained alongside one another all their lives, equally matched soldiers, with equally powerful blows. Even as she flitted by them, Boromir took a blow to his shield, and hefted it upwards, leaving the orc’s gut exposed for a strike from Aragorn.

Gimli was… pummelling everything that came in reach. Axes flashing, spinning, whirling with powerful strikes. His style was a little less organised, but no less deadly. Although she noted each orc which tried to approach his back, found an arrow embedded in their eye, as Legolas darted past. He was fast, little more than a leaf on the wind as he all but glided through the melee.

Compared to him, Rhosynel felt like a deer walking on ice.

And then there was Gandalf, a great whirling figure of grey robes. His sword in one hand, his staff in the other, both being used with equal dexterity. Slamming blows, slashing strikes, he barely slowed as she passed, cutting the hamstring of an orc trying to sneak past the wizard’s rage.

It was either her imagination, or the number of orcs was reducing. Were they really thinning out their numbers already? Her arms burned with the repeated strikes and parries, but she didn’t slow her steps.

“Frodo!” A yell rose above the commotion.

Immediately Rhosynel was skidding to a stop, boots finding little purchase on the blood-stained ground as she twisted about. Eyes darting across the room, she found Sam being flung, Merry and Pippin higher up, narrowly missing a blow from the troll. And Frodo, leaping to one side. The walkway was shattered, leaving only a small corner for the Ringbearer.

“No no no,” she battered away at the orcs between her and Frodo, desperately trying to break free of the melee, to make it to Frodo’s side, to protect him from the troll’s attention. “No!”

Aragorn too, lunged forwards, powering through the orcs that stood between him and the Ringbearer. Already he was far closer to the Hobbit, even as the troll began trying to corner Frodo, as though drawn to him. But then the Ranger snatched up a spear, and slammed it into the trolls ribcage.

The great beast gave a bellow, wrenching the spear free and whirling towards Aragorn, arms swinging wildly.

“Down!” she barked, and Strider hit the floor.

The trolls backhand skimmed above him, sending the beast staggering. Only to look at its hand, and the spear gripped within. Whatever thoughts happened in its small mind, Rhosynel could see the realisation, even as its eyes turned back to Frodo. She was too far away, too many orcs were between her and the Hobbit. It was too late. The troll slammed the spear downwards towards Frodo, and into his chest.

A chorus of screams filled the air.

Frodo’s agony, the fear of the Hobbits, the panic of the Fellowship.

Ramming an orc with her shoulder, Rhosynel fought desperately towards the Hobbit, seeing the moment Merry and Pippin leapt onto the trolls back, their swords plunging into the soft hide at the base of its skull. The way Aragorn lashed out at the trolls leg, cutting through the hamstring with ease. Beside Rhosynel, Legolas skidded to a stop, bow raised, and with impeccable timing, fired an arrow, through the troll’s mouth, and up into its skull.

The point pierced out, narrowly missing Pippin, still clinging on as Merry was flung free.

It gave a groan, staggering. Hopping backwards, she narrowly missed being clipped by its fall. Pippin, thrown from its back, landing sprawled at her feet. Ordinarily, she would have helped him, but Frodo wasn’t moving. The others were rushing in, a few orcs still lingering. Her hand shot to the pouch on her hip, the meagre herbs and bandages that Rhymenel had sent her off with. But to help such a wound that spear would have left? She’d be of no use, his lungs would be damaged, the blood would be foaming at his mouth.

Frodo was already dead.

Who would take up the burden of the Ring now? Terror clawed at her ribs, latching onto her heart, grief already starting to drag her down into despair. With a wordless yell, she turned her attention to the few orcs that remained. They wouldn’t live much longer, they wouldn’t make it out of the tomb. Fury and anger and fear and terror and grief writhed through her chest. Her swords blurred, lashing out through chests and necks, through limbs and legs. If an orc moved, Rhosynel found it.

Distantly, she was aware of Legolas doing the same.

Within a minute, the foul creatures were all dead, and the room fell silent. It was only when Rhosynel was certain that no more attacks would take them by surprise, that she could turn back to the sight she didn’t want to see. She didn’t want to see, but she had to know. It felt like a physical effort to turn her head, to look over, to see what had become of Frodo.

Aragorn had rolled the Ringbearer onto his back, cradling his body, hand gently tapping at Frodo’s cheek. In the quiet of the room, there was a pained inhale, and his eyes fluttered open.

Relief flooded Rhosynel, followed far too closely by confusion.

He wasn’t dead? How?

Silvery mail was hidden beneath his shirt.

“Mithril,” Gimli exclaimed, “you, Master Baggins, are full of surprises.”

But surely a blow from the troll, even if blunted by mail, should have killed him? She’d seen it, he should have been speared like a fish, his ribs should have been shattered by a blow like that. And yet he was sitting up, and then struggling to his feet. The relief was palpable, the others surged forwards with elated exclamations, and she found herself trailing forwards, confusion clouding her mind.

“We need to go,” someone, possibly Aragorn said.

“We need to rest!” Samwise protested.

Rhosynel was tired, her limbs felt leaden, and she was built to move and run, so how the others must have been feeling could only be worse.

“There’s no time, we have to keep mov—”

Drums echoed through the halls. Louder, more of them, ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred. If the number of drums reflected the number of orcs, they were in trouble. Already she could hear the distant skittering and yelps, the sheer volume of orcs that were heading their way was bound to finish them off.

“Quickly now, to the bridge of Khazad-dûm!” Gandalf urged.

Gathering the few weapons they had left, they began to run. Out into the vast chamber with towering pillars, even as orcs began to surround them. Even as a hot breeze swept through, even as a bright orange glow began to flood through the grand hall, sending the vile creatures scattering. Rhosynel would have asked what spooked them, but Gandalf’s face was drawn with horror. That, more than anything, more than the chance of dying beneath a mountain, than being trapped beneath stone, scared her.

For a wizard to be afraid…

“A Balrog.” He breathed, eyes wide and reflecting the rising glow of flames. “Run! Quickly!”

They ran.

From the cavernous hall they fled, weapons in hand but forgotten, as their feet pounded the stone. Through narrow doorways, twisting corridors, and flights of stairs. Flames and smoke seemed to flicker and grow from every crack and crevice in the walls of Moria, as though the mountain was turning to fire beneath their very feet. The hot sting of sweat in her eyes threatened to blur the route out.

Bursting from one doorway, Rhosynel found herself almost launching off the side of what seemed to be a cliff, only a quick twist of her foot, and lunge, sent her crashing to solid ground instead.

A series of narrow stairs, no handrails or guards to protect from the sheer drop into a cavern so deep, the bottom was shrouded in shadow.

Throwing caution to the winds, Rhosynel began bounding down the stairs, feet swift and sure. For a moment it was like being back in Minas Tirith, pelting through the streets, taking short cuts, and leaping down steps with little regard to her self-preservation. It was familiar, her body reacting to twists and turns automatically. Instinct and years of training lending themselves to her swiftness. It took a minute to realise that only Legolas was keeping pace, but even he looked alarmed by the sheer drops.

The fall held little fear for Rhosynel, not after months of nightmares. The fall wouldn’t kill her. The wind in her hair wouldn’t kill her. At this height, hitting the floor would be an instant death. No, the fall wasn’t what she feared, she was used to falling now.

A steep staircase led down to a narrow bridge. Was that their way out? Either way it was where the stairs led and where her feet were heading, she was halfway down the sheer steps, before the yawning chasm before her registered.

“Rhosynel don’t!” She heard Legolas yell, felt his fingers snatch at her arm.

But her legs were leading the way. With strong sure steps, Rhosynel launched herself into the air.

For a brief moment, she became weightless, soaring through the air as easily as Ilmara would ride the winds. Soaring across the void, it felt like she was floating even for a moment. Was this how birds felt when they spread their wings? But wings Rhosynel did not have, as gravity soon sank its talons in, and she plummeted towards the stone.

Landing heavily, she tucked and rolled, only to realise what a monumentally stupid idea that was. Tumbling, Rhosynel lashed out with both hands, snatching at the stairs, feeling her fingernails snap and almost tear free as she clung to every crack and crevasse she could snag. Somehow, she didn’t plummet from the side of the staircase, although her legs did spin out and dip alarmingly into the void below.

“Rhosyn!” Her name was yelled from further up.

“I’m here!” It was an effort to yell back, the wind knocked from her with the impact.

Scabbling to her feet, she staggered back up the steps a short way, being met by a horrified Legolas having made it across the gap. “Why did you jump!” he exclaimed, seizing her arm, almost shaking her in his panic.

“Couldn’t sto-look out!”

She jerked him backwards, as Gimli leapt and landed heavily, almost toppling backwards. The pair of them lunged forwards, managing to snag his tunic and beard, pulling him to safety. It took a moment to get the others across, Hobbits being all but launched across, Gandalf and Boromir taking the leap.

A great crack rent the air, and stones plummeted from the ceiling, shattering the stairs higher up, leaving Aragorn and Frodo stranded on one collum, which immediately started wobbling in a ponderously slow manner.

Snatching at her pack, she barely managed to pull the rope free. The rope Aragorn had used to save her on the Caradhras Pass, the one he’d passed to her after her own pack was lost. An arrow struck the stone by her feet, and a second later, Boromir was stood alongside, shield raised to protect her and Legolas, who fired back up at the orcs. Whirling the rope through the air, she launched it up towards the stranded pair.

Aragorn caught it easily with one hand, even as she anchored her feet to the steps. He pulled, not hard, just guiding the stone column. He and Frodo were leaning back, as slowly, so painfully slowly, the stone came rushing down towards them.

“Brace!”

Legolas on one side, Boromir on the other, the men were quick to catch the pair being flung downwards, even as a great cloud of stone dust filled the air. Their feet had barely touched the stone before the group was once again running downwards. Coiling the rope about her arm as she went, Rhosynel found herself at the back of the pack, following in their footsteps.

Ahead of her Gandalf gripped Aragorn’s arm, she heard the exchange of words and the meaningful look from the wizard. “Lead them on, Aragorn.”

There was a heavy sense of finality to those words.

Gandalf began to slow, as the narrow bridge came within reach, and automatically Rhosynel also began to slow, keeping pace with the wizard unwilling to leave him behind. But Aragorn seized her arm, dragging her along even as protests rose in her throat. The bridge was too narrow to turn back, not with Aragorn between her and the grey wizard. She couldn’t get past him, couldn’t turn to Gandalf’s aid.

She looked to Gandalf, confusion plain on her face as the wizard stopped in the centre of the bridge, and turned back. Reaching the other side of the chasm, Rhosynel dug her heels in, twisting around to watch what happened. Aware of the others doing the same.

“What is he—”

“YOU. CANNOT. PASS!”

The wizards’ words boomed and echoed in the cavernous space, rebounding again, and again, until his voice was deafening with power. He raised his sword and staff, and she finally made sense of what had been following them.

Rhosynel hadn’t known what a Balrog was, and now she learnt that she didn’t want to know.

A great cloud of smoke and fire, given flesh, and charred into ash. Black horns, eyes burning white with heat, a great searing expanse of a mouth, and black wing like shadows wreathed in fire. It drew upwards, towering above them all, utterly filling the cavern with its smoke and presence. And took a single defiant step forward onto the bridge.

Gandalf slammed his staff down, the familiar burst of wind or force power emanated from it, giving the flame creature pause.

“Go back! Back to the shadows!”

A great flaming sword descended, but didn’t find its mark, bouncing off an invisible shield, and exploding into smoke with the power it met.

Once more, Gandalf struck the bridge, and a loud crack filled the air. The stone before him split, and then shattered. It crumbled away, racing towards the feet of the Balrog, far too quickly for the great creature to react, and then…

The creature, the towering creature of flame and smoke and hate, fell.

Rhosynel let loose a breath she’d not know she was holding, a noise mirrored by her companions about her. Where the fearsome creature had stood was only the trails of smoke, laced through with glimmering cinders. But it was gone.

Gandalf’s shoulders sagged in relief, and he turned away from the chasm. Upon seeing the Fellowship staring at him in awe, a faint smile appeared through his long grey beard.

A streak of blinding fire lashed through the air, as whip of pure flame coiled about Gandalf ankle and yanked. Sword and staff flung from his hands, the wizard hit the ground, and slid to the edge, just barely managing to hang on, nails dragging across the stone until only his terrified expression was visible above the shattered remains of the bridge.

“Gandalf!” Frodo screamed.

A scream of her own was already forming in her chest, mirrored by the others. Once more, Rhosynel was moving, darting forwards. Rope loosening from her arm, already beginning to spin it. To throw it to Gandalf. If he could just grab the end, she could save him. If he could grab the rope they could pull him up, if he could grab the rope they could sav—

“Fly, you fools!” Gandalf urged, voice weak.

He let go.

Even as he vanished from view, Rhosynel’s footsteps did not slow, her plan changing in one impulsive instant. One end of the rope was dropped for the others to grab, her sprinting steps lengthening. One bounding step. Two. On the third, she kicked off.

Her feet left the ground at the same time an arm slammed into her gut.

One moment she’d been prepared to fly, the next, she was being pulled down to the ground. Arms wrapped about her chest, even as she struggled for breath between her screams, struggled to get free, struggled to reach Gandalf. Dragged backwards, away, away from the shattered bridge.

Away from Gandalf.

Chapter Text

The sun was blinding.

Fluffy white clouds gently scudding across the clear cerulean skies. The mountains above gently gave way to rolling foothills carpeted in brilliant greens, lush with rain and vibrant with life. In the distance there was a lake that gleamed like a polished mirror, and the winding silver ribbon of a river, leading towards dense green growth of a forest. Almost instinctively Rhosynel shifted, turning her face more towards the wind, head tilted back, and eyes half shut to enjoy the warmth suffusing her body after days of being trapped underground. The warmth of the sun on her face, wind in her hair and air in her lungs.

Idyllic, peaceful, serene.

If it wasn’t for the sobbing.

Distantly, she could hear the keening and wails of the Fellowship. Could feel their grief washing over her fugue state. Could hear how pained and distressed they were. Could hear how hard it was for them to catch their breath. Could feel a pain in her wrist.

Someone’s hand was gripping her wrist.

“—synel. Step back. Step back for me. Rhosynel.”

They sounded afraid, voice strained, anxious with distress.

Blinking, she slowly become aware of her own body, of the pain in her ribs, of tears streaming down her face as she looked to Legolas, of how his hand was digging into her wrist, with bruising intensity.

“Step back,” the elf repeated, with as close to an encouraging nod as he could manage, tears in his own eyes.

It took far too long for his words to sink in, the ringing in her ears, and the grief in her chest making it hard to understand. But finally, Rhosynel looked down. A cliff edge, beneath her toes. Not a long drop, twenty, maybe thirty feet at most. Not enough to kill, but certainly enough to hurt.

Would it hurt, if she fell? If she jumped?

Shifting her weight, the elf’s grip tightened even more. Her bones creaked. Rhosynel stepped back, one foot, and then the other, until she was stumbling away from the drop. Had she almost wondered off the edge of the cliff in her disorientation? Had she nearly fell like Gandalf?

Gandalf. Gandalf was gone. Fallen.

Dead.

A strangled whine built in her throat, even as Legolas wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and half helped, half lifted, her across the rocky ground back towards the others. The Hobbits were sobbing, Gimli was roaring, trying to bull past Boromir and return to the mine. Frodo was staggering away from the group, closely followed by Aragorn.

Her legs buckled, slipping from Legolas’s support. Slamming her knees into the stone. Crumpling in on herself. Choked sobs shaking her shoulders with effort. Gandalf was dead, and her last words had been to scold his outburst at Pippin. Her last words to the wizard had been of anger. She’d tried to save him, tried to reach him before he fell, tried to lunge after him rope in hand and hope in heart. But she’d failed.

She’d failed and now he was dead. Gone.

There was shouting, Boromir begging for a moment, Aragorn insisting they continue. He had a point, there had been thousands of orcs in the mine. They’d been seen fleeing; the orcs would know where they were. Aragorn said something, something about Lothlorien.

One moment her forehead was pressed to stone, shoulders shaking with sobs. The next, Rhosynel was lurching to her feet, staggering a few paces before she found her footing. Eyes roving the horizon, she tracked across the familiar landscape and found the forest quickly. She’d never been permitted to enter, but she knew its borders, had run messages northwards along the eastern fringe of trees.

Mentor Malion had always warned her not to enter, that those who did rarely returned. The elves guarded their sanctuary fiercely, so Rhosynel had never tested those boundaries. It wasn’t like lords of Gondor had much to do with the elves as it was. No, Dale and Erebor was where she and Ilmara were often sent—

Ilmara.

Rhosynel’s head snapped skywards, tracking across the expanse of blue and scattered white clouds with a desperation she’d not realised she possessed. Cupping her hands about her mouth, she gave a long shrill whistle. Around her, the others started, Legolas cursed in Sindarin hands going to his ears, and Aragorn let loose a volley of scolding. But she ignored them all, eyes locked west to the mountain peaks.

Only silence replied. No flutter of wings, no keening of a hawk, nothing.

Had Ilmara even made it out of the cave?

Greif lodged ever deeper in her heart. Shards of ice and chains of iron clamped down, threatening to render her immobile. Even as her feet dragged across the ground, even as she staggered along in the wake of the others, grief threatened to freeze her in place.

Rhosynel had suffered through that once before, and refused to let it happen again.

A low growl left her throat, and she pushed herself forwards. One step. Two. Three. On the forth, she was jogging, on the tenth, she was breaking into a run, on the twentieth, Rhosynel was sprinting. Bounding across the rocky surface, trusting her feet and legs, knowing they wouldn’t let her trip and fall. She wasn’t an elf, she’d never match their speed or swiftness, but she could run, and she had stamina. She would scout and lead the way to the forest, if it meant she had but a moment to breathe through her grief.

The sun was beginning to set by the time the edge of the forest was closing in, and Rhosynel’s headlong sprint began to slow. Her legs were burning with the effort of running for so long, having not given herself chance to stop and breathe, no time to think, no time to react. Running was her release, running got her away from grief, got her away from Moria and the chasm that had swallowed Gandalf whole.

By the time the others caught up, she was breathing heavily, but her eyes were free of tears. Even if the ghosts of their tracks cut through the grime across her cheeks.

“Rhosynel,” Aragorn’s voice cut through the air like a knife, “why did you run—”

His words cut off sharply as she turned to look at him. Her dead eyed gaze met his, two pairs of bloodshot eyes, mirrored back upon one another. His jaw shut with a click, but she had the sense it was from understanding, rather than irritation.

“Have you entered Lorien before?” she asked, voice hoarse and croaking.

“A few times.”

“Then lead the way.”

Without another word, Rhosynel began moving back along the ragged line of the Fellowship, eyes roving across its members, peering at each of them as she passed. The Hobbits, especially Frodo, were the worst off, sightless eyes and dazed steps. Gimli looked fit to burst with fury and despair, while even Legolas was looking drained and vacant. Boromir’s own eyes were bloodshot and red rimmed, but his jaw was clenched and hands balled into fists, eyes staring ahead at the trees with clear trepidation. Did he not wish to enter the forest?

As the group reached the edge of the trees, Rhosynel stopped, face turning to the sky, scanning for Ilmara. It had been four, maybe five days, to travel through the mines. But would the Limroval return? Her shoulder felt so empty without her.

Giving a long whistle, she listened intently for any reply.

Nothing.

Grief flickered through her chest once more, but with a gritting of teeth, she stamped it down. Turned, and followed the group into the trees, it was darkening as they walked, still far from the borders of true Lothlorien, although she had no doubt that the elves of the woodland had already seen them. They’d keep their distance, until there was no choice but to stop their progress.

Eventually Aragorn slowed the pace, and after a few minutes of slow trudging, they came to a cluster of trees. The space within was cramped but they’d all fit. Thankfully, the Hobbits all but passed out. No doubt the weight of grief was heavy in their hearts, but sleep would hopefully bring some relief to their burdens. The others too, settled in various positions, but were less quick to fall asleep.

Rhosynel was exhausted, she needed to rest, to sleep. But she also knew the moment she closed her eyes she’d be falling to her death. Or falling through fire and smoke of Moria. Or falling from a snow-covered mountain. Or falling from a mist shrouded Weathertop.

So she remained on her feet.

Pacing around the cluster of trees her companions had settled within, Rhosynel took it upon herself to keep watch. The others could rest, could snatch a few hours’ sleep, but she couldn’t bring herself to sit still. So she moved, she paced, she walked, she watched the trees and scanned the ground and listened to the night.

It seemed that she wasn’t the only one that couldn’t sleep.

Aragorn and Boromir remained sat upright, as did Legolas in his odd elven sleep. Each and every one of them lost in their own thoughts. Gimli was snoring softly, and for a brief moment she felt envious. Maybe the guardians of Lothlorien were already watching them, but Rhosynel refused to let anything or anyone come across the Fellowship while they rested. They’d not be caught unaware, she’d not let them be attacked, she’d try her hardest to protect them. Be it from orcs, or from elves. Rhosynel would keep watch over the Fellowship, over Frodo, over the Ring.

“Rhosynel.”

Her name was said quietly enough that she almost assumed she’d imagined it. Only the briefest hesitation to her steps indicated that she’d heard anything, but then she resumed her pacing, keeping her steps light and careful. No matter how she was wearing a path in the moss.

“Rhosynel.”

Stronger this time, making her stop fully, eyes flickering across the trees for a moment. It didn’t sound like any voice she was familiar with, too soft and feminine, certainly not anyone of the Fellowship. Not unless Pippin was doing impersonations again.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, as she stared sightlessly east through the trunks. A faint urge to keep walking into the trees, an urge to follow the voice to its source. No matter how darkness had fallen and the trees shadowed the moonlight, she wanted to start walking into the forest.

“Rhosynel?”

Jolting, she lurched away from the thing that touched her shoulder, hands going for her swords before she managed to realise who’d approached. Even through the gloom she could recognise the broad frame of Boromir, holding up his hands apologetically, apparently having left the shelter of the camp and approached without her realising.

“You were frozen again,” he said by way of explanation, “how are you doing?”

“Badly.”

While she couldn’t see his expression, she could hear his hum of agreement.

With a slight shake to her shoulders, Rhosynel released the handles of her blades, turning towards him fully. “I didn’t get chance to thank you properly,” she said, keeping her voice down, unwilling to disturb the Hobbits –and Gimli’s– rest. “I, I don’t think I’d have gotten through that corridor, without your help.”

It was hard to admit, but also truthful.

She’d have remained frozen beneath that mountain, or she’d have turned back and tried every other route she came across. Anything to avoid that ‘squeeze’ as Gimli had called it. If she’d been left to her own devices under the mountain, Rhosynel would have still been wondering through corpse filled corridors.

“You were holding us up,” he replied dryly, “but we’d not leave you there.”

“Regardless, thank you.”

For some reason, Boromir seemed confused by her thanks, she could make out the tilt of his head, the shift of his weight from one foot to another. As though he was trying to understand just why she’d thanked him.

In a bid to ease his discomfort, she gave a shrug, falling back to old reliable jokes. “Although I imagine you were tempte—”

“No.” His interruption was sharp enough that Rhosynel shut her mouth with a click of teeth, narrowly missing her tongue. “No, I wasn’t tempted. Joke or not, not one of us would have left you behind in that place. Please, do not thank me for helping you.”

The fierce sincerity with which he spoke left Rhosynel with no thoughts or words of response. Swallowing thickly, was her turn to shift in confusion, arms wrapping about herself once more, hands rubbing at her arms in a bid to give them something to do, looking away from him.

A heavy sigh from Boromir as he held out a hand towards her. “Come back to the camp.”

“Someone needs to keep watch.”

“Aragorn intends to, once you’re back with us.”

She had the feeling that the Captain would have an answer for every protest she could conjure. How often had he sought out restless men and soldiers after a battle? How often had he talked them out of their despair? How many times had he encouraged them rest, to sleep, to eat, to recover? No doubt Boromir had far more experience with loss than Rhosynel could ever imagine.

Shoulders dropping in defeat, Rhosynel stepped forwards and allowed herself to be shepherded back towards the grove of trees. It seemed she’d roamed further than intended, the cluster of trees and the Fellowship within were almost fifty feet away. But with Boromir guiding her back to the others, it didn’t take long for them to return. Legolas was still upright, albeit with glassy eyes and relaxed features, but Aragorn rose to his feet on their arrival.

“We’ll not move on till gone dawn,” he greeted, voice low and rough, “get some rest.”

There was no chance to protest, as the Ranger clapped his hand to her shoulder, and gently pushed. Rhosynel all but crumpled onto his vacated sleeping roll. Boromir settled on his own roll, and even in the limited light of the stars, she sense that his eyes were on her, as though waiting to make sure she didn’t try to escape.

He’d be left waiting.

Valar she was exhausted. Her legs ached, her arms and shoulders burned from fighting, a blister seemed to have formed between thumb and finger from gripping her blades too tightly, and tension had locked about her neck and skull. No doubt come morning she’d have a horrific headache, already she could feel it creeping up, a dull throbbing inside her head. Slumping over, Rhosynel drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms about her head, and tried to relax enough to sleep.

A heavy, warm hand, landed on her shoulder in silent comfort. And remained there.

The forest was ancient, with large trees, a wide canopy sheltering their small camp. It was unlike any forest Rhosynel had chance to witness, the trees so large and broad it became difficult to comprehend. And it only increased further into the forest, although she’d never risked travelling so deep within. By the sounds of it, Aragorn, now de facto leader, intended to head straight to the city.

Hopefully the elves would permit entry, but somehow, she doubted it.

The first rays of light broke the horizon, and they began to move again. This time just a walk, content to wonder through the trees, following twisting paths between the collum of thick trunks and towering boughs.

Giving a low whistle, Rhosynel’s eyes scanned across the canopy.

“Shh, lass, they’ll hear us,” Gimli hissed, his own voice too loud.

“They’d not be good guards, if they didn’t know of us already.”

“Well then you and the Hobbits best stay close,” came his reply, “they say a sorceress lives in these woods!”

It was a good job he wasn’t looking at her as she rolled her eyes, and caught a brief smirk on Legolas’s face. Had he visited these woods before? Did he know what the city was like? Aragorn certainly seemed to know where he was walking, at least, while Boromir brought up the rear.

Holding back a sigh of frustration, she glanced down at the Hobbits she’d been automatically shepherding along, they were deathly silent, faces still pale and drawn. They needed to rest, fully and deeply. Would Lothlorien provide that chance?

Giving another low whistle, Rhosynel scanned the branches, searching for any sign of grey wings. And pointedly ignoring the irritated glance Aragorn threw her way. They were walking into the woods of Lothlorien, there were no doubt elves already shadowing their steps, her whistling occasionally, was the least distracting thing.

Especially, as Gimli was now proclaiming his talents. Loudly.

So the creaking of bowstrings, and the sudden appearance of elves, came as no surprise to anyone but Gimli. One rested between Rhosynel’s shoulders, another levelled at her throat, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care.

“We could have shot you in the dark,” a lead elf greeted, sneering at Gimli.

“Haldir,” Aragorn greeted, and lapsed into Sindarin.

An intense discussion followed, and Rhosynel soon tuned the unfamiliar language out, feeling vacant and uncaring as to the arrows still levelled at her. Eyes tracking across the trees once more, the golden leaves and silvery trunks so strange compared to what she was used to. Beautiful, but with an alien quality, they didn’t look real to her mortal eyes. Apparently, the discussion had turned into bickering, complete with gesturing hands on both sides. The guards, bows still drawn tight, repeatedly glancing to their leader, waiting to be given orders.

Above their voices, a faint noise caught her ear, and Rhosynel’s eyes turned back to the forest.

A shape she knew, a shape Rhosynel knew better than her own reflection. A flicker of storm grey on swift wings. An excited yell left her mouth, delighted to see her Limroval once more.

“Ilmara!”

The guard in front of her, anticipating an attack, whirled and released their arrow.

The shriek tore from Rhosynel’s throat was mirrored by Ilmara as the arrow slammed into the goshawk and she plummeted out of the air. There was a thud, and a cloud of leaflitter burst into the air at the impact.

“NO!”

Shoving past the guards, Rhosynel was sprinting, aching legs given new energy. Another arrow whistled past her shoulder but her path didn’t change course. Fear writhed through her chest and up her throat, terror at what she might find. The leaves were still settling by the time Rhosynel was crashing to her knees, skidding the last few feet to Ilmara’s side. Oblivious to the yells and orders barked out from behind her.

The goshawk was sprawled in the dirt, on her back, both wings awkwardly spread. Mouth agape in stress, the bright orange eyes were wild, darting and panicked, even as her chest heaved. Her feathers bore no blood, but Ilmara didn’t move, didn’t respond to Rhosynel’s presence other than the frantic breathing.

The arrow wasn’t visible.

“Is she hurt?” a voice, one of the Hobbits maybe, called out.

“I don’t know, I can’t tell, I can’t see the arrow,” Rhosynel said, voice cracking as her hands hovering above the goshawk. She wanted to gather her up, to cradle the goshawk to her chest, but at the same time was far too scared to touch her least she was in pain.

But staring wouldn’t tell her if Ilmara was hurt.

Gingerly, she scooped her hands under Ilmara’s wings, gently folding them close to her body, and cautiously picked her up. The weak keen that left her beak was enough to choke Rhosynel up, throat tight in worry.

Something hot, was on her fingers.

Blood.

Not great quantities, but even one drop was too much.

Setting the hawk on her lap, she kept a keen eye on Ilmara, even as she gently ran her fingers across the large flight muscles of her breast and keel. Stretched out one wing, running her fingers across the wing arm and its muscles. No injury, Ilmara even pulled back, uncomfortably. The next wing was gently stretched out and revealed the problem.

Three broken feathers, and a smear of blood.

Lightly touching, Rhosynel inspected the wound, it looked like one feather had been ripped free, while the other three had snapped lower down on the shaft. Four feathers, Ilmara would be rendered flightless.

Despair, fear, and horror writhed through Rhosynel’s chest, but even those emotions were soon overwhelmed by one, far stronger than the rest.

Anger.

Her hands were shaking, her teeth gritted, and jaw tense, it was an effort to control her actions, to soften her motions. Gathering Ilmara into her arms and the snapped feathers in her hand, she ensured the Limroval was settled as comfortably as she could, with one wing hanging awkwardly, and pushed to her feet.

“You!” she snarled, twisting about towards the elves of Lothlorien.

Only to hesitate. The route of her warpath was blocked, not by the elves, but by fellowship. With a lurch, she realised that no arrows had followed her route, no arrows had found their mark within her back, they couldn’t. Now with the three stood between her and the archers. Boromir with his shield raised, alongside Gimli looking incredibly pissed and axe in hand, and Legolas, speaking in a rapid string of Sindarin towards the irate archers, his hands held up in a placating gesture.

“Rhos!?” Frodo called out, still from amidst the elves.

“S-she’ll live, but she can’t fly,” Rhosynel managed to say. Anger writhed through her chest once more, her eyes skipping across the archers until they landed on the one that had shot Ilmara. “Your arrow ripped out four flight feathers! She’s a messenger bird, and now she can’t do her job!”

Even behind his helm, she saw his lips curl back. “Your bird is not my responsibility.”

“She’s a Limroval,” Legolas retorted for her.

The guard blanched, eyes darting to Legolas, then back to Rhosynel or more importantly, Ilmara. He didn’t look remorseful, but there was a shift, a hesitation at this realisation. A flicker of guilt behind forest green eyes.

A hand landed on her arm, and with a lurch she realised she’d been stalking forwards. But with the tight grip of Gimli’s hand on one arm, and the trembling Ilmara on the other, there was little she could do to take out her wrath.

“Easy lass,” the dwarf warned, “will she live?”

“Yes.”

“Then breathe.”

It was hard to follow his instruction, not when she wanted to make the elf pay.

Taking a shuddering breath, she began the effort of pulling the mask down over her emotions, suppressing the rage, the fear, the frustration. Second by second those emotions were dragged down, pressed deep and deeper into her chest. Her rage wouldn’t endear them to the elves of Lothlorien, and she couldn’t risk jeopardising the Fellowship, or Frodo.

One moment she was trembling, the next, as still and as cold as stone. Forcibly dismissing the guard from her attention and turning her gaze to Aragorn, he was no longer arguing, stood almost alongside the elf he had greeted, Haldir.

With a nod to Ilmara, he tilted his head. How did she fare?

Rhosynel could only shake her head. The feathers wouldn’t grow back until her next moult, and that was months out. Could Ilmara fly without four flight feathers? She didn’t have an answer, she didn’t know enough, she’d spent years working with falcons alongside her father. But this? Four flight feathers missing? It was beyond her expertise.

She didn’t hear Aragorn’s sigh but saw how his shoulders dropped.

Looking down sharply, Rhosynel blinked fiercely against the tears that threatened her vision once again. Ilmara needed her, Ilmara needed her to be strong, to focus, to get through the panic and to protect her. Her free hand lifted, smoothing across the goshawks back, and felt how she was trembling beneath the leather of her messenger harness.

“We will escort you through the forest,” the elf leader said, his head tilting in consideration as he scanned their group. “But the dwarf must be blindfolded.”

“What no!”

“—re you joking?”

“Don’t be rediculo—”

Protests rose up rapidly from various members, the Hobbits being the most vocal and even going so far as to cluster closer to Gimli. Rhosynel’s own weight shifted towards him instinctively, even if Ilmara was her primary concern.

“You truly think there’s need for that?” Aragorn asked.

“Yes.”

The blunt answer had the Ranger rocking back slightly on his heals, brows knitting together in a frown. “Then you should blindfold us all, rather than singling out one member of our party,” he replied, “if the protection of your city is so important, not one of us should witness its location.”

The look on Legolas’s face suggested the elf disagreed.

Rhosynel felt similarly if for different reasons. The black expanse of the mines was still fresh in her thoughts, and she didn’t relish the idea of being rendered blind once more. Regardless of whether or not she could feel the breeze on her skin.

“Very well,” the leader replied, and looked to the soldiers surrounding them. “Vasar hen.”

As one, the elves stepped forwards, reaching out towards them.

The green-eyed one stepped towards her, eyeing both her and the goshawk as though expecting one or the other to bite. Rhosynel flinched back, colliding with Legolas’s shoulder, already turning her body to shield Ilmara from the elf. Her frosty glare glancing harmlessly off his armour, as he took a strip of fabric and began to lift it towards her.

She risked drawing blood, with how fiercely she bit her tongue, forcing her body to remain still, to not react, to hold her ground. No matter how Ilmara shifted anxiously, no matter how her own heart hammered in her chest. The fabric settled about her eyes, and then tightened as it was knotted behind her head. It was soft, at least, and smelt of pine, of earth and leaves, of growing things and sunlight through the trees. It was a familiar scent, one she’d not smelt in years, a comforting one. Or it would have been, had she been able to see.

A hand took a hold of her upper arm, and Rhosynel forced down a flinch. Fought down the urge to rip the blindfold from her head. Forced down the urge to shake them off and bolt. By the Valar she was sick and tired of having her freewill taken from her, again and again choices were made for her.

A small hand grazed her hip, and then latched onto her tabard.

“Rhos?”

Frodo.

A flicker of nausea came and went, so quickly Rhosynel could have imagined it. But with its passing, the urge to flee was banished. With the hand not supporting Ilmara, she reached down blindly, and snagged his hand, tangling her fingers with his in a fiercely protective grip.

“I’m here.”

Despite the fabric that veiled her eyes to the world, Rhosynel wasn’t entirely bereft of her sight. It was easier to keep her eyes shut against the fabric, but the few times she peered through her lashes, light filtered in through the edges of the blindfold, and as such, she could tell when evening drew closer. Were they to walk through the night, or would they be permitted to rest?

Roots snagged at her feet, rendering their passage difficult, the hand about her arm had tightened, not to painful levels, but enough to support her weight better as they traversed the uneven ground. Frodo’s grasp on her own hand had been long since lost, but she could hear him close behind, his occasional sharp inhales as he stumbled, or noises of concern.

That alone prevented her from yanking the blindfold free to check on the Ringbearer.

It was grating, being unable to see the others. Logically, she knew the elves meant no harm towards them, but her chest still felt tight. Rhosynel was quickly learning just how much she relied on her sight to protect her fellows. But blindfolded? She didn’t know where everyone was, even with the quiet grumbles of protest from Gimli, the annoyed huffs from Legolas, and the familiar sound of Boromir’s heavy steps. She could sense their presences, but being unable to see them chaffed.

The day had dragged on for what seemed an age, the slow shifting of light levels, the shifting terrain underfoot. She was a skilled enough rider to feel how minutely her own balance shifted, the pressure on her feet focused to her toes or heels, the shift of her ankles to counterbalance her weight. So when the ground sloped downwards significantly, it was second nature to shift her balance back.

Ilmara, since having clambered to her shoulder, gave a soft keen, and Rhosynel felt her wings flare slightly. Her talons, usually so careful and gentle against Rhosynel’s skin, had tightened their grip. That, more than anything, spoke of the Limroval’s anxiety. Being unable to fly meant that should Rhosynel stumble or fall, Ilmara too would come down. Rhosynel gritted her teeth and resolutely ignored the pain. It was her own fault that Ilmara was injured, had she not reacted so strongly to seeing her again, the guard wouldn’t have fired at her, wouldn’t have ripped out feathers, Ilmara would be flying and free to move as she wished. But now, she was grounded. So Rhosynel breathed deeply, and ignored the pain.

Sharp pinpricks along her shoulder, not far off from drawing blood.

It was fully dark by the time the elves leading them began to slow. Even peering through her lashes revealed no light, no glow of lanterns or torches, not even the silver sheen of moonlight could find its way past Rhosynel’s blindfold. The downward angle of path ceased, and the ground evened out. Smooth, if loamy soil.

“We are stopping for the night,” the elf leader instructed, “you may remove your blindfolds.”

Rhosynel had wrenched her arm free of the elves grasp, and yanked the fabric from her head almost before he’d finished speaking. It seemed she wasn’t the only one, as she twisted about and found Gimli all but yanking his free with grumbles and growls.

“Are you alright?” she asked him quickly, even if her eyes were skipping across the others to check on them as well.

“I do not enjoy being led around like a sow to the slaughter,” he chuntered in response.

“I think the feelings mutual.”

The rest of the Fellowship certainly looked disgruntled to varying degrees. Legolas was running a hand through his hair in a bid to smooth it, while Aragorn had immediately sought out the elf leader to discuss… something in Sindarin. Boromir was checking on the Hobbits, kneeling to their level and speaking quiet words or reassurance, passing them his own waterskin.

The elves about the clearing seemed to be looking up into the trees, and Rhosynel finally took more stock of her surroundings. It was dark and what little moon or starlight filtered through the canopy had rendered the trunks into a silvery hue. Even the leaves above had taken on an odd colour, somewhat orange-ish, as though autumn had only just settled across the forest. It was odd, and possibly just the weak lighting that had distorted their colourations.

“Haldir’s had news of orcs leaving the mine,” Aragorn announced, returning to the group with a concerned frown. “They’ll be tracking our steps, and as such, we’ve been given permission to shelter upon their talan.”

“Talan?” Pippin asked before Rhosynel could.

“A flet.”

“Flet?”

There was a poorly concealed sigh from Aragorn. “It’s a platform within the trees canopy.”

“Oh, a treehouse, why didn’t you say?”

The next sigh was less well concealed, as he dragged a hand across his face in mild frustration at the Hobbits questions. “Regardless, we’ll sleep above the forest floor tonight.”

Rhosynel would have asked just how they were expected to do such a thing, if it wasn’t for the rope ladders that were descending even as she wondered. The ropes tied between the smooth rungs were alarmingly thin, but apparently strong enough to support a fully grown elf, as even as she watched, a pair clambered upwards with shocking swiftness.

Two rope ladders, but was it to two separate flets? With the Hobbits being chivvied forwards, as the men headed for the other ladder, Rhosynel automatically fell into step behind Frodo. She eyed it warily. This wasn’t going to be easy, not with a swinging ladder and an anxious hawk on her shoulder. A pair of elves were steadying the lower half, which would help for a short while, but the higher the ladder went, the more precarious it became.

“You’ll have to hold on, Ilmara,” she said quietly, waiting for her time to climb.

One of the elves, glanced towards her, apparently recognising Westron, and held out their hand. For a brief moment she thought they were offering a hand to start climbing, but their words were quick to banish that.

“Give me your bird,” he demanded, and Rhosynel realised with a jolt it was the one that shot Ilmara.

“Fuck off.”

“Rhosynel!”

Aragorn’s voice cut through the air sharply enough that the snarl building in her chest was silenced. Even if her lips remained curled back from her teeth. Even if she turned her body and the shoulder supporting Ilmara, away from that elf. His eyes had widened comically, either taking offence or just sheer shock, at being spoken to so vehemently. But he seemed undeterred.

“If you fall, she’ll be injured further,” he warned.

“And who’s fault is that?”

“Rhosynel!”

She shouldn’t be antagonising the elves, not really, but he’d hurt Ilmara. She wasn’t going to pass the flightless Limroval into his hands just so she could climb a rope ladder with more ease. A sharp glance skywards told her the Hobbits had all safely reached the flet, which meant it was her turn.

“Ilmara, hold on as much as you need to,” she said quietly, lowering her voice despite the fact the elf stood three feet away would still hear her clear as day. “Hold on as hard as you can, you’ll not hurt me, I promise.”

There was a gentle clack of her beak.

Moving forwards, Rhosynel reached up, seized the highest rung she could, and began hauling herself upwards. The moment her feet left the ground and the ladder shifted, Ilmara’s talons dug in. Biting down on a hiss of pain, Rhosynel reached up once more, climbing, eyes fixed on where the ladder vanished into the canopy. Her left shoulder, beneath Ilmara’s claws, was already burning, the awkward shifting of her arm had the goshawk clinging on in clear terror. Concerned chatters, a slight keen as Rhosynel wobbled.

Rung after rung, Rhosynel hauled herself stubbornly upwards.

Closer and closer the odd leaves drew. Large leaves, long and tapered ovals that formed a smooth elegant point to one end. Weirdly akin to Legolas’s ear shape.

“You’re nearly there, Rhos,” she heard Merry’s voice from somewhere within the leaves.

“Get ready to take Ilmara.”

Three, four, five, rungs, and her head broke through the screen of leaves. Immediately Merry was reaching down towards Ilmara with encouraging words and wrist extended. There was no hesitation from the goshawk, leaping the short distance and the pair hastily moved away from Rhosynel and the swinging ladder. Now freed of her precious burden, the last couple of rungs passed quickly, and Rhosynel hauled herself up and onto the Flet. Her back hit the smooth wood with a quiet wheeze of breath, and grimace of pain.

Blood soaked her shoulder.

There was a light scuff of boots, as the same elf scaled the ladder and found himself having to step over Rhosynel. Even in the low light she could see his sceptical expression, eyeing her prone form, and her left shoulder. She saw the hesitation.

“Is Ilmara okay?” Rhosynel turned her head to look to Merry, and Ilmara, dismissing the elf from her thoughts.

“I mean I’m not a birder but she’s upright and glaring at me, so I’d say yes.”

“Falconer, not birder.”

“There’s a difference?”

She frowned at Merry, only to find him grinning at her, clearly trying to lighten the mood, reassure, or distract her, or possibly even all three. With a fond sigh, Rhosynel pushed herself upright, and then gingerly climbed to her feet.

The flet wasn’t huge, no more than ten feet squared, and would barely provide enough space for all of them to lay down. But above the first layer of leaves, she could make out the others flet a short distance away, even as she eyed it, an elf nimbly hopped from her flet, and all but bounded along a thick branch, to reach the others. The branch didn’t look strong enough to support his weight, but there wasn’t even the flutter of a leaf at his passing.

Interesting.

“We can see you thinking, miss,” Sam chided from behind, “don’t go getting any daft ideas.”

“Spoil sport.”

Before she could turn back to the Hobbits once more, the same elf returned, bounding along the branches as light as a feather and as swift as a hawk. The moment his feet landed on their flet, he thrust something out towards her chest, and Rhosynel’s hands automatically came up to grab it. A soft pad of fabric, some sort of smooth silky material.

“For your shoulder,” the elf said gruffly, and brushed past her to his station.

It took a great deal of effort not to make a comment, nor to glare after him. Biting her tongue against the retorts and the pain, she slid the pad of fabric beneath her tunic, pressing it to the puncture wounds from Ilmara’s talons. Before turning back to the four Hobbits, she settled into a crouch alongside Merry, smoothing a hand across Ilmara’s back, and releasing her from the leather harness. In all the commotion of her return, her injuries, and the subsequent blindfolding, Rhosynel hadn’t had chance to retrieve the missive. If there was one.

They’d been within Moria for almost four days, and then another day and a half of walking and running, had Ilmara even been able to return to Rivendell? Or had those days been spent battling her way through the clouds hanging over the mountains? Much to Rhosynel’s surprise, there was indeed a roll of finely crafted parchment. Withdrawing it eagerly, she froze only a moment later, staring down at the reply resting in the palm of her hand.

She’d sent it when Gandalf had been alive.

Would Elrond be writing to the wizard? Should she even open it? It would make more sense to pass it on to Aragorn…

“What does it say?” Frodo asked quietly.

Technically, Frodo was their leader, even if the Hobbit looked to Aragorn for guidance.

“Read it and find out,” she said, holding it out to him. “Messengers of Gondor don’t read missives meant for others.”

“I wouldn’t be able to resist,” Pippin piped up.

“Which is why you’re not a messenger,” Merry shot back, eyeing Ilmara still settled on his arm.

But Rhosynel’s eyes were on Frodo, as he gingerly accepted the message and unrolled it. His head tilted, mouth moving as he sounded out the words. “It’s in Tengwar, the elvish script. Or at least, the first half is,” he explained, “Elrond is concerned by the presence of Crebain so far north, but more concerned by our lack of fortune of crossing the Misty Mountains. He… he advises against Moria, and thinks the pass of Rohan would be safer.”

Elrond hadn’t been wrong.

“The last part is for you, Rhosynel.”

And with that, Frodo thrust the parchment towards her. His brows were drawn into a frown, and his jaw tense, avoiding her eyes as she reluctantly accepted the parchment back from him. Wondering just what had caused his shift in mood, she didn’t have to puzzle for long.

‘Messenger Rhosynel, once the Fellowship has passed the mountains, I release you from my service provided Gandalf agrees in this decision. While I understand your reluctance in joining this quest, your message helped lift a weight from my mind and reassures me that the Fellowship is on the right track. Gwaedal is well (Arwen has been visiting him daily) and awaiting your return. If you are unable to do so, please inform me and I will have him brought out to meet you. ~ Lord Elrond.’

It felt like the words on the parchment had driven a spike into her chest.

She could… leave?

Gandalf was dead. She could just leave, turn away and leave. Rhosynel wasn’t meant to be here, she wasn’t meant to be with the Fellowship. She could leave. She should leave.

But Rhosynel wasn’t sure she could leave them. Not now at least, not so close to the illusion of safety that Lothlorien would provide. She just, couldn’t. They’d lost Gandalf. They were grieving him. But it was the moment she’d been waiting for, they’d gotten past the mountains, and she was free to leave, unless Gandalf deemed otherwise.

But with the wizard dead, there was nothing binding her to the Fellowship anymore.

Or was there?

Frodo still hadn’t looked at her, Sam was grumbling quietly to himself about the draft and lack of shelter the flet provided. While Merry and Pippin were seemingly testing the boundaries of Ilmara’s tolerance, although she’d not nipped them yet. Across the boughs she could hear Gimli’s chuntering, see how quiet and withdrawn Boromir and Aragorn were, see how Legolas was conversing with the elves standing sentry.

Perhaps the binding of Elrond’s service had reached its end, and perhaps the ties of Gandalf’s choice had been severed unnaturally. But in their place, eight new threads had been woven. Eight new threads had ensnared her, threads of fate that bound her too tightly to breathe.

With a sinking realisation, Rhosynel realised she was trapped.

Chapter Text

By the time they reached Caras Galadhon within the heart of Lothlorien proper, the sun had once more sank beneath the horizon, plunging the world into a blue tinted twilight. Trees, stretching endlessly upwards greeted her eyes, staircases had been built into their sides, gently spiralling ever higher. Silvery lights glittered and gleamed within the branches, like a tapestry of stars given earthly form, they called to Rhosynel, the urge to approach and admire like a moth drawn to a flame. The lights adorned arching domes of small buildings perched on branches, looking weightless and flimsy in their placements.

One good storm would rattle the city to the ground.

Trudging along behind the others, they climbed on and on, until finally, the Fellowship spilled out onto a platform. She was so tired, exhausted from the mines, from the snatches of sleep she’d barely caught, and now traipsing through an unearthly city and ridiculous number of steps. Rhosynel barely lifted her head, as the Fellowship drew to a stop. Half hidden by Boromir’s broad frame, Rhosynel tried to catch her breath, hand smoothing over Ilmara’s back. Her wing still hung awkwardly.

A soft light illuminated the area, growing steadily brighter, and prompting her to look up.

For a brief moment, Rhosynel thought Glorfindel had arrived, but then she blinked, and their faces came into focus. Two elves, hands loosely clasping one another’s, a man, on the left, and a woman on the right, their eyes scanning across the group before frowning in confusion. There was something about the woman, her golden hair fell in glimmering waves, and her skin which seemed to admit an unearthly glow akin to the light of the stars.

As ethereal and unworldly as the rest of their city.

“Strange, I was told nine set out from Rivendell, yet Gandalf is not with you, but nine still stand,” the man began, voice light and airy. “Tell me, where is Gandalf, for I much desire to speak with him.”

Even that sounded musical, like lyrics to a long-forgotten song Rhosynel could barely remember.

“He has fallen… into shadow,” the woman answered her partners question, eyes distant.

Here voice was… familiar. But how? Rhosynel would have remembered meeting a glimmering elf of gold and silver starlight, and she’d certainly never set foot within Lothlorien before, let alone the city itself. So how was her voice familiar?

“A Balrog of Morgoth,” Legolas answered, voice sombre.

The two elves looked concerned, eyes scanning across the group taking in each of them and Rhosynel ducked her head down, unwilling to be noticed by the duo. Ilmara shifted in her arms, seeking comfort from her, as though she could fix her wing, right the wrongs. If she hadn’t called out so sharply, Ilmara wouldn’t have been hurt. If she hadn’t been here, hadn’t been with the Fellowship, Ilmara would be safe.

Why was it that those she loved were always hurt by her own actions?

At that thought, images flickered through her mind. Ilmara being shot out of the air. Gandalf’s face, vanishing beyond the bridge. Frodo, being speared. The fall at Caradhras, the fall at Weathertop. Recent memories, fresh wounds.

The next memory, was anything but fresh.

The jaws of a Warg latching about her arm, Faramir’s panicked yell echoed through her mind. The descending blade of an orc within Mirkwood, slamming into her collarbone and shattering it. The feeling of a spear lancing through her calf, as brigands tried to ambush her and Malion on route to Dale.

She knew what was coming next but was powerless to stop the memory from being dredged up.

Rainion. His gasps of pain, urging her to flee. Begging her to flee. To run. To hide. To leave him. She couldn’t leave him, couldn’t abandon him. She wouldn’t. She refused to let him to die alone. She could protect him, she could save him, she was sure of it. Rainion’s forest green eyes, staring glassy and unseeing at the moon above. The slice of a sword across her shoulders. A path of fire and pain cutting through her flesh. The pain tangible enough that she inhaled sharply.

With a fierce wrench, Rhosynel took a step back, both in mind and body. Chest heaving and eyes wild, trying to recall where she was, what was happening. Swallowing harshly, she tried to blot out the memories that had crashed over her thoughts, tried to make sense of what had caused such a thing.

Ilmara chattered softly.

Exhaling slowly, Rhosynel tried to calm her rapid heartbeat. She was on a flet. There were two elves, the leaders of this city. The Fellowship was gathered before them. She was safe, or as safe as she could be in this moment. She would have been safer back home, back in Minas Tirith.

She never should have come on this quest.

‘And why is that, Rhosynel of Rohan and Gondor?’

A voice entered Rhosynel’s mind without passing through her ears. Feminine, soft, light and almost ethereal. Little more than a whisper of the breeze through the golden leaves above. It was that voice, that voice she’d briefly heard calling out to her when they camped after escaping Moria. She was certain of it, she should never have come to this city, never have come on this quest.

‘Do you truly believe you could escape what approaches?’

Another memory, but not one she’d lived through yet. Rhymenel’s eyes wide in fear, pressing Wrennarys and Faelrhys into her arms, begging her to take the children and flee. The echo of war drums rolling across the Pelennor Field, the distant snarls of thousands upon thousands of orcs, marching straight for Minas Tiri—

‘You who was veiled from my sight, but now I see you. I see what you were.’

Bloodied hands, pressed desperately to a vicious wound cutting through the browns and greens of a Rangers garb. Forest green eyes, a mottled green cloak. Rainion’s hands gripping her wrists, struggling to speak but urging her to run with his dying breat—

‘I see what you could have been.’

Rainion. Alive. Stood in a glade somewhere within a familiar forest glade. North Ithilien? He was uninjured, standing straight and tall, his smile bright and sharp, green eyes glinting in the light of the moon. Reaching out and taking her hands, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. His lips moved by there was no sound, no words.

What had his voice sounded like?

‘I see what you may yet do.’

Bloodied hands, desperately yanking arrows from a chest. Pressing to the gaping holes, trying to stop crimson blood from staining crimson silk to darkest pitch. Panic, fear, terror. But determination running through it all. She could help, she could stop this, she could save his life, she could sav—

‘Get out of my head,’ Rhosynel barked mentally, lips curling back from her teeth even if she didn’t speak aloud. ‘Stop this. Now.’

For a moment there was peace, silence, quiet and still both within her mind and upon the flet. She could hear the others speaking, quiet conversations that sounds both so close and so distant. Indistinct, as though underwater, but out of her grasp regardless.

‘Why are you here?’ the voice asked once more, laced with curiosity. ‘Why remain, when you have been given leave to depart?’

How the hell did they know that?

With a jolt, Rhosynel looked up wildly, and found no one looking to her. Not until the ethereal elven lady’s eyes briefly flicked her way. For a heartbeat she found herself pinned in place, the deep blue eyes of Galadriel seemed to be gleaming with starlight, and an alarming sense of weightlessness seized Rhosynel. It felt like she was falling, falling up into the starlit skies of Galardiel’s eyes. But then the Lady looked away, and Rhosynel snapped back into her body.

It took a heavy swallow, to resist the urge to vomit.

‘I… I was never meant to be a part of this quest,’ Rhosynel tried to explain, ‘it was a fluke, a mistake to come. I didn’t volunteer, I didn’t want to be here, I should have just run.’

‘Then why do you remain if you were never meant to be a part of this story?’ the Lady asked, pressing her for an answer, even if her attention didn’t stray from her own external conversation. ‘Why remain within the Fellowship if the ties that bind you have been severed?’

The question was far too close to the thoughts that had been plaguing her since receiving Elrond’s dismissal.

Quite without meaning to, Rhosynel’s own eyes drifted to the others. Aragorn, discussing something with the one called Celeborn, Legolas adding information where needed. Gimli was staring up at the Lady Galadriel with clear shock and awe. Boromir on the other hand, was trying his best to avoid any and all eye contact, his eyes watering and breathing shallow. And then there was Merry, Pippin, Sam, and of course, Frodo, so out of their depth, but forging on with a determination that even soldiers of Minas Tirith often lacked.

‘The ties have been tightened not severed,’ Rhosynel replied, stomach twisting at the thought of abandoning the others. ‘No. I… I fear for them. What would happen if I left?’

‘What would happen…’ Galadriel mused. ‘I think you already know the answer to that.’

A flicker of images flashed through her mind, almost too fast to follow, but not from her perspective. Other’s eyes, others watching her.

Faramir yelling out as she threw herself between him and the charging Warg, the elf woman in Mirkwood staggering back in shock as Rhosynel took the blow meant for her, Mentor Malion yelling at her to run terrified as Rhosynel did anything but flee. The Hobbits panicked but protected, as she stared down the lumbering troll, and again of her desperate fight against the Nazgul at Weathertop.

It wasn’t hard to imagine how those encounters would have gone, has she not been there. Whether they were old or new memories, the outcome would have been the same. She could imagine what may have happened, had she not been there, because there’d been one memory, conspicuously left out. Of her, blocking the blade of a fucking Nazgul, standing her ground solidly between a horrified Rainion and the foul wraith that was trying to kill him. She’d been there, she’d not fled, but he’d died anyway.

‘Would you leave now? If given the chance?’

‘No.’ Despite her own reluctance, the answer came quickly to Rhosynel. ‘If I leave, I cannot protect them.’

‘Then what, would you do to help in this quest?’

Even in her own mind, she trailed off, mind snapping back to the bridge. Her sprint towards Gandalf, rope in hand and plan in mind. It was reckless. No worse. Foolish, impulsive, dangerous. It would have resulted in two deaths. Not one. Had he known what she planned? Had he seen her sprinting and hoped, or feared, what she would do?

‘I would have jumped.’ The answer was painful for Rhosynel to think. ‘I tried to save Gandalf. For a brief moment… I thought this was one of my nightmares. I would have jumped believing my wings could save him, that I could protect him, that I could change his fate.’

‘You would have died.’ A harsh reply from the Lady of the Light, harsh and grating, setting the hairs on the back of Rhosynel’s neck standing on end.

‘I would have died,’ Rhosynel agreed. She would have died. She’d charged towards Gandalf, towards the pit, towards her very death. And she hadn’t hesitated once to do so. Forcing her head to raise, Rhosynel meet the gaze she knew had landed on her. ‘So you know what I would do to help in this quest.’

There was a smile, soft and faint, on Galadriel’s face. ‘Yes, Rhosynel Rovailor of Rohan and Gondor, I believe I do.’

A hand landed on her shoulder, snapping her attention from the strange and horrific conversation that had never been spoken. It was an effort not to cry out in alarm, to no jolt away from the hand of a friend upon her shoulder. Far too many memories both fresh and ancient clouded her mind.

Aragorn was gesturing towards the stairs. “We’ve been given quarters, to rest and recover.”

It took far too long to understand what he meant, even as other members of the Fellowship filtered past her towards the stairs, his head tilting in concern.

“Oh,” she said, with all the wit that her exhaustion and the whisps of Galadriel’s voice could provide, “that’s good.”

The smile Aragorn gave her didn’t reach his eyes.

Without another word, without a glance back to the fathomless eyes of sky and stars that watched her, Rhosynel followed the Fellowship once more.

Smoke and flame filled the air, turning the world into an ashen portrait. The heat scorched her face, scalding her outstretched hands. A great cloud of smoke and fire, given flesh, and charred into ash. Black horns, eyes burning white with heat, a great searing expanse of a mouth, and black ruined wings wreathed in fire. The Balrog’s roar tore through the hall, shattering her eardrums, making her eyes weep blood.

Feet pounding on the floor, Rhosynel wasn’t running away, but recklessly forwards. Towards the figure in shrouded grey. Even as the bridge broke beneath him, even as the Balrog and Wizard plummeted. She ran forwards.

Her feet left the ground, as Rhosynel hurled herself into the gaping chasm.

The smoke and ash, cinders and flames, burned her eyes as she plummeted. Hands stretching out, towards the figure falling below her. Gandalf was reaching up, towards her, if she could just fall quicker, if she could just reach him. Everything would be okay.

The firestorm lashed at her hair, as she slowly gained ground, arm outstretched, reaching, reaching, reaching.

Her fingers grazed Gandalf’s upturned hand.

And then she jolted awake.

Heart pounding in her chest, Rhosynel found the white linen sheets twisted and wrapped about her body, even as mid-morning light streamed through the windows. For several minutes, she remained still, staring up at the pale wooden roof above her head. Hands twisting and pulling at the sheet. But no tears came, only a heavy sense of despair. Of disappointment, that she had failed to save him.

 With a groan, trying to banish the nightmare, Rhosynel rolled onto her side. Eyes screwed shut, head against the softest pillows she’d ever used, only to grimace as something rough scratched her cheek. Opening her eyes properly, she was met by grey smears covering the white sheets.

Jolting up yet again, almost falling from the soft bed, Rhosynel was met by the horrifying sight of dirt. So much dirt. Dust, grime, dirt, all mixed with an unhealthy amount of orc blood.

She’d ruined the sheets.

“Shit,” she swore, looking down at herself.

She’d fallen asleep in her clothes, why had she done that? Even her boots were still on! Had she been so tired she’d been unable to strip off?

Yes.

Admittedly she wasn’t sure the rest of her was any cleaner, under her clothes. Not after losing her pack either. She’d had nothing to change into, and no chance to bathe. The grey smeared across the sheets was an eyesore. She’d have to find an aid, maybe she could pay to replace the sheets, she had a little gold, but would it be enough? The fine linen was by far the nicest fabric she’d ever seen, no doubt woven by elves within the forest.

Groaning, Rhosynel dragged herself from the bed, dragging her hands through snarled hair matted from troll and orc blood. She was an utter state, and couldn’t quite find the energy to care. Reaching out to the headboard, Ilmara was more than eager to hop onto her wrist with a soft keen of greeting.

In the common area Rhosynel found Gimli, sat at a table, with Legolas, shovelling so much food into his mouth, that the elf looked mildly ill. Legolas looked clean, but then he always did. Gimli’s face and hands were clean, but not the rest of him. That was somewhat reassuring, no doubt all the sheets looked like there’d been a battle.

“Stunning!” the dwarf exclaimed. “I’ve never seen such beauty!” Rhosynel looked down at herself and wrinkled her nose. “Lady Galadriel, the most sublime being I’ve ever laid eyes on!”

“An elf?” she asked sceptically.

“An elf! Hardly!” he barked, as she settled alongside, and swiped some bacon from his plate, narrowly missing being stabbed with a fork for her theft. “She’s an angel, I’m sure of it. One of the Valar even! Given earthly form. Yes, I’m sure of it!”

Tilting her head, she caught Legolas’s eye.

“All morning,” he answered the question on her face. “Barely stopped to breathe.”

“But enough to eat,” Rhosynel replied, hand darting out to snatch some bread, and receiving a skinned knuckle in response. “My bed sheets look like I’ve strangled an orc,” she said, attempting to change the topic from the ethereal Lady. “I don’t imagine yours look much better,” she added, looking to Gimli.

“Nay, though I at least washed my face,” he countered, eyeing her hands warily.

“Point taken,” she uttered, plucking at her tunic and grimacing. “How are the others doing?”

“The Hobbits are sleeping, but Boromir and Aragorn have both wondered off.”

Not a great answer, but at least the Hobbits were getting some rest.

“How is Ilmara doing?” Legolas asked.

There was a chatter from Rhosynel’s shoulder.

“She’s not yet flown,” she replied, as though translating the goshawk’s response, “her moult is a few months away, so until then, she’s grounded.”

Legolas was nodding to himself, fingers drumming against the tabletop. “An elf arrived a few hours ago, apparently he is to escort you to a falconer of Caras Galadhon.”

“They have Limroval’s here?”

“They do not,” he replied, “but he seems to think this falconer can assist in her recovery.”

Odd, but then the magic of elves was alien to her, although the idea of them being able to regrow Ilmara’s missing feathers was appealing, no matter how strange. But being unable to fly put Ilmara’s life at risk for the duration of the quest, so if it gave the Limroval the chance to fly once again, she’d take it.

“Alright,” she mused quietly, “he came a few hours ago you said? Why not wake me?”

“I tried, you almost slapped me.”

That sounded… accurate.

“He’s waiting outside,” Legolas was continuing, only to pause sharply, eyes scanning across her body with alarming scrutiny. “Try… to be… good.”

For three bewildered heartbeat Rhosynel stared blankly at him, before shifting her eyes to Gimli as though he’d translate.

“Try not to stab him lass,” the dwarf replied gruffly, and tossed her a hunk of bread.

She just about managed to catch it, feeling even more confused as to why they were concerned for the livelihood of whoever’d been sent to escort her. But with a shake of her head, Rhosynel rose to her feet, tearing out a hunk of bread as she did so. She didn’t even have her swords on her, although now she was tempted to go and find them, just in case.

“You two are being far too cryptic,” she grumbled, “that’s Aragorn’s role, not yours.”

That earned a muted chuckle.

Taking her bread and leave, Rhosynel headed towards the open archway of the pavilion’s entrance. Just beyond it, she could see an elf, possibly male, stood to one side, feet shoulder width apart, arms folded across his chest. He looked bored.

Stepping out, Rhosynel blinked against the golden light of dawn that seemed to set the canopy aflame. Lothlorien was stunning in daylight, almost as much as it had been at night, the light and leaves gilding every trunk, every building, every rock and stone and blade of grass in purest gold. It was beautiful, and something loosened in her chest at the sight.

“Lady… Rovailor,” the elf greeted, sounding borderline sullen. “I’ve been assigned to escort you to Falconer Ribrion.”

Blinking, Rhosynel looked to him. Blond hair, pulled into a loose tail, his clothing was finely made of silvery fabric that caught the light and gleamed. But he wore practical boots, leather wrist guards, and had a cloak hanging from one shoulder.

Ilmara hissed.

That noise alone made her jump, hand automatically raising to touch her chest feathers in comfort. But the noise made the elf shift onto his back foot, brows furrowing into a frown as he eyed the goshawk.

“She’ll not attack,” Rhosynel cautioned, “don’t worry.”

His eyes flicked away from Ilmara to scowl at her instead, and Rhosynel inhaled sharply.

Forest green.

The colour alone wouldn’t have bothered her, not normally, but after having the Lady Galadriel go tearing through her memories and dredging up the most painful of them, it was hard not to see Rainion looking back at her.

“The falconer is this way,” the elf said curtly, and turned on his heel, moving with the swiftness and surety of centuries of life.

For all her swiftness it was a struggle to keep up without breaking into a full sprint.

“Do you mind?” she asked, having to hop over one of the large silvery roots that sprawled across their path. “I’m exhausted and haven’t eaten yet, could you slow down?”

“Your slowness is not my problem.”

Just why was this elf being so hostile?

“You’re a poor escort then,” she shot back in irritation.

That drew him up short, and it was only by a hasty sidestep that she managed to avoid colliding with his back. “I am a Galadhrim, not an aid, but the Lady Galadriel has bidden me to escort you,” he snapped.

“And what a wonderful job of marching ahead you’re doing.”

Apparently her attitude wasn’t expected, as his head drew back, glaring at her with those far-too-familiar eyes. Her grin was a bid to soften the retort, but only seemed to make him more annoyed. With a sharp shake of his head, the elf continued to walk, albeit slower. She may not have known what a Galadhrim was, but Rhosynel could easily gauge that escorting wasn’t his typical role. Let alone to a sarcastic human woman with an irate hawk on her shoulder. Ilmara was still fluffed up, but her chatters and hisses had fallen quiet which was a little more reassuring.

“What’s your name?” Rhosynel tried.

Silence.

“This is Ilmara,” she tried again.

“I am aware.”

The impatience in his voice was enough to make Rhosynel shift her weight, putting more space between her and the elf as they walked. Fine, if he wasn’t going to talk, they could just walk in silence. It should be a relief after the previous weeks of constant chatter and discussion.

But it wasn’t.

It was uncomfortable, not just for the irritation rolling off the elf in waves, nor for Ilmara’s uncomfortable shifting, but for the aches and pains that plagued Rhosynel’s body and mind. Being battered to within an inch of her life in Moria, and then her mind and soul being battered to the edge of her sanity by the Lady Galadriel, was taxing her.

She wanted to go back to bed, to curl up beneath the covers and ignore the world about her for a little while longer. Unfortunately the universe disagreed.

“We’re here.”

His words dragged her attention back to the matter at hand.

A low building was before them, the carvings around the door mimicking upswept wings. Beautiful and elegant, it seemed to be either made from the same wood as the great tree it was settled against, or someone had painstakingly trained the roots over centuries.

Considering the elves, it was probably the latter.

Ducking into the building, Rhosynel hesitated, letting her eyes adjust, and was met by the familiar sights and smells of raptors. A pang of homesickness swept through her, it reminded her so strongly of being taught by her father, shown how to handle raptors of all sizes, how to train them, feed, care, everything. The day she’d returned with Ilmara, he’d been quick to help her raise the Limroval, even if she was smarter than anything he’d experienced before. Bema she missed him.

“Suilad,” the elf with greeted her, rising from their desk and approaching, their eyes were warm, eyeing Ilmara with gentle curiosity. “Im Ribrion, fion mahta o Caras Galadhon. Im ni lhassa dhe sav naedh Limroval?”

Rhosynel froze as the stream of Sindarin seemed to elegantly float from his lips, and she blinked blankly. For all Legolas’s lessons, she’d only ever learnt solitary words, not full sentences, although she could estimate that this was a greeting, as she’d recognised their name, the mention of the city, and of course, the mention of Limroval’s.

But unless he knew Westron, she’d be flying blind.

“Do you speak Westron?” she asked, already guessing the answer, and was confirmed by his blank expression that no doubt mirrored her own. “Ah, a moment, please.”

The falconer’s head titled in curiosity, but made no move to stop her as she took a few steps back and looked out the door. Yes, the grumpy one was still outside, settled into the at ease position once more.

“Apologies, but I speak no Sindarin and he doesn’t speak Westron,” she said, almost sensing the eyeroll that she couldn’t see. “Would you mind…?”

He very much would mind, judging by the heavy sigh. But there was no verbal complaint or protest, as the unnamed elf turned and stepped within the falconer’s office. But at least he was willing to translate, no matter how annoyed by it he was.

There was a brief flurry of conversation between the pair, before Grumpy turned to her. “He bids you welcome, his name is Ribrion, and is the falcon handler for Caras Galadhon, and was told you had an injured Limroval.”

Looking to the falconer she inclined her head. “I am Rhosynel, messenger of Gondor,” she greeted in turn, “this is Ilmara, she’s had a few flight feathers ripped out or broken,” she was quick to explain, moving towards a perch mounted on a desk, and encouraging Ilmara to step onto it, with some effort. “I don’t have the tools or the skill, to help her.”

“I can help in that regard,” Grumpy translated Ribrion’s words for her, “I care for the lords and ladies’ hawks and falcons.”

“My father did the same in Minas Tirith.”

“Then Ilmara is in excellent hands already,” Ribrion replied, gently running his hands over Ilmara, and encouraging her to spread her wings. “Can you—”

Grumpy cut off sharply enough that Rhosynel looked away from Ribrion and Ilmara, to tilt her head questioningly at him.

“Can you tell me what happened?” he repeated haltingly.

‘One of your guards shot her,’ Rhosynel thought with some bitterness. “She was brought down by an arrow,” she said instead.

“O-orcs?” Why was the grumpy elf having difficulty in repeating Ribrion’s questions? “She’s lucky to have escaped so relatively unscathed, but I believe I’ll be able to help. I know of a technique that can possibly fix her wing. Imping, it’s not done often, but since she still has some shaft of three feathers, I’m sure we can do something to help.”

“Imping?”

The term was unfamiliar to her, perhaps her father would have known, but the pastime of hunting with hawks had fallen by the wayside within Minas Tirith, these days her father assisted in the stables with her mother instead.

“We take feathers of the same size and length, and use thin light reeds, to anchor these new feathers within the shafts of her original,” Grumpy explained for Ribrion, “they’ll fall off when she moults, but it will mean she can fly again.”

Ilmara could fly.

Ilmara would fly again.

The relief that coursed through Rhosynel had her sagging, one hand going to the desk, propping herself up against the physical weight that had landed on her shoulders. The other hand dragged across her face, fiercely blinking back the tears that blurred her vision.

“That, that would be fantastic,” she managed to choke out, around the lump forming in her throat. “How long does it take?”

“A few days,” they replied, “would you be okay leaving her in my care? I can tell she means a lot to you.”

An understatement, Ilmara was her most treasured possession, although that too fell short. Rhosynel had raised her, she was less of a pet or tool, and more of a child. The idea of leaving her in the hands of an elf was off putting, but necessary.

“If I can visit…?”

“Naturally,” Ribrion’s answer came quick, even if Grumpy replied slowly, his green eyes now watching her with a level of curiosity. “He’s offering to show you the process of imping, if that’s of interest?”

Not that she’d be letting Ilmara be shot ever again, but to know how to help mitigate such injuries would still be of benefit.

“Please.”

“It will take him a few hours to prepare, we can return later this afternoon.”

“Y-yes, yes that’s fine,” Rhosynel replied, nodding eagerly, eyes flicking from Ilmara, to Ribrion, to the irritable elf who was shifting from foot to foot in clear discomfort. “I, I can pay, if need be, I have a few coi—”

“No.”

That, came from Grumpy, not from Ribrion.

“That won’t be necessary,” he clarified quickly, eyes darting away from her own gaze, “the Lady has requested we assist.”

“Very well then,” she replied carefully, but looked to Ribrion. “I’ll see about cleaning up, and return shortly. Thank you, Ribrion, it means the world to me.”

The falconer brushed her words off with a smile and a wave of her hand, but the discomfort of Grumpy only seemed to increase at her words.

The walk to the bathhouse had been considerably less brisk, but just as silent. It seemed Grumpy was entirely consumed by his own thoughts, and Rhosynel didn’t have the energy to ask any questions about the scenery they passed. Her own mind was leaden with concern for Ilmara, hope that her wing may be fixed, and yet more worries over her companions. Had the Hobbits woken yet? Had they found something to eat? Was Aragorn keeping an eye on them, or had he not yet returned from his own isolation?

Once she was clean, and once Ilmara had been seen to, she would return to the guesthouse and see to the Fellowship.

“Lady Rovailor?” The strange name made her blink, looking up to find an archway with faint traces of steam creeping from it. And Grumpy, looking at her warily. “This is the bathhouse.”

Bema’s Bow she felt vacant and spaced out.

“Thank you,” she managed to say, already wandering towards the arch.

She could feel his green eyes tracking her progress, but couldn’t find the energy to care.

Stepping into the arch, a different elf greeted her, showing her to the changing rooms, where to place her clothing for cleaning, where a gown would be left for her, and where towels were provided. Before pointing her in the direction of yet another wooden arch. The steam thick in this one, her skin itched in anticipation of cleaning up.

Undressing quickly, her steps were swift, eager to submerge herself in hot water and become part of a soup. Indeed, there was a large pool, and after rinsing under a spray of water from a tap, Rhosynel was quick to sit on the edge and slide into said pool, the floor of it dancing just below her outstretched toes, so Rhosynel remained close to the edge, clinging on warily. A moment later she found a low bench around the edge, where she could perch, still submerged to her shoulders, and a row of cleaning products.

“Erugh, troll blood,” she muttered after several minutes trying to scrub her face clean.

Grabbing a bristled brush, she began scrubbing at her skin, eager to remove any trace of the past few days. It seemed like no matter how long she took, another patch of dirt made itself known. Or was it in her hair? Giving up, she fully sank beneath the water, eyes tightly closed, and breath held. Without the weight of wet hair, she was able to run her hands through its length, dislodging more and more dirt as she went, before scratching at her scalp.

It was a relief to float under the water. Weightless, and without a care in the world.

Provided she pushed any and all thoughts out of her mind, that was. Harder than she expected, the vision of Gandalf slipping off the broken bridge seemed determined to replay itself in her mind. Over and over and over again. Breaking the surface of the water with an explosive breath, she sank back down until only her nose and eyes remained to be seen. No, that wasn’t something she could banish. She’d have to think, to process, to consider it, at some point.

Just not yet.

Sitting back on the ledge, she twisted, reaching for the hair oils picking up the lavender scent, she poured a generous amount into her hand, and set about combing the oil through her hair, the repetitive motion soothing and familiar, as was the scent.

What she would give, to remain in this peaceful seclusion of the baths. To remain in the near-scalding water, feeling all the dirt and worries slowly peeling away from her skin and mind. What would she give, to remain in the peaceful embrace of Lothlorien’s halls.

No.

A cage was still a cage, no matter how beautiful its golden bars were.

How long she’d spend submerged in the hot water was beyond Rhosynel, but the skin of her fingers had shrivelled, and she was finally feeling clean for the first time in weeks. Far too reluctantly, Rhosynel hauled herself out of the steaming water, and set about drying off. It was tempting to remain, but there was much to do, and her restless soul would never let her settle for long.

A soft white gown, with detailed lace and embroidery had been left for her, and after twisting her thick hair into a single long braid, she ventured out once more into the forest.

It came as a surprise to find the same elf waiting for her. Although he looked beyond bored by this point. But to her surprise he raised no complaint, eyes flickering across her now clean skin and hair, but he pushed to his feet and made a beckoning motion.

“I checked with Ribrion, he’s ready if you are.”

“I am.”

And with that, she followed him silently back towards the falconer’s house.

Ilmara was settled on a perch, wing still hanging, but she looked more comfortable, giving a soft keen as Rhosynel entered. Shuffling back and forth in an eagerness to reach her but a reluctance to fly.

“Lady Rovailor, welcome back,” Grumpy was quick to translate for Ribrion, as the falconer emerged from a back room.

“Please, just call me Rhosynel,” she replied greeting their head bow in turn.

“Lady Rhosynel then.” Still wrong, but she didn't have the heart to correct them. “Shall we begin?”

Under their instructions, she had Ilmara hop onto her arm, and carried her through into a back room. Grumpy kept to one side, watching the hawk like a hawk, and speaking up with instructions when needed. Falconer Ribrion had clearly prepped the space, as a worktop had been cleared of tools, providing somewhere to set Ilmara down. It was Rhosynel’s job to keep the goshawk calm, and hold any tools needed, while watching closely.

First, he trimmed the shafts of the damaged feathers, with a sharp blade, something Ilmara didn't enjoy, clacking her beak and giving low hisses, even as Rhosynel spoke soothingly to her. Cleaning the insides of the feather shafts looked less than pleasant, but Ribrion was quick and effective with their motions, moving smoothly so not to agitate Ilmara even more than she already was.

Then, he gathered pure white feathers they claimed a gyrfalcon had shed, checking their length and size against Ilmara’s own wing. Satisfied they’d found three suitable replacements Ribrion cut them to length and collected three long thin lightweight reeds.

“I've already cut these lengthwise to fit the shafts,” Grumpy explained for her, as Rhosynel inspected the thin sticks. “I'll use resin of the Mallorn trees to act as glue, it’s lightweight and as solid as stone when it dries.”

With that, Ribrion first slotted the reeds into the new feathers, and then into Ilmara’s wing. Holding them in place a moment, while tying ribbon about the feathers over the seam. “Just while the resin dries, we don't want it on her feathers.”

A moment later, and it was done.

“It will take a few days for the resin to dry, I'd like to monitor her while it does, if you don't mind?” Ribrion asked politely, as Ilmara shook herself and hoped up onto Rhosynel’s arm.

“As long as I can visit, I do not.”

“Of course, Lady Rhosynel,” Ribrion exclaimed, “she is your Limroval, and I wouldn’t say no to having a friendly face pop by during your stay here.”

Encouraging Ilmara to settle on a perch, Rhosynel lingered a moment longer, fingers smoothing her ruffled chest feathers in practised motions. The goshawk was looking less worse for wear, and no doubt would be eager to start flying again soon. They didn’t like to remain cooped up for too long.

“Rest,” Rhosynel said gently, and got a soft nip for her efforts. “Friend, mellon,” she added, gesturing towards Ribrion and Grumpy, earning a chatter. “Thank you, again, Ribrion, she means a great deal to me, so your aid is immeasurable. I’m in your debt.”

“What,” Grumpy said sharply, rather than translating her words, “you know not of what you speak.”

“I know precisely what I speak,” Rhosynel shot back. “Ilmara is everything to me, so anything that Ribrion asks of me I will gladly do.”

The surety of her words was apparently surprising, as Grumpy rocked back on his heels, brows furrowing and shadowing his dark green eyes even further. She didn’t shy away from his scowl, lifting her chin in defiance. A moment passed before he relented, watching keenly as Grumpy translated her words, Ribrion also grew alarmed, trying to decline judging by his headshake and hand gestures. But then Grumpy said something, and Ribrion fell quiet.

“He thanks you, but does not think it necessary.”

“It is necessary to me,” Rhosynel repeated, meaning every word of it, “the offer stands.”

Elves did not enjoy being indebted, something she was well aware of, considering it earned her Ilmara. But she meant it, she was indebted to Ribrion, whatever he should ask of her, be it a simple request or another Valar forsaken quest, she would carry it out to the best of her ability.

Ribrion thanked her, somewhat awkwardly, and Rhosynel inclined her head.

Somehow it felt easier to breathe once away from the concerned gaze of the falconer, even if the eyes of Grumpy weighed heavily on her shoulders instead. But she walked, pacing into the towering trees with no set destination in mind, and until the elf at her back started giving directions, she’d blindly walk wherever her feet took her.

“Why didn’t you tell him the truth?”

Blinking, she looked over her shoulder to Grumpy, watching her closely, brow still furrowed. “The… truth?”

“How your bird was injured.”

It took a moment for his words to sink in, but there was a familiarity to them. She’d heard them –or similar– being snarled at her before. Only moments after Ilmara had been shot. Rhosynel tilted her head, rescanning this elf that had been assigned to assist, assigned, by Lady Galadriel herse—

And inhaled sharply.

Now she understood Legolas’s words, now she understood Gimli’s warning. And it was a very good job that she’d not brought her swords with her on this outing. Not when the elf that had shot Ilmara stood before her, unarmoured and unarmed.

“Would you have told him the truth, if I had told him that it was you who shot her?”

The elf blanched at her words and confirmed her thoughts.

It was him.

He’d hurt Ilmara, she’d been unable to protect the most precious thing in her world, because of him. The rage bore down on her like a great storm, sparks of lightning flickering through her nerves, rumbles of thunder building in her chest. She wanted to hurt him, to make him suffer, to make him afraid. She didn’t need her swords to kill him, her hands twitched with the overwhelming urge to wrap them about his neck and squeeze.

Apparently that showed in her face.

“I didn’t know,” he protested weakly.

Know that she was a Limroval, or know how important she was to Rhosynel?

“You didn’t.”

“I wouldn’t have shot her, had I known.”

It didn’t matter.

“You wouldn’t.”

He fell silent, watching her warily, body tensed and ready to spring into action, or to flee. But he made no bid to defend himself with words, simply falling silent and waiting for Rhosynel to speak, to move, to act, to do something. Anything.

“I think, you should go,” she said, voice deadly quietly, trying to resist the urge to lash out. “Now.”

He hesitated, forest green eyes flicking upwards towards the flets over their heads, as though he could see the Lady Galadriel frowning at him for abandoning his assignment. But there was no one to scold him and no one to stop him from fleeing. Eyes fixed once more on Rhosynel, he took a cautious step back, watching her warily. Another step, a third, and forth, a tenth, a twentieth.

With a sharp turn, he all but sprinted from view.

The rage and anger and fury and fear left Rhosynel’s body in a rush. Crumpling to the ground where she stood, she buried her face in her hands, doubling up as anguish surged through her. He hurt Ilmara, he’d been escorting and translating for her, he’d been within arm’s reach a dozen times, and his back had been to her more than once. It would have been so easy to kill him had she known.

Rhosynel was no stranger to fear, but she was far, far too unfamiliar with the level of rage that had swept through her. Like a hand puppeteering her strings, her urge to protect her precious Ilmara was strong, but if she’d recognised the elf sooner, she’d have been powerless to fight against that murderous urge that took its place.

And that scared her.

Chapter Text

The sunlight was muted beneath the golden canopy, the light filtering down was soft, gilding the edges of everything in sight. In this permanent dawn, it was difficult for Rhosynel to retrace her steps. The winding paths that led between the towering trees, the silvery bark gleamed in the daylight, and the leaves hundreds of feet about her head were vibrant gold, almost glowing in the light of dawn. It seemed like no matter how many corners she turned, she was once more greeted by the exact same view.

Left to her own devices without a guide, Rhosynel had wandered aimlessly.

It had been somewhat anxiety inducing, to start. But then Rhosynel’s curiosity won, and she began exploring with more intention. If somewhere looked interesting, she took that path, if a building caught her attention, she studied it. The gilded cage around her was beautiful, and while she fully intended to leave eventually, for now she was content to wonder.

Rounding one corner, she found what seemed to be a meadow, spilling out before her, a few winding paths cut through the longer grass and swaying flowers. A wildflower meadow, but too perfect, too well maintained. A garden then. Watching her step, she entered, letting her hand trail across the tips of the grass and soft petals as she wove along the path, the skirts of her gown skimming and snagging across the lush grass. But wasn’t it still winter? How was everything flourishing?

Up ahead was a pavilion, with a bench, and a familiar broad figure settled there. Her steps shifted without instruction, carrying her in their direction, long skirts rustling across the grass as she went.

The figures head lifted, spotted her, and lurched to his feet in clear alarm.

“Boromir? Are you alright?” Rhosynel asked, lifting her skirt slightly to better ascend the steps into the pavilion. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I thought I had,” he replied, somewhat gruffly, staring down at her in bewilderment. His words made her blink, looking down at her white gown, the light giving her a golden hue, almost glowing in the low light. “For a moment I thought you’d died and come to haunt me.”

“Now why would I do that?” she asked, dropping onto the bench unceremoniously, and watching as he reluctantly retook his seat alongside her. “You’ve given me no reason to haunt you, that I know of…”

There was no laugh, not even a huff of restrained amusement. He just settled leaning forwards, elbows resting on his knees, staring out across the wildflowers swaying in an unseen breeze. His hands, pressed together, kept clenching and unclenching, the tension travelling up his arms and into his shoulders and jaw. He looked… uncomfortable to say the least.

Sitting forwards, Rhosynel tried to catch his eye, but he remained locked ahead, avoiding her gaze. “What is bothering you?” she asked instead. No answer. “Do not make me pry it out of you, I will you know.”

There was a quiet exhale, but it gave no relief to the tension in his body. The silence stretched painfully, and Rhosynel’s curiosity slowly shifted to concern. Something was seriously bothering Boromir.

“These woods,” he said, finally breaking the silence. “They leave me uncomfortable.”

Cocking her head, she inspected his profile. His beard and hair were longer, tangled, and dirty, he’d not found the bathhouse, yet it seemed. His brow was furrowed over his dark grey eyes, as he tracked something she couldn’t see. Even his clothes were stained and grubby.

“Time is moving too slowly, for my liking.”

What an odd thing to say.

But it gave Rhosynel pause. What time was it? She’d woken late morning, but judging by the angle of the sun, it hadn’t been more than an hour since she rose. But she’d spent forever in the hot waters of the bath, and then spent at least an hour working alongside Ribrion with Ilmara, not to mention her dazed wanderings after being far too inclined to murder an elf with her bare hands… She wasn’t even hungry, which considering she’d barely eaten for two days was a little concerning.

“I, hadn’t noticed,” she said slowly, “until you just said.”

“We should not remain here long.”

“No,” she agreed, but then reached out and gently touched his arm. Her hand was far too clean alongside his dishevelled state. “But then we all need to rest, for a least a day or two. And perhaps clean up, while we’re at it.”

For a moment his dark grey eyes flicked to her, down to her white dress, and then back towards the flowers. “Are you saying I’m dirty?” he asked, a trace of humour to his voice.

“You have troll blood in your beard.”

Boromir’s hand shot to his face, and a grimace crossed his features.

“Must you mock me so?” he said plaintively.

“Yes.”

That earned her an eyeroll.

The pair lapsed into silence once more, watching the flowers, the gleam of sunlight through golden leaves, the patterns dancing across the pavilions polished wooden floor. She found herself plucking at a loose strand of cotton on her dress, wondering if she pulled, would the entire thing unravel? Could one loose thread ruin an otherwise perfect garment?

“I’ve changed my mind,” Boromir said a few minutes later, and Rhosynel looked to him in confusion. “You may mock me, its preferable over this silence.”

“Really? Subjecting yourself to my barbed tongue is better than some peace and quiet?”

“It’s not peaceful.”

A quite comment, but it lanced into her chest. He wasn’t wrong, the silence wasn’t comforting or restful. It was oppressive in its intensity. The unspoken shared experience hanging on the air between them. Every time she blinked; snapshots filled her mind, Gandalf falling, Frodo screaming, the Balrog so huge and terrifying, Ilmara falling from the air with a screech. Rhosynel shuddered, heart aching, as she tried to push it away. She didn’t need to poke fun at Boromir, not after everything that had happened.

“My lady—”

“Not a lady.”

“—please speak, I do not wish to sit in silence.”

“I doubt being interrogated by me will be much better for you,” came the retort. Only to grimace, why must she always bite back to every comment or statement. “Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologies to me,” Boromir replied easily, “an interrogating from you is something I believe I will manage to survive.” He added, glancing over to her, and looking sharply away again. “I would like to hear what ails you, my Lad-Rhosynel, I do not wish to listen to my own thoughts.”

“What makes you think mine are any better.”

Boromir gave her a wry look. “I highly doubt that they can be worse.”

He'd be sorely disappointed.

“I can feel the Ring pulling me towards Frodo,” she said frankly, eyes fixed on the swaying flowers, even as Boromir inhaled sharply. “It’s like a fishhook, when I lose focus, the angler slowly reels me in, drawing me closer and closer to Frodo, but then I come to and can shake the Pull off a little longer. Its a constant battle, my desire to protect him tangling in the Pull of the Ring, trying to ensnare me. It… it scares me, but I don’t think it’s found purchase on me yet.”

Boromir had gone silent, eyes locked onto the flowers before him. Perhaps this had been a mistake. She half expected him to rise to his feet and leave before she could protest. But no, he remained seated, and even as Rhosynel watched, the tension slowly began seeping out of his shoulders.

“I feel it too.”

Boromir’s admittance was so quiet she could have missed it.

“It’s pulling you too,” she guessed softly, eyes on his profile with concern, there was the barest of nods from him. “You’re stronger than me, in both mind and body. If I can pull free, I'm sure you will too.”

There was no answer, his brows furrowing.

A minute passed, and then another, and she realised Boromir would rather not continue that topic of conversation. But she’d gotten him to voice it at least, that way she had a reason to look out for him and wouldn’t be accused of being suspicious. No, Boromir had trusted her enough to give her this knowledge, as slim as it was. No need to press him for more.

Changing the topic wouldn’t be subtle or easy, but she imagined Boromir would happily accept even the abruptest of subject changes. Anything to seek an alternate topic, a way out of this uncomfortable silence.

“Elrond has dismissed me,” Rhosynel said quietly, and now it was her turn to keep her eyes locked on the cuffs of her gown, as the weight of Boromir’s attention landed heavily on her shoulders. “I’m free to leave, since Gandalf cannot demand otherwise.”

Once again, there was no answer.

Why did this silence feel more oppressive than the one before?

She could feel Boromir’s gaze, studying her profile in much the way she had studied his, tracking across her face, her skin, her hair, her avoidance of eye contact. The weight of his attention was almost crushing in its intensity. What was he thinking? Would he be relieved that she was leaving and taking her complaints with her? Or would he think it a betrayal for her to turn her back on them?

“And… will you?”

The question was asked slowly, hesitantly, as though he didn’t want to hear the answer.

“I miss my parents, I miss my sister,” Rhosynel admitted, “I miss the kids, I miss our house and my room, I miss Gwaedal. I miss Minas Tirith, the streets, the markets, the people, the crowds. I miss the freedom of being able to go where I want when I want. I miss it all.”

More silence, shockingly loud and oppressively heavy.

Her throat felt tight, eyes burning with the need to cry but the refusal to do so. She’d shed enough tears these past few days, and without a handkerchief, the only option to wipe her eyes on was the beautiful gown she’d been leant.

“I miss it,” she forced herself to continue, even as Boromir remained silent waiting for her to actually answer. The memories that Galadriel had dredged up were far too vivid in her mind, her fears of what would happen were far too stark. “But… I don’t think I can leave. Not now.”

Boromir sighed, a harsh exhale that was far too loud in the peaceful meadow, making her jump. Finaly, finally, he looked away from her, dragging a hand across his face, the motion dusting dried orc and troll blood from his skin and beard. Was he disappointed in her answer… or pleased?

“I must confess,” he started slowly and had to clear his throat, hand dropping from his face, and Rhosynel hastily looked away from her studying of his features, “to being relieved.”

“Why?” The question was blurted before she’d had chance to rein it in. “I’ve done nothing but complain, whine, and almost die at least twice. The Fellowship would be fine without me—”

“Would we?” Boromir asked sharply, “can you honestly say we’d be better off without you? I wouldn’t—” Rhosynel’s eyes snapped to him in bewilderment “—Aragorn’s already wandered off since you weren’t there to call him out on his brooding, the Hobbits are constantly looking to you for guidance or comfort, and Legolas and Gimli would probably have killed one another by now without you playing mediator.”

Boromir turned slightly on the bench to better face her, and Rhosynel forced herself not to shy away from his assessing gaze.

“You were forced into this quest, Rhosynel,” he said gently, and there was a moment’s hesitation before he reached out and clasped her hand. The dried blood that had ingrained to Boromir’s skin stood out sharply against her freshly washed hand and white gown, as he gently squeezed her fingers with his own far larger. “No one has begrudged your complaints, if anything we’ve understood, and appreciated that you’ve kept to your word and joined us. The others will be comforted to know you’re still with us.”

Comforted.

She comforted them yes, but sometimes it felt like she was doing all the giving.

No, no, that wasn’t right, she received plenty in turn. Aragorn had saved her life twice now, the Hobbits didn’t hesitate to snap her out of spiralling thoughts or to seek her out when she was down, Gimli never hesitated to spar with or tease her, and Legolas had been teaching her more Sindarin and looking out for her. And then Boromir, who had protected her from a cave in with both shield and body, who had physically hauled her through a mine, who had sought her out and ensured she’d rested.

The Fellowship was as much a comfort to her, as she was to them.

A tightness in Rhosynel’s chest loosened at the thought, shoulders losing a tension she’d not realised she was carrying.

“How on Arda did I ever think you were intimidating,” she commented dryly.

“Intimidating?” he all but demanded, voice incredulous. His grip on her hand tightened fractionally, and her heart gave an odd lurch in her chest. But then a smile spread across Boromir’s face, as he leant forwards. “Do you think I’m intimidating?”

“Yes.”

Finally, finally, Boromir laughed. A low sound Rhosynel could feel vibrate in her chest more than hear, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, even if only for a moment. And then his hand released hers, but not without an affectionate pat before it returned to his side.

“Your tongue is sharp, I'm glad I've not been subjected to your ire.”

“Yet.”

True, Boromir didn’t intimidate her now. But back in Minas Tirith? That had been an entirely different set of circumstances, different roles, different lives. The Captain of the White Tower, the son of the Steward, and Faramir’s older brother? That felt like a different person to the man Rhosynel had become acquainted with, the one that trained Hobbits and wrestled with them, the one that checked in on the other members of the Fellowship, the one that sheltered those smaller than him with his own body as a shield.

No, this Boromir, didn’t intimidate Rhosynel. Not anymore.

Boromir had been right in claiming that time moved strangely, and now that she was aware of it, Rhosynel became restless, agitated. Time in the forests of Lothlorien was wrong, and that chaffed at her. How much time was passing outside of the forest? Were they delayed, or ahead of schedule?

There was no answer she could think of.

Restlessness growing, Rhosynel found it hard to remain still for long, often leaving the guesthouse in the morning, and spending the entire day wondering through the trees. She had thought that she’d grow accustomed to their looping paths, but there was no change.

One time, up ahead, a tall, elegant figure glided across the path, only to pause and look her way.

‘Rhosynel…’

Lady Galadriel.

Without conscious thought, Rhosynel had taken three steps back. Even if her head had inclined politely, the refusal was clear. The Lady was beautiful, elegant, serene and stately, but Rhosynel couldn’t help by feel unnerved by her very presence, the sheer power she held seemed to emanate much like the light from her skin did.

Apparently her reaction was amusing, but Galadriel had nodded back, and continued on her way, a handful of maids and aids trailing after her as she went, seemingly content to leave Rhosynel in peace.

But after that fleeting encounter, Rhosynel tried not to walk alone anymore.

Legolas seemed to have no issue in navigating the forest, and they always made it back in time for dinner. While they walked, he had tried to teach her a few more complex orders in elvish, both hoping that Ilmara would soon be able to fly. While her walks with Gimli were far slower, as he seemed to want to stop and scrutinise every building they passed, claiming the wood was too flimsy, that the buildings weren’t structurally sound, and then wondering to himself if he could recreate it in stone.

However, the Hobbits were the most challenging to walk with. Frodo seemed dazed and vacant, often trailing behind them, or beginning to wander off, only to be nudged back on track by Sam or herself. Sam was delighted by the gardens, and once she had left him talking to the gardener there, only to come back three hours later to the pair now digging and planting alongside one another, Sam chattering excitedly about the different species she barely recognised.

Naturally, Merry and Pippin got into untold mischief, and on more than one occasion, were brought back to the guest house by an exasperated looking elf guard. They grinned, apologised unapologetically, and the next day they were gone again. Returning with arms piled high with food, or more bedding, they almost created a nest within the guesthouse, with the fabrics they relocated.

On the other hand, Boromir was still quiet and closed off, but agreed to walks, and would exchange quiet words. Mostly talking of their shared home, Minas Tirith, the people they both had in common, Faramir’s escapades within the Rangers, and the familiar shops and streets. It was heartening to speak of home with someone as familiar to it as she was, a relief to think of Minas Tirith in a positive light, after being absent from it for so long.

 No mention of the Ring passed between them again, but Rhosynel was content not to push the matter.

The only member of the Fellowship Rhosynel was unable to find, let alone convince to take walks with her, was Aragorn. The Ranger certainly knew how to vanish from sight, but for all his encouragement to her not running away or closing herself off from the others, he then proceeded to do just so. It would have been annoying if she wasn’t so worried for him.

The others were keenly feeling his absence, and the Fellowship seemed to have stalled without the guidance of Aragorn or Gandalf.

Even now, there seemed to be an emptiness within the Fellowship, a void once filled by the grey wizard. The Hobbits were possibly the most distraught, at least visibly so, with Frodo scarcely speaking a word unless directly spoken to, while Sam, along with Merry and Pippin were doing their best to put on brave faces and encourage Frodo to eat and function. Rhosynel suspected that their mischief making, was in a bid to bring comfort to Frodo.

The others were withdrawn, of course they were, and while she’d not seen Aragorn since their greeting with the Lord and Lady, Rhosynel had no doubt that he was suffering just as much, if not more so.

For her own part, Rhosynel couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt. It was unfounded, her head knew that, knew that it was no one’s fault, but even now, the guilt plagued her. If she’d moved faster, reacted quicker, then maybe, just maybe, the wizard wouldn’t have perished. Or further back still, argued more against using the Pass, come up with better alternatives to the mines, or just flat out refused in any way possible.

All of which, she knew for certain, wouldn’t have changed Gandalf’s fate.

Her wanderings were one part restlessness, and one part trying to escape the pursuit of her own thoughts. Walking wherever her feet too her, following the sights and sounds of Lothlorien, discovering hidden corners, remove gardens, still pools, quiet glades. Music was playing somewhere within the forest, not the sombre eulogy that had echoed through the trees the first night of their arrival, nor the melodic harps that Rhosynel had frequently heard. No, this music, was lively.

The sky was growing dark when she first heard it, and quite without conscious thought, her feet shifted, changing direction on impulse, and beginning to weave along the paths in what she thought was the right direction. It possibly was, but it still took far too long for her to find the source of the music.

Fiddles, a flute, some sort of small drum, all joined together to form a lively reel. It wouldn’t have sounded out of place within Minas Tirith or Edoras, it sounded like home, like festivals, like familiarity.

The building she drew to a stop outside of, was large, with double doors standing open, warm golden light illuminating the path and roots of the closest trees. Stood at the edge of that light, Rhosynel’s head tilted, as though trying to make sense of what she heard, of what she could see within the building’s walls. Tables were scattered about, what seemed to be a bar, a small group of elves playing the music, others listening or singing along.

It wasn’t quite so raucous as to have dancing, but it was far livelier than anything else she’d heard within Lothlorien.

Shifting forwards curiously, Rhosynel entered the pool of light, but went no further, hovering at the doorway, watching, and listening, head nodding instinctively to the music. It was good, of course it was, elves with all their decades and centuries of time to hone their crafts and perfect their hobbies. Of course they could play seamlessly.

“Lady Rovailor?” an unfamiliar voice asked at her back.

It wasn’t quite a flinch, but certainly a jolt of alarm shot through Rhosynel, twisting about, hands closing on empty air where her swords usually rested. Only to freeze at the sight of a blond elf stood a few paces away, somewhat familiar, no doubt one of the guards they’d encountered during their arrival. It wasn’t Grumpy, she’d seen no sign of him since she’d almost throttled him, but she didn’t know their name, and the confusion must have been evident on her face.

“Peace,” he said, one hand lifted placatingly, “I did not mean to startle you.”

The tension didn’t quite leave Rhosynel’s shoulders, but her posture straightened from the half crouch she’d found herself in. She was within Lothlorien, not a battlefield, she didn’t have to be prepared for a fight.

“It’s… fine,” she said slowly, truthfully it was fine, even if the reason for her jumpiness wasn’t. She hadn’t properly slept in what felt like weeks and hadn’t relaxed for even longer. “I’m sorry, I don’t recall your name.”

“I am Marchwarden Haldir,” he greeted, with a polite incline of his head, only to gesture behind her, into the warmly lit interior of the bar, “were you intending to enter?”

Was she?

The music was familiar and reassuring, but Rhosynel wasn’t quite so brave as to enter an elven bar alone. A lone human woman in the midst of elves was bound to draw attention, none of which she felt up to tolerating just yet. Any other day, any other time, she wouldn’t have hesitated. She’d have been settled at a table, talking to the locals as though she’d lived there all her life. But now… even the thought of conversation had her balking.

“No, or at least, not alone,” Rhosynel admitted reluctantly, “I feel the others, the Hobbits, may appreciate it though.”

“It is a nightly occurrence, the Fellowship is most welcome to join, should you so wish.”

Perhaps she should bring the group here, would it help lift their moods, or would it feel unpleasantly forced? Rhosynel certainly knew that forcing socialisation when grieving could be the opposite of helpful. Even if her parents and Rhymenel hadn’t meant anything by it. She’d broach the subject, maybe neglect to mention the music, only that she’d found a bar they could get drinks at…

“Then I’ll ask,” Rhosynel replied, somewhat delayed.

It was a struggle to stay on topic, repeatedly feeling like her mind was going vacant and the trail of thought being difficult to snare and follow to its end.

By the Valar this Marchwarden must think her simple.

But there was a chill on the air, the world shifting from the golden hues of dusk into the blues of twilight. And as pleasant as it was to wonder about the silver and golden trees, Rhosynel had little intention of spending the night lost in their labyrinthine paths.

“My apologies, it is getting late, and I could do with returning to the others, can you point me in the direction of the guesthouse?” Rhosynel asked, voice slightly rushed.

Haldir’s brows rose at her words, but then he seemed to glance past her, towards the bar, before his eyes flicked skywards. “Ah so it is,” he said, as though the changing light was a new discovery, “the guesthouse is this way.” And then he turned, back the way he’d been approaching from, although his attention remained on Rhosynel, clearly waiting for her to start walking with him.

He was wearing similar garb to when she’d first seen him, no doubt either heading on patrol, or returning from one. A sword at his hip, and the sweeping elegant bow at his back, with a silvery cloak draped over his shoulder. Perhaps he’d been reporting to the Lord and Lady of the woods? Was she delaying his journey or distracting him post-meeting?

Indecision warred within, the urge to turn down his offer, to insist he just point the way, the knowledge that she had no hope in hell of finding the guesthouse alone. But more than anything, she didn’t want to take up his evening, or suffer through a stilted silence of a walk.

Trying not to grit her teeth, Rhosynel stepped forwards, and fell into step alongside Haldir. He was quick to start moving, but didn’t stride or rush, seemingly content to walk at an easy pace, his attention on the trees and buildings they passed, hands loosely clasped at his back.

It was almost peaceful, but Rhosynel still felt uncomfortable.

“I have to ask,” she started slowly, sensing Haldir glance briefly to her, “what is a Marchwarden?”

For a moment he didn’t reply, and Rhosynel risked a quick glance, finding the elf pressing his lips into a thin line. Oh Bema had she insulted him? Or was he trying not to laugh at her ignorance?

“Marchwardens are the guards of Lórien,” he answered after a moment’s consideration, a faint hint of amusement to his words. “We command groups of Galadhrim to defend the boundaries of our forest against the forces currently inhabiting Moria and Dol Guldur, dealing with any attempts to attack or infiltrate our borders.”

“Ah, somewhat like the Rangers of Ithilien?” Rhosynel guessed, the closest comparison she could find at least. “We had a similar role, protecting the eastern flank of Gondor and neutralising any threats from Mordor.”

“I suppose it is comparable,” he answered, telling Rhosynel that she wasn’t quite right, but neither was she so off the mark he felt the need to correct her. “You were a Ranger?” he asked, receiving a nod of confirmation. “Why did you leave their ranks? Surely every man –or woman– was needed in the defence of your borders?”

Rhosynel’s smile froze on her face, becoming a rictus of her former amusement, even her hands froze in their fiddling with the cuff of her borrowed gown.

“I, I left after a Nazgul almost killed me,” she managed to reply, somewhat crisply, hearing his sharp inhale. “Early retirement was suggested, but I opted to become a Messenger instead. I refuse to remain in one place for too long, it makes me restless.”

“I can tell.”

The dry comment made Rhosynel snort, but there was no attempt of sympathies from Haldir, and neither did he press the topic or her answer.

With a start, Rhosynel realised that she’d not spoken of it to any of the Fellowship, Aragorn and Boromir knew of her time within the Rangers, but as far as she was aware, neither knew the reason behind her change in career. The only one who may have known more, was Gandalf after speaking with Faramir, and the wizard was dead now. Or perhaps, regretfully, Galadriel. The secrecy wasn’t comfortable, but neither was the idea of the others knowing the full truth. Even her clipped reply to Haldir hadn’t gone into detail. No, that wasn’t something she was keen on sharing with anyone, she didn’t need more concern, and she certainly didn’t need to bog the others down in her old grief either.

“The guesthouse is just up ahead,” Haldir’s voice interrupted her thoughts, snapping Rhosynel back to the present. The cuff of her gown was fraying badly, at this rate she’d be paying for a replacement before she left. “When you wish to find the bar, ask any of the aids for the Maylvon, and they’ll escort you.”

“Maylvon, what does it mean?”

“The Golden Chalice.”

It certainly sounded a finer establishment than the Twisted Latch back in Minas Tirith, but then again it was hard to imagine any bar, inn, or tavern in Lothlorien to be seedy.

“Thank you for your assistance, Marchwarden, I’m sorry for waylaying your evening,” Rhosynel said, words sounding stiff and formal to her own ears.

But he inclined his head, and Rhosynel instinctively bowed back, despite wearing a gown, and then took her leave. It wasn’t far to the guesthouse, and by the time she’d reached the open doorway, Haldir was gone from sight.

While Rhosynel had every intention of rounding up the remains of the Fellowship and herding them towards the Maylvon the very next night, reality had other plans. It seemed the malaise of loss had settled heavily across their shoulders, rendering even the mere thought of leaving their pavilion too difficult to imagine. A meal had been brought to them for lunch, fresh breads and pastries, slices of cold meats, sweet wines and cider, even fruits and vegetables that the inhabitants of Lothlorien had somehow managed to grow even in the early months.

It would have made a good meal, had all of their members been present.

“It’s no use,” Sam lamented quietly, leaving the room Frodo had claimed, as he joined the table. “I can’t get through to him, he’s refusing to eat or drink.”

The distress was clear in Sam’s voice, in the wringing of his hands as he settled at the table with the rest of them. His eyes were shadowed, plagued with worry and concern for Frodo, staring unseeingly at his plate, even as Merry pushed it towards him and Pippin set a drink alongside it.

“Do you want us to try?” Merry asked.

“I doubt dragging Frodo from the bed will help,” Legolas interrupted gently. “He’s grieving.”

“Aren’t we all?” Gimli asked, but not unkindly. He, if anything, had more reason to grieve than the rest of them, having discovered the deaths of his kin and the sacking of Moria. “He still needs to eat.”

For a few minutes the group dissolved into a debate, while Rhosynel focused on loading up her plate with two fresh rolls of bread, several slices of meat, a good stack of vegetables and fruit, and finally, gathered a set of cups filled with cider. It was only when she looked up from her preparations, that she realised Boromir’s eyes were on her actions.

He gave a subtle nod.

“I’ll speak with him,” Rhosynel said, already rising to her feet.

Without waiting for the others to agree or protest, she collected the food and drinks, and turned towards Frodo’s room. With a rap of knuckles to the archway that delineated the entrance, Rhosynel stepped into the room without waiting for an acknowledgement. Frodo was barely visible amongst the pillow and blankets piled high on the bed, no doubt having been pilfered by Merry and Pippin to add to the nest. But there in the midst was a mop of dark curly hair, half hidden by a thick knitted blanket.

“Frodo?” she asked gently, more to alert him to her arrival than anything else.

No response.

Nodding to herself, Rhosynel carefully set the food and drinks down to one side of the bed, and stood alongside it, hands on her hips, eyeing the arrangement of blankets, furs, pillows, and cushions.

And then aggressively flopped into the nest.

There was a startled noise of protest from the Hobbit as he was jostled, and she caught sight of a frown, shadowing his bright blue eyes in annoyance. Even if he didn’t speak up in protest.

Rhosynel ignored him in turn, spending a few moments shifting pillows and wiggling about to settle deeper into the pile. Eventually, she was comfortable, laying on her back, one arm tucked behind her head, the other draped across her ribs, eyes on the ceiling of the pavilion. This was a conversation that would be easier without eye contact.

“Talk,” she instructed quietly.

Silence, but not for long. “I don’t want to.”

“You may not want to, but it’ll do your heart some good to do so,” she replied. “We’re safe here, in this city. You can let it out.”

There wasn’t a verbal answer, but she could hear Frodo shifting about, resettling from his previously curled position, to mimic her own. Laying on his back, hands on his chest, fiddling and twisting at his own fingers.

Thankfully not with the Ring.

Even at this proximity she could feel the pull, urging her to shift a little closer, to reach out to Frodo, to close the distance. It was an effort to ignore it, but Rhosynel kept her eyes locked on the ceiling, refusing to acknowledge the call of the Ring.

“You’ve lost someone before, haven’t you?” Frodo asked quietly.

And despite having known the direction this conversation would take, Rhosynel inhaled deeply.

“I have,” she admitted, with no small amount of reluctance, “a partner, about ten years ago.”

Silence met her words, and she felt, more than saw, Frodo glance towards her.

“I… I didn’t know you had a husband.”

“Oh he wasn’t my husband,” she corrected with a wry smile, but then fell silent for a moment. It didn’t take long to decide. She’d carried this for so long, it felt strange to speak it out loud, but with Galadriel’s digging into her mind and soul, perhaps it would be best to speak of him once more. “His name was Rainion, he was a Ranger I worked with in Ithilien. We grew close and were together for a few years, but there was an incursion of orcs from Mordor. It was our group that headed out to ambush them, to destroy them like we’d done countless times, over and over. But this time was different, as we didn’t realise they were being led by a Nazgul.”

There was a sharp inhale from Frodo, his hand drifting to the scar in his shoulder at her words.

“Rainion was injured, by the Nazgul, but in my haste to protect him I… I drew its ire, and instead of leaving Rainion injured, the Nazg—” It was hard to speak, hard to press on, Rhosynel swallowed thickly, keeping it short, keeping it brief, keeping the emotions at bay. “He was killed, and I was nearly killed with him. The scar across my back, I got that when trying to save his life, I survived the attack, but the grief afterwards almost killed me instead,” Rhosynel admitted, tilting her head towards Frodo and meeting his eyes for a moment, before returning her gaze skywards. “It consumed me, it locked my heart up, it left me unable to think, move, eat, sleep, anything. It was only through the aid of my sister, my parents, and my friends, that I came out the other side of that grief alive.”

Silence met her words, but it was less sullen and more contemplative.

“It’s okay to grieve,” she said quietly, “but grief has a way of locking your heart behind walls of iron and ice, and silence only fortifies it. To survive loss, you need to keep those walls at bay. It’s okay to want to be alone. But we’re all here, we’re here to get through this together, we can support and look after one another. I may not have been close to Gandalf, but if I can do anything protect you from any of this grief you carry, I will do so gladly.”

“But…” Frodo stopped as quickly as he started. Brows furrowed deeply and pointedly no looking at her, blue eyes locked on the ceiling, as he clearly chewed over the words he wanted to say. “Aren’t you going to leave, now?”

Pain lanced through her chest.

Was she?

Lord Elrond had requested she join the Fellowship until they’d crossed the Misty Mountains, and now they had. Now they were in Lothlorien, and without Gandalf she wouldn’t have to wait for his dismissal. She could leave. She could get up and walk out of the pavilion. Out of the forest. Out of the Fellowship.

But she didn’t want to.

“I never pledged myself to this quest,” Rhosynel said quietly, and turned her head to look at Frodo, studying his profile, the red rims to his eyes, the paleness of his skin. “I never promised you my blades or my protection… but if you’ll have me, then I’ll do everything in my power to protect you on this quest. I swear it.”

She watched, as some tension left Frodo’s shoulders.

“Thank you Rhosynel,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t bear to lose you too.”

“You’ll not lose me.” She reached out, tangling her hand with his far smaller, and squeezing them almost as fiercely as he squeezed hers. “You’d bear it. You’re far stronger than you realise, you’ve already proved that. Your heart will thaw, and you’ll be able to think of Gandalf with fondness rather than grief in your heart.”

“D’you promise?”

“I promise.”

There was a heavy sigh from the Hobbit, and Rhosynel had to resist the urge to drag him into a hug. Apparently she didn’t need to, as Frodo rolled towards her of his own choice, face pressing into her shoulder. There were no sobs, but she could feel how his body shook, how the shoulder of her gown became damp, how he clung to her. Wrapping her arms about him, Rhosynel pulled Frodo closer, burying her own face into his hair, wishing she could do more to protect him as he grieved.

Chapter Text

Frodo had joined them for the rest of lunch, even if the majority of the food had already been polished off by the combined efforts of Hobbits and dwarves. But, at the mention of the Maylvon, the groups interest was caught. The Hobbits, as Rhosynel had guessed, were delighted by the idea of visiting a bar, while Gimli was curious, and then Legolas and Boromir simply didn’t wish to be left out. So that night Rhosynel tracked down an aid –thankfully not Grumpy– and dutifully lead their group out. Anything to get the group moving, to get them talking to one another, get them interacting with others. And while Rhosynel had no doubt they’d be welcome to remain within Lothlorien, she doubted the quest would continue until someone made them start moving again.

And since Aragorn was yet to reappear, Rhosynel once more took up the role of Mother Hawk once more and began nagging.

“Pippin that is not the route to the bar,” she scolded mildly.

“No but it is to the kitchens!”

“Do you want a pint or not?”

He was quick to rejoin the group at that, flashing a grin at her that Rhosynel couldn’t help but return. She knew what he was up to, evidenced by his own glance to Frodo as though checking to see if his japes had found their intended target.

It seemed to have worked, although the smile on Frodo’s face was faint enough to be overlooked.

“Ah here we are,” Rhosynel announced, spotting the Golden Chalice up ahead.

The music had been easy to follow, and she watched the reactions of the Hobbits as they perked up and moved forwards with renewed interest. Only to draw to a stop at the doorway, their own reluctance to enter mirroring Rhosynel’s reaction the previous night. But this time she wasn’t alone, it would be far easier to find her previous outgoing nature when with familiar faces.

But still she took a bracing inhale.

She didn’t even manage one step before a hand landed on her shoulder, and despite knowing the others had been at her back, she jumped regardless. Boromir was quick to lift his hand, palm up in a placating gesture.

“If you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to,” he cautioned.

One heartbeat passed then another, before Rhosynel looked from him to the Hobbits, still hovering nervously at the doorway, reluctant to enter.

“Yes, I do,” she said quietly, and moved towards the door with far more confidence than she truly felt. “Legolas I’ll need your help to order, I doubt telling the barman to ‘fly fast’ will get us many drinks.”

“No but it might earn you a few laughs,” the elf replied, but was quick to join her.

Leading the way into the bar, Rhosynel tried to carry herself with confidence, tried to ignore the eyes she could feel glancing her way, ignore how they lingered a moment before turning to the others at her back. Gimli caused the most reaction, a few sharp inhales, a few mutters she didn’t understand, and even a misstep from one of the players, the sound of the bow scraping on the fiddle was a jarring noise.

Thank Bema she’d convinced him to leave the axes behind.

“Ge Sulion,” she was quick to greet when she reached the bar, praying her pronunciation wasn’t as terrible as it felt.

Although judging by the serving elf’s barely suppressed smirk, she wasn’t that successful. But with Legolas’s assistance, their group was able to order a selection of drinks and managed to claim a table within reasonable proximity to the musicians.

It seemed, that once they’d settled at a table the attention to their motley group faded. But didn’t vanish. On more than one occasion Rhosynel’s glance about the rooms found eyes on them. After the third accidental eye contact, it was tempting to tuck her head down and avoid looking up. But that wasn’t who she was, so on the next glance Rhosynel met their eyes, and offered a nod. There was a brief flash of alarm on that elf’s face, but then they nodded back, and pointedly turned back to whatever conversation they’d been having.

It seemed like the inhabitants of Lothlorien were non-confrontational, or perhaps just as reluctant to converse as their own group was.

“I feel it would be best to leave soon,” Boromir was saying, as Rhosynel dragged her attention back to her own table. “We’ve already remained here for longer than suitable, any longer and we’ll be delaying the inevitable.”

“I think you may be right,” Frodo said quietly, “But until Aragorn returns… I’d rather not leave him behind…”

“I’ll see if I can track him down in the morning,” Rhosynel was quick to supply, “someone will have seen him, he may be a Ranger, but he can’t turn invisible.”

The corner of Frodo’s mouth twitched at that, but went no further.

“The woods are large lass, take care you do not get lost,” Gimli warned, taking cautious sips of his ale. He hadn’t voiced any complaints of it, so it must be decent enough for his own pallet. “We don’t need you to go missing as well.”

“I have keen eyes and swifter feet,” Rhosynel replied, “I’ll be able to find some evidence of him, after all, I found this place, didn’t I?”

“Yes and then had to be escorted back by Haldir,” Legolas added, smirk not quite hidden by his own cup. “Or were you just not going to mention that?”

“No, I wasn’t,” she shot back with a withering glare that he shrugged off with ease. “But there’s not many human women here, if I get lost someone will know which direction to point me in.”

“Would you like my help?” Boromir asked.

“Hmm, two of us would hasten the search.”

The thinning of Boromir’s lips told Rhosynel that hadn’t been the correct answer, and belatedly realised he’d been offering to join her search, not conduct his own.

“It would be appreciated though,” she hastened to add, “there’s eight of us and one Aragorn, if we all search, we’ll find him quicker.”

“Maybe we should pair up,” Merry suggested, “that way we’ll be less likely to get lost.”

“Or more likely, in your case,” Sam shot back.

“Listen, it only makes sense to check the kitchens, he’ll have to eat at some point!”

“Oh Valar I’m regretting this already,” Rhosynel said setting down her mug and rubbing at her temples. “At which point did I become a mother?”

“When you got press-ganged into this quest,” Gimli retorted.

The snort that left Rhosynel’s throat wasn’t very civilised, no doubt earning raised eyebrows from the refined and polite elves surrounding their table. But Gimli hadn’t been wrong, the role of mother wasn’t her natural state, she left that business to Rhymenel. Thankfully his comment had also managed to annoy the Hobbits, who all instantly started protesting that they were only thinking logically with their heads and certainly not with their stomachs.

“I take it you don’t already have kids then?” Boromir commented wryly, sipping at his ale, eyes on the now somewhat raucous Hobbits.

“I’d not be here if I did,” Rhosynel replied quietly, “nor would I bring them into a world shadowed by Mordor. No, I’m worried enough for my sisters’ children, I’d rather not be panicking over the wellbeing of my own at the same time.”

“I understand,” Boromir replied so quietly she could have missed it, “it’s the same reason I’ve neve—”

“Merry sit down before you upset your pint.” Legolas’s chiding interrupted whatever Boromir had been about to say.

Rhosynel opened her mouth to ask what he’d been about to say, when Boromir set his mug down with a soft clunk, leaning forwards, drawing the attention of those at their table.

“How about this; in the morning we’ll split into four groups, Gimli with Sam, Legolas and Frodo, Rhosynel with Merry, then Pippin and myself,” Boromir instructed, easily slipping into the role of leader, something Rhosynel was only more than happy to sit back and allow happen. She was a follower, not a leader, the role of mother hawk had been pushing her limits enough as it was. “We each take a quadrant of the compass and hunt for our missing Ranger, whoever finds him either drags him back to the guesthouse or tells him we’re leaving in the morning with or without him.”

“Why am I with you?” Pippin protested, apparently his only issue with the plan.

“So I can keep you out of trouble.”

“Why am I with Gimli then?” Sam added, “I’m no trouble!”

“So you can keep him out of trouble.”

The protests from the dwarf were drowned out by Rhosynel choking on her ale, almost spraying the table, and turning beet red in the process. Boromir wasn’t wrong, Sam was getting along splendidly with the elves of Lothlorien, if anyone would sooth the elf-dwarf conflicts, it would be the gentle Samwise.

“Likewise, Merry is to make sure Rhosynel doesn’t embarrass herself any more than necessary,” Boromir continued, although he did clap her on the back.

“Fuck off,” she managed to wheeze, prompting another round of laughter.

Admittedly her choking had resulted in exactly what she’d wanted, for the others to relax, to recover somewhat, and to finally hear laughter once more. And while Rhosynel would have ideally not been the subject of said laughter, a win was a win.

Bright and early in the morning, Rhosynel found herself being ordered about by the newly returned Captain of Gondor, apparently given lease of life now he had people to boss about. But she allowed herself to be corralled along with the others, and was given strict instructions on where to head and how long to spend searching.

They’d barely had chance to scarf down a breakfast when he was turfing them out.

Setting off, Rhosynel kept her stride shorter, with her head on a swivel as she and Merry began heading south-east into the trees of Lothlorien. This, she knew, was the route to Ribrion’s falconry house, she’d checked in the previous day, and found Ilmara looking well, but still favouring her wing.

A yawn from Merry cut her trail of thought off.

“Didn’t sleep?” she asked gently as the pair wove along the paths.

“No, neither did you by the sounds of it.”

Wincing, Rhosynel didn’t even try to hide her guilty expression. “Did my yells wake you again?”

“I was already awake, although it startled me.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be, my own dreams woke me up, at least hearing you tells me I’m not alone,” Merry said, sounding far too resigned on this topic, his usual mischief and smiles gone now he didn’t have to try and lift Frodo’s mood. “I don’t imagine I’ll be rid of them any time soon.”

“Unlikely,” Rhosynel agreed, “the first time I had dreams like this, they lasted for almost three years, before fading.”

The noise of concern from Merry almost made her regret mentioning it.

“I found that copious amounts of Kingsfoil tea helps though,” she added hastily, “my sister plied me with the stuff after… after the last time I got chronic nightmares,” Rhosynel forced herself to finish, and pressed on to move past the topic. “It helps, I’ll see if I can talk to any of the elves about getting my supply replenished, that way if you wake you can make the tea yourself.”

“That would be goo—Oh!”

Rhosynel’s head snapped to Merry, and then followed the line of his pointing arm. Up ahead, she caught the briefest flicker of dark clothing, so at odds with the lighter shades and silvery materials favoured by the elves of Lothlorien.

Without a word between them, the pair broke into a jog, attempting to catch up. “Aragorn,” she called out softly, and watched as his head ducked down, making to leave the path. “Strider!”

He halted at her sharp bark, shoulders dropping in resignation of being caught.

It didn’t take long to catch up with him, especially since he’d stopped moving and was reluctantly waiting for their arrival. Drawing alongside, she glanced to his face, and blanched. Bloodshot eyes and haggard features. Had he slept at all? What was she meant to say, if the face of such exhaustion?

“Well you look rough,” Merry said with all his usual tact, “have you slept at all this week?”

“Week?” Aragorn asked, voice sounding rough and grating. “It hasn’t been that long.”

The fact that Aragorn was shocked by this revelation told Rhosynel just how strange time was flowing within Lothlorien, and just how little he’d realised his disappearing had affected them all. How could he have known? He’d vanished the first morning after their arrival and hadn’t been seen since. Had he slept? Eaten? Rested at all? Rhosynel doubted it.

“I’ve slept six times,” Rhosynel countered, “it’s been a week, Aragorn. Where have you been?” she asked, but not unkindly, voice laced with concern and worry.

He grimaced, dragging a hand over his face and through his hair. A layer of dirt and grime still coated his skin, had he not washed or cleaned up since their arrival, or had he done so only to find himself fighting orcs once more? She wouldn’t have put it past him to join the patrols and take out his grief on any orcs Haldir pointed out to him.

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” he said gruffly.

“It’s been a week,” Merry replied pointedly. “Have you slept? Ate? Bathed?”

Rhosynel pressed her lips together over a smile.

The scowl that Aragorn levelled at the Hobbit glanced harmlessly off Merry, stood with his arms folded frowning up at the far taller man with little hesitation or fear. But it was clear that Merry was worried, they all had been.

“I’ve been thinking,” Aragorn replied, somewhat defensively, “I’ve been trying to figure out what to do next, how to move forwards. And, I’ve been grieving.”

The last part was said more pointedly.

“We all have,” Merry countered with ease, “but grieving is easier when with friends.”

It was tempting to leave the two bickering with one another, but Rhosynel had the sense that if she wandered off and left them to it, Aragorn wouldn’t return and Merry would detour to the kitchens. With a sigh, she pinched the bridge of her nose.

“We need to get going,” she said, “but Frodo understandably doesn’t want to leave without you. And while I’m sure we’d manage to reach Mordor without you—” there was a grumble at that “—I have no interest in being responsible for chivvying this lot across the rest of Middle Earth.”

“You’re staying, then?” Aragorn’s question was sharp, pointed, and sounding oddly suspicious.

“I am,” she said resolutely, refusing to let any trepidation show. “Frodo has accepted my pledge of protection, which I’ll uphold anyway I can. We may have lost Gandalf, but I’ll not let anyone else fall.”

At her words, Aragorn’s eyes darkened alarmingly, his brows lowering and turning the clear grey irises near black, fixing her with such a heavy gaze, that Rhosynel felt a flicker of concern deep in her chest as she shifted onto her back foot. Just what, was that look for? Was it for her pledge of aid, the fact she’d given it at all, or was something else bothering him?

“I saw what you did.”

She blinked in confusion at his words.

“I saw what you did.” She hadn’t noticed how rough his voice was, as though he hadn’t spoken in days, or he’d spent hours crying. Possibly both. But his words confused her, making her tilt her head, seeking more details. “You tried to jump after Gandalf. I saw the way you carried that rope; I saw the way you sprinted for the edge. You would have jumped, had I not caught up with you in time. You tried to jump.”

Her heart dropped at the realisation it was Aragorn who’d stopped her. Aragorn who’d prevented her from trying to save –or plummet after– Gandalf.

“I did,” she managed to say, aware of Merry looking to her in alarm.

“Why?”

It was a sensible question, but one she still struggled to answer.

“Why… wouldn’t I try to save him?” she replied slowly. “I thought I could reach him so of cou—”

“You would have jumped into that chasm,” Aragorn interrupted voice little more than a growl, taking a step forwards, and she couldn’t help but take her own step back. “Not reached for him, but jumped. Why. Why throw yourself off a cliff for him?”

“Hey!”

Merry’s interruption made the pair look down to him, stood with his hands on his hips and fixing Aragorn with a glare of his own.

“Didn’t you jump off a cliff to save Rhos?” he demanded, “grabbed a rope, flung it down and WHOOSH off you went! Why throw yourself off a cliff for her?”

Rhosynel blinked, taken aback by Merry’s forceful defence of her.

“Don’t go telling her off when you’d do the same!”

“Merry,” Rhosynel said gently, setting her hand on his shoulder, “thank you, but Aragorn does have a point, I was being reckless, I was panicking, and that isn’t a good combination.”

“Then why do it?”

For several minutes, she stared back at Merry, aware of Aragorn’s eyes on her expectantly waiting for an answer. Trying and failing to find the words which explained her thoughts. But nothing came. There was no answer to why, because she hadn’t thought, she’d moved. She’d run, straight towards that fathomless pit. Without hesitation.

“Galadriel asked why I’m here,” Rhosynel said instead, aware of Aragorn tilting his head at the change in topic, but neither interrupt, apparently trusting her enough to answer. “I told her I’m not meant to be here. She kept digging into my thoughts. I told her I’m here because I fear what would happen if I left. Because I don’t want anyone else to die if I can prevent it, so yes, I would have jumped.”

“You couldn’t have prevented his death,” Aragorn interjected. “No one could.”

“So I shouldn’t have tried?”

There was a sigh, and the Ranger dragged his hand across his face. She wasn’t asking it to trip him up, it was rhetorical, a question they both knew the answer to. But then he reached out, and landed his hand on her shoulder, making her tense for the oncoming scolding.

“We do not need two deaths on our mind, when one is enough to break us.”

The weight of his hand was eclipsed by the weight to his words settling on Rhosynel’s shoulders. The devastation the Fellowship was going through… if she had died too, it would be unbearable. Her heart clenched painfully at the thought of the Hobbits reaction to her death, she’d become protective of them, and them towards her. Let alone the others, who were treating her more and more like a sister with every passing day.

“I know,” she said quietly, and reached up to clasp the hand on her shoulder. “But if I feel I can prevent a death, I will do everything I can. Even, at risk to myself.”

Instantly he was protesting, but she pushed on.

“Would you not do the same? Would you let someone die when you thought or knew that you could save them?”

“…No.”

“Then stop chiding me. You’re not King yet, you cannot command me.” The strangled noise of protest that left Aragorn was mirrored by a bark of laughter from Merry, making her grin. “Now, come back to the guesthouse, the others are feeling abandoned, and I can only wrangle them for so long.”

The drawn-out sigh of frustration made her think Aragorn would refuse, but then he turned back the way Merry and she had come. The pair was quick to fall in step alongside him. Not because leading the way, but because she wanted to make sure he didn’t slink away to brood some more.

With the Ranger returned to their midst, preparations to leave began the next day. Rations, provisions, equipment, and more, were delivered throughout the day, elf made bags, waterskins, and sleeping rolls. All beautiful in quality. And thankfully a fresh change of clothing for Rhosynel, along with her old ones now cleaned, no matter how battered they were. She had also requested more bandages, herbs, and salves, those from her sister were running low, too many cuts and scrapes had happened over the weeks.

Hauling their packs on, they followed in the footsteps of a guide, led through the forest until they reached the edge of a large calm river. Three beautifully crafted boats were moored at the small dock, arched prows like swans, sweeping sides, and leaf shaped paddles.

“Boats?” Gimli asked, looking wary. “Oh no, I don’t thin—”

“Look, Lady Galadriel is here,” Rhosynel said quickly.

The dwarf immediately locked up, eyes going wide and cheeks turning a brilliant red to match his beard, at the sight of the elven lord and lady stood to one side, surrounded by aids. Aragorn seemed to have no issue stepping up to them, and with a nudge, she, Gimli, and the others, followed suit, forming a slightly rag tag line.

Lord Celeborn began speaking, giving his blessings to the Fellowship, but a soft caw was pulling Rhosynel’s attention away from the formal affair. Already at the back of the group, it was easy enough to take a subtle sidestep, and another, until she managed to extract herself from the group. Although an amused glance from Galadriel told Rhosynel she wasn’t as half as stealthy as she thought.

Turning, she found Ribrion, stood with Ilmara, and was quick to hasten to their sides.

“Heryn Ravailor,” he greeted quietly, and lapsed into Sindarin, short but still beyond her understanding. He was quick to extend the arm she was perched upon. Ilmara wasted no time in hopping the gap between them, and tucking into Rhosynel’s chest with a soft keen. Smoothing a hand across her back, Rhosynel found no sign of discomfort, the wing with its three gleaming white feathers were tucked against her flank comfortably.

‘He apologises for the delay in reaching you,’ an ethereal voice softly explained, ‘but the feathers are holding up well. Ilmara should be able to fly again.’

It was an effort not to flinch at the intrusion of her mind, shooting a wary glance over her shoulder towards Lady Galadriel. She wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention, currently presenting an elegant bow and quiver to a stunned Legolas.

“Hantalë,” she said haltingly to Ribrion, “again, I owe you a debt.”

Ribrion grimaced, apparently Galadriel also translated for him, and made a dismissive gesture. Or would have, had Rhosynel not caught a hold of his hand, gripping with fierce intensity, as she tried to convey just how much her words meant.

“I mean it,” she said quietly, “Ilmara is precious to me, and you have helped her immeasurable.”

The elf, flushed, face reddening as did the tips of his pointed ears. But he made no bid to dismiss her words this time, instead he swallowed heavily and nodded, with a pat to her arm. Rhosynel wasn’t sure what sort of debt this falconer would claim of her, but she would welcome it regardless.

‘He does not know what to make of you,’ Galadriel said, despite Ribrion not having spoken. ‘A sentiment I admit to sharing. Now come, approach.’

Rhosynel very much did not want to, but to refuse when Galadriel was loitering in her head would be folly. It still took some effort, her feet dragging slightly, but she cautiously approached, warily eyeing the Lady with a mixture of fear and respect. Glorfindel had been powerful, Elrond had been intimidating, and Arwen had been serene. Somehow, Lady Galadriel was all three at once, and far, far worse.

“My, lady,” Rhosynel greeted haltingly, drawing to a stop with a bow.

“Lady Rhosynel,” Galadriel greeted her as though they’d not just been speaking mentally, although it took everything in Rhosynel not to correct the elf as to her lack of title. “Your coming had been veiled from us, so we were unable to weave an elf-cloak for you like we did the others,” she said, in that soft ponderous voice which had invaded Rhosynel’s mind. “However, I believe we have a suitable alternative.”

A small hand motion, and an aid stepped forwards, carrying folded fabric.

Protests were already rising in Rhosynel’s throat, only to fall once more as they lifted the fabric. A cloak, but unlike anything she had ever seen before.

Dark stormy grey, laced through with gleaming silver thread. As it was shaken out, her eyes blurred, and the fabric became feathers, far larger than anything she’d seen before, from no bird she was familiar with. Another blink, and the illusion was gone, the cloak wasn’t made of feathers, but instead cut and tailored into the shape of wings, even a tail. Leather cross straps to hold it in place, the claps engraved to look like eagle talons.

Very aware of Galadriel watching, a faint smile on the elf woman’s face, Rhosynel slowly shook her head. “That, is… far too nice, for me to wear,” she said slowly, and looked up at Galadriel. “I cannot…”

“This, is the Rovacoll. Much like a Limroval, this cloak should not remain caged for long, and long has it been, since its first owned passed,” Galadriel was saying, taking the shoulders of the cloak from the aid, and turning to Rhosynel, holding it up in front of her as though checking the size. “While the cloaks of the men were woven for the love of the land; for leaf and branch, water and stone. This cloak was woven for the love of the sky; the winds and clouds, storms and stars. Yes, I believe it will help you in this quest.”

Something about her words resonated with Rhosynel, echoing the ethereal conversation that still lingered in her mind. What would she do to help in this quest? Without giving Rhosynel a chance to respond, Galadriel flung the cloak out, and landed it on Rhosynel’s shoulders, smoothing it out with sure and steady hands.

Running her fingers over the feather embroidery, a weight which was nothing to do with the light cloak, settled on Rhosynel’s heart.

“It’s too much,” she said quietly, “but with your blessing I will carry it for a time.”

Galadriel’s smile was radiant, bright like the sun, but soft like summer rain. “Then go, Lady Rovailor, Rhosynel of Rohan and Gondor, with the blessings of Lothlorien,” she said, leaning forwards and pressing a kiss to Rhosynel’s forehead.

In a daze, she joined the others, aware of the nudges and whispers from Merry and Pippin, and the covetous look from Legolas. It barely registered as they were bid goodbye, and she soon found herself settled in the prow of a boat, with Gimli and Legolas seated behind her. With scarcely a whisper on the water, they set off. Leaving the golden woods and its gleaming people behind them.

Chapter Text

It was fast going on the Anduin River, the clear waters carrying them swiftly downstream, forest, cliffs, rolling hills, all gliding past with little cause for concern. There was the occasional cry from birds of prey, making Ilmara chatter and shift from her place as figurehead, but nothing of note. The goshawk seemed unwilling to fly just yet, and Rhosynel realised that she’d have to start coaching Ilmara soon.

The first day, she’d listened to Gimli mourning the loss of the Lady of the Light, lamenting that he’d never see such beauty again, and waxing lyrical about the stands of hair he’d been gifted. He kept touching his chest, and the small silk bag which held his prized treasure. With how entranced he’d become, she felt bad for claiming the next day for her own questions to Legolas.

The origin of her new cloak.

Unfortunately for Rhosynel, what Legolas did know didn’t satisfy her curiosity. He seemed to think that her cloak possessed some form of elven magic within its fibres, much like the Fellowships new cloaks helped shield them from prying eyes, her cloak of feathers held a residue of glamour. But even Legolas couldn’t decipher its purpose, leaving Rhosynel a little frustrated by the lack of answers. The cloak was beautiful, and she felt honoured to wear it, she just wished she knew more about its origins.

A deep rich storm grey, with silver threads glimmering in even the faintest of light. The embroidery detailed the shape of feathers, thicker stitches as the shafts, and minimal line for the feather vanes. She had spent the previous day marvelling at its detail and quality, inspecting the clasps shaped like talons, and even the leather straps etched with twisting feathers. Although one part confused her, an extra pair of leather straps, attached near the wing tips, she had puzzled over their use for some time, until she realised that they’d fit over her hands, allowing her to grasp them. That way, the cloak moved in tandem with her arms, rather than flapping loose, no doubt added to prevent tangles in battle.

She’d treasure it, regardless of who had gifted, worn, or made the cloak, Rhosynel knew it was precious beyond measure.

They’d been on the river for a few days, when they were attacked.

One moment the rivers had been calm and clear, running smooth and deep with little challenge ahead of them. The next, rapids, tossing their boats about the rocks beneath the waters alarmingly close as the river became shallower. With forced through a smaller gap than it had been accustomed to, the river became a torrent, dragging them along with little regard for their choice.

Rhosynel was relieved that Legolas steered their boat, nimbly adjusting the oar to counter the waters.

The moment the water had roughened, she’d flattened herself, fully vanishing beneath the lip of the boat. Back pressed to one wall, her knees to the other, her eyes were screwed shut against the rocking and bobbing. Ilmara tucked into the space between her chest and knees.

“Lass!?” Gimli’s voice reached her, sounding alarmed.

“I-I’m fine.”

A blatant lie, but neither was it wrong. Rhosynel was fine. She wasn’t injured, she wasn’t sick, she just couldn’t swim, and the rapids posed a threat.

“Orcs!” a voice –Aragorn?– called out. “East bank!”

Perhaps the alarm hadn’t been for her reaction to the rapids.

“Gimli take the oar!” Legolas barked, already thrusting the paddle into the dwarfs’ hands. “Rhosyne—”

“On it,” she replied, gritting her teeth as she pushed herself upright, fumbling for her bow as the rocking of the boat across the rapids increased.

She’d barely found a target, when arrows were slamming into the side of their boat. Awkwardly wedged in, it was difficult to return their volley, but she, Legolas, and Aragorn, were the only ones with bows, the only ones that could return fire. Her arrows found their marks, although a few glanced off iron armour, but still more brought down the snarling and barking orcs. It seemed they were intent on following their route south, and that couldn’t happen.

Arrow after arrow flew towards them, with Legolas bringing down the most, while Rhosynel did her best to remain in the boat, and Aragorn alternated between firing and steering his own craft.

The number of orcs thinned, and then slowly fell back, as the swift waters carried them faster than their legs.

“The rapids are set to worsen,” Aragorn called out as the last of the orcs vanished from view. “Head for the western shore, we’ll have to port the boats.”

“Orcs on the eastern bank,” Gimli mused, as Legolas resumed his paddling, “trying to cross west? For what purpose?”

“That area is one of few crossing places,” Rhosynel answered quietly, disliking how her voice carried across the water, “unless they wish to travel much further north or south, that is. But west from here…” Her voice trailed off as she tried to consider the map of Middle Earth she’d studied many a time in her years of travelling. “Edoras, or perhaps Isengard?”

“Neither a good option,” Legolas replied grimly.

Indeed it didn’t bode well. For orcs to be heading towards Isengard was concerning after what Gandalf had spoken off about the white wizard Saruman. But worse still was the thought that perhaps the orcs were making for Edoras… She knew the East Mark was just beyond the hill-range of Emyn Muil, but for orcs to be seeking access to Rohan at all was concerning.

All too soon, Legolas was following the lead of Aragorn and Boromir, nimbly steering the little boat into a more sheltered bay on the western bank. The moment the prow crunched into the sand, Rhosynel was hopping out, lingering only long enough to retrieve Ilmara, before she scampered away from the water.

“Scared of water?” Merry asked with some amusement.

“I can’t swim.”

“Oh.”

“Neither can I miss,” Sam lamented with her, also getting away from the rapidly moving water as quickly as possible. “Not many Hobbits can, Merry’s the odd one out.”

“He is anyway,” Pippin muttered also making it to shore, with an odd glance back towards Merry and Boromir still within the boat. “I don’t much like this river.”

“We’ll be free of it for a day, perhaps two,” Aragorn reassured, already hauling the light boat up out of the water, dragging it further into the cover of trees.

It wasn’t a bad area, a little bay, with sandy shore caused by the collapse of the bank. A few trees had toppled, and the building up of flotsam had caused a lee in the rapids, while the standing trees had formed a sheltered area, almost cave like beneath the roots exposed from the collapsed bank.

With the three boats hauled up, the group paused a moment, eyes on the eastern bank and Legolas’s head on a swivel seemingly listening out as well as watching. Lembas bread was passed about, as was some of the fresher food and waterskins. Porting the boats wouldn’t be easy, they’d need all the strength they could get for the weighted hike through the forest.

“We shouldn’t linger,” Boromir muttered quietly, shadowed eyes on the river, the moonlight highlighting his crouched figure. “If those orcs were crossing, they’ll be upon us before long.”

A sobering thought.

Rising to her feet from the sandy shore, Rhosynel dusted off her breeches, mentally resigning herself to the trek ahead.

“These boats are light, at least,” Aragorn agreed, “the Hobbits will be able to assi—”

A scream rent the air.

Instantly the group was scattering, Legolas’s bow materialising in his hand, while Gimli dropped into a crouch, axe drawn. Aragorn and Boromir too drew their weapons.

Rhosynel, however, lunged towards the Hobbits, arms spreading outwards. They were already moving, but it was easy enough to herd them towards the exposed roots and cave like shelter. The four skidded into the overhang, clustering together, and Rhosynel all but threw herself across them, arms out, the long feathery cloak covering their smaller forms with ease. With her back so exposed, the hair on the back of her neck pickled with anxiety, stomach roiling and twisting.

A dull thud reverberated through the air.

A second.

Again, and again, and again.

It took her far too long to recognise the pattern over the pounding of her heart.

Wingbeats.

Wingbeats of some gargantuan creature, flying across the river, back and forth in a pattern familiar to her from watching birds of prey hunt. It was quartering the river and forest, seeking signs of its prey.

The screech of a Nazgul split the air once more.

Flinching, Rhosynel did her best to protect the Hobbits, her own body standing between them and the flying Nazgul. She had to protect them, had to shelter them, but what could she do against a Nazgul? What could she do against some fell flying beast? She had to protect the Hobbits, to protect Frodo, to protect him from the creature the Ring called out to. Or could she get the Ring away from the Hobbits? Could she draw the Nazgul away if she took it? That could work, she was used to being bait, she was swift, she could protect them and draw the Nazgul’s ire if she took the Rin—

The sharp twang of a bowstring and whistle of an arrow sliced through her thoughts.

Another scream tore through the night, not the Nazgul, this was guttural and deep. Craning her neck, she saw a dark outline against the stars, jolting, flapping lopsidedly, circling away from their meagre shelter.

It was leaving.

Rhosynel still didn’t dare move, not just yet, not until she knew it had truly left.

“What was that?” Gimli hissed.

“A fell beast and its master.” Aragorn’s answer was grim.

“They can fly?” Pippin demanded incredulously from beneath Rhosynel. “Well that’s just not fair.”

“I struck its keel,” Legolas reported, “it will have to land soon.”

“Keel?”

“The large breastbone of birds,” Rhosynel answered automatically, and forced herself to move. Blinking, she looked down at the cluster of Hobbits she’d been mantling over, mantling like she was a hawk over her prey. Four sets of wide eyes blinked up at her, some relieved, others concerned. “Are you alright?”

“We’re fine,” Merry answered quickly, sharing a glance with Sam.

“Thank you,” Frodo said quietly.

His eyes didn’t lift to meet hers.

There was no time to question it as Aragorn was moving, seizing one of the boats and beginning to drag it towards the trees. “We must make haste! Boromir with me, Rhosynel with Legolas,” he looked to the Hobbits, “you’ll need to carry your own between you, the wood is light, do not worry. Gimli, clear the way of any underbrush or obstacles.”

Already moving, it took Rhosynel a second to realise her shoulder was empty.

“Ilmara!?” she exclaimed, twisting about in a bid to locate her hawk.

“She’s here Rhos,” Pippin called back, “I can carry her.” Already the Hobbit was encouraging the Limroval onto his shoulder, no matter how outlandishly large she was compared to him.

In her haste to protect the Hobbits, she’d all but abandoned the goshawk. Guilt twisted through her chest as she heaved the boat up and onto her shoulders, letting Legolas take the lead. How could she have just left Ilmara sat out in the open? She’d still not flown, she wouldn’t have been able to get away. Gritting her teeth against the weight of the boat and her guilt, Rhosynel made up her mind. The next time they camped, she’d take Ilmara flying.

Why on Arda had she abandoned Ilmara like that?

With nothing to do other than not fall over the side of the boat, Rhosynel found herself with time to finally, finally, patch up her old Ranger’s cloak. The needle and thread were from the elves, the fine thread almost wisp like and incredibly thin, but it was shockingly strong. Yes, the cloak would be patched soon enough. Holding it up once again, she eyed it for any tears she’d missed.

“Why’d you still have that old thing? You have a new cloak now.”

Gimli’s question was a little gruff but held genuine curiosity.

“It belonged to a friend of mine,” Rhosynel replied, spotting a small hole and immediately attacking it with the needle and thread.

Apparently, that was enough of an answer to pique his curiosity. “A keepsake, eh? Must have been some friend…”

Rhosynel didn’t glance over to him, recognising the gently prying tone to his voice. It was a fair question, but was the bottom of a boat the best place to discuss it? It was, admittedly, somewhat better than being asked in the middle of a fight.

“His name was Rainion,” she said, pausing to assess the cloak once more, “we were Rangers in Ithilien together. A Nazgul killed him.”

“Oh shit.” The blurted exclamation from the dwarf was enough to make her snort quietly. “Sorry lass, I shouldn’t have pried.”

“Its fine,” she replied, only lying slightly, “it was ten years ago. It still hurts but its not a fresh wound. What about you, do you have any keepsakes?”

“Well! I do have three very fine hairs from Lady Galadr—”

“Oh Valar preserve me why did I ask.”

Legolas’s snort wasn’t subtle.

Soon the rapids were behind them, and the going after was far calmer, the water clear and smooth, the hills slowly rising about them and creating a cocooning feeling of being sheltered from the rest of the realm. Up ahead, Rhosynel could make out two sheer cliff faces, and beyond, a wide-open space.

It took a moment to recognise what she was truly seeing.

There, at the entrance to the great lake of Nen Hithoel, towered two gargantuan statues. Great men, carved in the likeness of past kings. Of Aragorn’s ancestors. As though hearing her thoughts, the Ranger’s voice carried across the quiet waters, low and reverent.

“The Argonath,” he said softly, “the kings of old… my kin.”

“We’ve reached Gondor’s northern border,” came Boromir’s quiet reply.

Gondor.

It felt like decades had passed since Rhosynel had last set foot within her homeland. Truthfully it hadn’t been more than a few months, but it still felt long enough that her heart ached with the desire to see her family once more.

Were her parents okay? Did Rhymenel think her dead? Was Hamasael coping with running his stall and minding the children? Did Wrennarys and Faerhys think she’d abandoned them? By the Valar how she wished she could let them know she still lived.

Perhaps… perhaps if their route took them in sight of Minas Tirith, Rhosynel could send Ilmara to them. Could let them know she was well and thinking of them.

Even if she couldn’t come home just yet.

There was one small issue with that plan. Ilmara, still hadn’t flown.

It was growing dark by the time the river stones crunched softly against the prow of the boat, as Legolas steered them into a somewhat sheltered bay. Ahead, the other two boats had already made land, with the Hobbits hopping out to set up camp, and get away from the deep water. She had half a mind to join them, sailing, be it by ship or by boat, wasn’t for her.

“Come on girl, Reevia,” Rhosynel said encouragingly to Ilmara.

The goshawk clacked her beak in response and didn’t move.

“Don’t you get sassy with me.”

That made Gimli laugh, as he clambered out of the boat. “You’re too soft with her, lass, she knows she can talk back.”

There was no point in hiding her eyeroll, having the dwarf tell her how to look after her own bird was mildly annoying, made even more so, by the fact he was right.

“Alright fine,” she muttered, extending her wrist, and watching as Ilmara hopped onto it without hesitation. “We, are going to have to go hunting in the morning,” she explained quietly, once Ilmara was up on her shoulder.

Along with the others, they worked in unison to set up the camp, what had been an ordeal the first night out from Rivendell, now done with seamless ease. Each had their own roles to fill, be it gathering firewood, scouting the area, starting on the evening meal –usually done by Sam– or laying out the various sleeping mats.

Already the stronger of the Fellowship were hauling the boats higher up onto the banks, the three slender structures acting as walls about the ring of sleeping mats, and at its heart was the campfire beginning to crackle and lending a warm orange glow to the area.

Dragging her belongings out of the boat, she found a patch of relatively flat ground to stretch out the fleece lined leather sleeping roll the elves had bestowed upon them, and pulled her journal free. She wanted to sketch the Argonath, and while she hadn’t dared take out her journal on the water, now they were camping she wanted to sketch the memory while it was still fresh in her mind. Already the pages of the book were half full. Flowing shapes of Lothlorien, a hasty scribbled diagram of the ‘imping’ method Ribrion had taught her. Sketches of the wildflower meadow, the pavilions, and buildings of Lorien.

And a set of blank pages for Moria.

Logically, she knew sketching the abandoned dwarven halls wouldn’t hurt. But the idea of taking her mind back to that fell place was upsetting enough. No, she had her journals from visits to Erebor, that was a better memory of dwarven craft. Moria could remain in shadows as far as she was concerned. Maybe someday she could return to those blank pages, but not while she still mourned Gandalf.

“We should leave now,” Legolas was saying, from a lofty perch atop a craggy outcropping, brows drawn into a concerned frown.

“There’s orcs on the eastern bank,” Gimli replied.

“It’s not the eastern shore that worries me.”

“Ah, just what I like to hear before sleeping,” Merry said with mock cheer. “Lovely little nap and a lovely little sense of danger.”

“It’s always a danger sleeping next to you,” Pippin retorted good naturedly as he proceeded to set up his sleeping mat right alongside Merry’s. “Especially when we’ve eaten garlic.”

“Nothing wrong with garlic lads,” Sam protested.

“It is when you smell their breath,” Rhosynel commented dryly, glad she’d chosen a sleeping roll further away from garlic-breathed-Hobbits. “Why’d you think I never sleep next to Merry?”

“You insult my honour!” Merry protested, “you’re meant to be on my side!”

“Never upset the cook,” she warned, “Sam your cooking is wonderful, I just don’t want to smell it a second time around.”

There was a poorly muffled snort of laughter from Gimli who was wisely keeping out of the debate.

“Oh I can’t argue with that miss,” Sam replied, dishing up a bowl, and then pointedly holding it out towards her. “I put a couple o’extra potato chunks in there for you.”

“Sam, you are now my favourite Hobbit.”

Apparently, that wasn’t allowed, judging by the protests from Merry and Pippin, and while Frodo remained quiet, she didn’t miss the brief flicker of a smile. He was still sombre, and while she couldn’t blame him, Rhosynel was beginning to grow concerned with just how reclusive he was becoming. Gandalf’s deaths had hit them all hard, but none more so than Frodo. The grief, combined with the mental and physical weight of the Ring, was slowly but surely dragging him down.

Not for the first time she wondered absently if there was a way to alleviate his burden.

While the others badgered Sam for their share of the evening meal, Rhosynel shifted through her bags with one hand, uncovering the roll of glass jars Rhymenel had forced upon her, and withdrew the comfrey salve. Little jar in hand, she moved over to Frodo’s side, settling a couple of feet to his right, trying very hard not to spill her stew.

“How’s your neck?” she asked quietly, ignoring the bickering at their backs. “Is the chain still rubbing your skin?”

The one shouldered shrug was noncommittal, but that came as no surprise. “It’s sore, but bearable,” Frodo replied quietly.

“Here,” she held out her hand, the glass vial resting in her palm “my sister plies me with salves before leaving on trips. This is comfrey, it should help any soreness or inflammation. A little goes a long way.”

For a moment she half expected him not to take it, to brush off her concern or turn away her offering. But then, Frodo reached out with one hand, and took the vial, inspecting the thick liquid within. “I think… Sam used comfrey in the garden, back home,” he said quietly, tilting the vial one way, then the other, watching it with curious eyes. “Smelt horrible.”

“Oh for sure, don’t breathe too deeply when applying it.”

For the briefest moment, Frodo grinned.

Until the sounds of a distant argument wiped it from his face. Almost as one, the campsite fell silent, heads lifting and looking over towards where Boromir had been keeping watch, and where Aragorn had also headed.

“—eakness, there is frailty, but there is corag—”

“—not lead it within a hundred leagues of your ci—”

It had been a while since Rhosynel had lest felt the coils of panic and anxiety slip about her chest. But once more they twisted about her heart, her lungs, bars of iron that made it hard to breathe. She may not have heard all the words, but she could guess at what was being argued over.

A loud crunch of gravel had her jolting, almost launching the stew across herself, but she twisted about to find Legolas had dropped down from his perch and was approaching the campfire. His footsteps uncharacteristically loud in the gravel of the shore.

“Is there any stew left for me, Sam? Or have you Hobbits eaten it already?” he asked.

“I think Rhosynel got most of it,” Gimli answered before Sam could.

They were distracting the Hobbits.

“That’s became I’m Sam’s favourite now,” she said quickly, “no one else here appreciates a good potato like us.”

“Whoa whoa whoa,” Pippin protested immediately.

It was delightfully simple to steer their attention away from the argument, which had fallen blessedly silent. But even then, the resumed conversations were more muted, quieter and withdrawn, even as Sam tried to encourage Frodo to eat, and was politely but firmly turned away.

Physical danger she could help protect them from, but the mental strains, they were far harder to assist in. How was she meant to help protect, if the threat was from within the Fellowship?

It worried Rhosynel.

The harsh light of dawn seemed to have sought out Rhosynel’s eyes specifically, and as such she found herself rousing far earlier than planned. Her watch had ended a few hours after midnight, taken over by Gimli, and it felt as though she’d not truly slept. The fleece lined mats were delightfully soft, but having experienced true elvish beds, they were a poor imitation.

Not to mention the scent of garlic had lingered on the air.

Dragging herself upright, she was met with a soft chatter from Ilmara, currently perched on the mound of Rhosynel’s pack, and looking unnerved by sleeping so close to the ground.

“Just fly to a tree,” she muttered under her breath.

Another chatter greeted her words.

Scrubbing at her face, Rhosynel did her best to properly wake up, and carefully pushed to her feet. It seemed she wasn’t the only one awake, as both Aragorn and Legolas were sat upright –although that wasn’t unusual for the elf– their eyes scanning the river and the eastern shore. They’d be crossing soon, but first, they’d need breakfast.

Scooping up Ilmara and getting her settled on a shoulder, Rhosynel stepped carefully over to the pair.

“I’m going to take Ilmara hunting,” she greeted softly, “she’ll be no use if I can’t get her to fly, and the meat will see us out for a few days.”

The wordless grunt from Aragorn was… unusual.

But at least Legolas looked up at her words. “I heard grouse to the north, south is too noisy for me to hear anything but the falls.”

Why was she not surprised he could hear grouse.

“Alright,” she replied, “try not to leave without me.”

Another wordless grunt.

Was the argument from the previous night still bothering him? There’d been plenty of arguments and discussions within the group, what had bothered him so badly about this one? What had they been discussing to leave Aragorn in such a foul mood?

Shaking her curiosity off, Rhosynel trudged northwards along the shore of the river, turning into the forest after a few minutes, and began hiking up the steep slope. The worry in her chest gave speed to her steps, lengthening her stride until she was all but bounding across the uneven ground, around lumps of masonry and half buried ruins. The trees didn’t thin, if anything it became denser, but this was Ilmara’s natural habitat.

Once they were a good distance from the rest of the Fellowship, Rhosynel had Ilmara step onto her wrist, and held her aloft, watching the breeze against her feathers, and turning into the wind.

“Ilmara, you need to fly again,” she explained patiently, getting a head tilt, “we have to test your wings, okay? Hunt!”

Nothing.

“Rui!” she barked in Sindarin, and flung Ilmara into the air.

For a brief moment she thought the stubborn bird would refuse to open her wings, but as she began to drop, they snapped outwards. And immediately angled back towards Rhosynel.

“Oh no you don’t!”

Darting away, she heard a frustrated caw from Ilmara, and a glance revealed she was following, flapping slightly lopsidedly, as though trying not to use her wing too much.

“Reevia!”

Upwards she soared, using the wind to her advantage, easily gaining height and angling between the branches.

“Good girl! Rui, hunt!”

Apparently encouraged that her feathers weren’t about to be ripped out again, Ilmara began to fly, properly.

Twisting and darting through the trees, looping back and forth, eyes tracking and watching, looking for anything she could hunt. It didn’t take long, as one moment she was darting through a gap in the branches, and the next diving. There was the shriek of a grouse, and then silence.

Heaping praise upon her, Rhosynel picked her up, along with the grouse. Passing her a few chunks of meat, she scanned the area again. “Want another try?”

An eager head bob, and Ilmara was launched skyward once more.

Twice more, they paced through the woods, catching another grouse, and then a small rabbit. It seemed the more Ilmara flew, the stronger her confidence returned, twisting through the trunks, flitting around branches, and skimming through gaps that seemed too small to pass. Grinning, Rhosynel paced along behind, eyes fixed on her pride and joy, revelling in the flight of the goshawk.

A deep, reverberating sound, echoed through the trees. Rattling in her chest and spiking in her ears. Haunting, melancholy, and heavy, rolling across the hills and forest like the sound of distant thunder.

But unlike a storm, this noise locked her in place, gazing unseeingly into the distance.

Fear, fear intertwined with terror, coiled about Rhosynel’s heart, serpentine bands of iron tightening, constricting her lungs, her heart, her breathing, her thinking.

Again it sounded, that haunting bellow echoing through the forest.

Rhosynel’s feet were moving even before she’d chosen to, pounding across the loamy ground, leaping over roots, and fallen branches in her haste. A horn had been blown, a horn, which she had only ever seen hung on Boromir’s hip, unused and unneeded all these weeks.

In the distance, it rang out once again, and fell silent.

The horn of Gondor had been blown.

Chapter Text

Pounding feet, flashing trees, branches snagged at her clothes and hair as Rhosynel hurtled through the forest with little regard to her own safety. She knew her feet, trusted the strength of her legs, instinctively knew when to shift her weight, how to time her strides to hurdle the twisting roots, where to place her hand when vaulting across a fallen tree. The twisting forests were no different to the twisting streets of Minas Tirith, not really. Instead of stone and cobbles, it was bark and leaves, instead of solid walls, it was thick trunks.

The horn of Gondor had been blown.

Was he in danger? Had the Fellowship been set upon? Were the Hobbits okay? Were the men alright? Galadriel had all but told her what would happen if she departed.

Rhosynel should never have left them, no matter how briefly.

Eyes locked onto the distance, trusting her gut, she all but flew through the forest, cloak flaring out behind her as she skidded under a low branch, before launching herself off the outcropping of what seemed to be a ruin. Her paced didn’t slow, the moment she hit the ground lightly, she was resuming her sprint.

Alongside, Ilmara gave a screech, flitting through the trees.

“To Boromir!” Rhosynel barked belatedly.

The Limroval didn’t change course, clearly having understood what was happening, already knowing who to fly towards. She was smart, she’d been trained for this, Rhosynel just had to keep up.

The slope was treacherous, her ankle almost rolling, only held in place by the thick leather boots she wore for that exact reason. Her run shifted, becoming less of a sprint, and more like great bounding strides. The cloak flared, and for a brief moment, the sense of weightlessness came over her once more, before she struck the ground and pushed off once again seeming to glide far further through the air with the speed of her sprint.

Something dark flashed past her.

A snarl tore through the air, and she barely had time to twist away as a huge orc ran into her path. Whirling, swords in hand –when had she drawn her swords?– she slashed across its lower back. It was big, bigger than any orc she’d seen before, with heavy dark armour, and a white hand stamped on its chest.

Rhosynel didn’t slow her steps, leaving it behind as she continued in Ilmara’s shadow.

Another orc-thing, and another, a third, fourth, eighth, twelfth, thirtieth, too many for her to count, all pouring through the trees. Her headlong sprint shifted once more, becoming darting, flitting through the trees, avoiding the reach of the orcs.

Ilmara gave a screech.

Looking up, Rhosynel was met by the sight of Boromir a hundred paces away. Sword in hand, with two of the Hobbits at his back, rocks being hurled at the orcs racing towards them. Where were the others? Where were Frodo and Sam? Where was Legolas and Gimli? Where was Aragorn?

As Ilmara flashed past him, she saw Boromir turn his head, recognising that Ilmara’s arrival meant that Rhosynel wouldn’t be far behind. Relief flickered across his face as he caught sight of her head long sprint towa—

A thick black arrow slammed into Boromir’s shoulder.

The horrified scream Rhosynel gave was echoed by Merry and Pippin’s own fear, as Boromir staggered back a step, looking down at himself in clear shock. For a moment, time seemed to slow, the pounding of Rhosynel’s feet across the loamy ground, the throwing of rocks from the Hobbits, Boromir’s confusion and alarm all seemed to linger and drag on endlessly.

But then an orc barrelled towards him, moving instinctively from decades of training Boromir blocked the strike with one hand, a kick and slash had that orc crumpling. The world resumed its frenetic pace, the air filled with snarls and barks from the orcs that flooded through the forest.

She was fifty feet away, close, but not close enough. Yet another arrow streaked through the air, the wind whistling across the ragged fletching, to slam into Boromir again. This time the Captain staggered, and fell to one knee.

Twenty feet. She was almost there.

Boromir surged up again, sword lashing out with brutal precision and strength.

Up ahead, much further up the hill, stood an orc, a full head taller than the other already too large orcs, lazily drawing back on a massive longbow, the black fletched arrow nocked and poised, aimed at Boromir.

Ten feet.

Five.

Three.

One.

The orc released the arrow at the same time Rhosynel flashed past Boromir and the Hobbits. The black arrow streaked towards them, and without thinking further than the drive to protect him, to protect Boromir, Rhosynel put herself in its path without hesitation.

Pain.

Searing pain streaked across her ribs.

There was a scream at her back, little more than a horrified bellow.

But she wasn’t dead yet, so Rhosynel kept moving. Even as blood bloomed across her side, even as each pounding footstep sent bolts of pain up her spine, even as instinct screamed at her to turn, to run to hide. Teeth gritted, jaw aching, eyes locked on the huge orc Rhosynel kept running at it. Already they were knocking a fourth arrow, movements quick and practised but not hurrying, seemingly content to take its time in slaughtering her kin, and unbothered by her rapid approach.

She was just one woman, already injured. The orc, however, didn’t see the grey shape flitting through the trees above as the bow raised once more.

“ILMARA! DAGOR!” The strength of Rhosynel’s scream tore at her throat.

There was no hesitation from the goshawk, plunging out of the sky, talons forward, and lashing across the massive orc’s eyes.

A guttural bellow came from him, as he released the arrow.

There was no chance to track its flight as it zipped past her with a whistle, no chance to see if it found its mark, no chance to know if it had struck Boromir. Rhosynel closed on the orc, leaping, swords held in both hands, slashing across his face and neck, as she sailed past.

Hitting the ground, her steps didn’t slow, one hand snapping out, grasping a slender trunk and using her momentum to slingshot herself back the way she’d come. The orc was already staggering upright, as both her blades slammed up, under its black iron chest plate, plunging into its chest.

It barely flinched, massive hand wrapping about her throat and hauling her upwards.

“ILMA—”

Rhosynel’s scream was cut off in a gag as her feet left the ground, swords abandoned in its gut, her hands clawing at the tightening grasp about her neck. She couldn’t breathe, her windpipe being squeezed shut, her pulse thundering in her ears. Darkness narrowing her vision to the snarling face of the grotesque creature, eyes that were far too human and far too intelligent eyeing her in curiosity. Its hand latched about her throat, her feet kicking uselessly.

Stars flickered in her eyes.

Stars that were replaced by storm grey and pearl white, as Ilmara slammed into the creatures face once more, filling the air with her furious shrieks, lashing out with razor sharp talons. Fighting to protect her human, the one that had raised and loved her.

A spray of blood and worse struck Rhosynel’s face, as one of the orcs eyes burst beneath the goshawk’s wrath. The hand about her throat, released, and Rhosynel hit the ground, staggering back in pain. Fighting for breath, once more she threw herself at it, reaching out to seize the handles of her swords still lodged in its ribcage.

The grips met her hands, and with a violent twist, the sickening crack of bone filled the air.

The orc staggered, before crashing to the ground, not quite dead, pained snarls bubbling up in its throat. A throat, that was soon split open as Rhosynel dragged her blade across it. It hadn’t yet crumpled before she was already moving, skidding and tumbling down the slope, towards a prone body.

Barely managing to stop her headlong charge, Rhosynel slid to a halt alongside Boromir. He was down on one knee, gasping for breath, two arrows, firmly imbedded in his shoulder and flank.

No sign of a third arrow.

Nor of the Hobbits.

“They-they took the little ones!” Boromir exclaimed, struggling to breathe, one hand grasping at Rhosynel’s tunic, staining the grey with red. “Merry, and Pippin! They took—”

“Ilmara!” Rhosynel choked out, painfully aware that more orc creatures were swarming down the hill towards them. “Merry, Pippin. Aphad, quickly!”

Trained well, Ilmara streaked through the trees.

“Run, Rhos, flee,” Boromir was gasping, “leave me, save yourse—”

His pleading was cut off in a gasp as she seized his good arm, hauling it across her shoulder.

Pain blazed across her ribs at the motion, and the carry quickly shifted to a drag, hauling Boromir across the dirt and leaf litter. There was a ruined pillar, if she could get Boromir behind it, he’d be somewhat sheltered from the sight of the descending orcs. She could barely hear him, barely hear his pained words, the blood pounding through her ears as she hauled him into the illusion of safety, breath ragged in her throat with desperation.

“Stay down,” Rhosynel urged, once in the lee of the ruin, prizing his hand from her collar. “Stay down. Don’t move. Please.”

His dark grey eyes were wide and wild, as he said something, but it was lost amidst the snarls bearing down on them. Lurching to her feet as his fingers grazed her arm, Rhosynel bolted to one side, trying to draw their attention. Yelling, waving her arms, she watched as two, then three dozen orcs, began to shift their direction, easily lured by a single human woman, seemingly alone in the woods.

They’d kill her, but first they’d have to catch her.

‘What am I doing, what am I doing, what am I doing,’ her thoughts tumbled through her mind in time with her sprint.

‘You are helping, in this quest.’

Either the Lady Galadriel’s voice had a far longer reach than she realised, or the memory of her voice was haunting Rhosynel. But at those words, her fear fade like background noise. It didn’t leave, not truly, but the talons about her heart loosened their grip. She knew fear, she was used to it by now.

Fleet of foot and swift of movement, it was only natural that she took the role of bait.

One moment she was fleeing, leading the orcs from her fallen companion, the next she was twisting around, feathered cloak flaring about her shoulders.

The first orc was felled before it knew she’d turned, the second ran into her swords, driving her back a pace. The third, rose its own sword in a wild overhead strike, and died with her blade in its ribcage. With a twist and yank, she wrenched her sword free, now running up hill, looping back, least the orcs overwhelm her.

There were so many, if she stopped moving for even a moment, she’d be overwhelmed.

Breathing ragged, Rhosynel was darting in amongst the trees, using her smaller frame and longer legs, to flit in and out of their ranks, slicing across hamstrings, plunging her blades into their guts. Another overhead strike, her swords barely came up in time, braced in a V. The power of the blow left her arms ringing in pain, but she heaved them away with a twist of her hips and slashed her sword down into their neck as the orc staggered.

Deep in her chest, a scream was building, not one of joy in freedom, or of anger at being controlled, or fear of losing her kin. There was no time for such emotions, nothing but pure fury boiled in her chest. Twisting faster and faster, spiralling, lashing out, stabbing, striking, parry, thrust, stab strike maim. Maim. Maim. Kill.

Scream.

Scream and roar and yell. Ripping from her lungs the fury threatened to tear her apart, threatened to drown her in its madness. Fury verging on despair, Rhosynel was more than outnumbered, she was close to being overwhelmed, even with her swiftness, her arms were growing heavy, her feet growing leaden. Her companions were injured, or taken, or missing, and here she was, trying desperately to hold back the storm of orcs that threatened to tear her apart.

Alone.

Where were the Hobbits? Were Merry and Pippin dead? What of Frodo and Sam? Where were the others? She didn’t even know if Boromir still lived.

She didn’t want to find his body.

A slash upwards had an orc staggering at the same time something hummed past her ear. A disgusting squeal sounded behind her. Twisting around she was met by the sight of an orc, sword still raised, elven arrow embedded in its eye.

Legolas.

Plunging her sword into the chest of another, Rhosynel took off running again, arrows flitting past her with near-gentle hums. She didn’t flit and dart now, not with arrows elegantly gliding past her, to jolt or duck or weave could risk Legolas’ arrows finding their mark in her. No, she ran straight, she ran true, she ran fast, and she trusted the elf to bring down any threats at her back. Even at her distance she could hear the bellow of Gimli, and the clash of sword strikes from Aragorn’s blade.

She had to reach them, had to reach them, had to—

An arrow passed so close it tore through her hair, but a wet gurgle behind only spurred her on. Breathing ragged, she stumbled, her knee briefly hitting the ground before she could brace, pain exploding from her ribs. A blade swung down towards her neck, and she rolled, back hitting the ground, the sword crashed into the space she’d just been. With a kick Rhosynel slammed her boot into their chest, forcing them back. Another roll, this time to her feet, following their stumble with her sword, slamming it into their stomach and wrenching it upwards.

She didn’t stop to see if they fell, but moved on to the next orc.

Up ahead, she could see her three companions, spurred on, Rhosynel darted, ducking one swing, leaping a body, and narrowly missing a thrust. The blade dragged across the leather belt she wore, but she felt no pain, not with her blood thundering in her ears.

“Rhosynel! Lass! She’s here!”

They were yelling, voices merging into one as she hurdled one last obstacle, and all but crashed to the ground in their midst. Rolling, she heaved to her feet, back to the three, all of them forming a defensive square. Braced as such, it became almost easy to fend off the remaining orcs. With her back guarded, she was able to breathe, able to think, able to fight. The twang of Legolas’s bowstring filled the air, backed by the snarls from Gimli, and the silent concentration of Aragorn.

Within minutes, the forest fell silent.

“Are you hurt?” Aragorn was demanding even before the last orc finished gurgling, twisting about and seizing her shoulder, eyes wild. “Are you hur—”

“No, I’m fine,” Rhosynel gasped, not knowing if it was even true, her ears were ringing, her arms were burning, her legs ached, and her ribs throbbed.

“Where’s Borom—”

“Boromir!”

His name left her in a near shriek, and she was moving again. Legs unsteady, exhaustion creeping up on her, dragging her down slowly but surely. She could hear the others following.

There, the broken ruin she’d dragged him to, slumped in its shadow was the familiar red of his tunic. He’d moved, not far, but he’d clearly attempted to take a stand before collapsing once more. Blood soaked the crimson fabric, staining it to dark pitch. Slamming to her knees, she was joined by Aragorn, already reaching out, trying to slow the bleeding.

“They, took. The little ones,” Boromir gasped weakly, face pale and drawn. “F-Frodo, where’s Frodo? I tried to take it, take the Ring.”

Her heart plummeted as nausea surged upwards, trying to overwhelm her. He’d tried to take it? Where was Frodo? Was he okay? Had… had Boromir hurt him? The idea had Rhosynel clamping her teeth down, tasting copper and acid.

“It is beyond our reach now,” Aragorn was saying, trying to sound reassuring, “Frodo is gone.” His hand went to the arrow imbedded in Boromir’s shoulder.

“No, leave it,” Boromir managed to bark, hand coming up to grasp Aragorn’s wrist, stopping him from wrenching the arrow free. “It is over, men will fall, my city, my city will fall to ruin.”

“I will not let that happen,” Aragorn replied, but made no move to pull the arrow again. Even as Rhosynel’s brain struggled to catch up with what was being said. “I will not let your people fall.”

“Our… our people. I would have followed you,” Boromir gasped, voice weakening, “my brother...my captain, my King.”

Aragorn let go, and leant forwards to kiss Boromir’s head.

Boromir’s eyes fluttered, and then fell shut, face relaxing as he… died? Slipped unconscious? She couldn’t tell. Panic surged in her chest, but it was beaten furiously back as all the training Rhymenel had hammered into her time and time again came into play.

Rhosynel reached past Aragorn, pressing her fingers to Boromir’s neck. A pulse, he was still alive. But it was weak.

He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t dead. Could she save him? Could she prevent his death? Already her hands were moving without conscious input, moving to inspect the wounds, moving to pull the arrows free. She didn’t have Rhymenel’s skills, but she did have some knowledge, she could save him, she could sav—

A hand closed on her shoulder, pulling her away. It was easy to shake off, but less so when it gripped her arm and yanked.

“W-what are you doing?” Rhosynel choked out, voice little more than a growl. When had she started crying? Tears streamed down her face even as nausea tried to overpower her. Boromir was injured, he was dying before her eyes, why was Aragorn pulling her away?

She pushed forwards, towards Boromir’s prone form, but was met by Aragorn’s arms about her chest, preventing her from reaching out, gently drawing her back. She stretched, fingers grazing across Boromir’s arm, reaching for him even as she was pulled back, away, away from him. A mockery of her falling dreams, his hand just out of reach of her desperate stretching.

She could save him, she just needed to reach him. Please.

“We cannot save him,” Aragorn said quietly, voice broken, “I-I have nothing to aid him.”

For one long aching heartbeat, she could only stare at the Ranger-Heir as he held her back, eyes filled with sorrow and pity. Stare blankly at his giving up, for the fact that he tried to draw her away too, for the fact he tried to make her give up, even when Boromir’s heart still beat, no matter how faintly. He wasn’t dead yet, which meant she could try. She wouldn’t lose him. Couldn’t lose him.

Not him too.

Anger surged in her chest, but not directed to the Ranger she was still staring at.

“Legolas.” Her voice came out hard and unyielded, a current of steel running through her words that’s she’d never heard before. “My bag, by the river. Get it.” The elf hesitated. “Gimli. Hold him down.”

Lunging forwards, she all but knocked Aragorn aside as her hand latched around the arrow in Boromir’s shoulder. With a wordless yell and wrench, she pulled the first arrow free.

“LEGOLAS REEVIA,” she screamed over her shoulder. Her words almost lost to the bellow of pain Boromir let loose.

Apparently, an arrow being forcibly removed was enough to bring the Captain round. There was the scuffling of feet, and then Legolas was gone, and Gimli was seizing Boromir’s ankles, holding him down as he thrashed.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

With another wrench she ripped the second arrow free, his second scream was hoarse, but no less agonised. A brief glance told her they were bodkin points, and both still attached to the shaft of the arrows. Good, she wouldn’t have to dig them out.

“Rhosynel!” Aragorn was barking, but he made no bid to grab her, already moving to help.

Using her blade, she sliced at the hem of her own tunic, ripping great long strips of elven fabric, and shoving the cloth into the arrow wounds beneath her hands. She could feel his blood, seeping through the fabric, scalding her fingers.

Bloodied hands, desperately yanking arrows from a chest. Pressing to the gaping holes, trying to stop crimson blood from staining crimson silk to darkest pitch. Panic, fear, terror. But determination running through it all. She could help, she could stop this, she could save his life, she could sav—

“Rhosynel! We have nothing to bind or clean them with!”

“I do!” she barked back, not looking up, focused on keeping pressure on Boromir’s injuries. His hand was gripping her wrist with bruising levels of pain, she could feel the bones grating against one another as Boromir squeezed.

A crash of undergrowth heralded Legolas’s return, her pack in hand.

“Leather satchel, the one I used to wear on my hip,” she instructed quickly, grabbing her knife once more and rapidly cutting through Boromir’s own tunic, with a rip, she pulled it apart, exposing his shoulder more fully.

Black veins seemed to extend from the wounds across his skin.

“Orc poison,” Aragorn said, her satchel in hand, “if I had Athelas I could stop it. But without…” he pulled a roll of bandages free. “Alas it does not grow in this region.”

“What is Athelas,” Rhosynel demanded, working to expose the wound to his flank. She didn’t know every medicinal herb, but thanks to Rhymenel’s drilling and training, she knew enough to be familiar with their names. But Athelas wasn’t one of them, perhaps it was a Sindarin name, perhaps she’d know the common nam—

“It also goes by Kingsfoil.”

“K-kingsfoil!?”

It was less of a question and more of a curse.

Her blood-soaked hands snapped away from Boromir’s chest, snatching the satchel from Aragorn, all but tearing through it in her haste. There! A leather roll, securely wrapping its precious cargo. Unravelling it to reveal four small glass jars. A missing jar of comfrey salve now in Frodo’s possession, one of willow bark for her cramps, another of lavender, another of ginger for sickness. And the last one, used in Gondor for its refreshing properties, for its use in aiding headaches when brewed as a tea.

Kingsfoil.

“Here, take it,” she all but thrust the vial into Aragorn’s hands. “My sister,” she answered the unspoken question in his bewildered eyes.

The next few moments were a flurry of activity, Legolas using a waterskin to wash the wounds, Gimli grimly hanging onto Boromir, preventing him from struggling and apologising profusely as he did so. Aragorn was quick to grind the dried flowers into paste with water, and spent a horrible minute smearing it around and into the wounds. A spare tunic became a cloth pad. And then finally, the four of them binding a pure white elven bandage about him, passing the roll back and forth with barely a word spoken.

A sheen of sweat covered Boromir’s skin, coating his limbs. His face was ashen, barely hanging on, but he was still breathing, albeit shallowly, even as his eyes flickered as his strength faded. Aragorn sat back on his heels, his own chest heaving with the effort, but Rhosynel remained close, and with Legolas’s aid, lowered Boromir back down.

“Let,” Boromir breathed weakly, prompting Rhosynel to lean closer, “me die. I have failed.”

Inhaling sharply, Rhosynel took his hand between hers, gripping it with an intensity she didn’t realise she had. “No.” The word was sharp, that same steel in her voice. “You will not die. Not if I can prevent it. I’m not losing you too.”

There was no look of relief, only disappointment, as Boromir finally slipped unconscious. Automatically, she was checking his breathing, still shallow, but not worsening. He needed to sleep, needed to rest, and recover. Which would not be easy, in a forest surrounded by orc corpses.

“Rhosynel,” Aragorn said, and her entire body tensed, braced for a scolding she did not deserve. But she forced herself to sit up, releasing Boromir’s limp hands, and turn to face her reprimand head on. “Thank you.”

The wind left her in a rush, and her shoulders sagged.

“He should be dead,” Gimli said gruffly.

“How did the orcs not find him?” Legolas was asking, but he was looking away, eyes following a trail through the forest. One that her own feet had made. “Wait, you led them away?”

“Yeah, I know,” she said, stiffly rising to her feet, “reckless.”

“Brave,” Aragorn said quietly. “These were no normal orcs, but Uruk-Hai. Surman’s hand covers their armour. He’s raised an army of his own for Mordor.”

“There’s got to be hundreds,” Gimli said, looking around. “How many of them did you kill lass?”

“What? I didn’t keep count,” she managed to reply, finding the last of the water skin and emptying it in one. “I was a little busy, trying to survive,” she added, when the dwarf scowled and muttered something about not keeping her score, whatever that was meant to mean. “Regardless, the orcs have Merry and Pippin, I don’t know where Frodo or Sam are either.”

“Frodo has gone, headed for the Easten Shore, I imagine Sam is not far behind him,” Aragorn said, collecting his weapons from various trees, where they’d been flung throughout the battle. “So, we must follow these Uruk-Hai, before we lose the others.”

“Ilmara already is,” she interjected.

“She’ll be shot down.”

“No, she doesn’t trust orcs, she trusted the elves. She won’t make that mistake twice.”

“And just how long can she fly for?” Aragorn all but demanded.

“Longer than an orc can run for,” she shot back, bristling slightly. “I am just as eager to follow as you are,” Rhosynel added, before he could object once again. “But none of us are in any fit state to run just yet. Let alone move Boromir. Give it half an hour, then we start.”

But Aragorn wasn’t looking at her –or at least not her eyes– instead he was fixed on an area around her stomach. “I thought you said you weren’t hurt?”

“What?”

Looking down, she found a gash cutting through her new shirt, and a patch of red. About the size of her splayed hand, certainly unexpected, considering she couldn’t feel it. A wave of dizziness swept over her, and she took an instinctive step to balance through it.

“One hour,” Aragorn said, looking almost amused. “Since apparently you need to be patched up too.”

There was little Rhosynel could do to argue against that.

Apparently, putting herself between Boromir and a longbow resulted in her getting shot.

True, the arrow hadn’t lodged into her gut, but the cut that carved across her flank and ribs hurt like hell regardless. Aragorn thought it wasn’t overly serious, and she’d have agreed, up until the Ranger started cleaning it and applying more of the Kingsfoil paste.

It burnt like the fires of Mordor as he smeared it into the cut.

Apparently, Rhosynel knew enough curses to make the tips of his ears turn red. But he didn’t stop stitching, and eventually wrapped the small number of bandages they had left, about her stomach and ribs. After that, she was more than willing to remain sprawled out on the forest floor, letting the other three find bags, sort through provisions, and prepare to start moving once more. She kept her head turned towards Boromir, monitoring the rise and fall of his chest, like a hawk watching its prey.

“Leave anything that can be spared behind,” Aragorn called over to Legolas and Gimli.

“Rude.”

Her blasé comment had the Ranger pausing in the sheathing of his knife, to frown down at her. With a snk the knife was sheathed, and for a moment Aragorn just stood above her, upside down with his hands on his hips and a scowl on his face.

“Are you sure you’ll manage?” he asked for the umpteenth time.

“Yes,” Rhosynel repeated with a sigh from amongst the leaf litter, for what felt like the hundredth time. “It’s not like any of you would rather remain back, is it? I know how to look for infections, I can rebind his wounds, I can try and make sure he doesn’t succeed in dying.”

There was a sigh. Apparently she’d given the wrong answer, but she wasn’t sure how.

“I meant, are you sure you’ll be okay?”

It took a great deal of effort not to roll her eyes, she knew it was asked from concern, so tried not to show her annoyance. But Rhosynel pushed herself upright with a grimace, shaking her hair free of any leaves still clinging on. “Also yes, I’ll keep an eye on my own wounds, just the same. Once you’re in range of Ilmara she’ll head to Legolas.”

“And how’re you going to catch up?” Gimli asked, joining the conversation.

“In all likelihood, we won’t.”

Her answer gave the three pause, prompting Legolas to look up from recollecting his arrows, brows furrowed in concern. But Rhosynel knew it to be true, she wouldn’t be able to catch up, not if she was to remain alongside the unconscious Boromir, and even if he woke and was eager to move, their joint injuries would slow them considerably.

Merry and Pippin couldn’t wait that long, if they were alive at all.

Aragorn especially seemed concerned about leaving them behind. “You would be vulnerable,” he said eventually.

“Lad,” Gimli said, clapping Aragorn on the lower back, nearly pitching him down the hill. “She can handle herself enough for the two of ‘em, she’s already proved that.”

His words made Rhosynel blink. Could she? Would she be able to protect the injured Boromir enough, while she was also injured? The wound wasn’t too painful, but if she was caught unaware, it would be bad.

“You are not wrong, master dwarf,” Aragorn finally relented, which was a shock to hear in of itself. “Then we hunt, will Ilmara be able to stand the pace?”

“Of course,” she replied, and reach for her pouch, grasping the parchment strips she carried. “Take these, once you find her you can send her back or send her ahead to others.”

Legolas was quick to take them, rolling the paper neatly and tucking it into his own bag.

“Rhosynel,” Aragorn said, his voice sombre, “we may not cross paths again.”

A sobering thought.

A thought she hadn’t really considered. The pit of her stomach dropped sharply, alarm spiking through her chest at the thought. Of course she’d see them again, they weren’t going to be separated for long, they’d catch up to the Hobbits, and bring them back to… to… somewhere.

“No,” Rhosynel said sharply, pushing the concern away as harshly as she swallowed the lump in her throat. She couldn’t consider it, not if she wanted to remain in control. “We will cross paths again. It just… might take a while, is all.”

“Then,” Legolas started carefully, “we will leave you marks to follow, and we will see you later.”

“Ah, putting my old Ranger skills to good use—”

Her words were cut off, as Legolas dropped to one knee, wrapping Rhosynel in a hug with little warning. The huff of breath that left her was from surprise, the pain in her ribs at the embrace barely registering, even as she hugged him back. Almost the moment the elf released her, Gimli was pulling her into his own crushing bear hug, almost yanking her back muscles with the motion.

And then Aragorn crouched down before her, hand on her shoulder, and far too heavy. His brow was furrowed, eyes scanning her face as though searching for a reason not to leave her behind. It was easy enough to school her expression, to keep any trepidation from her features, it wasn’t a confident expression, but it was neutral. Although she had no doubt that Aragorn could see straight through her mask, he’d gotten good at that.

“Take care of yourself,” he said pointedly but gently, “they will look for his coming from the White Tower… But if he does not pull through, do not feel guilty.”

But she would.

Clearly Aragorn knew that, as the look he gave her was bordering on sympathetic, but then he too hugged her, and rose to his feet once again.

“Good luck,” Rhosynel said, fighting back the threat of tears, “find them, bring them back safe.”

As one, the three Hunters moved away, heading through the trees and further into the hills, heading east. And then Rhosynel was alone, with an unconscious Boromir, the corpses of orcs, and nothing but the forest leading back to the river of Anduin and the peak of Amon Hen at their backs.

Chapter Text

Perhaps sending the men on ahead, had not been the smartest choice. It wasn’t that threats lingered around every rock and shrub, but that it was damn near impossible to keep watch overnight without coming close to falling asleep. At first, Rhosynel had tried propping herself up against the base of a tree, only to jolt awake after Valar knew how many hours.

So instead, here she was, walking in circles.

But while the constant movement did indeed keep her awake, it also meant there was sounds and movement for any orcs who’d not yet left the woods. And it also meant, that she couldn’t keep as keen an eye on Boromir’s condition.

He still hadn’t woken.

However, his chest still rose and fell, his eyes still shifted beneath the lids, and he still gave the occasional groan in his sleep. All of which was reassuring, but none of which actually helped settle Rhosynel’s nerves. They were too exposed, there was little to shelter them from prying eyes, there was no way to defend their meagre excuse of a campsite. Rhosynel only had one set of eyes, and they were no good at seeing through the darkness of night.

So she paced, she wondered, she kept moving.

With nothing other than keeping watch left to her, worries and fears soon crept in. Were Merry and Pippin okay? No, no of course they weren’t, they’d been snatched up by hideous orc-men and hauled away. She should have remained with them, should have gotten the two hobbits away from the orcs. She could have carried them, could have run. But that would have meant leaving Boromir behind.

And what of the Hunters? Were they in sight of the orcs? Had Ilmara found them? Ordinarily, Rhosynel would have insisted on joining, but yet again, that would require leaving Boromir behind. It seemed, no matter the options, someone would have been left behind or died or gone missing…

Which brought her to the most pressing fear.

Where was Frodo and Sam? She’d not seen hide nor hair of them, and while Aragorn seemed to believe they were continuing on alone, the fact Rhosynel couldn’t be sure of such a thing was… harrowing. But not as harrowing as knowing that Boromir had tried to take the Ring.

Her stomach twisted and roiled at the thought, at the idea of Boromir –so tall and broad– potentially hurting little Frodo in his bid to take the Ring.

It made her feel sick.

She never should have left the campsite, she should have remained with them all.

Or had Boromir and Frodo already left the group? She couldn’t remember seeing the pair on the sleeping rolls, but then she’d not been looking for them either.

She still shouldn’t have left, because now Frodo and Sam were missing, as were merry and Pippin, and while the younger two had Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli on their tracks, where did that leave Frodo and Sam? Surely they wouldn’t make it much further alone?

Where did it leave her? Guarding an unconscious man who’d barely survived two arrows to the chest, after breaking his promise and trying to take that foul Ring.

Rhosynel, kept pacing.

Eventually, so slowly, the sun began to crest the horizon.

Between the shifting leaves, the sky faded from midnight indigo to a washed-out pastel blue. Soft clouds scudded across the sky, and golden light illuminated the trees and woodland about them. Exhaustion had long since settled about Rhosynel’s shoulders like a fell mantel, and the return of the sun only proved to drain her further.

Circling back around, she settled into the leaflitter once more, knees drawn up to her chest, and arms folded atop them, providing a resting place for her chin. And there she remained, as the sun climbed higher, and the pastel blue shifted to a vibrant lapis.

It was mid-morning by the time Boromir stirred.

A heavy groan, joined by the shifting of his weight, had Rhosynel’s eyes snapping to him, almost frozen in alarm. It was only when his eyes opened, that she released a pent-up breath, one she hadn’t known she was holding. Although her relief didn’t last long, as Boromir’s skin was pale and sallow, coated in a sheen of sweat she’d not noticed during the night.

Had the poison remained in his bloodstream? Aragorn had shown her how to turn Kingsfoil into the paste, did she need to use the remains of her supply to reapply it? What if he worsened later and she had nothing left?

Indecision would be the death of them both, so Rhosynel picked up her waterskin, and moved to his side.

“Boromir?” she asked, “can you focus on me?”

Bleary storm grey eyes slid in her direction but seemed to have trouble seeing. Not ideal, but at least he was responding to her voice, it could just be that he was still waking up and struggling to figure out where he was.

“Here, I have water for you,” she said instead, holding the neck of the waterskin to his mouth.

Apparently that was the right thing to do, as he drank eagerly enough, although not without difficulty, still being supine. Shifting about, Rhosynel settled on his right side, and did her best to help him sit upright. Although it was little more than supporting his weight, since Boromir was far too heavy for her to actually lift, even if she didn’t have gashes across her ribs to contend with.

There was a hiss, as Boromir put weight onto his bad arm. But the pain seemed to jolt him, as he suddenly sat bolt upright, head snapping up staring into the forest with such alarm, that Rhosynel flinched and looked over her shoulder.

“Frodo?” Fear and panic were laced through his voice.

“He’s okay,” Rhosynel answered quickly, and baulked as Boromir’s attention snapped to her. She didn’t know if her answer was the truth, but it was needed. “He and Sam are continuing on alone.”

There was a significant pause, where Rhosynel fought to keep her expression neutral. Boromir seemed neither relieved nor anxious at her words, brow furrowing and scanning the forest once more as though trying to ascertain which direction they had taken. His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping with the strain, only to exhale heavily, one hand shakily dragging across his face.

“He got away, then.”

The words were so quiet Rhosynel almost missed them. Laced through with relief, his shoulders curling in on himself. Relief, that Frodo had… escaped him? Or relief that the Ring was no longer within his reach?

“Merry and Pippin? The others?” Boromir spoke up again.

Exhaling quietly, Rhosynel settled on the ground. “Merry and Pippin… were taken by the orcs,” she explained gently, “Aragorn and the others are on their trail, along with Ilmara.”

More silence, more staring unseeingly into the forest.

She had the feeling this was to be a regular occurrence.

“And… why are you… here…?”

The question gave her pause, blinking at him in blank confusion. Why was she here? In the forest? Alongside him? Why wouldn’t she be here?

“We… couldn’t leave you behind,” Rhosynel answered truthfully.

“You should have.”

Realisation sank into Rhosynel’s chest, weighing her heart down with iron bars. They tightened about her chest, constricting her lungs, making it hard to breathe once again. Boromir hadn’t looked her in the eye, hadn’t turned to face her or spoken directly to her. Just gazed into the forest, that muscle in his jaw feathering with tension, the hand of his good arm clenched into a fist.

Was it grief? Guilt? Pain?

Rhosynel didn’t know and didn’t know how to make it better.

“Well I won’t leave you,” she replied, somewhat tartly as her irritation and fear tried to make itself known, “we’ve already lost Gandalf, I’m not losing you too.”

More silence.

By the Valar she tired of silence, and it had only been five minutes.

Biting back a groan of pain and exhaustion, Rhosynel pushed herself to her feet, stretching out her legs and arms gingerly. Even if Boromir felt the need to remain silent, she, did not. No, Ilmara had caught some prey before the orcs had flooded the forest, and in Rhosynel’s midnight wonderings she’d found their limp bodies, which meant they’d have food for at least a couple of days. Maybe more if they padded it out with lembas bread.

It didn’t take long to find enough deadfall to build a small fire, although it took longer to find a close by flat area of earth and then clear it of leaflitter. But it gave her something to do, and they’d need to eat. Preparing food was a familiar pattern, something she could focus on, turn her attention to, rather than sit and stew in uncomfortable silence.

And by the looks of it, Boromir wouldn’t be up to moving any time soon.

With a low fire going, the rabbit and birds cooking, Rhosynel settled onto her haunches to wait. And was entirely unsurprised by what Boromir said next.

“You should go.”

“No.”

Her instant reply was apparently annoying, as she heard the frustrated breath he let out. What had he expected her to do? Stand up and walk into the forest as though possessed? She’d had an entire night to choose to leave, but she’d remained, was that meant to change now that he was awake? It wouldn’t change a thing. He was injured, his body was fending off poison, and he wouldn’t be able to protect himself, should orcs stumble across him.

Silence reigned once more, and Rhosynel resigned herself to its fate.

There was the sound of wings in the forest. It was gone noon, and Boromir had spoken no further. The birds Rhosynel had cooked were neatly portioned out and wrapped in the same leaves as the lembas bread, and the rabbit had been divided and her half consumed.

The half she’d offered to Boromir remained untouched.

She couldn’t force feed him, no matter how tempting the thought may be, so Rhosynel left the skewer of meat to go cold, she’d wrap it later and add it to their rations, should he still refuse to eat it.

The sound of wings was a welcome relief to the oppressive silence, and with a low whistle Rhosynel called Ilmara to their little camp. The goshawk gave a soft keen upon arrival, landing on Rhosynel’s outstretched arm and quickly tucking against her body. She spent a quiet moment smoothing her hand across Ilmara’s back, across her wings and chest feathers. The goshawk was trembling slightly, no doubt from such long flights after a week of immobility. But she was back, and she was unharmed.

Murmuring gently, Rhosynel was quick to retrieve the missive from her harness, and deftly unrolled it with one hand, recognizing Aragorn’s script.

“Legolas thinks they’re taking the Hobbits to Isengard,” she said aloud, aware of Boromir lifting his head, even if she’d not spoken directly to him. “They they’ve turned west, but are still some way off and are unable to confirm. But the fact they head west at all…”

That could make things difficult, Rhosynel had expected Merry and Pippin to be carried towards Mordor, which was directly east. It left her torn. If they’d been taken east, they’d have passed Minas Tirith, but now… They headed towards Edoras instead.

Inhaling deeply, Rhosynel tried to get her thoughts in order, even as she fed Ilmara strips of rabbit absentmindedly.

She could try and head west, perhaps catching up with the three hunters, and eventually learn the fate of the Hobbits. West would also bring her to Edoras, where she could get a horse, and either return to Minas Tirith, or even head to Rivendell… Gwaedal still remained within the valley, and while it felt absurd to retrieve him, if she was no longer entrenched on this quest, there was no one stopping her from removing herself from the Fellowship now it had broken.

Except, there was someone.

Boromir had been carefully avoiding her gaze, keeping his eyes to the forest, or staring down at the hand of his left arm, gingerly flexing the fingers as he tested his strength. But she’d seen the way his head had snapped up at Ilmara’s arrival, had noted how he’d stared at the missive in her hand, even if he’d not spoken. Even if he’d quickly looked away as though uninterested.

So what other options did she have?

Could they take one of the boats, and sail south to Gondor? Would it be best for Boromir to return home, and have true healers care for his injuries? Would Rhosynel be able to turn her back on what little remained of the quest, and settle back into her life within Minas Tirith?

Could she do that, with the shadow of Mordor hanging over the land?

Either way, she couldn’t make the choice alone.

“The way I see it is that we have two choices,” Rhosynel said abruptly enough that Boromir couldn’t help but glance her way. “Either we attempt to follow Aragorn and the others, we attempt to save Merry and Pippin if they still live, and we head west.” Silence met her words, but she’d not expected anything more. “Or, we take one of the row boats, carry it down the Falls of Rauros, and then let the river carry us south all the way to Osgiliath, where we return home to Minas Tirith.”

She didn’t miss the grimace that flashed across Boromir’s features at the mention of home.

“What do you think?” she said, pointedly directing the question towards him. “West towards possible Hobbits or at least Edoras, or south to Minas Tirith and home?”

More silence.

“Hobbits or home,” Rhosynel said, biting back the frustration in her voice, “make a choice.”

“It’s your choice to make,” Boromir finally spoke, voice rough. And unlike Rhosynel, he made no attempt to force the emotion from his voice. Was it anger? Despair? Frustration? Probably all three entangled together. “You choose.”

Boromir had given up.

Realisation settled on Rhosynel’s shoulders as anguish surged through her. She swallowed harshly, trying to bite down on her emotions. Tried to keep it in check. She didn’t want to cry, she’d done far too much of that recently, but it would be too easy to let that sadness turn to anger.

Boromir had given up, he was going to either sit here until something found him and finished him off, or the moment her back was turned, he’d stumble into the forest and succumb to the elements. She’d managed to save him from the brink of death. She couldn’t let him wither away, she hadn’t wrenched those arrows free just for him to give up now. His was a death that her reckless behaviour had saved rather than condemned.

“Do you hate me?” Rhosynel asked, painfully aware of how her voice cracked. “Or just yourself?”

Finally, finally, Boromir glanced over to her, shadowed eyes behind strands of dark hair. It wasn’t quite a glare, but certainly close. She’d struck close to home then.

“I can’t decide,” she pushed on, missive forgotten in hand, “if you hate me because I had the gall to save you. Or if you hate yourself for being ensnared by that fucking Ring.”

Her voice all but snarled with emotion, making Ilmara shift uncomfortably.

Dark grey eyes still watching. No answer.

She hadn’t really expected one. “I don’t know why I’m here. But if my being here means you get to live another day then good, my purpose has been served. But stop. Fucking. Ignoring me.”

Her jaw ached with how tightly she clenched it, glaring at him, struggling to keep herself in check. He’d nearly died, she shouldn’t be lashing out at him. He was just the only one around to receive her anger at the whole situation.

“We’re trying, to reach Merry and Pippin, before it’s too late for them. Before th-they—” a deep breath which did little to settle her temper “—before they get killed by those things. Maybe they already have, I don’t know. Maybe we’re chasing corpses. And I want nothing more than to go sprinting after them, but I can’t, because someone needs to look after you. But you clearly don’t want that, so maybe I’ll just leave you here, yeah?”

The feeling of being caged was settling on her shoulders stronger than ever. Bars of iron weaving around Rhosynel’s chest, locking tighter and tighter, until she could barely breathe. Lurching to her feet, Ilmara took off in alarm, even as Rhosynel turned to stalk away. She needed to breathe, she needed to move, she needed to clear her head.

Only to jolt to a stop, as a hand seized her wrist.

Shocked, she looked down, Boromir had lunged forwards, her hand ensnared in his. His head was raised, fixing her with bloodshot eyes and cheeks stained with tears she hadn’t heard him shedding. He looked… horrific. Gaunt eyes, sallow skin, a sheen of sweat from the poisons and Kingsfoil battling in his blood. He looked like he should be dead. And he would be, if she hadn’t refused to accept a no for an answer. If she hadn’t wrenched those arrows free, despite not knowing if it would help or hasten his demise.

“I thought,” he grated, voice hoarse and rough with emotion, “you had died.”

Rhosynel blinked. Confused.

“I told you to flee. But you led them to you. And then I hear screaming. So. Much. Screaming. I thought they had gotten to you.” A light tug on her wrist, and she dropped immediately, kneeling before him. His eyes were haunted, haggard, bloodshot and gleaming with a film of unshed tears. “And then I wake up, and you have a hand shaped bruise around your neck. You’re injured. But you’re desperate to run headlong into danger. Again. Why? Rhosynel?”

For several long heartbeats, she stared back at him, less in confusion, more grasping for an answer to his question. Why wouldn’t she? Why shouldn’t she go tearing across Arda in a bid to find the Hobbits? Why shouldn’t she rush to protect those she cared for?

“Why,” the word came out so strangled that Rhosynel forced herself to stop and breathe, “why shouldn’t I?”

Boromir’s head tilted, eyes scanning across her face, looking for… what exactly?

“I thought you avoided danger at all costs?” he asked, as though testing her.

He wasn’t wrong, she did avoid danger, she knew what danger could do. How it could destroy lives, how it could sink its talons into her and tear her apart as easily as Ilmara could kill her prey. It had happened before, it had happened repeatedly, she knew what agony awaited should she fail, but that wasn’t going to stop her from trying to help.

“I do.”

“Liar.”

Anger flared through Rhosynel, hot and burning, at the accusation.

“I travel alone so I can avoid danger. I travel alone so I only have myself to protect. But the moment I got shoved into this fucking quest that all changed. I cannot avoid danger when I’m trying to protect the ones I love,” she all but growled, twisting her arm in his grip, breaking free of his hold, only to seize his wrist before he could lean away. “And if you think for one second, that I won’t tear apart the realms to protect the ones I love, if you think I’d shy away from going to their aid, that I’d hesitate before putting myself between them and danger, that I’d shy away from putting myself between a hundred arrows and you. Then you do not know me. At all.”

The words were little more than a snarl, her throat and chest tightening with the fear, the anger, the desperation. Boromir’s head drew back, either at the intensity to her voice or whatever he saw in her eyes, testing her grip on his wrist. With a slight jolt of alarm, Rhosynel released him, and then pushed to her feet once more. His eyes followed her motion, even as he remained seated, staring up at her.

Rhosynel stared down at him, defiant and stubborn and unwilling to be cowed by his frowns.

“And if you wouldn’t do the same,” she said, voice dropping to be low and soft, “then apparently, I don’t know you either.”

Boromir, winced.

“Are you going to help me get the Hobbits back, or not?” she asked.

One minute passed, then another, by the fifth, Rhosynel was bracing herself to leave without him. But then a heavy breath left Boromir, his shoulders sagging in defeat. And she feared the worst.

“West, you said?” he asked.

“To Isengard.”

“Then…” Boromir raised his right arm, hand out towards her. “We best make haste.”

Rhosynel seized his hand, and hauled Boromir to his feet.

Chapter Text

The going wouldn’t be easy, she didn’t expect it to be, with a badly wounded man and her own ribs protesting with every step. Admittedly once they were moving, it would become easier, but getting started would been a different story altogether.

The arrow had narrowly missed Boromir’s shoulder joint, which meant he could still move the arm, but only just. While the other had sunk into the muscle of his flank, tearing them badly. Even subtle movements had him biting back curses and trying to conceal his grimaces, but the sweat that coated his skin gave his pain away.

The fact he was awake suggested the Kingsfoil was winning the battle, the sallowness of his skin suggested it was a close-run thing.

Descending from their minor camp, the pair had double backed to the river, in a bid to salvage supplies and Boromir’s own pack. Only to find the place in a state of disruption. Apparently, orcs had little regard for their campsite by the river, great long furrows and tears through the shingles and sand, as though searching for something they couldn’t see.

Boromir’s great round shield had been almost split in twain by the orc’s crude blade.

“That shield was a gift from Théodred Prince,” Boromir lamented, sinking into a crouch alongside it. Fingers tracing the rent. “I’ve already lost my horn, but now this…”

A blade was still wedged in the wood and metal.

The body of the orc was only a few feet away, several puncture wounds that were no doubt made by Legolas’s arrows. Had he found the orc raiding the campsite when she’d sent him for her pack? It was a miracle he’d gotten to it before the orc had shattered the vials.

“Edoras is not far from Isengard,” Rhosynel said gently, “I’m sure Théodred would understa—”

“No.”

The word was quiet, but still cut Rhosynel off. Her jaw shutting with a click of teeth and her eyes snapping to Boromir. Rising to his feet, he wasn’t looking at her, focusing on gathering his own pack and dragging it onto his good shoulder with a poorly veiled grimace. His back pointedly turned to the remains of his shield.

His eyes were shadowed, a film of tears threatening to spill.

For a shield to be destroyed in battle was one thing, but for a shield to be broken when unused? When its owner lay dying a hundred feet away? No doubt Théodred Prince would ask why Boromir hadn’t taken it with him, and that would necessitate the explanation of just what he’d done to Frodo.

Swallowing thickly, Rhosynel turned her back to the ruined shield, and her gaze west.

True to their word, the three Hunters had left marks to indicate the route they took, notches carved into the trunk of trees, and distinctive scrapes through the loamy soil. It was easy enough to follow, although Rhosynel knew that may change when they left the shelter of the forest. But eventually, they reached the peak of Amon Hen, and were able to catch their breath.

Before them, the Eastemnet stretched out, the plains undulating and rolling beneath the late afternoon sun. Shielding her eyes from the light, Rhosynel’s eyes scanned across the familiar landscape, following the path of the Entwash river, the familiar rock formations, the distant haze that concealed the Misty Mountains, and the faint smear of green forest, Entwood.

“Any sign of them?” Boromir asked, his breathing was laboured, and the sheen of sweat on his skin had worsened.

“I’m no elf,” Rhosynel replied wryly, but gave a low whistle.

Ilmara was quick to respond, although the goshawk was beginning to look a little weary. After spending a week without flying, the following days were sure to put her through her paces. She’d need to rest soon, but Rhosynel still needed her. Scrawling a missive, she slotted it into her harness, and sent the bird off once more.

Ilmara’s route towards Legolas, led almost dead west.

“They’ll be headed for the Entwade, it’s the only crossing point safe enough to navigate the river,” she explained, eyes fixed on Ilmara as she headed out across the plains. “Once they’ve crossed that, I imagine the route will shift somewhat north.”

“Will you be able to follow their path?”

A fair question, and while it had been years since she’d left the Rangers, her own tracking abilities hadn’t abandoned her just yet.

“Gimli’s boots are distinctive, they’ll be the easiest to track,” she said by way of answer.

Within the loamy soil his boots had stood out as large flat marks, while Aragorn’s boots of leather had barely left a print, and naturally Legolas was so light footed that the leaves were undisturbed by his passing. But on the western side of Amon Hen, the trees gave way to plains and rocks, which would be harder to track through, but not impossible. Already Rhosynel made note of flattened grass, and what seemed to be a drag mark, as though an axe had been thrust into the earth and dragged for a pace.

They were leaving her a clear trail, despite not knowing if she’d ever catch up.

With a glance to Boromir, Rhosynel began the descent, hearing his heavy footfalls following close behind. They were steady enough, far better than when they’d first set off, and had notably improved once she’d encouraged him to eat the rabbit, although the lembas bread no doubt helped. But Boromir was still pale, still drained. Rhosynel would have to be careful not to overexert him.

Eventually the ground levelled out, and the pair were able to settle into a brisk walk.

Her own injuries were aching, the gash across her ribs tugged and pulled with any twists or arm raises, while the bruises about her neck had shifted from faint to startling purple browns. A matching purple ring about her wrist from Boromir’s own hand. And that was before she considered the aches and pains, the minor cuts and grazes, simple injuries that built up over time, and were becoming harder to ignore.

Although there was one good thing about her exhaustion, Boromir’s concern for her own wellbeing, was coming in useful. Whenever he started flagging, all she had to do was press her hand to her side and beg for a pause. Every time, he stopped immediately. Hopefully he hadn’t caught on yet.

The pace was slow, but at least they were moving, heading into the setting sun, half blinded by the light, Rhosynel’s head only lifted when she checked for further tracks, otherwise content to keep her eyes to the ground and follow the flattened grasses. Although once the sun finally sank below the horizon, Rhosynel lifted her eyes for a moment, scanning across the skies and taking in the gilded clouds and crimson light of dusk.

The familiar landscape of Rohan was heartening, but also… wrong.

Instead of the delight she’d have once felt at being home, it was replaced by a gnawing doubt, an uncertainty, a fear of what she may discover at the end of the road. The orcs –Uruk-Hai Agaron had called them– had stemmed from Isengard by his guess, which was far too close to Edoras for Rhosynel’s comfort. The Mark seemed quiet, empty.

Where were the herds? Had the city been attacked? Had they fallen victim to those terrible creatures? Would the Hobbits survive?

Rhosynel dreaded the answers.

Sleeping proved difficult, partially for the uncomfortable ground they’d chosen to camp, tucked into the shelter of a rock stack to protect them from preying eyes. But also, because Rhosynel had never quite realised how a large group had its benefits. True, when travelling alone, she simply had to sleep and risk it, but within the Fellowship there’d always been enough people to take shifts, all but guaranteeing a good night’s sleep.

But with just the two of them, it proved far harder.

Boromir had offered to take first watch, which was probably a good job since Rhosynel was barely managing to keep her eyes open, the stony ground and biting wind had done its best to prevent her rest, but exhaustion soon won out.

Only for her dreams to conspire against her.

The thunder of feet as an army tore through the forests, guttural snarls and bellows, the clank of armour and of weapons. Rhosynel was running, flitting through the trees, her dark brown Rangers cloak enabling her to remain just on the periphery of those hunting her. She needed to get back, needed to reach the others, she just had to stay ahead of the pack.

She was fleet of foot and swift of movement, so it was only natural that she took the role of bait.

The twang of bowstrings echoed through the trees. More figures clad in the browns and greens of her kin, more Rangers, more archers. The pack of orcs behind her faltered at this ambush, and Rhosynel breezed through the trees into the safety of her fellows.

And then the forces collided.

Yelling, screaming, the crash of sword on sword on flesh. Snarls, roars, yelps, and bellows. A cacophony of noise. All shattered by one screech that lanced through her chest, striking her heart with fear.

Nazgul.

Rhosynel knew what was about to happen, and knew that she was powerless to stop it, even as her dream carried her along the path of memory, even as it dragged her towards the inevitable pain of remembering.

The whistle of a sword through the air. The scream of a man. Her hands soaked with blood. Her back burning in agony. Grey eyes staring sightlessly at the canopy.

Grey?

Rainion’s eyes had been forest green, like the fresh growth of spring. Not dark and stormy grey.

Rhosynel blinked, looking down at her hands, not pressed to the gash across Rainion’s chest, but to arrow wounds in his shoulder. Crimson blood staining crimson fabric, no sign of the Ranger greens and browns. It was wrong, the memory was all wrong. She’d been failing to save Rainion but now she was failing to sav—

Boromir.

With a wordless yelp, Rhosynel yanked herself awake, jolting upright even as her hands scrabbled across the ground, seeking to stem the bleeding of a body that did not lie beneath her hands, but beneath the dirt a hundred miles away.

Finding nothing, she stilled as her surroundings came into focus.

No forests, no trees, just stacks of rocks and rolling plains bathed in moonlight as far as the eye could see. Her back was burning, fire racing along the scar cutting across her shoulders, searing her flesh. With a low groan, she pressed one hand to her shoulder blade, cool fabric met her palm, no flames, despite how it felt.

“Rhosynel?”

The voice made her jump, twisting about her ribs protested at the motion, but her heart was pounding in her chest. Boromir, sat with his back to the stones, watching her with a mixture of wariness and concern.

“Are you alright?”

He was alive, he wasn’t dead. She hadn’t failed, no matter what her dreams tried to convince her of. A shaky breath left her, one she’d not realised she was holding. Dragging a hand through her hair, she turned back to the moonlit landscape, fighting to get her breathing and heartrate under control once more.

“Yeah,” she said, voice hoarse, hand falling from her shoulder. “Nightmare.”

There was a hum of commiseration from him, but no questions. Thank the Valar.

“I’ll not sleep again,” Rhosynel forced herself to continue, pushing to her feet and gingerly stretching. “Get some rest.”

No answer, she risked a glance towards him, finding Boromir’s eyes on her. It was an effort to maintain the eye contact, even if she didn’t try to offer a smile. But after a moment’s consideration, he nodded, and began to shift into a more comfortable position. “All quiet, no sign of… anything moving.”

Good, hopefully it would stay quiet.

Rhosynel remained standing, arms tightly folded across her chest, listening as Boromir settled, and then slowly his breathing changed as he fell asleep.

It was only then, that she pressed her hands to her face, trying to control her breathing, trying to control the panic that had threatened to overwhelm her. It was only once she became certain that the tears were kept at bay, that Rhosynel began trying to decipher the dream. It had been her last battle with the Rangers, she knew that much. And then there was Rainion, who had bled out beneath her hands, even as her own body threatened to succumb to her injuries. It was a dream based on her own memories. But apparently, they had become tangled with current day.

Instead of failing to save Rainion, she’d failed to save Boromir.

A heavy sigh left Rhosynel, as she forced her eyes to scan the horizon. She didn’t need new topics for her nightmares, she didn’t need to struggle with sleep once more. It was difficult enough already, without the conflicting memories battling for dominance.

But at least now she was awake, and she could keep watch, rather than risk the depths of sleep again.

Ilmara arrived some time before dawn, although neither of them had yet made motions to set off, eating a meagre breakfast, and resigning themselves to another day of walking. The Limroval all but dropped out of the air to land on Rhosynel’s arm, her body heavy and wings sagging.

“Rest, girl, senda,” Rhosynel encouraged, quick to transfer the goshawk to her shoulder.

The missive, was a long one, the writing far smaller than usual, but still in Aragorn’s script.

“We encountered an Éored lead by Marshal Éomer just south of Fangorn,” she read out to Boromir, noting his reaction to the horse-lords name. “They dispatched the company of orcs in the night, leaving no survivors. They saw no sign of Hobbits, but I was able to find evidence of their survival, we will be entering Fangorn in search of them.”

“That doesn’t bode well,” Boromir interjected quietly.

“It gets worse,” Rhosynel warned, before continuing. “Éomer lent us two horses, and I informed him that we had companions, possibly following some days behind us, least he takes you as a threat as he took us. He states that Théoden King is under the sway of an advisor, evidenced by his banishment of Éomer his nephew—” she already knew of Éomer but appreciated the clarification “—and his refusal to permit any newcomers entry into Edoras. Should you find yourself heading for the city, you will be turned away at the gates. We will search the forest, and then come meet you. Stay safe, A.”

That was it. Rolling up the missive, Rhosynel returned it to her hip, and fed Ilmara several pieces of meat in reward. Her mind whirled with this new information, attempting to process it and figure out their next step.

“Edoras barred, the Hunters plunging into Fangorn of all places, and the king’s nephew banished,” Boromir listed, dragging a hand through his lank hair. “What, exactly, are we meant to do now?”

“We just need to reach Entwade,” Rhosynel replied with a deceptively casual shrug. “We can’t do anything else until the river’s been passed. After that, we can head for Edoras and wait a few days.”

“It’s unlikely they’ll survive Fangorn,” Boromir pointed out.

“That… sums up this entire journey so far.”

That earnt her a snort of amusement, but Boromir offered no objection.

“We can reach the Entwade by noon,” Rhosynel continued instead, starting to gather her things and roll her sleeping mat. “If we keep up this pace, we could be at Edoras by tomorrow afternoon, maybe evening.”

“But not enter.”

 ‘Maybe.’ Rhosynel thought silently.

The pair cleared up any sign of their camp, and began walking once again. With the rising sun at their backs, the shadows were stretched and elongated, but it made heading west far easier, even as the sun climbed slowly higher, their course remained true.

True to her word, just before noon the banks of the Entwash barred their way. The waters were dark and swift, thundering by at an alarming rate, apparently the winter meltwaters had bolstered it, threatening to burst its banks. Fording wouldn’t be easy. Heading slightly north, the pair soon found the ford. Instead of the steep banks leading to the water’s surface, there was a dip, scattered with gravel and sand, it clearly marked the ford, as did the dozens of hoofprints spanning each bank.

But the water was still high.

“Have you forded here before?” Boromir asked, eyeing the waters.

“A few years ago, on horseback,” Rhosynel admitted, “…in summer.”

“Ah.”

The waters had been considerably lower, to the point where she could see the sandy riverbed through the water. This, was radically different, and would prove far harder to cross. Especially on foot and injured.

Almost as though thinking the same thoughts, the pair took a moment to reorganize their belongings. Rhosynel’s messenger supplies and journal were relocated to her pack, hopefully to keep them above the water’s surface and therefore dry.

“Ready?” Boromir asked, hefting his pack up onto his good shoulder.

“I guess,” Rhosynel replied, sounding about as un-confident as she felt.

There was an annoyed chatter from Ilmara as she was launched skywards once more, but at least this was for only a few minutes.

And then they moved forwards.

Almost the second the water entered Rhosynel’s boots, she was regretting this decision. The river was ice cold, biting at the skin of her legs and easily piercing the meagre protection her breeches offered. Judging by Boromir’s hiss of discomfort, he fared similarly.

The water rapidly climbed her legs, past her claves, over her knees, and steadily rising up her thighs, before closing about her waist. They’d not even made it halfway yet. Already her teeth were chattering furiously, tension locking up her arms and shoulders, as Rhosynel pressed on determinedly.

A rock turned beneath her boot, and Rhosynel staggered. Balance thrown, her left side hit the water with a splash, only to halt abruptly as a hand seized her right arm, stopping her decent. There was a snarl from Boromir, his shoulder protesting at the gesture, even as he resolutely hauled her upright, and then dragged her through the water to tuck against his left side.

“I’ve got you,” he reassured, voice strained with pain.

Pressed to his side, meant she was in the lee of the water, as it broke around Boromir and flowed past her with little strength to it. Clinging to him, the pair pressed on, making it halfway, then three quarters, and then to the shore, and the water slowly receded to about their ankles once more.

It was only once they reached dry land, that Boromir released his grip on her arm.

“Fuck that’s cold,” she swore, shaking her leg one after another as though it would free her of the waters influence. “Are you alright? Is your shoulder okay?”

Boromir’s clenched jaw told her the answer, more than his words did. “Rough.”

She’d see about checking it, once they made camp.

“Thank you,” she said, even as Ilmara glided back down to land upon Rhosynel’s shoulder once more. “I’d have not fared well, if I’d gone under.”

By which she meant she’d have drowned. And if she hadn’t drowned, the cold would have killed her off instead. The downside of being unable to swim, but Rhosynel had rarely needed to ford rivers by foot before this quest.

“I lost a horse at Tharbad,” Boromir said, hauling his pack back on, with gritted teeth, “I’ll not lose you to the water as well.”

The ford there had been bad, even on Gwaedal’s back it had proved difficult, and the pair had almost been swept downstream into the rapids. For Boromir to have lost a hose… Rhosynel grimaced in sympathy.

Wordlessly the pair pressed on, heading further into the West-Mark.

With the river at their backs the route ahead was easier, the trail and marks left from them by the three Hunters diverted north-west, leading towards Fangorn. But Edoras was south, at the foot of the White Mountains. It left them with a choice.

“It’s up to you,” Boromir said, very unhelpfully.

Rhosynel pinched the bridge of her nose, trying not to get annoyed at his lack of preference. She couldn’t decide if he was actually deferring to her judgment, or just unwilling to make a choice. If it was deferring, then he was allowing her experience with travelling to make the decision, but if he was trying to avoid making the decision, it was annoying. Very annoying. It didn’t strike her that he’d completely given up just yet, although his silence and haunted expression certainly came close, but more like he was unwilling to try and assert himself in any way.

Then again she’d spent the early stages of the quest complaining that no one listened to her advice.

“Edoras is closer,” Rhosynel said slowly, “we can attempt to enter, or at least camp within view. But if more than two days pass, I think it would be best for us to seek them out instead.”

“Will you be able to rediscover their tracks?”

“Not easily, but Ilmara can assist, she’ll have rested enough by then.”

“Then we make for Edoras, hopefully we ca—”

Whatever Boromir was going to say wasn’t said, as his head came up sharply, swivelling about. A moment later, and Rhosynel heard why.

Hooves, a lot of them.

“An Éored?” she asked, alarm spiking, even as she hastened towards a rock stack, scrambling up it with more speed than was safe. Remaining crouched atop it to minimise her profile, she squinted northwards, making out the dust cloud and group of riders.

“Riders,” she called down to him, “they don’t look orcish.”

True there were banners snapping on the wind, but they were also far enough away that she couldn’t make out the details.

“If its Éomer I may have sway with him,” Boromir called up.

“And if it’s not him?”

“Then I hope you know them.”

 “I don’t know every man, boy, and horse in Rohan,” she replied honestly. “But I’ll see if I can be diplomatic.”

Boromir made a motion, as though ceding the stage to her.

‘Oh this could go badly,’ she thought to herself, but stood up straight, drawing herself up, and cupping her hands around her mouth. “Riders of Rohan!” she called, voice projecting easily across the ground between them and the passing horsemen. “What news from the Mark!”

Like a flock of birds, the horses changed direction, and at a borderline charge, headed their way. Scrambling Rhosynel half jumped, half fell from the stack of rocks. Landing surprisingly lightly, she barely reached Boromir’s side before the horses were upon them. Spears which had been held high, came down to level at their chests. Crowding the pair and pushing them back until the stack of stone and rock was at their backs.

Despite her feigned confidence, Rhosynel pressed herself back against the stone, and was immediately pulled by Boromir, until he stood between her and the riders. One hand on her arm, the other resting on the sword at his side.

“Does Marshal Éomer son of Éomund ride with you?” Boromir asked the group quickly, scanning across their faces. “I understand he met with our companions recently?”

For a moment, Rhosynel thought there’d be no answer, but then a dappled grey horse and its rider pushed forwards. Close cropped beard contrasting with long dirty blond hair, mostly hidden by his helm, the blond blending with the horsehair crest. Dark blue eyes glaring down at them suspiciously, only for a brow to raise in recognition.

Oh yes, that was Éomer, she’d recognise that glare anywhere.

“Lord Boromir, your companions neglected to mention it was you following,” Éomer greeted familiarly enough, a gesture from his hand had the spears lifting away from their chests, and Rhosynel felt Boromir relax beneath her hand. “Are you also about to recklessly plunge into Fangorn in search of Hobbits?”

The Marshal sounded sceptical, at least in the way he’d said Hobbits, but then if they’d seen no sign of Merry and Pippin during their assault on the orcs, she couldn’t really blame him. Not many people east of the Mountains knew of halflings, or at least, were doubtful.

“No, or at least not yet,” Boromir replied, “have you seen any sign of them since?”

Rhosynel was half listening, her eyes scanning across the gathered men. If this was Éomer’s Éored, then somewhere within the ranks was Héostor. He’d joined only a few years ago, she could vaguely remember hearing the news either one of her fleeting visits, or from a letter sent to her parents. But would he recognise her?

Her scanning eyes snagged on a broad grin, almost concealed by a full beard, and shadowed by his helm. It was hard to be sure that she was looking at Héostor, but his reaction suggested it was him, and that he’d already recognised her.

She flashed a grin back in response.

“And you are?”

Immediately Rhosynel’s eyes snapped away from her cousin, baulking under the Marshal’s glare, not having heard what he and Boromir were discussing. The dapped grey horse stamped a hoof as Éomer’s attention pinned her in place. It was an effort not to shift uncomfortably beneath the intense scrutiny.

“Rhosynel, daughter of Rhysnaur,” she replied with a polite incline of her head, “Messenger of Minas Tirith.”

“Rhysnaur? Rhysnaur Flame Shield?” Éomer repeated sceptically, brow rising, only to be quickly followed by a contemplative frown as he settled back somewhat in his saddle, a look of realisation on his features. “You’re the Stablemaster’s daughter?”

It was possibly only the mention of her mother that reminded him, but how he remembered her specifically, was beyond Rhosynel, considering the horse lord had only been seven when her family had moved away from Edoras. True they had travelled back and forth frequently for a few years until she joined the Rangers ranks, and then her visits had dropped to holidays and festivals her parents wished to share with her and Rhymenel, only to cease all together once Rhymenel had married and become pregnant. Now, only her Messenger runs brought her back home.

It was a little unnerving. Just how did he remember her?

“You’re the one who broke my favourite bridle, are you not?” Éomer ground out.

Well shit.

“That’s me,” she replied, with what she hoped was a light-hearted smile, even as Boromir slowly turned to stare down at her in utter confusion. “In my defence it was starting to rot anyway.”

“That, is besides the poin—”

“We had planned to wait within Edoras for our companions,” Boromir interrupted slightly too loudly, in a clear bid to keep the conversation on track, “at least for a few days, before we attempted to search for them within the forest.”

Éomer clearly struggled to drag his glare away from Rhosynel, to focus on the lord who was distracting him, and Rhosynel had little intention of drawing his ire back to her.

“The gates have been barred, as I told your companions.”

“Regardless,” Boromir pressed, “we’ll wait for them outside the walls if need be.”

“Then you’ll risk the guards routing you out,” Éomer replied, “Gríma will have little patience for a Lord of Gondor loitering outside of the city, your presence will threaten his control of Edoras.”

“A control he should not possess to begin with.”

“I am aware. But there was little I could do to oppose him, with Théodred injured and ailing, any attem—”

“The Prince is injured?” Rhosynel interrupted before her common sense could stop her own voice. “What happened?”

Éomer’s irritated sigh wasn’t subtle. “The Fords of Isen, he was brought down by orcish blade,” he replied, keeping it brief, “our healer thinks his wound is infected or poisoned, but both they and I were removed from the city before we could ascertain the truth.”

“Poisoned?” Boromir asked, even if his attention was drifting from Éomer to focus on Rhosynel. And quite without meaning to, her own hand strayed to touch the pouch of medical supplies, and her scant few remains of Kingsfoil. Apparently that was exactly what Boromir had been thinking off, as he nodded, eyes distant in thought. “Would it help?”

“Possibly, depending on how severe his injuries wer—”

“Would what help?” Éomer interrupted their fleeting discussion.

“Rhosynel has some healing knowledge,” Boromir answered, “if we could get access to the city, or the Golden Hall…”

“You think she could help?”

The scepticism was clear in Éomer’s voice.

“Why not? She’s already saved my life.” Boromir’s answer was enough to make Éomer’s mouth shut with a click of teeth, even as Rhosynel made a strangled noise in protest. “And you know Théodred is… a dear friend of mine,” Boromir continued, more gently this time, “I’d not rest easily knowing he ails.”

The pause that met Boromir’s words was long and contemplative, Éomer leaning on the saddle horn of his horse, eyeing the pair warily. Clearly, he was wresting with some decision, and struggling. And judging by the way his thinly veiled glares kept flicking towards her, it seemed it was Rhosynel he doubted.

“Without gaining access to the city, there’s little you can do,” he relented eventually. “I can provide you a horse –half feral as he is– but getting into the city is another matter entirely.”

Rhosynel’s eyes left the Marshals face, sliding towards her cousin’s own blue eyes.

“Héostor,” she said slowly, aware of Éomer’s attention landing heavily on her shoulders once more. “Does uncle still guard the gate from dawn till noon?”

“Aye,” Héostor replied with a grin, even as Éomer’s attention snapped to him in clear surprise. “Da’s even training up Héomod too, these days. The pair’ll be on at first light, I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you again.”

“Then… we may have a way in,” she said glancing to Boromir with a one shouldered shrug. “No promises, but it’s a possibility…”

For a moment she watched as the indecision warred on Boromir’s face, the fingers of his hand drumming against the baldric across his chest, wrestling with the idea. She could all but see the processing that happened behind his eyes, the slight furrow of his brow as he debated internally.

“Getting into the city is one thing,” Boromir started slowly, glancing from her to Éomer and back again, “but into the Hall as well? That will be far more difficult.”

“Will it?” Rhosynel asked, “I am of Rohan as much as I am of Gondor, all I need is a change of clothes—”

“Háehild still works there as a chamber maid,” Héostor helpfully chimed in, barely flinching beneath Éomer’s glare. “She’ll have uniform you can use.”

“—and I’ll be indistinguishable from the staff.”

“Provided you keep quiet,” Éomer interjected, earning an eyeroll from Rhosynel, “you may be of Rohan, but your accent is clearly loyal to Gondor. If Gríma hears it, you’ll be imprisoned or killed, should they catch you.”

“Ne læt þin tunge þine swer cutian,” Rhosynel retorted, the sharp words in what she hoped was flawless Rohirric had Éomer curling his lip back in annoyance, and drew a poorly concealed snort from the other riders. “They would have to catch me first, and that isn’t likely,” she pressed on before he could give any biting retort to her words, “if I can get into the hall, I could potentially reach Théodred, and potentially see to his wounds… But, there is no guarantee it would work.”

Her words were heavy with caution, if Éomer got his hopes up to see his cousin fit and well once more, and Boromir expected his friend to be healthy and walking… If she failed…

Why was it, that Rhosynel repeatedly found herself trying to save others?

‘Making up for past mistakes…’

“A chance is better than none,” Éomer said, pushing himself upright in the saddle and turning his head, “Tallagor!” The barked name all but summoned a horse, light dun with faint stripes marking its legs moved forwards, the whites of its eyes were showing, and the ears flickered back and forth in clear anxiety. “He is half feral, his master was slain, and the only one that could steady him, but he is all I can spare for you,” the Marshal warned.

“A horse is a horse,” Boromir replied, earning matching grimaces from both Éomer and Rhosynel. A horse was very much not just a horse, judging from Éomer’s description. “But any aid you can provided will be greatly appreciated, friend.”

“He has an attitude problem,” Éomer warned, as Rhosynel moved forwards to take the reins.

“Sounds familiar,” she shot back with ease. It was amusing watching him fume, but she soon sobered. “What of Lady Éowyn? Is she within Edoras?”

The mention of his sister had an instantaneous effect, Éomer’s bristling faded, and his face softened, although he didn’t stop scowling at her. “She… she is within the walls of Meduseld, caring for my uncle and cousin. I… did not wish to leave her alone in that place, but had little choice…”

That didn’t bode well.

“Be careful,” Éomer said directly to Boromir, “do not antagonize Gríma, he may be a snake, but he had more power over the men, than I gave him credit.”

“We’ll be wary, ride safe,” Boromir replied, apparently sensing that the conversation was now over.

With a barked order, Éomer’s Éored began to turn away from the group, and Rhosynel raised a hand in farewell to her cousin. No doubt he’d earn a scolding from Éomer for his assistance in Rhosynel’s machinations. Within seconds they were out of earshot, and within minutes, were little more than a dust cloud in the distance.

“What is it with you and reckless plans?” Boromir asked after the dust had faded.

“Me? Me?” she repeated incredulously, “you’re the one that started loudly thinking of the Kingsfoil, and the one who claimed I saved your life—”

“You did.”

“—I’m just the one who can access the city and possibly the hall, but no, this was your own reckless planning. Not mine,” Rhosynel finished as though he’d not spoken.

“So you won’t do it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

She was going to do it. Going to try and follow through on this reckless and hairbrained plan to gain access to Edoras, the Golden Hall, and the ailing Prince, and they both knew it. But she did glare up at Boromir for good measure. There was the ghost of a smile on his face, immediately cooling the fire that had built up in her chest.

“You don’t have to, if it’s too dangerous,” Boromir said a moment later, as Rhosynel checked over Tallagor’s tack. “I’ll not ask you to.”

“Théodred is your friend,” she replied, “but he’s still my prince. I’ll do it.”

Despite her confident words, she was a little uncertain on the inside, but there was no way she’d let that hesitance show. No, if she could assist the prince, she would do so, even at risk to herself. Hauling herself up into the saddle, she turned the horse southeast, and gave Boromir what she hoped was a confident grin.

“Alright, up you hop,” she said, leaning over, hand out to Boromir. “I’m not going to fall off, stop looking so worried.”

There was a longsuffering sigh from the Lord of Gondor, but he dutifully reached up, clasping her arm, and then with gritted teeth, hauled himsel, struggling a moment, up and onto the back of the horse. Who promptly started tossing his head in annoyance.

An attitude problem indeed, but Rhosynel was an experienced rider, while the horse wasn’t ideal, they’d still make better progress. Heading away from Fangorn felt wrong, and even after riding in silence for several minutes Rhosynel couldn’t help but feel she was avoiding the inevitable. If the Hobbits had died, she’d have to find out sooner or later. She’d rather not learn of their fate at all, truth be told.

Eventually, the ground began to rise, and at the crest of the hill, Rhosynel briefly rose up in the stirrups to get her bearings, before dropping down and nudging him into a trot. There was an uncomfortable grunt behind her from Boromir.

“Sorry, old habits,” she said, “not used to riding with a passenger.”

“Its fine.”

It also sounded like he spoke through gritted teeth. The trot was no doubt jarring, so after a moment longer, she nudged Tallagor into a gentle canter, but got a head toss in response to her instruction.

“Hey none of that,” she said sharply, easily steering him back on course when he tried to rebel. “I’m going to try for a canter, if he behaves, so you may want to hold on.”

There was a significant pause.

“Where?”

Despite herself, Rhosynel let out a short laugh. “Stick your good arm out in front,” she said, raising her arm in example, waiting until he did so, and it appeared in the corner of her vision. “And then do this.” She took his wrist, and securely anchored his arm around her waist. “Hold onto my tunic if you need to.”

Behind her, she felt him grow tense. “This is a little… uncomfortable.”

“You’re fine, brace!” she tapped Tallagor’s flanks, and the horse broke into a canter, slightly faster than she had intended. But Boromir didn’t fall off, so she let the horse set the pace. A head thumped against her shoulder, giving her the impression that Boromir’s eyes were screwed shut. “You good?”

“Yes.”

An improvement over ‘rough’ at least, even if it was through gritted teeth again.

They’d been riding in silence for almost thirty minutes, when it dawned on her that his discomfort was probably less to do with horse riding, and more to do with the close quarters. His arm was tight around her waist, and while his forehead was no longer pressed to her shoulder, his breath was close in her ear.

A hot flush spread across her cheeks at the realisation that he was uncomfortable because of her.

This wasn’t the first time Rhosynel had ridden with a passenger, and she doubted it would be the last time either. But this time she was covered in orc blood, her own blood, and his, along with far too much sweat and grime for anyone to be in close quarters for long. She couldn’t blame him for feeling uncomfortable.

Chapter Text

The sun was still in the sky when Edoras to come into view, the wooden walls and gleaming hall stood out, and her heart soared at the sight of her first home. The urge to kick Tallagor into a gallop was strong, the urge to bolt to those gates and demand entry was stronger, but she couldn’t risk such a thing, to do so, would be dangerous.

So instead, she drew the feisty horse to a stop, getting irate head tosses and nickers in response.

“My uncle won’t be on the gate till dawn,” Rhosynel said, eyes locked on the distant city. “We could either hang back here and camp, or…”

“Or we approach?” Boromir guessed.

“It’s risky,” she admitted, “if we approach and are recognised, our cover is blown, but we don’t approach there’s every chance they’ll spot us, and if they grow suspicious, they may send out men to investigate wherever we’ve camped. And then our cover is blown again.”

“Not ideal if we intend to sneak in.”

“We?” Rhosynel asked in confusion, “what’s this we about?”

There was a pause, prompting her to twist about best she could in the saddle to meet his gaze. Boromir wore a pensive expression, his brows furrowed in concern, eyes heavy on her face. His hand was equally heavy as it rested on her hip, tightening subconsciously. The heat from his body radiating against her back, and with a disconcerting lurch in her chest, Rhosynel realised just how closely sat they were.

“I’m not about to let you enter that vipers pit alone, Rhosynel,” he chided lightly, “I may not be able to enter the Hall undetected, but nor will I wait outside the city, even further away from assisting you. Should you need it.”

Oh.

That was… unexpected.

Forcing herself to break eye contact, she turned her attention back to the city, trying to ignore the heat that was beginning to burn at her face. Swallowing thickly, it was an effort to find her words again.

“Thanks,” she said, sound far too clipped for how she actually felt. “There’s two gate guards at any given time,” Rhosynel pressed on quickly, “I know of a few other men, but it’s debatable as to whether or not they’ll be scheduled tonight. Fulred maybe –he’s Haehild’s husband– or perhaps Gunthor, unless he’s retired by now…”

“What was that about not knowing every man, boy or horse?”

She dug an elbow back lightly into his ribs at that –the good side– hearing a surprised grunt for her efforts.

“I think it comes down to whether we want to risk our cover being blown today, or tomorrow,” she said, pointedly ignoring his return jab. “What do you think? You’re the Captain who’s used to weighing up risky options and making these sorts of choices.”

“Pushing the blame to me won’t be any use.”

Her elbow edged backwards, and was met by his grip about her arm, halting the threat of more digs.

“But,” he hastened to continue, “this plan will only work if you uncle is expecting you. So… we should approach now.”

“Risky.”

“Either option poses a risk, Rhosynel,” Boromir chided, “if this fails, we can either come up with a new plan, wait to see if the Hunters have survived Fangorn… or we get arrested and have to figure out an escape plan instead.”

“That did not fill me with confidence.”

But then she didn’t have a better idea either.

With a nudge to his flanks, Tallagor decided to start galloping. Both Rhosynel and Boromir let out curses, but managed to hold their seats, as the dun horse powered across the grassland. The ground flew beneath his hooves, mane and tail streaming as the wind tore past them. Within minutes, Edoras was no longer on the horizon, but looming over them.

Pulling lightly on the reins, she managed to encourage Tallagor to slow, first to a canter, before reaching a bouncy trot, and then finally, a walk. There was a relieved sigh from Boromir, and his arm which had been crushing her against his chest, finally loosened but didn’t remove, as he sat up straighter.

With one final twitch of the reins, Tallagor came to a complete stop before the guards. Behind their helms, she couldn’t recognise them fully, but the pair both held a familiarity, did she know them personally, or just in passing?

“Gōdne ǣpeldæġ,” she greeted formally in Rohirric, quick to identify herself as kin, lest they be unnerved by her approach. “I am Rhosynel daughter of Rhysnaur, returning home to see family.”

“Well met,” the one on the left greeted, voice wary and unfamiliar to her. “Théoden King is admitting no newcomers.”

As she had expected, but still strange that one claiming family would also be barred entry. Unless the silent Boromir was putting them off, his grip tightening against her hip.

“Rhosynel,” the one on the right greeted, their voice sparked familiarity, and she cocked her head as she eyed what she could see of his features. Pale hair, green eyes, full beard. Fulred, it was Fulred she was sure of it, Haehild’s husband. “Apologies ma’am, but the orders come from the king’s advisor himself.”

Rhosynel didn’t miss the stress on his words, normally she would have greeted him as kin, but something warned her not to. The flicker of his eyes towards the other guard, and subtle tightening of his grip on the spear he held.

“Oh,” she feigned innocence, “it had been some time since I last visited home, is everything well?”

“Everything is fine,” the left guard spoke up first, short and clipped.

“But I cannot see my family today?” she asked, getting a curt head shake from the unfamiliar one. “What about tomorrow?”

“Nor tomorrow,” came the answer, short and sharp.

“Oh, oh that’s, okay. Uh…” Rhosynel feigned confusion, giving her head a slight shake. The arm still about her waist tightened slightly in concern. “I’m sorry, līefest,” she said quickly over her shoulder, twisting to catch Boromir’s eye as she used the Rohirric pet name. “We will have to wait to speak with my father, I’m sorry.”

His bewildered expression quickly shifted to one slightly less alarmed and confused. “A shame,” he managed to say, catching on, “I had hoped to ask his permission tonight.”

“I know,” she said, squeezing his arm, and looking back to the guards. Fulred’s eyes had about bugged out of his head, but then he also knew Rhosynel’s father wasn’t of Rohan, let alone within the walls of the city. “May we at least set up camp within sight of Edoras? I’d feel safe that way, what with the… marauders.”

“Of course, lass,” Fulred replied, cutting off the other, and earning a frown. “Stay in sight, that way we can keep an eye on you, until you leave tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” she said, with another polite nod, “give my regards to his Majesty and the Lady, please.”

And with that, she gently wheeled Tallagor about, who was none too happy to be heading away from home again. With a click of her tongue, he managed a trot, heading down the causeway and into the fields again.

“Well?” he pressed.

“We had the very good fortune of Fulred being on duty,” she sighed in relief, “I don’t know the other man, but he was wary of him.”

“So, a mixed success would you say?”

“Yes… but hopefully enough to make it a full success come morning,”

For a moment there was silence besides the clop of Tallagor’s hooves on the hard packed road. She knew of a rock overhang, within sight of the gates, but not so close as to be visible or overheard, and it was there Rhosynel steered him with practised hand.

A soft chuckle from Boromir vibrated against her back, making Rhosynel start in surprise, turning her head to try and see what had amused him so. There was half smile on his face, not a full grin like she’d seen him give when wrestling the Hobbits, but still more cheerful than she’d seen for the past three days.

“You may not know every man, boy, or horse, but you certainly know enough.”

The elbow that met Boromir’s ribs turned his chuckle into a startled bark, even if Rhosynel was grinning to herself.

Arrows, piercing his body. Blood. Staining her hands, seeping from his chest. Grey eyes, wait no, green—no, no they were grey this time. Dead grey eyes, staring sightlessly up at her. The snarls of orcs approaching. Her hands soaked in scalding blood, her back burning in pain. Blood soaking through her tunic and dripping down her arms. Her blood mingling with that which poured from the arrow wounds that riddled Boromir’s bod—

With a furious jerk, Rhosynel wrenched herself from the all too familiar dream.

Above, the night was dark, but the sky was awash with starlight, the crescent moon just managed to light up the ground, although it still left many dark yawning voids, that looked like pits into the earth. For a moment, Rhosynel remained laying back, gazing up at the multitude of stars, even as her brain tried to catch up and figure out where she was.

She and Boromir had set up a small camp, risking a low fire to at least have something warm for once, even if the food they carried couldn’t be cooked easily. The realisation that Frodo and Sam were gone, settled deep in her chest. She missed the smell of garlic. A pang of pain lanced through her, aching so deeply that not even talking with Boromir would help ease it. Rolling onto her side, her eyes strayed to his sleeping roll, seeking reassurance that he was still alive, still with her. Only to freeze.

It was empty.

Rhosynel’s hand shot out, testing the fleece lined leather mat, and found it cool, but not cold. With a jolt she sat upright, scanning the area, praying that he was simply relieving himself in the dead of night. Nothing, no noise, no movement. Nothing betraying his presence. His sword and pack were still at the camp, stacked neatly where he’d set them down for the night.

Something was wrong.

Rolling to her feet, Rhosynel almost bolted in a panic, but forced herself to still, to focus, to use the skills she’d been trained in. Crouching down she ran her fingers lightly across the loose sandy soil and found divots. She stood up, shifting forwards, the light of the moon was barely enough to reveal another set.

East, he’d headed east. But not on the road.

Cursing up a silent storm, she rapidly buckled her swords on just in case, and took off into the night, pausing frequently to check his steps. He was moving somewhat unevenly, not a stumble or a limp, but wondering, as though struggling to think clearly.

The crack of a twig had her crouching automatically, peering through the darkness and seeing a distant figure. Boromir had gotten further than she had expected. Breaking into a trot, Rhosynel hastened across the ground, footsteps quiet and well placed in her haste to catch up with him. What had prompted him to abandon the camp in the middle of the night?

Once she was twenty paces away, she straightened up, and softly called out.

“Boromir?”

What she didn’t expected, was for him to break into a run. Away from her.

Swearing, Rhosynel burst into a sprint. He had longer legs, but she was quicker on her feet, rapidly gaining ground. She could hear his laboured breathing, steps already becoming slower and unsteady, no doubt his arrow wounds plaguing him. But it meant she caught up quickly. Her fingers grazed his sleeve, causing Boromir to jerk away from her touch. Another snatch, another jerk, and he staggered slightly with the motion. Unwilling to cause him further injury, she lengthened her stride, and overtook him, easily moving into his path, and digging her feet into the sandy soil.

Finally, Boromir skidded to a stop.

He looked… horrific. Like a caged animal, breathing heavily through gritted teeth, chest heaving, eyes wild in the faint light of the moon. His left arm hung awkwardly, but his right was tense, the fingers of his hand flexing and curling with stress.

He was seconds away from bolting.

“What are you doin—”

Her words were cut off by his growl. “Let me leave, Rhosynel.”

“Leave? What are you talking about?” she demanded back, tension creeping up her spine and settling about her ribs. Threatening to overwhelm.

Boromir didn’t answer, instead he shifted to one side. Automatically, Rhosynel moved with him, keeping between him and whatever destination he had in mind.

“Move!” Boromir barked, teeth flashing in the dark. And quite without meaning to, she flinched, taking half a step back in alarm. But at her reaction, his expression softened, hands lifting palms towards her, in an apologetic gesture. “Let me go,” he said, voice becoming softer, as though speaking to a frightened animal, “just let me leave.”

One heartbeat passed, two, a third, a fifth, and all Rhosynel could do was stare back at him in confusion, in worry, in slowly building fear. He was trying to leave? Why? He didn’t have his sword, nor his pack, just where exactly was he hoping to go? So help her, she’d not saved Boromir’s life, only for him to walk off into the night without so much as a goodbye. Or walk off at all.

Swallowing thickly, Rhosynel ground her feet firmly into the sandy soil, that motion had Boromir’s brows furrowing, shadowing his eyes as he realised her intentions before she’d even spoken.

“No.”

“Rhosyn—”

“No.”

Unfortunately, it seemed that her defiance wasn’t the right answer, as his lips pulled back in a snarl, and he stalked forwards. For a brief moment alarm took control as Rhosynel faced down a large angry man. She skittered back a few feet, before her resolve returned once more and she held her ground. All too quickly, Boromir was in her space, crowding her with his height, his broadness filling her vision. Her neck craned to stare up at him, heart pounding and demanding she get away from the angry man now looming over her. His hands had lifted, hovering by her arms, but not grabbing her, yet. Her own fingers twitched with the urge to draw her blades, but that would take this situation from threatening, to outright dangerous.

“Move.”

The word was breathed, almost gentle in the quiet night air, if it wasn’t for the undercurrent of tension. If it wasn’t for the way Boromir was all but shaking with barely contained emotion. What was the source of this? Was it anger? Frustration?

Boromir was far bigger than her, but also injured, and Rhosynel had spent a lifetime learning how to fight larger and stronger opponents. She could use his height and weight against him like Faramir had taught her, but how could she do so without injuring him further? Could she bring herself to actually fight him? She didn’t want to. But maybe… maybe she could subdue him.

She held her ground a moment longer, licking her lips anxiously, aware of his eyes tracking her every motion like a hawk. And with one last inhale, she lunged.

Her hands seized his surcoat, rapidly moving into his space and pivoting on one foot, her back stuck his chest, and she began to shift into a move that would throw him across her hip and to the floor.

Only for his arms to lock about her shoulders and lift her clear off the ground before she could complete the move he was clearly familiar with. It apparently hurt to do so, as Boromir gave a pained grunt. But pain or no pain he flung her. For a brief moment, Rhosynel became weightless, before gravity sank its talons in and she hit the ground. Tumbling, she’d barely stopped rolling when knees thudded to either side of her legs, and large hands seized her arms, slamming her back into the ground as Boromir pinned her.

Her ribs sparked in pain, and a yelp tore itself free from her throat.

There was a startled jolt from Boromir, as he instantly released her arms, hands lifting away from her in shock. Shock that he’d hurt her? Or shock that she’d yelped at all? She hadn’t meant to react, but she could use the distraction.

The heel of her hand lashed out and slammed into his left shoulder. Judging by the bark of pain, she’d found her mark, as Boromir reeled back, hand going to the arrow wound she’d struck. Not giving him chance to retaliate, she bulled forwards, shoving him upwards, and then backwards, until it was Boromir who’s back slammed into the ground. His own eyes flew wide in shock as she hastily pinned him, hands pressing to his shoulders in clear threat.

If he tried to fight back, she would press on his wound.

“The Ring is pulling you, isn’t it,” she said swiftly, trying to get her words out before he could overpower her once more. He didn’t react, teeth bared in frustration. “Or is it your guilt?”

Boromir blinked, eyes darting away for a fraction of a second.

So it was his guilt. It must be eating him alive. Devouring him in the quiet hours of the night, leaving him restless, depressed, seeing no other way out.

“Boromir,” Rhosynel breathed quietly, trying to find the words to help. There was almost a flinch, as she used his name. A name she’d used a hundred times before, and not once had a negative reaction to. “I am not letting you up, until you tell me what you were planning to do.”

She felt him tense, testing her grip, testing the strength of his muscles. He could, if he really tried, throw her off, overwhelm her, knock her out, or even kill her. He was far bigger, and far stronger, he wouldn’t need both hands to kill her. She had no doubt about it. So why didn't he? If he wanted to leave, he could, so why not fling her off and flee? Why was she able to pin him down when it would be so easy for him to reverse the situation? Was he so concerned about hurting her?

Or was there some part of him which didn’t want to go?

“Let me go, Rhosynel, let me leave,” Boromir tried again, voice sounding plaintive, exhausted and drained, either from their scuffle or from his emotions. His eyes slid away from her face, looking up past her towards the scant few stars that were breaching the cloud cover. Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it. “I didn’t –I don’t– have a plan. I just… I have to leave. I need to leave.”

There was a difference between leaving, and whatever the hells this was.

If Boromir had wanted to leave, he’d have chosen to head home, not towards the Hobbits, he’d have chosen Minas Tirith, not Isengard. If he’d wanted to leave the Fellowship the pair of them would be heading to Minas Tirith and their respective famil—

He wasn’t trying to leave the Fellowship. He was trying to leave everything.

The realisation struck Rhosynel like a physical blow, inhaling sharply and recoiling. She could see it in his eyes, even as he tried to avoid meeting her own, the achingly deep sorrow, the regret, the sheer anguish that had taken hold of Boromir. He wanted to leave, but not because he had a destination in mind, but because he wanted for the pain to end. He’d walk until he’d collapsed, or until orcs found him, or he came across a river and drowned. He had no intention of returning to Minas Tirith, and every intention of dying.

Swallowing thickly, Rhosynel sat back on her heels, still straddling his chest but no longer pinning his shoulders. Boromir made no move to get up, but did drag a hand across his face, his own throat bobbing as he swallowed.

“Did you hurt Frodo, when you tried to take the Ring?” she asked quietly.

The question had been plaguing her for days now. She’d not seen the Hobbit since the morning of the Uruk-Hai attack, not seen him since before Boromir had been ensnared by the Ring. Was he okay? Was he hurt? Had Boromir hurt him?

“What does it matter?” Boromir replied gruffly, hand still pressed to his eyes in a failed bid to hide the tears that crept from their corners and vanished into his hairline. “I ruined everything. The Fellowship failed, and it was I that broke it. I failed in my promise to protect Fr-Frodo. I tried to take the Ring from him. Just let me go.”

That wasn’t an answer and the answer mattered.

Leaning forwards once more, Rhosynel planted her hands on the ground to either side of his head. The gesture had Boromir inhaling sharply, hand falling away from his face to grip one of her wrists lightly. Her hair fell about her shoulders as she stared down at him, trying to read the lines of his face, the shift of his eyes, the feathering of his jaw muscles. Trying desperately to see if he was lying or not.

“Did, you, hurt, him?” Rhosynel asked, slowly and pointedly.

If Boromir had hurt Frodo… she’d let him leave.

The thought sickened her, but more than that the idea of Frodo being injured by anyone of the Fellowship had rage coiling through her chest. She’d sworn to protect him when in Lothlorien, but she’d been desperately trying to protect him long before that. Before Moria. Before Rivendell. Ever since Bree she’d found herself trying frantically to shelter the Hobbits, Frodo, and the Ring. If she’d failed, it would hurt. But if it had been Boromir that made her break that promise…

Rhosynel’s stomach twisted unpleasantly.

Boromir’s own eyes were searching her face, brows drawing together at whatever he found in her expression.

“No,” he answered quietly.

He wasn’t lying.

The tension that had gripped her body, relaxed. Sheer and utter relief flooded her limbs and body, and it was an effort not to just crumple to the ground. By the Valar she felt sick with relief. He hadn’t hurt Frodo, much like he hadn’t truly hurt her in this kafuffle. Boromir may have been bigger and far stronger, but it was a careful strength, so mindful of those smaller than him. The fact he’d frozen when she yelped, confirmed her suspicions. He hadn’t hurt Frodo, he hadn’t hurt him, he hadn’t hurt him.

“Then, it sounds to me, like you didn’t break your promi—”

The hand about her wrist tightened, but there was no chance to react as Boromir yanked. Pulled off balance, Rhosynel’s shoulder hit the ground. In a bid to get away she rolled, only to find Boromir rolling with her. One moment she’d been leaning over him, the next, she was pinned, his hands gripping her shoulders, her own hands pressed to his chest in a bid to hold him at bay. Panic writhed through her, but she forced herself to remain still, to not fight back.

Boromir hadn’t hurt Frodo, so she prayed he wouldn’t hurt her.

“I. Failed.” The words were little more than a snarl, through gritted teeth, inches from her face, a wild look in his eyes as he leant over her. He almost shook her within his grasp, but managed to still, resulting in a jerk of motion that rattled her teeth instead. “I couldn’t protect him from myself, so who would?”

“Me.” Her answer was swift and instant. “The others. All of us. The Fellowship wasn’t just about protecting Frodo from orcs or Nazgul or other men, but also about keeping each other in check.”

“Then you failed.”

“We did,” Rhosynel didn't shy away from admitting it. No matter how it pained her to do so. “We've all been affected by the Ring. We failed, because we didn't realise until it was too late, that it had you so fully under its sway.”

“Because I am weak.”

“No, because you have the most to lose,” Rhosynel countered sharply. “The fate of a nation rested on your shoulders! A weaker man would have snatched it up in Rivendell, but you lasted months before succumbing. The only reason you wanted it was to protect your people, and the Ring could use that fear against you. That doesn't make you weak, it makes you afraid, but hope isn’t lost!”

Falling silent after that outburst, she glared up at him, eyes straining to make out his features in the weak moonlight. Her heart was pounding in the cage of her ribs, and her chest heaved for air despite not having run or fought for long. Some men, she knew, considered fear to be weakness. Hopefully Boromir wasn't one, his brother Faramir hadn’t been, and she could only hope the brothers were more similar than just looks.

“Hope,” he muttered bitterly. “Galadriel said that to me, but its flame is weak.”

“Hope isn't a bloody candle you've left on a windowsill,” Rhosynel replied tartly. “Hope, hope is, hope is… it’s a shield that you care for and maintain. Or a sword you hone, or the strength of your arm, and the faith in your men.” She jabbed a finger in his chest, only to wince as it struck the mail shirt he wore. “Hope is something you make and maintain. You can lose sight of hope, but that doesn’t mean it’s gone.”

Silence met her words. Long, drawn out, silence. Boromir stared down at her, his dark hair fell about his jaw as tried to read the lines of her face, the shift of her eyes. Trying to see… what exactly? The sincerity of her words? The truth behind them?

“Then why is it so hard to see?” he asked.

Boromir’s voice cracked on the last word, and Rhosynel’s heart broke.

He was shaking his head avoiding her eyes, pushing up, away from her, releasing her from his grasp and looking set to climb to his feet. Rhosynel wouldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t lose him too.

Following Boromir’s movement as he sat back on his heels, she caught a hold of one arm, and without giving him chance to react, flung her other about his shoulders, dragging him into an embrace. For a moment he stiffened, clearly reluctant. But as the seconds passed, Boromir’s shoulders lost their tension. Between one heartbeat and the next, he’d crumpled, almost crushing her with his weight. His arms snaked around her back, tightening and dragging her against his chest, fingers digging into her shoulders with painful intensity, face buried against her neck.

The shoulder of her tunic grew damp, as his body shook silently.

“I’ve got you,” she said quietly, arms tightening even more, unwilling to let him escape her grasp. “I’ve got you.”

Those three words. Repeated again and again against his hair. Each time his hands tightened against her tunic, as though it was a rope thrown to him as he drowned. Each time his crying shook her, each time he struggled to breathe. But eventually, eventually, Boromir’s breathing became less strained, and while she couldn’t call it steady by any stretch of the imagination, it was stronger, less shaky.

Rhosynel still didn’t let go of him.

“Will you not let me leave?” His question was soft, lost within the tangle of her hair, barely whispered against her shoulder.

One last attempt it seemed.

“I can’t do this alone,” Rhosynel replied truthfully. “Will you stay with me? Please?”

Boromir’s arms tightening about her was answer enough.

Chapter Text

After the previous night it was a relief to see the dawn, although perhaps foolishly, Rhosynel had intentionally forgone any sleep once more. Instead, she remained in silent vigil, watching the darkened landscape, and the quiet shifting and breathing of Boromir.

But now the sun was cresting the horizon, turning the sky crimson and gold, vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows, all heralding the dawning of a new day. As the light caught the gilding of Meduseld, illuminating the golden straw roof, gleaming across the landscape. Normally, Rhosynel was within the city’s protective walls, she rarely got to see her once home in the morning light, from outside. It was beautiful but seemed… distant. As though she had travelled too far, and was unable to actually return home.

It wasn’t a pleasant feeling.

But then again, she hadn’t gotten any sleep for the third night in a row. After her scuffle and ensuing talk with Boromir, she had escorted him back to the meagre campsite, and then waited for him to fall asleep. The moment his breathing had evened out, she was sat up, eyes alternating between watching the horizons, and staring down at him. As though blinking would risk him vanishing.

The bars of iron about her chest were becoming a permanent fixture, leaving her feeling strangled and caged.

But now she couldn’t run, couldn’t stretch her legs, and shake off her self-made prison, not after berating Boromir for leaving in the middle of the night. No, Rhosynel would have to wait for the others, before she could risk leaving Boromir alone.

But what if the Three Hunters didn’t return? Then what? It wasn’t a thought she dared entertain for long. If the Hunters had died, could she and Boromir resume the chase after the Hobbits? What if all five of them were dead? Would she remain in Edoras, or return to Minas Tirith? Rhosynel had no answers, and no energy to consider the outcomes, there were just too many options.

Too many options, and not enough time.

With a shake, Rhosynel craned her neck, peering down from her perch upon the craggy rocks that had loomed over their campsite. Boromir was beneath her, beginning to stir as the sun slanted across his face. The dark bags beneath his eyes were less pronounced, and his skin no longer bore the sallowness that had plagued him previously.

With any luck, his injuries would be healing.

Or would have been, had they not wrestled during the night.

Glancing down to her hand, she curled her fingers, feeling the dried blood crackle on her skin. Boromir’s blood. This time not from her desperate attempts to heal him, but her attempts to keep him with her.

There was a grumble from below, as he sat up.

“Rhosynel?” he asked, as she peered down once again, seeing him twist about in confusion. “Rhos!?”

That was pure alarm in his voice, pure panic at waking alone, without her in sight.

A malicious part of her was pleased that Boromir now felt the panic she’d felt the previous night. But that didn’t linger long. Instead, guilt flooded in to take its place. Guilt that she felt pleased at his distress.

Shaking it off, Rhosynel hopped off the rock. An impulsive thought that won out, and she dropped the ten feet, bracing for impact. Her cloak flared about her shoulders as she fell, and her feet hit the ground with a surprising amount of softness. She could have sworn the drop was further than that, or maybe she hadn’t jumped off it since she was far younger?

The yelp and jolt Boromir gave was almost satisfying, even if he did snatch at his sword, only to freeze and sigh heavily. “I wondered where you were,” he said, tension leaving his shoulders.

“Keeping watch,” she replied shortly, already dropping into a crouch to sort through her packs. “Are you ready to head to Edoras? I need to do a few things first, but they won’t take long.”

“I’m ready whenever you are.”

A good enough answer.

Shucking off her cloak of feathers, she rolled it neatly and stashed it within her packs, withdrawing the deep blue tunic that had been cleaned at Lothlorien. The tunic she wore now was finally made, but clearly elven in make, and as such, was far too obvious. Changing swiftly, she buckled her leather belt on, as the tunic was far too large on her slender frame, and then reached up to braid her hair.

Her hair was a state, the golden-brown muted by orc blood and dirt, but at least she didn’t look too polished and clean. No, dirt was far more acceptable, even if it was from orc blood.

Lastly she collected a strip of parchment and her charcoal, drafting a brief message to Aragorn that they’d be attempting to sneak into Edoras, and potentially see to the ailing prince. Along with that, she requested they keep Ilmara with them until they were heading to the city.

She didn’t say it, but at least that way Ilmara would be safe from any… consequences.

“Do you have anything less Gondorian to wear?” Rhosynel asked, glancing up to Boromir, who’d been keeping a keen eye to the horizon as she written. Ilmara was launched skywards for hopefully the last time. The poor Limroval needed a break, needed a rest.

“These are my spares, since my clothes were cut open,” he replied with a wry glance over his shoulder, only to blink owlishly at her appearance. There wasn’t chance to ask, as he shook his head harshly. “And my cloak is too elven in make, but perhaps I could borrow your cloak? The old one that is, not the feathery one.”

It took a minute of digging through her pack –and wondering why she had so much useless stuff within– before she found it. The mottled green cloak had seen better days, but it was neutral and unassuming. It also, had a hood.

“When we reach the city, pull your hood up, and keep it up,” she instructed quickly, passing him the tattered fabric. “Your hair is far too dark for Rohan, they’ll spot you a mile away.”

Boromir pulled the cloak on, dragging it up to cover his head and dark hair. “Do I look like a Ranger now?”

Dark hair combined with the mottled green cloak gave her a bolt of alarm, of recognition, of utter deep-seated sorrow. Boromir wasn’t Rainion, too tall and too broad, his eyes were grey and not green, and his beard was at odds with Rainion’s stubble. But if she didn’t look too closely, if she didn’t focus on the features, then for a brief moment, Rhosynel could almost delude herself into believing it was Rainion stood before her.

Her heart ached at the thought.

“Well?” Boromir pressed, head tilting at whatever expression was on her face. “Is the life of a Ranger waiting for me?”

“No.”

She wasn’t sure if the huff was of annoyance or amusement.

“What do you know of the advisor?” she asked, forcing herself to look away from Rainion’s spectre. Rising to her feet and slinging the pack across her shoulders, before collecting Tallagor’s reins as Boromir kicked dirt over the already dead fire just in case.

“Slimy, a snake of a man, but he has an insidious way of voicing your fears,” Boromir was quick to answer, waiting for her to mount up before he hauled himself up behind her. She didn’t miss the quiet hiss of pain, pain that he was being careful to mask. “For all my dislike of Grima, he’s smart, insightful, and far too cunning. Ideally, he wouldn’t even set eyes on you, but realistically…”

“He has eyes on everyone?”

“Precisely.”

Rhosynel heaved a sigh, even as she turned Tallagor’s head back towards Edoras. “Serving staff tend to go unnoticed by their superiors, there’s every chan—”

Tallagor lunged forwards, and Rhosynel almost bit her tongue off at the abrupt lurch, her back slamming into Boromir’s chest even as he scrambled to grip both the saddle horn and her waist to keep them both seated. Wrestling with the reins, it took a great deal of effort to get the dun horse back under control. But even then, he sidestepped, tossed his head, champing at the bit as his ears flickered back and forth.

A half feral thing indeed.

“I will beat Éomer next time I meet with him,” she heard Boromir mutter into her hair, loosening his crushing grip about her waist as Tallagor was brought somewhat under control. “But as you were saying, some staff go unnoticed. But if Grima’s as paranoid and observant as Éomer suggests, then he’ll notice you. Regardless of how well you may or may not blend in.”

The city was approaching far too quickly, but Rhosynel had the feeling that even if they’d spent weeks discussing the options, uncertainty would still leave them woefully underprepared.

“We have little choice,” she said, eyes locked on the palisade walls, and the two figures stood before the gates. “I just need to reach Théodred once, maybe twice. I just need to get eyes on his injuries and apply the Kingsfoil.”

She just had to try and save the Prince of Rohan’s life.

No pressure.

The reinforced wooden wall was soon looming over them, as the pair rode up the causeway. Already, she could see one of the guards lifting his faceplate to greet her, the familiar sight of Héobald was a reassurance. The familiar grin as she drew closer, the curious glance from her to the man sat at her back.

“Lass,” he greeted, “Fulred said you want in?”

“We do,” she greeted, already leaning forwards to clasp hands with him, sending a nod to the vaguely familiar face of Héomod, even if he was several years older than when she’d last seen him. “But we need to lay low, we’re hoping to—”

“Don’t tell me gal, the less I know about your machinations the better,” he was quick to cut her off. “Head for my place, Fulred’s expecting you and will see to your horse, keep your heads down.”

And with a nod to his son, they began to push the gate open for them to pass.

Glancing over her shoulder, she met Boromir’s eyes, his brow furrowed in concern or concentration, Rainion’s tatty old cloak already drawn up and over his head, concealing his dark hair and the Gondorian stylings of his clothes. But on meeting her gaze, he gave a reassuring nod.

Swallowing thickly, Rhosynel nudged Tallagor forwards. The sound of the gate rattling shut behind them was far too loud on the early dawn air, trapping them within the city, and past the point of no return.

The early dawn meant that there were only a few people out in the streets, a blessing, as it meant less eyes on their progress. The route to Héobald’s home took a minute to come back to Rhosynel, but thankfully, upon drawing level with their street, she remembered just in time, and was able to turn down it. The houses were stacked closely, almost overlapping, no more than two stories tall at the most, their thatched rooves, dark wood, and thick glass windows, were all starkly familiar and alien at once.

Such a contrast between Minas Tirith and Edoras, it made her wonder how her parents ever got along, ever worked out their differences. Clearly they’d managed, else she and Rhymenel wouldn’t exist.

A figure was ahead, leaning against the wall of one house. They were quick to push away from the woodwork as they approached, and Rhosynel recognised Fulred, albeit without his uniform or armour, hair pulled back in a tail wearing a dark green tunic, which neatly matched the front door of Héobald’s house.

“Inside, quickly,” he urged, “Haehild will settle you, I’ll lead this fella to the stables.”

There was a heavy thump of Boromir’s boots hitting the cobble stones, but he was quick to duck into the low doorway, even as Rhosynel slid down from Tallagor’s back. Handing over the reins with a clap on Fulred’s shoulder in wordless thanks, she too, ducked into the once familiar home.

It was a little odd, to be stood in that entrance yet again, she blinked furiously against the change in light, only to press her lips together against the threat of a laugh.

Boromir could only just stand up straight, provided he minded the beams that criss-crossed the low ceiling. But currently he was staring down in surprise at the twins, who in turn stared up at him with open mouthed surprise. The two children were no more than ten years old, gangly and awkward, with bright blue eyes and long pale blond hair. They’d have been indistinguishable, if it wasn’t for the fact Freaer was wearing skirts, rather than breeches like Fendig, and both of them looked utterly startled to find such a huge man in their home.

“Maaaa!” Freaer called over her shoulder, barely taking her eyes off Boromir.

“Are they here already?” a familiar voice was asking, as footsteps hastened down the stairs, “don’t just stand there, show them to the kitc—Bema you’re tall!”

Haehild, came to an abrupt stop at the foot of the stairs, belatedly pressing a hand to her mouth, eyes widening in alarm at her own rudeness.

“I’m so sorry sir, that—I didn’t mea—”

“It’s fine, my lady,” Boromir replied, somewhat gruffly, “think nothing of it.”

Rhosynel didn’t miss the pointed glance Boromir threw her way, even as he reached up to pull the cloak down from his head, now they were away from prying eyes.

She took the hint.

“Haehild?” Rhosynel asked, stepping forwards in a bid to prevent this first encounter getting any more awkward. “I’m sorry for dropping in like this, I know its abrupt.”

“Oh, Rhosynel! Its fine, Fulred warned us that you were seeking entry to the city,” she replied, looking to Rhosynel with a welcoming –if awkward– smile. It had been several years since they last spoke, after all. Finally taking the last step of the stairs. “Please, come this way, take a seat—” she moved towards the kitchen, beckoning as she went. “Freaer, Fendig, stop staring,” Haehild chided, as though she’d not been doing the same thing two seconds ago.

With a household of seven individuals, only two of which were children, the kitchen was large with more than enough seating. A low fire glowed in the fireplace, little more than keeping the coals hot, but it helped ward off the chill March air, as Haehild motioned for them to both take a seat. Carefully setting her bags down, Boromir mimicked her actions with only the faintest trace of a wince.

“Can I get you both some tea?” Haehild asked, already starting to move about the kitchen without their answers. “What brings you back home after all this time?”

Rhosynel had the sense she was attempting to regain her footing, and acting as host was the best way of going about it. Unfortunately, their answers wouldn’t be standard pleasantries about wanting to revisit old haunts.

“Nothing pleasant, I’m afraid,” Rhosynel replied simply, settling into one of the chairs, “I ran into Héostor on our way here, he said you’re still working at the Meduseld?”

Any pretence of making tea was abandoned quickly, as her cousins’ eyes narrowed to blue slits, clearly assessing and weighing Rhosynel’s words.

“What are you doing?”

The question was blunt and to the point, and despite the severity of the situation, the weight of their intentions on her shoulders, the weight of what my happen should she fail, Rhosynel grinned at her childhood friend. Haehild, was far too accustomed to the shenanigans that Rhosynel had gotten into as a child, and was apparently unsurprised that she’d not changed over the years.

“I need you to get me into the Hall, specifically to Théodred, as I have something which might, just might, help hasten his recovery,” she replied quickly and easily. “I’m not Rhymenel, I’m not a healer, but if I can help…”

“That’s a terrible idea.”

Well that was encouraging.

But then Haehild was sighing, tea forgotten as she settled into the seat opposite her and Boromir, although she struggled to meet his eyes, apparently somewhat intimidated. Was it his height, his dark hair, or perhaps the shadows in his eyes? Either way, she kept her attention to Rhosynel, with infrequent glances to the silent man alongside her.

“But if it helps the Prince…” Haehild chewed at her lip for no more than a minute, eyes taking on a pensive expression. But then, she gave a short sharp nod. “A couple of chamber maids have ‘quit’ after dealing with the advisor one to many times. The reality is they’ve been scared off, so now we’re short staffed, if I brought my cousin in to help out, your assistance would be appreciated rather than suspicious.”

Rhosynel was already flashing Boromir a grin, even if he didn’t look reassured by the ease of which their plan was set to unfold.

“But if Wormtongue finds out about you he’ll question you closely,” Haehild’s next words promptly wiped Rhosynel’s smile from her face. “And if he suspects you… The maids that quit did so after being… interrogated.”

“Ah,” Rhosynel said slowly and carefully.

“I don’t like this,” Boromir said lowly, eyes darkening in concern.

“We’re already within the city,” she countered, “what else should we do until the others catch up?”

“Others?” Haehild’s question was sharp and to the point. “Just how many am I smuggling into the Hall?”

“Just me,” Rhosynel was quick to reassure, although the quiet grumble from Boromir suggested he disliked that idea as well. But he couldn’t easily pass as Rohirric, let alone a servant. “The others are currently to the north, they’ll not be here for a few more days yet. Can you get me into the hall? I understand if you don’t want to, you have famil—”

“The prince is dying, Rhos,” Haehild interrupted bluntly, a fierceness to her voice, even if her hands twisted and pulled at one another in clear anxiety. “That snake, is poisoning the Meduseld from the inside. We all want him out, we’re just… scared.”

So was Rhosynel, but she had far more experience in facing her fears. If Haehild needed her to be brave, she could be. Swallowing harshly, she did her best to press down her own anxieties, tried to push it aside so she could help. For maids to be chased off, either through discomfort or outright threats, it was bad. Really bad. Where would disgraced servants work next, if they’d been turfed out of the Meduseld? Was this advisor pushing out those who were loyal to Théoden’s line?

She dreaded to think.

Could Rhosynel tolerate the work until Ilmara returned? Realistically Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli couldn’t be more than a few days away, but how long would they spend within Fangorn trying to find the Hobbits? Were they already heading south? No, no Ilmara would have been sent on ahead if that were the case.

Which meant Rhosynel didn’t know how long she’d have to act for.

“Do you have a spare work gown?” Rhosynel asked, trying to push the doubts aside.

“You’re serious about this then?”

Rhosynel looked to Boromir, as much as she wanted to help, she’d not go ahead with this plan without his leave. She could see it in his eyes, the wariness, but also a familiarly stubborn determination. Apparently sensing her gaze, he looked to her, but his eyes soon strayed away again, settling on the twins who’d quickly grown bored of the adult’s conversation and were attempting to lift his sword.

It didn’t take long to turn back to her, with a subtle nod.

“I am,” Rhosynel said.

Her voice sounded far more confident than she felt.

The idea was simple, put on a uniform and walk with Haehild into the Meduseld.

The reality was that Rhosynel needed to prepare.

Her vial of dried Kingsfoil was carefully portioned out, leaving just three doses worth of the herb. Settled at the kitchen table, she focused on grinding that one portion into paste, the mortar and pestle was made of cool stone, heavy in her hands, the mixture off white with flecks of green throughout. Haehild had already found a small jar that she could scrape the concoction into. If she needed to use another portion, she’d prepare it in the morning, rather than risk its potency fading.

Likewise a set of bandages had been retrieved by the twins, as Rhosynel’s own bandages had been gifted by the elves of Lothlorien and had a distinctive sheen to the otherworldly fabric. If she rebound the prince’s wounds with those, her attempts to assist would be uncovered immediately.

“I’m not close with the Lady,” Haehild was explained, rapidly braiding Rhosynel’s hair into a bun, much like she wore her own. “But I’d like to think she trusts me. Somewhat. At the very least if I can speak with her, I can tell her your intentions.”

“Will it put her at risk?” Boromir asked, voice little more than a low rumble.

“Remaining in the Hall puts her at risk,” Haehild countered, “we’ve been trying to act as interference, but there’s only so much we can do before Wormtongue gets suspicious of us.”

Rhosynel had the sense Boromir was attempting to find any reason not to go ahead with this scheme. If he wasn’t injured, if he wasn’t struggling to use his left arm, Rhosynel may have been inclined to have him play a larger role in this risky plan. An advisor to Théoden King would have trouble turning away Captain Boromir Warden of the White Tower, but in his injured condition, he could easily be overpowered by any soldiers Grima had under his sway.

No, any drastic measures would have to wait until they heard from the others. 

“What time does your shift usually finish?” he was asking now, as Rhosynel used a flat blunt knife to scrape the kingsfoil mix out of the mortar, carefully transferring it to the little jar, and firmly wrapping it up.

“Dusk, the night shift starts around then.”

“If you’re not back by nightfall, I’m coming to find you,” Boromir pointedly said to Rhosynel, “no ifs, no buts. I’m coming to find you.”

“Then I best not be late,” she replied, with a smile that didn’t feel like it reached her eyes. “Alternately, if you hear alarm bells and a massive commotion, I probably need you to come find me,” she added, a bid to lighten the mood.

“That is not reassuring.”

She’d have believed him if it wasn’t for the smile that pulled at one corner of his mouth.

“Why am I starting to regret letting you into our home?” Fulred asked plaintively from his seat by the fire.

He’d been very alarmed upon learning their plan, and even more so upon learning that he was now playing host to Captain Boromir of Gondor. No doubt he was already considering just how badly the plan could go, and just how it might risk his wife.

Not that Haehild had allowed him to talk her out of it.

A pat to her shoulder announced that Haehild was done with her hair, so Rhosynel tucked the little clay jar down the front of her borrowed dress, fidgeting with it to make sure the shape lay flat and wasn’t obvious between her breasts. From what Haehild had said, the maids weren’t permitted to carry personal items, so the kingsfoil paste could have been found had she carried it in her pocket.

“I think that should do,” she said, smoothing the front of the bodice, and looking up to discover that Boromir had taken great interest in the rest of the kitchen. She bit back a laugh, as she rose to her feet. “Keep your head down while I’m gone,” she added, pausing alongside his chair to rest her hand on his good shoulder. “Avoid the windows, don’t talk of home. If anyone knocks, you need to hide.”

The long-suffering sigh was somewhat feigned, as he’d already reached up to pat her hand. It seemed he was permanently frowning in worry these days, and with what she was about to attempt, she doubted his worries would ease up any time soon.

“Be careful,” Boromir said quietly and with far too much weight to his words.

There wasn’t much chance to reply, as Haehild was already gathering her basket, and beckoning for Rhosynel to follow. With one last squeeze to his shoulder, Rhosynel followed her out the door.

The streets were starting to liven up as the pair began the trek up the hill towards the Meduseld. When was the last time she’d entered its halls? Many years ago, she was sure of it, long before Grima had begun worming his way into the King’s council no doubt. Would it have changed much? Would anyone there recognise the Messenger that infrequently delivered messages from their allies in Gondor?

Probably not. Just like serving staff, Messengers were often overlooked too.

“Remember your story?” Haehild muttered under her breath.

“I used to work in the stables—” a truth “—but took a nasty kick to the head—” a half-truth “—and you mentioned the Golden Hall needed working girls—” technically a truth “—and I needed the work.” A lie.

But that was the best way to lie, blending truth with falsehoods. Having worked in the stables as a child and teen, any lingering familiarity could be dismissed as that, the kick to her head explained the vicious scar on her temple from Weathertop, and while the Meduseld may not have been actively seeking new staff, her arrival to work there made sense.

The exhale from Haehild, sounded nervous.

“Just don’t talk to me besides instructions,” Rhosynel reassured, as the staff entrance loomed closer. “Keep any conversation simple, if people ask questions, let me answer.”

“You accent could give you away,” she pointed out softly, “not to mention your attitude.”

“Oh like you don’t have one too.”

The grin that passed between the pair, eased the tensions somewhat. Only for it to return just as quickly as they reached the staff door. There was a guard, but admittedly he looked bored out of his mind, leaning against the wall and picking at dirt under his nails with a knife, the spear he carried resting loosely in the crux of his elbow. If Rhosynel had been so inclined, it would have been easy to disarm him. Even easier to knock him out or kill him.

The glance he threw their way slid off their faces, scanning their clothing, and easily dismissing them from his attention.

Not exactly a glowing recommendation for the security of the Meduseld.

Following Haehild’s lead, Rhosynel stepped into the doorway, and with a jolt realised that was it. She was in the hall. It had been shockingly easy. In fact, it had been so easy that her paranoia and anxiety started demanding that the guard was now sprinting to find his fellows, despite the fact she could hear him less than three feet back, grumbling under his breath about the shift change being late.

“Apron.”

Haehild’s hand appeared in her vision with a simple apron.

“First task is emptying out chamber pots, then cleaning out and relighting the fires,” she continued, voice low as she led Rhosynel further into the narrow corridors. “Once the lords and ladies have risen, we’ll strip the sheets and change them for fresh ones.”

Which would probably be her best chance to get a look at Théodred.

But first she needed to familiarise herself with the below stairs, figure out how to get about unseen, learn just who the advisor was, and which of the men were under his sway, not to mention she needed to have an idea of any routines they had specifically involving Théoden. All of which, she needed to do without being caught, then, and only then, could she risk assessing the prince.

But it was too late to let the doubts creep in, too late to question her own idea, too late to reconsider, and far, far, too late to turn back.

Chapter Text

Within the halls of the Meduseld, Rhosynel padded on soft soled shoes, becoming little more than a shadow in Haehild’s steps. Dawn may have passed, but lords had no reason to rise before the staff, and as such, the place was blessedly quiet and still. From one room to another, the pair moved in tandem, emptying chamber pots into a covered bucket Rhosynel reluctantly carried, then on to sweeping out the ashes of the previous night’s fires, only to rebuild a new fire in their places.

At least Rhosynel’s experience in the wilds meant that task was easy, even if the sweeping out had her back bent uncomfortably and her knees aching on the stone floors.

It wasn’t easy work, the smell was certainly enough to put her off, but neither was it as back breaking as she’d expected. But then, the same experience travelling, also meant she was accustomed to harsh situations, to hauling equipment –and occasionally others– to traipsing about constantly on her feet and on the go. It was almost familiar.

Ahead, Haehild clicked her tongue, fingers of her free hand flaring.

As one, the pair stepped to the side, keeping their heads down and eyes on the floor, as several pairs of finely dressed figures headed past them. Instinctively, Rhosynel angled her head somewhat, in a bid to conceal the stark scar a little more.

“—regardless of what has been reported, there’s no proof to act upon,” one voice was saying, distinctly male, with a strong Rohirric accent. “I can send scouts out to check, should you wish, but if they did move on as instructed, there’ll be nothing to find.”

“I do not believe that Ostwyn is inclined to make things up,” a second voice replied, and while Rhosynel recognised it as male, there was a wheedling edge to their tone that had revulsion sliding down her spine. “Send out your scouts, have them check to see just wher—”

The voice faded, as the group turned a corner, heading towards the main hall where the throne and banquet tables were located.

Rhosynel silently let out a breath she’d not realised she was holding.

“The first speaker was Háma,” Haehild said, voice so low that Rhosynel almost missed it. “The second speaker was Grima.”

Somehow, that didn’t surprise her. She’d not dared lift her head, but his voice alone had felt… slimy. And of the clothing she had noted, a few had worn the familiar armour of Rohan, while others wore long robes, she’d not heard anything about the advisor being a soldier, which narrowed it down somewhat.

“This way.”

Mutely, Rhosynel trailed after Haehild, eyes on the floor, even if her mind was turning over the words of the advisor. Who was Ostwyn? What had been reported? Where were they sending out scouts to? She wasn’t here to pry, but any information she could learn from overhearing, could prove valuable. If she could make sense of it.

“Oh! Forgive me, my lady, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Haehild’s startled voice was enough to snap Rhosynel back to the matter at hand.

Head lifting, she froze, as a pale woman with hair like spun gold and blindingly white gown, rose to her feet at the intrusion. A distant part of Rhosynel considered the fact she should be bowing or curtsying, but it was lost to sheer shock, at finding herself face to face with Lady Éowyn. With the early morning sun streaming through the windows at her back, the Lady looked utterly ethereal, and Rhosynel couldn’t quite bring herself to look away.

“It’s no matter, Haehild,” she was saying, “Have you seen to my uncle’s room yet?”

“Not yet my lady, we’re not permitted entry without supervision.”

“We?”

Éowyn’s pale blue eyes slid away from Haehild, and focused on Rhosynel with little hesitation, immediately scanning her face, her clothing, her hair, lingering at the vicious scar that cut through her brow, arched across her temple, and vanished into the strands of hair that refused to be bound within a braid.

“You, are new.”

It wasn’t an accusation, but certainly felt like one, and Rhosynel finally remembered to avert her gaze and at least try to act like a servant. The urge to back away was strong, even as Éowyn took a couple of steps forwards, and despite being taller than both other women, somehow, Rhosynel felt small.

“What’s your name?” Éowyn asked.

“Rhosynel, my lady,” she replied. “I started today.”

“You chose to work here? Why?”

At Éowyn’s question, Rhosynel risked a sidelong glance to Haehild and was surprised to receive an encouraging nod. If her cousin trusted the Lady, then Rhosynel could too.

“Because I needed to speak with you.” The noise Haehild made in her throat suggested that hadn’t been what she meant, but Rhosynel had taken the leap and without a doubt, claimed the Lady’s attention. “I met with Éomer, yesterday.”

The sharp inhale Lady Éowyn gave was joined by her hand reaching blindly for the chair she’d risen from. “Is he well?”

“He is fine, but I learnt your cousin, isn’t.” It was an effort to carefully choose her words, and yet more of an effort to keep the hesitation from her quiet voice, especially as Lady Éowyn’s eyes sharpened on her, looking entirely unconvinced. “I’m here because I feel I may be able to help. Although I freely admit my healing knowledge is limited, but what I do have, is a herb that may help mitigate the poison of infection,” Rhosynel explained carefully, “it’s not a guarantee of his survival… but if it helps his own ability to heal…”

Those pale blue eyes hadn’t shifted away, had barely even blinked, watching Rhosynel with a keenness that even Aragorn would have struggled to match. Wariness, distrust, and far too much doubt.

How long had Lady Éowyn spent weighing and testing every word spoken to her in recent years? How often did she have to dig though the layers of meanings and intentions to find the truth? How often, did she had to guard her own words?

“What is this herb?” she asked finally.

“Kingsfoil, but the elves call it Athales.”

That caught her attention, suggesting at the unusual properties Rhosynel claimed the herb possessed. Something that the elves used, would no doubt be beneficial. But was it enough to convince the Lady to allow access to Théodred?

“Rhosynel…” Éowyn repeated her name quietly, as though turning it over on her tongue, testing it. “Our Stablemaster was Rhysnaur Flame Shield, if I recall correctly, she had two daughters, did she not?”

For a moment, Rhosynel found herself frozen, pinned in place by the clear accusation, and rapid connecting of dots that Lady Éowyn had gone through. How she’d recognised Rhosynel’s name, how she’d recalled who her mother was… for the Lady to have worked it out so quickly, was a little alarming. Either way, there was little she could do to refute the thinly veiled accusation.

Rhosynel nodded.

At that gesture, Éowyn’s posture relaxed, with the faintest incline of her head in acknowledgement. “Very well, I’ll see what I can do.”

The day was creeping into the afternoon, Rhosynel worked alongside Haehild in near silence, nothing more than quiet words and directions passing between the pair. And while Rhosynel had the sense her cousin was shocked, it had quickly faded, replaced instead by muted acceptance. Although Rhosynel was fully expecting an earful once back home again.

She wouldn’t blame her cousin, although the lack of faith was a little disappointing, but then again Haehild hadn’t seen much of Rhosynel since they left for Gondor.

For now, the pair continued working, having emptied all the chamber pots, swept and restarted all the fires, gathered bundles of clothing to be washed, and now were in the process of stripping beds to be remade. With one basket crammed full of dirty sheets, and another stacked high with fresh cottons, it was surprisingly heavy to lug through the halls.

Heading from the room of a minor lord, they didn’t get far, before a voice was barking at them.

“Yous two!”

Masculine, no Rohirric accent, although it wasn’t that of the advisor.

“Prince’s sheets need changin’. Now.”

It was an effort not to flinch, nor to lift her head and glare at the man, but Rhosynel managed to react similarly enough to Haehild. The pair changed course without protest, both keeping their heads down as they approached the man. Hauling her basket of dirty sheets along in his wake, Rhosynel carefully eyed his back. With a slight limp to his left leg, he was big, not quite matching heights with Boromir, but certainly matching him for broadness, thick neck, thick arms, thick chest, thick legs. Built like a tree stump with a face to match.

And distinctly black hair.

One of the Advisor’s men, it seemed.

Had he been assigned to guarding Théodred’s room? Would he be in the room while they worked, or would he be stood just outside? The light leather armour –nowhere near the quality of craftsmanship of the Rohirric armour– was mainly focused on his chest and shoulders, nothing more than simple bracers to his arms, and sturdy boots to his legs. Apparently, they expected little trouble within the Hall.

Or was that a recent change, since Éomer’s expulsion?

Up ahead, Rhosynel could see the brilliant white gown of Éowyn, contrasting sharply with the black furs and hair, of a sallow skinned man. He looked sickly, like a stiff breeze would knock him down, with long fingers that curled and stretched as he spoke with the Lady. As though wanting to reach out and grab her.

Judging by the way he leant towards her, and Éowyn away, this was possibly the advisor.

Rhosynel lowered her gaze before her analysing could be noticed.

“—ou must take more care, My Lady,” he was saying, in the wheedling voice that Rhosynel was rapidly growing to detest. Despite only hearing it twice. “Had you scalded him with his meal, it could have compromised his recovery…”

“The broth was tepid, at best,” Éowyn replied, voice crisp bordering dangerously close to argumentative. “I’d not feed him scalding liquid, I’m not so foolish as to risk injury like that.”

“Perhaps not, but even unintentional neglect can be dangerous.”

It was an effort for Rhosynel to not to drop her basket, not to cause some sort of distraction. But to do so would draw attention to herself, and that would defeat the purpose of being unnoticed. She was so close to Théodred’s room…

“Sir,” the tree-stump-man greeted with a nod of his head. And completely ignoring Éowyn, a gesture of blatant disrespect. “Maids t’change the sheets.”

Even with her eyes on the floor, Rhosynel could feel them scanning her and Haehild. Her hands twisting in the strap of the basket over her shoulder, hopefully interpreted as an anxious gesture rather than one of anger. She could feel it, coiling through her chest like a serpent, rage and anger that these men had claimed the Meduseld for their own. She’d not had chance to lay eyes on the King, and she found herself wondering just how he’d allowed such a thing to happen.

“Ah thank you Drath, his sheets need to be changed before they can fester,” Wormtongue was saying, and Rhosynel understood just how he’d earned that name. “We cannot risk flies being drawn to his chambers.”

Drath, the advisors man opened the door to the prince’s room, and the pair of them slipped inside. Haehild glancing to Rhosynel in a subtle question. Rhosynel avoided her eyes a moment longer, the door was still open, which meant their movements would be visible. For this to work, they needed to maintain the illusion of being there to change the sheets.

Which would be difficult with the dead weight of a man laying atop them…

Laying on his back, she scarcely recognised Théodred Prince. The skin of his face was sallow and sunken, great dark circles about his eyes, lips dry and chapped from lack of water. His hair was greasy and limp, splayed across the pillow neatly, it seemed like it had been brushed recently, and likewise, his beard was cut close and tidy. Someone –possibly Éowyn– was still taking care of him. But all the care in the world couldn’t conceal the smell of infection.

Strong enough to make Rhosynel’s stomach roil, she did her best to ignore it, as she carefully dropped her basket by the side of the bed. Working with Haehild to gently remove the upper layers of blankets and furs that had been splattered by the broth.

The smell of chicken and rosemary did little to improve the smell of the room.

At her back, Rhosynel could tell the door was still wide open, could still hear the discussion between the Lady and Advisor. Although it was less of a discussion and more of a berating from Grima, no matter how he tried to dress it with sweeter words, disrespect was still disrespect, no matter how he may try to soften it.

Bundling up the stained blanket, Rhosynel turned, and dropped it into her basket with a fwump.

At that signal, the discussion became more heated, and she didn’t need to see Éowyn’s attempt to enter the room. The creak of hinges was evidence enough, and the light in the room changed as the door was pulled to.

But not shut.

Now partially concealed, Rhosynel and Haehild moved quickly, her cousin focused on the sheets, while Rhosynel set to inspecting the prince.

His eyes still shifted behind his lids, as though hearing the movement about him, but being unable to acknowledge it. His pulse was rapid but faint, while the skin beneath her fingers was clammy and hot. The broth may not have scalded him, his own body was doing a good enough job of that. But it was the bandages about his middle that drew her attention the most.

Whoever bound them, hadn’t put much effort into it.

Instead of lying flat and smooth, they were ruckled and twisted, wrapped haphazardly and doing little to keep the fabric pad pressed to his ribs. Not great, but it would make her job easier. Instead of having to cut the bandages and rebind them, Rhosynel may just be able to move them aside, and apply the Kingsfoil. It would certainly be quicker.

Fishing the jar of salve from her cleavage, Rhosynel set to work in shifting the bandages, gingerly pulling the cloth pad silently away from his ribs. The smell that arose was enough to make her eyes water and stomach twist, but she pressed on, knowing that the Kingsfoil may just be able to negate the infection no doubt coursing through the Prince’s veins.

The moment her fingers smeared the paste across the open wound, Théodred gave a low grown. It was tempting to freeze in place, but Rhosynel dared not slow her work, applying more and more of the white and green substance, mimicking what she’d seen Aragorn do to Boromir’s arrow wounds.

The voices beyond the door would hopefully be enough to cover the pained sounds.

One minute passed, then another, and a third. It was only once her jar was empty, that Rhosynel dared stop. Pulling the fabric pad back into place, and shifting the disorganised bandages over it once more. Hopefully it wouldn’t be noticed, hopefully the application could help reduce the infection, hopefully the fresh smell of Kingsfoil wouldn’t be noticed.

From there, it was a case of working with Haehild to carefully remove the bedding from beneath Théodred’s body, mentally apologising over and over again as they were forced to manhandle his limp body. There was little reaction from the prince, other than low groans, and shifting behind his eyelids.

And then, they were done.

Not a moment too soon, as Éowyn gave a bark of frustration, and the door was forcibly shoved open. The jolt Rhosynel gave was very real, as she darted to one side, the bundle of chicken, sweat, and infection infused sheets held in her arms like a shield.

“See?” Grima half asked, half demanded, “he rests peacefully. Such little faith you have in your own maids…”

“That’s not what I meant,” Éowyn replied sharply, although her glare towards Rhosynel suggested it was. “Leave us.”

Rhosynel was only too happy to comply, bundling the sheets into the basket –along with the little clay jar– and hastening with Haehild towards the door. It was a relief to reach the corridor, the air already smelling fresher, despite still being musty.

“That one, is new.”

Grima’s voice barely reached Rhosynel, as the pair sped down the corridor. Her stomach sinking in alarm, had she been noted? Or was it something else within the prince’s chambers?

She didn’t want to find out.

The sunset turned the sky a shocking crimson, as Rhosynel and Haehild escaped the confines of the Meduseld. It was saddening to realise that a place of such grandeur and history had become such a cage, confining its inhabitants, its heirs, and it staff, within its strong walls and golden thatched roof.

The fact she and Haehild could leave, must have chaffed at Lady Éowyn.

Breathing the cool air deeply, Rhosynel allowed Haehild to lead the way back home, instead she was tilting her head back to the sky, wishing it would rain so she could clear her hair of the lingering traces of orc blood. By the Valar she needed a bath, especially after emptying chamber pots all day. Aragorn and the others needed to hurry up and arrive, so she didn’t have to do this longer than necessary.

“Ma!”

The young voices yelling for Haehild jolted Rhosynel back to the present, just in time to see the twins crash against their mothers’ legs, jabbering and talking over one another at the same time. Rhosynel smiled at the antics, watching with amusement as the pair all but dragged Haehild along, bouncing along the street with far more energy that Rhosynel expected.

It was sweet, although it gave a sharp pang to her chest, recalling how often the Hobbits had tried to bowl her over with similar enthusiasm.

“Léothain’s taught us more letters, and he’s told us all kinds of stories,” Freaer was exclaiming, “he’s been to so many places!”

“I tried to lift his sword but it’s bigger than I am!” Fendig added.

Léothain?

It took Rhosynel far too long to recall the new owner of her grandfather’s name, and then she was grinning at the twin’s excitement. Apparently, Boromir had been providing enough entertainment to keep the pair occupied. Although if they spent too long talking about him outside of the home, it could cause issues.

Ducking into their home behind the trio, Rhosynel immediately caught the scent of cooking food. Thankfully not chicken and rosemary, but still fragrant and heartening. It was surprising how much her stomach rumbled at the scent; the day’s hard work no doubt draining her energy. The minor amount of food they’d eaten while at work was hardly enough to keep them going, little more than scraps the chefs had set aside from the lord’s meals.

Stepping into the kitchen, she was met by the sight of Boromir, settled at the table with Héomod, while Héobald and Fulred worked at the kitchen’s oven to prepare the evening meal. Almost the moment she entered the room, Boromir was lurching to his feet, almost knocking his chair over and grazing his head on the ceiling. The abrupt motion making Héomod jolt in surprise.

“You’re alright?” Boromir demanded. “You weren’t caught or found out?”

“I’d not be here if I was,” Rhosynel replied with a smile, caught off guard by his concern. “We managed to speak with Éowyn, and I got the Kingsfoil onto Théodred’s injury.”

“Speaking! Of which!” Haehild twisted around from where she’d been greeting her husband. “When I nodded at you to tell Éowyn, I meant your cover story you dolt!”

“Ah.” The guilty look Rhosynel gave in response, had Boromir’s concern dropping into one of disbelief. “In my defence, it worked far quicker.”

“Rhosynel,” Boromir said, dragging her name out in clear preparation for reprimand.

“Léothain,” she countered, earning a snort from Héobald. “Regardless of what I was or wasn’t meant to do, the plan worked,” she pressed on before the scolding could commence. “Now, is there somewhere I can clean up before we eat, so I don’t stink of infection and chamber pots?”

That earnt some amusement from those gathered, although Boromir had reluctantly returned to his seat at the table, the furrow of his brow suggesting he very much wished to continue the debriefing. Unfortunately for him, she wasn’t one of his soldiers, and had her own needs to see to.

“This way,” Haehild beckoned, leading her through the rooms.

A steaming basin of water had already been prepared, clearly anticipating their return home. While it wasn’t a true bath, it was appreciated, the rough washcloth and hot water, helped to scrub at Rhosynel’s skin and felt far more effective than any splashing of cold stream water could achieve.

Someday she’d find a proper bath, but for now, hot water and soap infused with lavender would do just as nicely.

Freshly scrubbed and wearing one of Haehild’s simple gowns, she joined her cousins at the table, easily slipping into the seat alongside Boromir. The twins had already claimed the space to the other side of him and were still peppering him with questions. No topic was too boring for them, from the mundane to the fantastical, it seemed they wanted to know everything Boromir had ever seen or learnt in his years.

It was endearing, really, as she listened to him wax lyrical about Rivendell.

With hot food, good ale, and familiar faces, for a short while, Rhosynel dared to lower her guard. True she couldn’t really relax, not with the fresh memory of the injured prince on her mind, nor with the lingering concern for the Hunters and the Hobbits. With so many factors at play, it was difficult to keep her focus on anything but what was before her. And for now, that was her cousins, the twins stubbornly refusing to eat their greens, Héomod’s questioning to Boromir, and the familiar teasing and banter that passed back and forth between the adults.

If Rhosynel was to put the past few months out of mind, it would almost feel like she was back home. A fleeting comfort, but comfort none the less.

“Rhos, you awake?” Héomod’s voice interrupted Rhosynel’s absent thoughts.

Blinking, it took Rhosynel a moment to realise that it had grown late, and with the meal and dishes cleared away, the household was gearing up for bed. She was shattered as well, the previous nights of poor sleep, and then the manual labour at the Meduseld, combining to have her dozing off in her seat.

“Just about,” she replied, with a yawn and a stretch.

“I’ll be sharing with Da tonight, so you two can have mine and Héostor’s room,” he explained, prompting Rhosynel to gather her bag from the corner it had been tucked into. “It’s not much, but it’s a bed.”

“Thanks, Héomod.”

“Sir?” Héomod looked to Boromir, clearly somewhat starstruck even after spending several hours talking with him. “Shall I show you where you’re sleeping?”

Boromir, who was currently settled on the floor along with the twins and in the process of explaining some sort of horse based tactical manoeuvre using their wooden carved toys, looked up. “Ah, thank you, Héomod,” he replied, and then turned his attention back to the children. “I imagine that means time for bed for you two?”

“I don’t want to go to bed!”

“But how will you grow as tall as me if you don’t get enough sleep?” Boromir countered, already climbing to his feet, and standing with his hands on his hips. A frown of mock concern on his face. “Next you’ll be telling me you don’t want to eat your vegetables and become strong!”

“That’s why I’m so short,” Héobald commented from his seat by the fire, “I never get enough sleep these days.”

The confusion was predictable and clearly expected, as Haehild was quick to swoop in along with Fulred, explaining that yes that was true, yes they did need to eat more vegetables, and that yes sleeping made you taller. Almost before Boromir had gathered his bags, the twins had raced up the stairs, hotly followed by their parents.

Bidding goodnight to her uncle, Rhosynel followed Héomod up the stairs, hearing Boromir at her back. The staircase was narrow and steep, the rafters that supported the ceiling skimming the top of her head as she climbed.

“Mind your hea—”

Clonk.

Rhosynel did a very good job at pressing her lips together over a laugh, even if she couldn’t stop the mirth from showing in her eyes. The muffled grumbles from Boromir were just as amusing, but thankfully she was able to school her expression by the time they reached the cramped landing.

“Here you go,” Héomod said, gesturing to the door on the right. “See you in the morning.”

Stepping into the small room, Rhosynel was quick to drop her bag alongside the bed, settling on its edge as she began pulling the pins from her braided bun. It was a miracle her hair had remained in place for so long, but she was beginning to get the sense that had only been achieved through the sheer volume of pins. After the twentieth, she stopped counting.

It also took far too long to realise that Boromir was still stood in the doorway, brow furrowed, eyeing the room.

“What?” she asked, unravelling the braid and beginning to comb through it with her fingers. “You look like you’ve got an empty stable, what’s wrong?”

“I…” Boromir trailed off as quickly as he’d started. But then, with a shake of his head, he lowered his bag to the floor –with a poorly concealed grimace– and began to remove his sleeping roll. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

Blinking, Rhosynel stared at him blankly for a moment, and then looked back at the bed she was perched on. It was a good bed, reasonably wide, fairly long, and with thick well-made blankets made of knitted woollen squares in various colours. For several long minutes, Rhosynel struggled to understand why there was a problem with the bed. If Héomod and Héostor shared, then surely it was big enough for her and Boromir to shar—

Oh.

It was an effort to stop her face from turning red at the realisation. Although judging by the heat she could feel, it wasn’t successful.

“Oh.” She said with all the wit that her tiredness provided. “You think I’ll hog the blankets; I see.”

Thankfully her blithe comment was taken for the poor joke it was, as Boromir breathed a laugh, shaking his head ruefully.

“But if you think I’m letting you sleep on the floor with those injuries, you’re sorely mistaken,” she continued, his laughter stopping instantly. “It’s been bad enough listening to you grumble and groan while camping, let alone when there’s hardly any floorspace for you to stretch out and a perfectly good bed right next to you.”

“My injuries are fine.”

“Liar.”

The glare he gave her would once have Rhosynel cowering, or at the very least hastily apologising or shutting up. Unfortunately for Boromir, she’d gotten used to him, and knew the glare was all bark and no bite. So instead of backing down, she met his gaze, and held it, waiting patiently for whatever his next line of defence was to be. A wry smile on her lips.

But apparently getting used to him went both ways, as instead of more protests, Boromir seemed to recognise that she wasn’t going to capitulate. Or at least, the heavy sigh and brief glance skywards suggested he wasn’t going to protest. Her suspicions were confirmed, as instead of unrolling his sleeping mat, he returned it to its place on his pack, and gingerly rose to his full height again, minding his head on the beams.

“You are infuriating to deal with, do you know that?” Boromir asked, even if his glare down at her had softened to just a frown.

She did know that, in fact, Rhosynel had been told that often by various people throughout her life. Infuriating, stubborn, insufferable, overbearing, protective, and bull headed. None of this was new to her, and none of it bothered her for the simple fact that it was true. It was, however, a relief to see that he’d not argue. If anything, it told Rhosynel just how badly he must ache, to not argue against sleeping alongside her.

She grinned back, and was rewarded with another roll of his eyes.

Changing into her old baggy blue tunic, Rhosynel was content to settle, tiredness already dragging her eyelids down. The other side of the bed creaked as Boromir also settled, moving somewhat gingerly, either due to discomfort of his injuries, or discomfort of the proximity to her. Already Boromir was warming her side, true they’d camped alongside one another, but she’d never quite realised just how much heat radiated from him. It was… soothing.

She’d been plumping up the pillow, when Boromir spoke.

“Rhos… how did Théodred look?”

Her hands stilled their motions, and she became glade that the light of the moon was doing a poor job of illuminating the room, and her expression.

“He… looked bad,” she admitted, unwilling to lie to Boromir, and hating how he inhaled sharply. “His skin was hot to the touch and coated in sweat, both of which are an indication of infection. His injury hadn’t been properly seen too either, the bandages had been shoddily bound.”

“But you got the Kingsfoil applied?”

The hope in Boromir’s voice had her grimacing.

“Rhosynel…”

She’d not meant for him to see her reaction, but seen it he had. With a sigh, Rhosynel settled down on the bed, hands loosely clasped on her chest, eyes fixed on the rafters above. Unwilling to meet Boromir’s eyes and the hope she knew would be in them. He’d already said that Théodred was a dear friend, and she could well imagine that the two heirs of the two kingdoms would have been close.

“I did, but its still no guarantee,” she said quietly enough that she felt Boromir lean towards her. “Its not like your injuries, Théodred’s been suffering from this for a while, and I’ve only just applied the Kingsfoil. It might not be enough.”

There was a heavy sigh, a shaky one, as though Boromir was forcing himself to contain his emotions.

“I’m trying,” she said quietly. “I’ll keep trying.”

Boromir reached out, clasping her hands and ceasing their anxious fidgeting as his far larger hand encompassed hers with an encouraging squeeze.

“I know.” His voice was quiet, strained and thick with emotion. “I know. I just wish I could do more to help.”

Rhosynel’s own grip on his hand tightened for a moment, before loosening once more. But to her surprise, Boromir made no effort to release or remove his hand from hers. A quiet wordless support, as he sighed heavily and seemed to relax into the mattress, fingers still tangled with hers.

She couldn’t quite bring herself to break his grasp, and before long, sleep well and truly claimed Rhosynel.

Chapter Text

For once it wasn’t nightmares, dreams, or memories, that disturbed Rhosynel’s slumber, but the cause for waking wasn’t apparent either. Her limbs felt heavy with the lingering effects of deep sleep, and her mind was fuzzy, trying and failing to find the source of what had disturbed her rest. The house was quiet, besides the distant sounds of snores, the soft sound of wind outside the windows, the breathing from alongside her.

Breathing that turned to a hushed snarl of pain as the mattress shifted.

That was enough to fully dispel any traces of slumber that clung to the edges of Rhosynel’s mind. Blinking, she felt the mattress shift, felt Boromir rolling over, and another hiss left his throat. With her back to him, she couldn’t see what was disturbing him, bad dreams? His injuries? Or perhaps she had hogged the blankets and left him cold?

Another creak, a sigh, ruffling her hair with its heaviness.

Rolling over, Rhosynel was unsurprised to find Boromir awake, awkwardly lying on his left side, his bad side. His eyes, shadowed in the night, widened at the realisation she was awake. But with the angle of the moonlight through the window, she struggled to make out much more of his expression, even if the moonlight was illuminating her own.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked quietly, voice hushed.

“Forgive me, I… I normally sleep on my left,” he replied, doing his best to keep his voice low, and reducing it to a deep rumble instead. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Ah, so it was his injures that were keeping him awake.

“You didn’t wake me.” Rhosynel wasn’t entirely sure if it was true, but neither did it feel like a lie. She had the feeling she’d have woken sooner or later anyway. “I haven’t slept a full night since… since…”

“Lothlorien?”

“Hmm, more like Bree.”

That comment didn’t earn any amusement from him, in fact, Boromir’s brow drew together in what she half imagined to be concern. With such a furrow, she couldn’t make out the reflected glint of light in his eyes, rendering his face gaunt and shadowed.

Impulsively, she freed one hand from the tangle of lovingly knitted blankets, and reached up, smoothing her fingers across his brow, as though she could banish the worries from his mind at the same time. The gesture made Boromir start, but he quickly stilled, seemingly frozen in place by her touch. A moment later, and the muscles beneath her fingertips relaxed, allowing her to smooth away the frown.

“Stop worrying,” she chided gently.

“There’s a lot to be worried about,” he countered, reaching up to remove her hand from his face, with a gentle squeeze of reassurance, tangling his fingers with hers. “Théodred, Théoden, Éowyn… Grima’s influence. The fates of Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli, of Merry and Pippi—”

His voice cut of sharply enough, that Rhosynel could guess at the next on his list.

“Frodo and Sam?” she finished for him.

The edge of his jaw was highlighted by the window at his back, providing just enough moonlight for her to see the muscle that jumped in his jaw at the mention of the two Hobbits. The grip on her hand tightened for a fraction of a second, but then he released her, with a heavy but silent exhale.

“It’s not your faul—”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not,” Rhosynel continued voice hardening for a moment, but then she dragged her hand across her face and did her best to soften her next words. “The Ring was pulling at all of us, not just you.”

“But I tried to take it,” he countered gruffly.

“So did I.”

Her words made Boromir jolt, only to hiss in pain as the motion jarred his arm and side. She could sense how he gritted his teeth, how he was breathing through the pain, but the fact he didn’t roll onto his back, or lessen the pressure to those injuries, suggested he didn’t want to ease the pain.

That was… concerning.

“I was dreaming of reaching out to something, to someone,” Rhosynel pressed on, once he’d started breathing easier again, “and when I woke up my hand was inches away from Frodo. If that dream had taken even a few second longer, I would have grabbed it.”

“But you didn’t take it.”

“Neither did you.”

The annoyed huff Boromir gave was enough to ruffle the strands of hair that had escaped her sleeping braid, but he gave no protest to her words.

“You didn’t take it, Boromir,” she repeated quietly, voice gentle in the darkness of night, “you, didn’t, take, it. You’re far too protective over the Hobbits to have ever truly hurt Frodo. You care for them like they’re your little brothers, you’d no sooner have hurt Frodo than you’d have hurt Faramir.”

The tension in his jaw eased at the mention of his brother, and it made Rhosynel wonder just what Faramir was doing. Was he on patrol with the other Rangers? Or was he back in Minas Tirith? Had Rhymenel managed to prise any more information out of him?

Was… was Rhymenel okay?

It had been months since Rhosynel had left Minas Tirith, months for what had potentially been just a two-month job. By the Valar, her family probably thought her dead by now. Perhaps… perhaps if Théodred Prince pulled though, she’d have chance to return to Minas Tirith soon. Or maybe she could spare Ilmara for the long flight home and back, it would be good to let her family know she was okay.

Or at least alive.

Rhosynel jumped slightly only to freeze in place, as warm rough fingers landed on her own brow, pressing to the furrow that had formed there. As though he could smooth away her worries with the gesture. Almost automatically, she relaxed somewhat, allowing Boromir to brush away the frown.

“Now who’s worrying,” Boromir chided lightly, fingers resting on her cheek.

Rhosynel rolled her eyes, very aware he could see her do so. “Over you,” she retorted, and pushed lightly at his good shoulder, “lay on your back, I’ll not have you reopening those wounds before they’ve had chance to heal.”

The grumbling and huffing Boromir gave at her orders and concerns wasn’t very fitting for a Lord of Gondor, let alone the Captain of the White Tower, but with a low groan he did as commanded. The moonlight streaming through with window highlighted his profile in silver as he settled on his back, allowing her to see the pensive distraction in his eyes.

“One bad action, doesn’t make a good man evil,” she said quietly.

Immediately Boromir’s pensive expression dropped fully into a frown, as he inhaled protests already rising to his lips. Before he could do so, Rhosynel shifted, rolling towards him and flopped an arm across his chest, earning a startled whuff of air from him, as she tucked against his side.

“No rolling over, or you’ll wake me,” Rhosynel warned, and then very pointedly, tucked her face into his shoulder and shut her eyes.

There was a near silent rumble from him, which none the less vibrated through her, as Boromir sighed in mock surrender.

“Yes, my lady.”

All too soon Rhosynel found herself back in the Meduseld, but now she had a sense of the required jobs, she could move somewhat more independently from Haehild. And yet, she found herself trailing after her cousin occasionally. It didn’t take long to realise it was a habit of comfort, of not wanting to be left alone within the Hall, of not wanting to be noticed by herself. When was the last time she’d worked independently? When had she last spent more than a few hours alone?

Rhosynel hoped she wasn’t becoming reliant on others, that wasn’t a good thing for a Messenger.

But without Ilmara’s return, she needed to keep up the ruse of being a new maid, and that meant emptying chamber pots, clearing ashes, starting fires, and gathering dirty linens and clothing. The work was drudgery, but at least it gave her something to do while her brain tried to solve its newest puzzle.

It would be far harder to access Théodred’s room this day, they couldn’t have Éowyn spill broth again without raising suspicion, and Rhosynel was struggling to think of an alternate distraction. The burly tree-stump of a man was stood guard outside of the Prince’s room again, although she recalled his name was Drath. His dark eyes seemed to track her steps whenever she came into view, although it was with some relief that she noted him doing that for everyone, not just her.

His gaze still felt heavy.

But with him standing sentinel during her working hours, it would prove difficult to access the room. Could they stage a distraction in another part of the Golden Hall? But something subtle enough not to arouse suspicion? Nothing was coming to mind, and that was a problem.

Admittedly she doubted the prince had changed much. Kingsfoil was good for infections, but in her hands, it wasn’t a quick fix. Perhaps if Aragorn could see to the prince, he’d heal faster? Regardless, getting eyes on Théodred to see if he’d improved would at least be reassuring.

Fortunately, an opportunity did present itself.

Unfortunately, it involved Grima Wormtongue, the exact person she was trying to avoid.

“You, girl with the scar,” his voice called out, as she left the room that had belonged to Éomer but was since taken over by some of the Advisors men. The flinch that Rhosynel gave wasn’t staged, her head tucking down automatically. “Come to me.”

The last thing she wanted to do was approach Grima, but she was a serving girl, and to disobey would end badly… The dragging of her feet was a little harder to negate, but Rhosynel managed to approach, keeping her eyes firmly to the floor and praying to Bema she didn’t have to speak too much.

“What’s your name?” Grima asked.

“Rhosynel, my lord,” she managed to say around the lump in her throat.

Was he a lord? Was he a sir? The correct honorific would have been useful to know, and now she was regretting not checking with Haehild.

“With me, Rhosynel.”

And with that, Grima started heading along the corridor, directly towards Drath and Théodred’s room. Hastening after him, Rhosynel’s brain was tearing though scenarios at an alarming rate, trying to puzzle out what was happening and why she’d been singled out. Only to promptly fall blank, as Drath opened the door, and Grima strolled into the Prince’s bedchamber as though he owned the place.

Hesitantly following, Rhosynel jolted when the door was shut behind her, with Drath looming over her shoulder. The skitter away from the bulky man wasn’t feigned, although the smirk that twisted across his face was enough to make her regret showing any fear.

“Begin your chores,” Grima instructed, dragging her attention back to the matter at hand.

The chamber pot hadn’t been used, which admittedly should have been obvious, so instead Rhosynel was quick to turn her attention to the fireplace. Kneeling alongside it, she tried to angle herself in such a way that she could keep half an eye on the two men, but with Grima slinking about the room and inspecting the furnishings, it was difficult to do so. Instead, she settled for keeping Drath in the corner of her vision, as Grima was smaller and scrawnier. Should it come to a fight, she could deal with him swiftly enough. The big guy was another matter entirely.

“When did you start working for the Meduseld, Rhosynel?” Grima asked.

So it was to be an interrogation.

“Yesterday, my lord,” she replied, dragging her old accent to the forefront of her mind, desperately trying to mimic how Haehild had sounded. Scrapping the shovel across the hearth stones in a futile bid to drown out her own voice.

“May I enquire as to why?”

“Needed the work, sir.”

The drag of Grima’s cloak across the flagstone floor was all she had to go by, the only evidence of his pacing. Other than the flickers of motion that sometimes crossed her vision. Drath, on the other hand, seemed immobile, eyes locked on her.

“I do not recall hiring you.”

Were the maids were being interview before hiring? That was a problem, and not something Rhosynel had expected. Although considering the tight grip Grima seemed to have gained upon the Meduseld, she should have at least considered it.

In the time it took for Rhosynel’s brain to scrabble for an answer, Grima spoke again.

“Where did you work previously, Rhosynel?”

The way he kept saying her name made Rhosynel’s skin crawl, but she kept her eyes on the ashes in the fireplace and kept sweeping them up diligently. “The stables, sir.”

No answer, nothing but a lingering silence, clearly expecting more.

“I, I worked there since I was a child,” she explained haltingly, “but I got kicked.” A gesture towards her head. “It… it affected me, sir.”

Hopefully the flimsy excuse would explain her halting responses, her odd accent, and her slow replies. Hopefully.

“You work well enough, it seems,” Grima mused, his coaxing voice directly behind her, and Rhosynel jumped slightly, ducking her head down in alarm. “You’ve kept up with your duties well enough, you’re a quiet and efficient worker…”

The lump of coal she’d retrieved cracked apart, and attempted to tumble to the finely woven rug, but Rhosynel caught it. The ash staining the fingers of her hand black instantly. The last of the coals were upended into her bucket, as Rhosynel tried to gauge whether he wanted a response or not.

“Stand, Rhosynel.”

Rhosynel very much didn’t want to, the hesitation clear in her reaction.

A hand appeared in the corner of her vision, long pale fingers, heavy dark rings, thick fur cuffs matted and uncared for. And a very clear offer.

Swallowing, she reluctantly set her clean hand in his, biting back a grimace at the clammy chill, and accepted the aid to rise to her feet. Mindful of the slightly too short a dress she wore. Once stood, and hand freed from his brief grasp, the wringing of her fingers wasn’t feigned, ashes beginning to smear across her skin. The crawling of her skin seemed to increase, as Grima paced about her in a circle, eerily pale irises sliding across her face, her hair, her broad shoulders, the fabric of her borrowed gown, and the twisting of her fingers.

But after two circuits, he slowed before her, squinting into her face, as though trying to peer into her very soul.

Rhosynel avoiding looking into those dead eyes.

So when his long fingered pale hand lifted towards her face, she was entirely unprepared. Pressing down any fear any reluctance any apprehension, she simply froze. His skin was cold, clammy against her brow, tracing along the scar that cut through her brow, and into her hairline, caressing it lightly and with far more gentleness than Rhosynel was comfortable with.

It was a mockery of how Boromir had tried to smooth away her worries.

His hand left her skin, and it was difficult not to scrub at her face to remove the feeling of his touch, her stomach roiling in disgust. But then Grima’s head tilted in curiosity.

“You do not fear me?” he asked gently, eyes alight with intrigue, “you don’t recoil from me?”

That was the problem with trying so hard not to react. Instead of overreacting to his presence, she’d underreacted, and that was just as obvious a tell, to those that knew how to look for it. Apparently, Grima knew what to look for. And now Rhosynel had to think quickly. To react belatedly would look odd and only draw more scrutiny, but to not be afraid… Could she blame that on the head wound?

“I’m… meant to fear you?” she asked, hoping the blankness in her eyes helped sell the confusion.

“Not at all, my dear,” he reassured, and the pet name instantly had her skin crawling. “In fact, I think we could be good friends.”

Rhosynel doubted that.

“You see I don’t have many friends within these halls,” Grima continued, resuming his slow pacing about the room, pausing frequently to inspect the tapestries, the rugs, the carving across the posts of Théodred’s bed. There, he drew to a stop alongside the unconscious Prince, and Rhosynel had to fight down any rising concern. “Drath isn’t much of a conversationalist—” there was a grunt of acknowledgement from the man at the door “—and with my dear Prince so gravely injured, I find myself without anyone to talk to.”

Grima’s eyes lifted from the prince, and focused on her.

“Come, Rhosynel,” he beckoned her towards the bed, and Théodred.

The hesitance in her steps was very much real, as Rhosynel reluctantly crept forwards, wary of being within Grima’s reach, and so close to the Prince. But… it could give her the opportunity to assess his condition. Unfortunately, any thoughts of checking on Théodred, were banished as Grima’s hand settled on her back, just below her shoulder blades. It was an effort not to fling herself away from his touch.

“Do you not think him handsome?” Grima asked, nodding down to Théodred.

Rhosynel forced her eyes to focus on the prince, to ignore the chill from Grima’s hand that seemed to seep through the homespun fabric of Haehild’s gown. Théodred’s eyes were still sunken and gaunt, with heavy dark marks about them, and likewise his lips were still chapped from dehydration. But… was his skin less sallow? Was his colour returning? Was he less pale than the previous day?

Maybe, just maybe, there was a faint improvement.

“I, guess?” Rhosynel said, only just remembering to answer Grima, “he looks unwell.”

“He is, but we’re expecting him to make a full recovery.” The words were said with such certainty, she almost expected them to be true, had she not seen the state of his bandages and injury first hand. “But there are those within the Meduseld who do not wish to see that happen, who wish to prevent my people from assisting him…”

Rhosynel looked to Grima sharply, a frow furrowing her brow, trying to decipher what he was alluding to.

“Yes, shocking I know,” Wormtongue agreed with her expression, even if he didn’t agree with her thoughts, “but as a maid, you’re able to remain innocuous –unnoticed, that is– and may be able to listen in to those who do not wish to see our dear Prince recover. If you could learn of those who seek to prevent my aid and let me know of them… Well, just think how thankful Théodred will be for your assistance…”

His words were insidious, gentle and unassuming, but with an undercurrent that she had to untangle to make sense of. Did he seriously expect Théodred to survive? Why would the prince be thankful towards the aid of some maid, let alone one who’d been kicked by a horse? What was Grima trying to sugges—

Oh what in Bema’s name.

Rhosynel’s heart and stomach sank at the realisation of just what Grima was insinuating. If she were to work for him… he was all but offering Théodred in exchange for her allegiance to him. Revulsion coiled and writhed throughout her chest, forcing her to swallow thickly in a bid to settle her stomach. It did little to help.

“Will you help your prince, Rhosynel?” Grima pressed, when she failed to speak up.

Staring down at the unconscious man, Rhosynel let her eyes rove across the prince’s features, once again desperately seeking any sign of improvement. She could delude herself into believing he was better than the previous day, but delusions were of no use when it came to the health of patients. Either Théodred was going to survive, or he wasn’t. But regardless, she wasn’t about to stand aside and allow this snake to use her or the prince to his own ends.

“Yes,” Rhosynel breathed, “I’ll help Théodred Prince.”

It wasn’t a lie.

It was difficult to get through the rest of the day, to keep her revulsion and despair from showing on her face or posture. Rhosynel kept her head down, worked hard, and didn’t speak a single word unless asked a direct question. Apparently the difference was still noticeable, judging by Haehild’s concerned glances, but Rhosynel dared not tell her what had happened, not while within the halls of the Meduseld. She couldn’t risk it, couldn’t risk being overheard, couldn’t risk this flimsy ruse disintegrating.

Especially, not if Grima now trusted her enough to be within Théodred’s room alone. After her agreement to help, Wormtongue had heaped her with meaningless praise, and then made an excuse to take his leave. And shockingly, taken Drath with him.

Rhosynel’s shock and disgust at the entire situation had delayed her assessment of Théodred, but she’d managed to check his temperature, his breathing, his pulse, and unless she was truly deluding herself, he seemed fractionally improved. The heartbeat was less frenetic, but his breathing was still shallow, however the most notable improvement was the reduction of sweat and his fever.

The Kingsfoil was working.

Having no idea how long she’d be permitted to remain unsupervised, her application of more kingsfoil had been hasty and rough, drawing a low groan from the unconscious man. It was louder than yesterday, which was encouraging. Once done, Rhosynel had pressed her hand to his brow once more, earning a flicker behind his eyelids, and silently promised to return.

Her revulsion continued to twist and coil throughout her chest for the rest of the day, her skin crawled where Grima had touched her, but her mind was entirely consumed with the implications of his words and actions. If she, a maid for all of two days, had been treated and spoken to like that… just what had Lady Éowyn been suffering through?

It was a sobering thought.

This time, when dusk began to settle across the world in a cloak of scarlet and magenta, it was Rhosynel that lead the way home. Her steps swift and sure, bordering on a run, with Haehild hastening to keep up. When the twins tumbled out from the house and darted towards their mother, Rhosynel sidestepped, passing them with ease, and all but flying through the front door.

“Rhosy—”

Boromir’s greeted slid from her shoulders, as she brushed past him, heading directly for the washroom and the basin of steaming water she knew lay within. It had already been set up, thank Bema, so she plunged her hands into the scalding water, steam rising. It hurt, it burnt, it turned her skin red, but it didn’t remove the disgust. Splashing her face and hair, Rhosynel snatched up the rough washcloth, dunking it into the water, and setting at scrubbing her skin from her flesh.

She could still feel Grima’s fingers lingering on her scar, could still feel the tracks his eyes had left across her skin, could still feel the chill that had seeped through her dress. All the hot water in the realm wouldn’t be enough to remove the sickly feeling that had embedded itself into her fles—

“Rhosynel.”

Blinking, she lifted her face from the harsh flannel, aware of the rivulets of water running down her face and neck, the disarray of her hair being all but yanked free of the myriad of pins.

Twisting about, Rhosynel hesitated.

Boromir was framed in the doorway of the small room, eyes fixed on her and filled with concern. How many times had he repeated her name, before she’d heard him?

“What happened?” he asked, bluntly getting to the point.

There was no use in denying, no use in playing it down, no use in acting like the entire situation had been anything but horrifying. She wasn’t harmed, hadn’t been threatened, hadn’t had anything truly dangerous happen… and yet… Turning back to the wash basin, Rhosynel focused on scrubbing at her hands, lathering the lavender soap between her palms until an excessive amount of foam had built up. Setting the bar aside, she began wringing her hands through it, over and over and over again.

“Grima found me.” It was easier to speak if she wasn’t looking at Boromir and the worry on his face. “He didn’t hurt me, but he did talk to me. Asked about why I’d started working at the hall, where I’d worked before, and… and asked me to work for him.”

There was a quiet inhale at her back.

“He, I…” She paused in the scrubbing of her skin for a moment, trying to find the words. Trying to make sense of what had happened. “I acted like the injury to my head had made me simple, and he used that to try and sway me to his side, he claimed that there were people working against him, against Théodred Prince.” An inhale, deep enough that her lungs ached with the strain. “Grima offered me the Prince, if I were to work for him.”

Silence met her words.

She didn’t dare glance back to see what expression had taken over Boromir’s features. Instead, Rhosynel pressed her soap laden hands to her face, dragging it through what loose strands of hair had escaped the bun, scrubbing and pressing against her scar. The scent of lavender was overpowering, stinging her eyes, burning her nose, tasting bitter on her tongue. Grabbing the washcloth once again, she blindly dunked it once more, and set to scrubbing the soap from her skin.

“Rhosynel,” Boromir said gently, and she flinched without meaning to, dropping her hands to press to the surface of the cabinet the basin stood on. Knuckles turning white with the pressure. “What did he do to you?”

“Nothing.” It felt like a lie. “He didn’t hurt me, didn’t even threaten me. He just—” A harsh exhale, eyes still screwed shut. “—He just took my hand. Ran his fingers over my scar. Touched my back. He didn’t hurt me.”

There was the quiet scuff of boots coming closer, but while she sensed Boromir at her back, he made no attempt to touch or comfort her. Something she appreciated, considering how her skin still crawled.

“I didn’t ask if Grima hurt you,” he said quietly, “but to me, it sounds like he did. Maybe not physically. But his actions did hurt you.”

Her eyes screwed shut, were burning, but was it from soap or tears?

Not for herself, nor for the Prince, but for Lady Éowyn. Éowyn of spun gold and sunlight, Éowyn of the Golden Hall, the White Lady of Rohan, for the beautiful, fierce, and defiant Lady trapped within the walls of the Meduseld. What should have been her home and her shelter, had become her prison, but there were no bars standing guard between her and the jailer.

“If, if he’s like that with a maid, who’s been there for two days, then what is he like with Éowyn?” she said, struggling to get her words past the lump in her throat, voice cracking with fear, and Rhosynel finally lifted her head, fixing Boromir with bloodshot and terrified eyes. “What is he doing, to her?”

He was worried, alarmed even, the concern writ into every line and furrow of his face, carried in his brow and the storm grey of his eyes that scanned her face. For a moment he was still, was he assessing her? Or trying to find platitudes and reassurances to ease Rhosynel’s fears?

“Éowyn is strong,” Boromir said eventually, gesturing for the washcloth.

Almost automatically Rhosynel held it out to him, and then blinked as he started to wipe at her face, removing the last traces of soap she’d frantically scrubbed into her skin and hair. Boromir’s hands were gentle, not scraping at her flesh like Rhosynel had done, but running the damp fabric across her skin. Smoothing at her brow as though he could smooth away the worries. She could feel the warmth radiating from him, chasing away the chill that had claimed her skin and soul, it was an effort not to lean into the hand that rested at her jaw.

“Whenever I’ve had the fortune to speak with Éowyn,” Boromir continued, seemingly oblivious to the fact Rhosynel was trying not to crumple against him, “she’s been passionate, outspoken, fiercely bold, and proud. She’s trained with the sword since she was young, refusing to be left out when Éomer and Théodred trained. She’s wild at heart, but able to keep it contained behind the mask of being a Lady, and that can be used to protect herself just as much. If anyone can survive Grima’s attentions, it is her.”

His reassurance combined with the steady strokes of the warm washcloth, were enough to settle her anxieties. They still roiled and twisted below the surface, but less strongly at Boromir’s words. A low-level anxiety was more manageable than the outright fear and panic she’d been dealing with since Grima first accosted her. But the idea that Éowyn wasn’t entirely defenceless, was reassuring.

Clearly she was far stronger than Rhosynel gave her credit, to withstand Grima’s attentions for so long. Rhosynel, had lasted a day and a half before almost buckling. Orcs she could fight, trolls she could fend off, Nazgul she could flee. But being trapped in a room with Grima, while trying to act meek and docile like a servant, that was a threat Rhosynel didn’t know how to escape from.

It wasn’t something she planned to repeat.

Ever.

It took a minute to realise Boromir had finished removing the soap from her face, and that she’d been stood there blankly staring at the embroidery of his tunic’s collar. The weight of his hand rested at her shoulder, heavy, with a comforting warmth that seeped through the fabric of her borrowed gown and seemed to radiate through her chest.

“Rhosynel?” he asked.

“I’m here. Barely.”

It felt like her mind was disconnected from her surroundings, like she was stood in the room but had no influence over anything. Was this how ghosts felt?

“Do you want to change and eat with us, or rather we go to bed?” Boromir asked, head tilting as he watched her face for any sign of discomfort.

It was tempting to retreat, to hide beneath the blankets, to curl up small like a scared animal. But the idea of laying in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, with her own thoughts, entirely alone, wasn’t appealing.

“I’ll eat with you.”

“Alright,” he said, and with a reassuring squeeze to her shoulder, Boromir released her, heading for the door. Her shoulder felt cold in his absence. “Take your time, we won’t serve till you come back.”

“Boromir,” Rhosynel said hastily, and he was quick to look back. “Thank you.”

At his smile, the last of the tension loosened in her chest.

Chapter Text

Something was wrong.

It was cold, bitterly so. Biting at Rhosynel’s exposed skin and freezing her blood, the wind lashing through her hair and stinging her eyes each time she tried to open them. A rumble of thunder echoed through the air. Was a storm coming? She’d need to find shelter if there was, she couldn’t stay out in the open like this. Another rumble, louder than the last, and Rhosynel finally managed to force her eyes open. The wind stung, making them water, tears streaming across her cheeks. But with her eyes open, Rhosynel was quick to realise just what was wrong.

She was falling.

Lighting flickered across the sky, in time with another boom of thunder Rhosynel felt more than heard. Her bones vibrated within her body at the storm’s proximity, rattling her teeth and jarring her neck with its force. Another burst of light flashed through the sky, silvery white and blinding in its intensity, immediately followed by a new crack of noise-force.

She was in the thick of it, but despite plummeting through the storm, Rhosynel found herself unable to move, her arms locked by her sides, her legs anchored in place.

Another almighty crack rent the air, the taste of copper and ozone filling her mouth, as the lighting streaked through the air before her. It was close enough to touch, close enough to char her skin, crackling through her hair which drifted upwards at the static. She needed to move, needed to get away, needed to flee the storm that was engulfing her. The tightness in her chest, iron bands clamped about her ribs, the metal drawing the storm ever closer. With each fresh strike, with each new rumble, the storm approached. How long would it be, until it consumed her and burnt her skin from her bones?

With a wrench, she dragged one arm free of whatever had imprisoned her.

“Rhosynel.”

The buffeting of the wind almost drowned out the voice, snatching it away almost the moment it reached her ears. It was faint, but she could hear it. Someone was calling for her, she was certain of it. But where were they?

With one arm free, she was able to twist better, clawing her way through the air as she was flipped and buffeted. But in that spiralling fall, she caught a glimpse of something far below. The briefest flash of pale skin and dark hair. A reaching hand.

Frodo? Boromir? Rainion?

“Rhosynel!”

They were calling for her. Calling for help, calling to her to help them.

Thrashing, she managed to break free from her constraints, feeling the clouds snatching at her wrists, trying to hold her back. Even as she plummeted into a dive, they tried to pull her back, tied to hold her down. Tried to stop her from helping. Tried to stop her desperate clawing through the air.

“Rhosynel!”

She was close, she was gaining on them, if she could just reach a little further, she could save them. Terrified eyes stared up at her as she dove through the storm, the colour of their irises shifting, blue, grey, green, blue again. Who was it that fell? Who was it that she was trying to save this time? If she could just catch a hold of them, she would know who she was trying to save. Stretching out, towards them, she snatched at them, missing by a narrow margin.

Gritting her teeth, she lunged once more, reaching, stretchin—

Her wrists were ensnared by the thick clouds, yanking her out of the dive, dragging her back away from the figure, back into the heart of the storm.

“No!” she barked, wrestling against the constraints, “no, no let me g—”

“RHOSYNEL!”

With a yelp and a gasp for air, Rhosynel was unceremoniously wrenched out of the dream. Her wrists were snared, but not by clouds or storms, but by Boromir. His terrified expression filled her vision, kneeling over her, but upon seeing that she was awake, he was quick to release her. Hands lifting in an apologetic gesture.

One that she completely ignored, as Rhosynel slammed into his chest, face buried in his tunic, breathing ragged and heart utterly thundering against the cage of her ribs.

There was a startled whuff, but Boromir’s arms instantly wrapped about her shoulders.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you.”

Tucked against his chest, Rhosynel tried make sense of what happened, tried to slow her breathing, tried to time her inhales with his, tried to get a grip over her panic. The pounding of her heart was clawing its way up her throat, leaving her feeling sick and lightheaded. The aching in her head and ribs pulsed in time with her heart, sending flecks of light dancing across her vision, and sparks flickering through her chest.

She’d been falling.

She’d failed to reach…. who? Who was it she’d been tumbling after this time? Who had she been unable to save, so unceremoniously yanked from her dream by Boromir? Would she have succeeded had he not intervened?

It wasn’t real. She’d been dreaming.

The dreams were getting worse.

“W-what happened?” Rhosynel asked, trying to figure out where she was and what was going on.

“I went to the washroom for two minutes, and when I come back, you’re thrashing,” Boromir answered, voice sounding hoarse. “You started crying out.”

They were in Edoras. She was in her cousin’s house. In Héomod’s room. Boromir’s chest rose and fell beneath her head, his own heartbeats a steady echo of her frantic ones, his arms warm and heavy about her shoulders.

She was safe.

A knock at the door, and Héobald opened it without waiting for an answer. Immediately his eyes fell on Rhosynel, flicking rapidly to Boromir hunched over her. She was quick to release him, trying and failing to sit up away from him, as Boromir’s arms remained about her shoulders. But then Héobald noted the way she was clinging to Boromir’s shirt.

“Are you alright, lass” he asked, eyes focusing on Rhosynel, but she didn’t miss the wary glance towards Boromir. “We heard yelling.”

“Nightmare,” Rhosynel answered quickly, “Boromir woke me from it. Did I wake you?”

There was a significant pause, and she had the sense that he was weighing her words. But Héobald eyed Boromir, still settled protectively alongside her. Even if Rhosynel had released him, Boromir wasn’t as quick to do the same.

“You didn’t wake me, nor Héomod,” her uncle relented, “we’re getting ready for work.”

Was it dawn already?

The sky was starting to lighten, as Rhosynel turned her eyes towards the window. Only faintly, but the midnight black was distinctly bluer than it could have been.

“As long as you’re sure,” Héobald said, another glance between them.

But he left them, even if he did leave the door ajar, a subtly protective gesture. Or a mistrustful one, considering how he’d eyed Boromir.

“Shit,” she muttered, dragging her hands across her face. “I’m sorry about that.”

Opening her eyes, she caught the tail end of a grimace, as Boromir shifted his left arm.

“Oh fuck tell me I didn’t hit you,” she swore, already reaching out towards his shoulder.

While Boromir didn’t quite flinch away, he certainly stiffened. But she saw the way he exhaled and forced himself to relax at her touch.

“Barely, just clipped me,” he admitted, settling to one side, allowing Rhosynel to pull the neck of his tunic to one side as she checked his bandages. “It looked like you were tangled in the blankets, clouted me on the shoulder when you started thrashing. I tried to wake you up, but when your other arm came free, I had to grab you instead.”

The bandages were intact, there was no sign of fresh blood, but they could do with changing. When had she last checked on his injuries? Rhymenel would have her head for neglecting a patient, let alone hitting one, even if it was in her sleep.

With the restless adrenaline of the nightmare hitting her, sleep would be impossible to find again. But if dawn wasn’t far off, there was little point in trying. Rising to her feet, she padded quietly to the window and shoved it open, the bite of cool air helping banish the last of the dream.

“I think I heard you, in the dream,” Rhosynel said quietly, “I heard someone call my name and was trying to reach them.”

To her surprise, Boromir gave a huff of laughter, prompting her to frown over her shoulder.

“Even when asleep you can’t help but rush to others aid,” he commented, leaning back against the headboard, gingerly flexing his shoulder, but making no attempt to hide the grimaces as he once would have. “I’ll have to remember that, next time you start flailing about, just steer clear rather than trying to stop you.”

She doubted that hitting the ground would feel much better, but at least she’d not injure him further.

With a sigh, Rhosynel turned back to the window, dragging her hands through her hair over and over again. The anxiety of the nightmare was already fading, but that just left room for the anxiety of the day ahead to take root in its place. Already she could see pale blue on the eastern horizon. The sun would rise soon, and so would Haehild, and then it would be back to the Meduseld. Back to Théodred. Back to Grima.

Revulsion coiled and a shudder ran down Rhosynel’s spine.

“Are you coming back to bed?”

Boromir asked a fair question, but Rhosynel was far too awake now. The adrenaline from the nightmare and the worries of the day ahead wouldn’t let her sleep.

“No, no I need the air.”

Behind her, she could hear the bed shifting, no doubt Boromir trying to get comfortable and snatch another hour or twos worth of sleep. Only for a nudge at her shoulder to make her jump, as Boromir leant on the windowsill alongside her, apparently also forgoing sleep.

For several long minutes there was silence, the warmth radiating from Boromir warming her left side, and quite without meaning to, she slumped against his arm, head pillowed on his shoulder. Eyes on the lightening sky, the cold of the pre-morning air was chilly, but at least the air was fresh, clean and bright. It felt like she couldn’t draw enough into her lungs. How nice would it be, to store the fresh air and call upon it during her shift at the Golden Hall. How nice it would be to feel the breeze, rather than the stuffy air.

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep working there.”

The words left her lips without meaning to, and Rhosynel felt Boromir glance to her. Silence, silence stretching on even as the rays of the sun stretched across the sky.

“If you want to leave, we can. No one will be able to stop us,” Boromir said eventually. “Just say the word.”

Except, there were people stopping her from leaving, even if they didn’t know it.

Éowyn. Éomer. Théodred. Haehild and the others. And what of the King? She’d not lain eyes on him since her arrival, just where was Grima keeping him tucked away? Was he even alive, or was Grima puppeteering a corpse in a bid to maintain power?

She couldn’t leave. Not yet. Despite how every instinct was screaming at her to leave the city, to put it behind her, to head anywhere that wasn’t Edoras. Rhosynel couldn’t leave.

“I can’t leave. Not yet.”

Boromir made no objection, merely nodding to himself. Unsurprised.

The first light of the sun was beginning to catch on the rooftops of Edoras, highlighting the strands of chimney smoke that lifted above the rooves. While the streets were empty, Rhosynel had the sense that the city was starting to come alive, starting to shake off their slumber and prepare for the day ahead.

“Béma,” she cursed quietly, “those Hunters need to hurry up and get here alrea—”

A distant keen of a bird cut her off, as surely as a sword to the neck would have. For half a second, neither of them moved, but then almost as one, the pair leant precariously out of the window, heedless to the drop beneath, both sets of eyes scanning the skies frantically. Was it Ilmara? Or was it just a buzzard waking for a day of hunting?

Another keen.

“Whistle,” Boromir ordered, eyes still raised.

Rhosynel did as commanded, a short sharp call that carried non the less.

The screech that answered from high above all but confirmed it to be Ilmara, as did the grey blur that streaked towards them. A flash of white to one wing, as she dropped out of the sky, wings flaring and taloned feet swinging forwards, reaching out towards Rhosynel in clear desperation to be returned.

The force with which the Limroval struck Rhosynel’s chest, was enough to push her back a step, arms already rising. With one forearm in Ilmara’s grasp, Rhosynel’s other arm instinctively wrapped about Ilmara, holding her close but applying no pressure.

“I’ve missed you, I’ve missed you, I’ve missed you,” Rhosynel found herself murmuring over and over again, nose pressed to the top of Ilmara’s head.

The goshawk tolerated the embrace remarkably well, although Rhosynel could feel how rapid her heartbeat was, how her wings shook slightly. The poor bird was exhausted after her long flights back and forth, had she not been able to rest when with the Hunters?

“Is there a missive?”

Boromir’s question dragged her attention back to the matter at hand, one of his hands resting on Rhosynel’s shoulder, the other hovering over Ilmara as though he’d wanted to pet her, to reassure himself she was real.

With motions purely based on muscle memory, Rhosynel unsnapped the leather compartment, and easily withdrew the scrap of parchment, unrolling it with one hand. Blinking away the traces of tears –had she started crying?– she read the missive.

“Edoras in sight, should be with you by mid-morning,” she started, “let us know your location and we’ll meet you with a familiar face in tow. But we need to access the city and the King. Grave tidings ahead, be ready. ~A”

“Well that’s cryptic,” Boromir said, dragging a hand through his sleep tousled hair. “No mention of the Hobbits?”

“A familiar face.”

“Singular?”

“Yep.”

A concerned sigh from him.

For half a second, the pair frowned at one another over a softly chattering Ilmara.

“Access to the city?” Boromir asked.

“Héobold’s on duty soon.”

“Access to the king?”

“Less easy,” Rhosynel lamented. “But… not impossible, if I cause a distraction.”

For a brief moment his eyes shadowed, but then Boromir nodded grimly, meeting her gaze. “Then we have work to do.”

It didn’t take long to put a plan together.

They’d managed to catch Héobald before he and Héomod left and were able to warn them that companions were seeking entrance to the city, and while her uncle was reluctant, it was a sign of his trust in her that he gave little protest. Likewise, Haehild was on board with the plan, if concerned by her part to play, but since she knew the Meduseld best, she was the one that needed to cause a distraction, with any luck it would draw the attention of Grima’s men. Boromir and Fulred, who were to wait for Aragorn and the others to arrive, would join them in the journey up to the Golden Hall. Boromir’s familiarity within the Hall, and Fulred’s knowledge of the guards, would hopefully be enough to sway the men guarding the door.

And then… and then what? Aragorn gains entrance to the hall, but then what? What did he need access to the King for?

Ilmara had been sent back to the Hunters, with a missive to explain the plan, and asking just why he needed to get to the King. But she didn’t expect him to reply, the Ranger could be infuriatingly tight lipped at times. So once again, Rhosynel found herself keeping her head down and working hard to go unnoticed within the Meduseld.

Unfortunately, her new role of Grima’s favourite, meant that didn’t happen.

“Scar face.” A pair of heavy boots appeared in her vision, and Rhosynel jolted in surprise. “With me. Now.”

Looking up, Drath’s blunt and craggy face met her eyes, and she was quick to look away again. Any protest to the harsh nickname dying in her throat. Climbing awkwardly to her feet, Rhosynel glanced to Haehild who’d been working alongside her. Already her cousin was setting aside her brush, starting to rise to her fee—

“Not you.”

Haehild froze, but then nodded, keeping her eyes down, and returned to her sweeping.

Fear coiled through Rhosynel’s chest, fear that she fiercely beat back.

Drath was leading her towards the bedrooms of the hall, was she to clean out the Prince’s fireplace again? Her confusion only grew, as they passed Théodred’s room, then entered another unfamiliar chamber. But at the sight of their destination, Rhosynel’s confusion shifted to outright alarm.

“In,” Drath ordered, holding the door to the King’s bedchamber open for her.

Cautiously entering, Rhosynel hesitated, blinking against the darkness and gloom that seemed to have infested the room. The windows were shuttered, barred heavily from within, and with the addition of blankets flung across them to reduce the light that filtered through the cracks. Only a couple of lamps and the dying embers of the fire were left to illuminate the room.

The door shut behind her, darkening the chamber further.

“Ah, Rhosynel.” The sound of Grima’s voice seemed to slither out from the shadows. “So glad you could make it.”

Blinking furiously, Rhosynel tried to let her eyes adapt, barely able to discern what was the shape of furniture, and what was potentially Grima. There was the sense of movement, but that was little more than a dark shadow in the already shadowy darkness. But at least Drath hadn’t entered the room this time.

“His majesties bed sheets need to be changed,” Grima was saying, and Rhosynel found her ears were better at pinpointing his location than her eyes were. “But first I must dress him for the day’s work. See to the fire, would you, I don’t wish for him to chill.”

The King was in the room.

Béma’s Bow, Rhosynel was out of her depth.

“Yes, sir,” she agreed quietly.

Cautiously making her way towards the faint glow of embers –embers that she could see better when not actually looking at them– her shins struck a low table earning a wince but maintained her balance. Finally, finally, the cool stone of a hearth met her fingertips, and Rhosynel sank into a couch, quickly feeling out the stores of coal and wood, as well as a box of kindling and flint for starting a fire. Thankfully with the embers still glowing, she may be able to get one started without relying on the flint, but it would be a push.

There was a groan from somewhere behind her, and Rhosynel’s shoulders tensed.

Doing her best to tune out the grumbles and groans of an old man, Rhosynel kept her attention firmly on the coals and embers she was coaxing back to life. All while wracking her brain.

The last time she’d personally lain eyes on Théodred King, was during a fleeting trip with a missive for his court. She’d met the guards at the door, and handed it over, but with the height of summer being upon them, the doors stood open wide, and there was Théoden, striding about, speaking with his lords, and clearly in some intense discussions.

That had been five maybe six years ago.

True, there were illnesses and disorders that could strike abruptly and render a healthy man frail within the blink of an eye, but for such a thing to happen to the otherwise hale and hearty King, would have been reported upon. Hadn’t Boromir said he’d visited the Halls on his journey to Rivendell? Had he seen or spoken to the King? How quickly had this sickness taken hold on Théoden?

Rhosynel didn’t have enough information, and that was a problem.

There was a soft crackle of flame, and she barely leant back in time to save her eyebrows. But with the fire growing once more, she was able to feed a few larger pieces of wood into it and added some more coals for good measure. That done, more light was cast about the room, and Rhosynel was able to find the wire fireguard to place across the hearth.

“I know Sire, but the sun has risen and there is work to be done,” Grima was encouraging, sounding like he was talking to a small child rather than Théoden King of Rohan. “You’ll be relieved to know that there isn’t too much to do, just some signatu—”

Tidying up the area, she kept half an ear on the proceedings behind her, and at Grima’s reassurances that Théoden wouldn’t be walking far, she dusted off her hands and cautiously rose to her feet, keeping her head and eyes down out of respect.

“See to his bed sheets,” Grima instructed, and her eyes lifted just enough to make out the hem of his cloak, “do not tarry.”

“Yes sir.”

She remained in place a moment longer, listening to the awkward shuffling, and encouragement from Grima. It was only once they were by the door, that Rhosynel dared lift her eyes some more.

The King looked horrific.

Badly stooped, hunched in on himself, with what seemed to be a mountain of furs about his shoulders almost consuming his withered frame. His hair had turned white, frizzy and dishevelled, as was his beard. What she could see of his face, was weathered and lined, along with the briefest glimpse of a blind white eye.

The door opened, and she flinched, as Drath’s eyes immediately locked on hers.

Tucking her head down, Rhosynel busied herself with changing the sheets, biting back a grimace at the stench of old man and stale air. The entire room was foul, the shuttered windows trapping the staleness in as surely as it trapped the darkness. A set of clean sheets had already been deposited at the foot of the bed, and Rhosynel hastened to pull the fresh sheets on. It took several minutes of work, and far too much back and forth, sorely missing Haehild’s assistance in making the beds.

But then she was done.

Turning to the door, Rhosynel stiffened in alarm.

Drath, was stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, black eyes narrowed and watchful. Had he monitored her the entire time? Had he been watching her struggle with a job that was better suited to two? He’d done so silently enough that Rhosynel hadn’t realised.

But with the bundle of dirty sheets in her arms, she had little choice but to approach Drath, him and the only way out of the room. It took far too much courage to edge forwards. But he shifted his weight, creating a narrow space for her to pass him by, even if she had to squeeze.

“Boo,” he hissed in her ear as she passed.

The flinch was real, even if her panicked expression wasn’t.

But then she was free and hastening down the hallway as fast as she could in her borrowed shoes. Trying to block out the sound of Drath’s chuckles as she went.

It was shaping up to be a productive morning, which unfortunately for Rhosynel wasn’t what she needed to help settle her nerves. The few times she caught chance to speak with Haehild, her cousin was looking pale and anxious, which meant Rhosynel’s own act of confidence had to be called upon. Which would have been all well and good, if it wasn’t for the fact she was also trying to act the part of a meek maid.

Rhosynel could already feel a headache coming on, and she’d not even had chance to check on Prince Théodred.

But with the Meduseld starting to awaken, the various inhabitants were moving around more. The chores shifted from the chamber pots and fireplaces to the changing of sheets and collecting of dirty laundry. And all the while Rhosynel’s anticipation slowly increased, step by step, tension coiled about her chest, creeping up her spine, until it felt like bands of iron were locked about her chest and skull.

How long would it be, until the signal was given? Would Haehild be able to draw the attention of the guards? Would Boromir and the others be able to gain entry? She had no idea, and that unknown grated on her.

So caught up in her revery, Rhosynel didn’t realise who was before her, until a pale hand wrapped about her arm in a vice like grip. The snarl of protest and defence died in her throat at the sight of long golden hair.

“With me. Now,” hissed Lady Éowyn. And without waiting for an answer, began dragging Rhosynel along behind her.

The first sign of trouble was Éwoyn’s gritted teeth and haunted eyes.

The second sign was that Rhosynel was being towed towards the prince’s room.

The third, was that Drath wasn’t at his usual station.

And the fourth, was that Théodred’s room stank of death.

The moment Éowyn shut the door behind them, Rhosynel was abandoning her basket of dirty linens, and lunging towards the still form of the Prince. The moment her hand touched his skin, she knew it was too late. Cold, stiff beneath her fingers, and utterly drained of colour. But even then, Rhosynel didn’t stop. Checking his neck and finding no pulse, checking his eyes and finding them glassy, checking his breathing and finding him silent.

Prince Théodred was dead.

“When did you find him?” Rhosynel asked over her shoulder, already moving her attention to the injury on his side, gingerly peeling away the bandages and compress. The Kingsfoil she’d applied was crusty, but still present.

“Half an hour ago,” Éowyn answered from by the door, arms tightly folded across her chest. “I came to give him his morning broth… but…”

“He should have recovered from this,” Rhosynel talked to herself as she inspected the wound. “I am no true healer, but from what my sister taught me this shouldn’t have been fatal.” It wasn’t so different to the injury on her own ribs, perhaps deeper, maybe broken ribs. Painful to start, possibly weakening him before he returned to Edoras. But not fatal by any means, although without reopening the wound she couldn’t ascertain any internal injuries. “He’s young, he shouldn’t have died from this alone.”

“He was weak but barely conscious on the ride back with Éomer,” Éowyn said quietly, “but started deteriorating soon after.”

That wasn’t normal. Returning to the prince’s head, she inspected him more closely. A foul odour came from his mouth, and she cautiously prized his jaw open. Easy enough to do when there were no muscles to resist her efforts.

There was a coating, a black film on his tongue, and as Rhosynel shifted her angle, she was met by the sight of more of the oily substance in his throat.

“Sorry about this, my prince,” she muttered to him, taking a scrap of the bandaged, and dipping it into his mouth. Withdrawing it, the black substance came too, soaking into the white cloth with ease, and bringing that horrible reek.

Rhosynel wasn’t well versed, but even she could recognise poison. She’d used similar when with the Rangers.

Snakes Bile.

The foul stuff was incredibly potent, only three drops to an arrowhead was needed to kill an orc, but the Prince’s mouth and throat were filled with the stuff. Whoever had done this either wasn’t familiar with poisons or had been too hasty in their actions.

“Poison, he’s been dosed heavily this morning,” Rhosynel said grimly. “The kingsfoil may have helped against the infection in his wound, but it’ll not help agai—”

The sharp screech of a hawk had Rhosynel’s head snapping up.

The signal? Now?

Shit that was the worst possible timing in the history of Arda.

“Don’t panic,” Rhosynel hastened to say, even as Éowyn’s own attention turned to the windows in confusion. “Its planned, don’t pani—”

A second hawk screech cut Rhosynel off, and screams echoed throughout the Meduseld.

Heahild had a set of lungs on her, that was for sure.

The alarm that crossed Éowyn’s fair features was understandable, but the moment she started moving towards the door, Rhosynel put herself between the Lady and the exit. Her back to the door and arms held out placatingly.

“It’s Haehild,” she hastened to explain, “its planned, she’s fine.”

“Why in Béma’s name is she screaming!” Éowyn demanded, looking fully prepared to forcibly remove Rhosynel from her path.

“It’s a distraction.”

“I can tell, but why!?”

Was there time to tell her? Ilmara would have been instructed to screech just before the others reached the main doors. Was there time to explain that her companions, for some reason, needed access to the Hall and to the King. To Éowyn’s uncle. Could she explain, when even Rhosynel didn’t know what Aragorn had planned?

“We’re getting rid of Grima.”

Éowyn’s eyes widened, and Rhosynel prayed to the Valar that she wasn’t wildly misjudging what Aragorn and the others had planned. They needed access to Théoden, which to do so, they’d have to go through Grima and his men.

“We’re going to get him out of the Meduse—”

The door at Rhosynel’s back, slammed open.

With her back close to the door, the edge of the oak and wrought iron struck her shoulders and spine, driving into her skin with bruising force. Flung forwards, Rhosynel crashed into Éowyn, and it was only through the younger woman’s strength that the pair weren’t thrown to the floor in a tangle of limbs and gowns. Instead, they staggered back, away from the door to the bedroom, and away from the man that had kicked it open.

Scrambling, Rhosynel resolutely stood her ground, directly between Lady Éowyn and the snarling expression of Drath.

Chapter Text

It felt like the seconds were crawling past, stretching on endlessly. Every breath pulled at the damage to her back, every heartbeat pounded in her ears, and every blink took eons to arrive. She could hear the ragged but controlled breathing from Lady Éowyn, could feel the tension that was running through her arms, through her slender hands pressed to Rhosynel’s shoulders, and feel it transferring to her own spine.

The pair of them were drawn taught like a bowstring, but even that paled compared to the man before them. Rhosynel could see how Drath trembled, how his arms shook. But it wasn’t fear running through his veins, but anger.

A distant yell and clatter of armour echoed from the direction of the hall.

Time resumed its race.

“Lying bitch,” Drath growled, standing solidly in the door frame, preventing their escape. “I knew you was lying girly. Yous too watchful. Then playing meek. Fucking liar.”

Rhosynel tensed, prepared for an attack, but his eyes slid toward Éowyn, and his lips curled back from his teeth.

“And yous so high and migh—”

“Was you mother an orc fucker?” Rhosynel blurted harshly, “cause that’s the only explanation for your face.”

His black eyes snapped back to her exactly as she’d hoped they would. Anything to draw his attention away from Éowyn, to draw his ire, to protect the Lady.

The snarl that left his throat was the only warning, but she was ready for his lunge. It was like being hit by a horse, his shoulder slamming into her chest, throwing Rhosynel back several feet. Éowyn had darted clear, but that meant that what halted her progress was the wooden post of Théodred’s bed, wood cracking with the force of their impact.

Pain flooded Rhosynel’s body.

With the impact of the door to her spine and now the bedpost, it felt like her ribs were close to breaking. One more slam and she just knew the pain would turn to agony. Already Drath was hauling her forwards, preparing to throw her back at the solid wood again. If she struck, her ribs would break, she’d be useless and unable to protect Lady Éowy—

THWACK

The sound of an iron fire poker slamming across Drath’s back wasn’t pleasant. Éowyn had put all her strength into the attack, earning a bark of pain from the stocky man. It did, however, make him drop Rhosynel.

But instead of skittering away, she followed his stagger, darting into his space, hands reaching out to seize the edges of his leather breastplate. She had to move fast, she had to act before he’d recovered from Éowyn’s strike.

A step, a pivot, duck and fling.

The motion of her throw had Drath hurtling up and over Rhosynel’s hip, to slam to the flagstone floor.

“Run!”

A flurry of white shot past her as Éowyn bolted and Rhosynel didn't hesitate to follow.

Already she could hear Drath struggling to his feet, her own pounded on the floor, slower than she'd have liked. Protecting the Lady’s back, keeping herself between Éowyn and the enraged man on their heels. She could hear a commotion up ahead, stemming from the main hall, the sounds of fighting, a brawl, and a voice booming above it all. One she knew.

Between one step and the next, a hand wrapped about her upper arm, and yanked.

A bark of pain left her and thick trunklike arms wrapped about her ribs. Up ahead, Éowyn hesitated, looking back with wide blue eyes.

“Go! Go!” Rhosynel yelled, before the air could be crushed from her lungs, “GO!”

Éowyn kept running.

“Got ya girly,” Drath hissed in her ear, voice singsong, and breath reeking, even as Rhosynel gasped for air against his crushing grip. “Nowhere to run now. Yous mine to play with.”

Panic flickered though her chest, but panic was of no use in this position. Snapping her head back, she felt it collide with his chin, earning a curse. Her elbows struck ribs, heels dragging across shins. The panic increased at the realisation he was dragging her backwards. Away from the hall, away from the commotion, away from where she hoped and prayed her companions were. For all her lashing out, for all the hissing and snarling, his arms remained locked about her chest. And her means of escape slowly slid from her grasp.

“Let go of me! Let go you orc fucker! Let g—”

Rhosynel’s screaming and swearing was cut off, as with a jerk of his arms, her head bounced off the wall. Wood or stone, it didn’t matter, not when it split her lip and left her head ringing from the impact. Her lip throbbed, hot blood cascading down her chin. Pulse thudding in her ears, continuing to thunder, even as the ringing faded.

It wasn’t her pulse, but running footsteps.

Blearily lifting her head, Rhosynel could make out a figure barrelling towards her and the man who dragged her backwards. She blinked, and the image came into focus. A vision of pure fury. Condensed into the broad shoulders and tall stature of Boromir, his dark eyes locked on Drath, and utterly consumed by anger and fury and sheer and utter rage.

His fist drew back.

Rhosynel, very intentionally, buckled at the knees.

Despite the crushing grip about her ribs, her weight was enough to drag her downwards, neatly dropping her head below Drath’s. Just in time for Boromir’s fist to slam into his nose.

There was a sickening crunch and splatter of hot blood against her face.

But Drath’s arms released her, and Rhosynel hit the ground at a roll, rapidly removing herself from the path of Boromir’s fury. Scrambling on all fours in her haste to move. For once her own sense of self-preservation kicked in, demanding that she remove herself from the situation, that she get away from the men who were about to brawl, to get away from the threat they posed to her.

That self-preservation didn’t last long, as she heard another crunch of fist meeting flesh, followed by a pained snarl. Twisting onto her back, she found Drath starting to rise to his feet, one hand gripping Boromir’s bad shoulder, thick fingers digging in mercilessly. Even as he drove his fist into Drath’s jaw again Boromir’s face was contorted in pain.

With a yell of her own fury, she lifted her foot and slammed it into Drath’s left leg. There was a sickening pop, as a weak joint gave beneath her heel and his leg bent in the wrong direction. Boromir was quick to take advantage of the man’s stagger, holding him up by his collar, his back into the wall, his fist slamming into Drath’s face again and again and again.

A tooth spun across the floor.

“He’s down! He’s down!” Rhosynel urged, surging to her feet, managing to catch his arm. She couldn’t halt Boromir’s assault, but at least her weight dragged him off course and reduced the last punch from deadly to merely agonising as it struck Drath’s jaw. “Boromir he’s down, leave hi—”

Her words were cut off, as Boromir rounded on her, seizing her upper arms in his hands, all but looming over her. Dark eyes wild, teeth bared, and face speckled with Drath’s blood. The knuckles of one hand cut open from the impacts, fingers digging into her arm, even as his other hand lightly touched her jaw. A contrast of gentleness and rage that had her heart lurching within the cage of her ribs.

“He hurt you?” His shadowed eyes rapidly tracked across her face, landing on the cut to her lip and the blood that was dribbling down her chin. “Did he do this to you? Son of a bitch I’m goin—”

“No, no,” Rhosynel said forcibly, managing to grab both arms in a bid to hold him back. “He’s down, leave him! He can’t walk like that!”

True she’d like nothing more than to beat Drath black and blue, but Boromir had murder in his eyes and a groaning man at his feet. There were more pressing matters to deal with, matters that she hoped would drag Boromir’s thoughts away from… from… from whatever this was.

“Where’s Éowyn? Is she okay?”

It worked, the darkness flickering in his eyes was snuffed out, and Boromir seemed to jerk as though returning to his senses. A shake of his head. One last lingering glare to the man at his feet, and Boromir caught hold of her hand, already beginning to tow her towards the hall, towards the fading sound of a fight.

“She reached the main hall,” Boromir grated out, voice oddly hoarse. “She directed me your way.”

Thank the Valar she did.

Had Boromir taken even a few seconds longe— Rhosynel pushed that trail of thought from her mind. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, follow it. Not when there were more pressing matters to deal with.

Tumbling from the corridor, Rhosynel found the main hall of the Meduseld in chaos. There was Legolas, holding one of Grima’s men up from the floor by their collar, their feet dangling almost a foot above the flag stones. And Gimli too, foot firmly pressing Grima to the floor. And Aragorn, losing his grip on Éowyn as she darted toward her uncle. Théoden king, now straight and tall without the stoop of age and health, withdrawing his sword from its scabbard, held by—

Held, by a man in white.

White robes, white hair, white beard, white staff. A familiar face. A face that shouldn't exist.

“No,” she breathed, eyes wide, horror curling through her chest. Lurching in shock, her back thudded into Boromir’s chest halting her retreat. Halted her fleeing from the spectre in white, from the dead man walking. “That can't be. No.”

“Gandalf,” Boromir agreed quietly, hands settling on her shoulders, “returned to us once more by the Valar.”

“That's, that's not,” Rhosynel struggled to get her words out. Struggled to voice the thoughts tumbling and whirling like a storm in her mind. Why did he get to return, when others remained lost? “That's not fair.”

“What?”

Boromir's confusion jolted Rhosynel out of her spiralling thoughts.

“That's not possible,” she amended quickly, “how is that possible?”

“He is of the Ista—”

“You,” a powerful voice barked, filling the hall with its strength. Théoden King now clasping his sword, eyes locked on Grima.

“My lord,” the advisors whined, “I’ve only ever served you. It was not I that was responsible, but her—”

His hand started to lift, starting to gesture, only to be slapped back down by Gimli.

The King was stalking forwards, grip tightening about the pommel of his sword, eyes now clear and free of blindness, and utterly locked on Grima. Lips pulling back to bare his teeth in a mockery of a grin.

“Your leechcraft would have had me crawling on all fours like a beast!” Théodred snarled, sword rising.

Startled exclamation rose up, which Grima took advantage of. Gimli, for all his stoutness and stability, was unprepared for the desperate Grima to drive the heel of his hand into the side of the dwarf’s knee. The leg buckled, and Grima bolted, Théoden hot on his heels and the others chasing after the King. One moment the hall had been full and crowded, the next silent besides faint groans and the guards rounding up Grima’s men with rapid efficiency.

Rhosynel didn’t follow. Even as Boromir and the others sprinted after the murderous king, she remained rooted in place. Eyes locked on the space Grima had occupied. Ears filled with what he had been about to say. Mind consumed, by the Prince whose death she’d been responsible for.

It was Haehild that found her first.

Sat outside the servant’s entrance, her back to the stone wall, knees drawn up to her chest and arms wrapped about them. How long she’d spent, sitting and staring blankly, Rhosynel wasn’t sure. Her body ached, her spine was in agony, the split lip pulled and stung with each subtle shift in expression. But the physical aches were minor in comparison to the storm of confusion that swirled in her mind.

Gandalf was alive.

Théodred was dead.

The King was suddenly healthy again.

The Hunters were back.

And the Hobbits weren’t found.

She couldn’t make sense of it, couldn’t untangle the threads that wove the tapestry, couldn’t figure out how it had all fallen apart. Carding her fingers through her hair, Rhosynel grimaced at the tangles and snarls that met her hand, mirroring her thoughts.

Gandalf was alive, he’d apparently survived the fall, survived being dragged down by a Balrog. And now he was back, looking fresh, and clean, and wearing robes of pearly white rather than the worn and faded grey she’d last seen him in. How had he survived?

Théodred was dead, he’d been dead for some time before Éowyn had dragged Rhosynel into his room. But when had he died? Why had he been killed so suddenly? Why hadn’t she realised that Drath had abruptly stopped guarding the Prince’s room? Why hadn’t she realised quicker that something was wrong?

The King was better now, which was good. Not that Rhosynel could make heads or tails of whatever illness had been lifted so abruptly. Or was it a curse that Gandalf had broken? Could Grima curse people, was that a thing? How was the King going to react at the news of his son’s death? Had he already found out? Did he know it was her fault? What was to happen next?

The Hunters had made it to Edoras and gained access. This was also good, it was a relief to see them again, to see that they’d survived Fangorn. But there was still a lingering cloud that dampened their return.

Namely that the Hobbits were still missing. Merry and Pippin were still out there, either dead or alive, and Rhosynel couldn’t bare it. Burying her face into the skirts of her borrowed gown, Rhosynel shut her eyes against the fear of what had happened to them. Were they alive? Where were they? Were they scared and afraid, out in the wilderness alone? Or had they managed to find safety somewhere? She didn’t know their fates, and that was somehow worse than knowing they were dead. At least, their deaths she could morn. This was just purgatory.

“Rhosyn?”

A familiar voice had Rhosynel peering over her knees. The anxiety in Haehild’s voice was enough to make her shoulders tense, only to hiss quietly as the skin of her back pulled uncomfortably.

“Rhos, are you okay? We’ve been lookin—oh Bema.”

Her cousin was dropped to her knees in front of Rhosynel, hands light as they reached out to cradle Rhosynel’s face, lifting her chin and inspecting the visible injury.

“What happened?” Haehild demanded, not unkindly, her eyes filled with worry and concern. “Fulred, see if you can find Boromi—”

“No!” Rhosynel’s voice was little more than a bark, making the pair jump in surprise. “No, no he’s not a healer,” she pressed on quickly, not quite telling the truth. “Aragorn, he’s a healer. Or Legolas, the elf. They’ll be able to help.”

There was a pause, as Fulred looked from Rhosynel, to his wife. Haehild gave him a nod, and he was quick to head back into the Meduseld. With him gone, Haehild’s attention settled fully on Rhosynel, thumb lightly testing at her lip –quick to stop when Rhosynel hissed in pain– and moving her inspection to the bruises along that side of her face.

“What happened?”

“Drath.”

That single word was enough to have Haehild grimacing.

“You don’t want Boromir to see you like this?” she asked gently.

“He already has. Nearly beat Drath to death because of it.” Because of her. Because of her injuries. “And he’s not a healer, he can’t do anything but fuss and worry,” Rhosynel added genuinely. “Has… has the King been told. Of Théodred?”

The harsh swallowing of Haehild’s throat was answer enough.

“He’s upset,” her cousin started explaining, as though Rhosynel wouldn’t have guessed. “But Éowyn’s with him, the men who were loyal are with him. Your companions are doing their best to help. But… it’s a mess, Rhosyn.”

A mess.

That was downplaying the situation, but it seemed that Rhosynel wasn’t the only one struggling to make sense of the aftermath.

The door to the hall opened once more, and Fulred exited with Aragorn close on his heels. Considering the man had been traipsing through Fangorn for Valar knew how long, he didn’t look any worse for wear. By which Rhosynel thought he looked as grimy and rough as he always did, although there was a new subtle limp to his step.

It was almost entertaining, to see the way his face lit up at the sight of her, only to immediately sober as he saw the bruises and injuries. Aragorn was quick to sink into a couch before her, Haehild scooting along to give him room, eyes and hands inspecting her face. It was easy enough not to protest, to sit and let him poke and prod.

“What happened?” he asked.

“My face was introduced to a wall at high speed.”

“You don’t have concussion then, considering your attitude is intact.”

“I missed you too.”

Aragorn’s smile was tight-lipped and without amusement, which told Rhosynel of his concern more than any words could. Leaving off the inspection of her face, he sat back on his heels, brow furrowed in consideration.

“Let’s get you inside and find something to clean you up with,” he said, rising to his feet, one hand extended down towards her.

Rhosynel didn’t move.

She couldn’t move.

“It’s, not my only injury,” she admitted haltingly.

Truth be told, Rhosynel was only sat on the floor because that was as far as her legs would carry her before they gave out. She’d actually been aiming for the stables, or even to head back to Héobald’s home in a bid to see to herself and lay low for a while. But instead, here she was, sat on the floor, with a back so tightly seized up that even breathing hurt. Any attempts to climb to her feet had only brought about more pain and more cursing. By the Valar she hoped her ribs weren’t broken.

There was a concerned pause from Aragorn, who then sighed and looked to Haehild. “May I trouble you for hot water, a clean cloth, and any spare bandages, compresses, salves, and herbs you may have?” he asked.

“We’ve got those back home,” Haehild answered, with a glance to Rhosynel. “It’s not far…”

“Home sounds good,” Rhosynel agreed quietly, but quickly, before Aragorn could suggest entering the hall instead. She couldn’t face it, not yet, not any time soon.

There was a pause, the Ranger eyed her, scanning across her face, before lifting to look up at the hall. As though he could see through its walls, and to what –or who– made her so reluctant to enter.

“Very well,” he agreed, and turned to Haehild, giving a more in-depth list of what he needed, and she was quick to lead Fulred into the city in the direction of home. Clearly being able to tell that the remains of this discussion wasn’t something Rhosynel needed witnesses to. “Rhosynel?”

Concern, fear, anxiety. How Aragorn managed to lace so many emotions through her name was astounding. But… the last time Aragorn had seen her, Rhosynel had been settled protectively next to Boromir’s unconscious body, in a forest filled with corpses of orcs, and no way of knowing if they’d ever see one another again, let alone survive.

And now here she was covered in bruises, blood, and sat on the floor.

“He slammed my face into the wall,” Rhosynel said quietly, dropping her eyes from Aragorn’s worried expression, and studying his boots instead. “But he also slammed my back into the edge of a door, and into the frame of a bedpost.”

“The Princes?”

Either it was a lucky guess, or there was a visible break.

“Yeah.” Rhosynel would have sighed, had it not hurt to breathe so much. “Everything hurts, I can barely inhale, and I don’t want to go back inside because what if he’s still there and he was trying to drag me away from everyone and if Éowyn hadn’t sent Boromir down the hall when she did he would hav—”

Her rambling cut off as Aragorn sank back into a crouch, and gently clasped her shoulder.

“Drath?” he asked.

Her flinch was answer enough.

“He’s in the jails. Háma and Gamling dragged him there personally, once we returned to the hall,” Aragorn explained. “They had to drag him, because his left knee was dislocated, and his face had swollen so badly it looked like he didn’t have eyes. They were tempted to teach him a lesson, but they didn’t need to because someone already had.”

“Boromir.”

“It wasn’t Boromir that kicked his knee in.”

Rhosynel grimaced at that, the cut to her lip pulling painfully. Apparently, the pair had discussed what happened, she wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

“Boromir tried to leave.”

The words left her lips without meaning, and Aragorn jolted.

“He tried to leave in the middle of the night. His guilt is eating him alive. I had to throw him to the floor to make him stop,” Rhosynel said rapidly, as though the floodgates had opened. “He’s not looking after himself, I’ve not had chance to check his injuries again, and he forces himself to sleep on his bad side. I think he’s doing it to punish himself.”

Aragorn held up one hand, and her words trailed off.

“Thank you, for telling me,” he said gently, brows furrowed and shadowing his usually clear eyes. “I’ll see if I can check on his wounds. But in the meantime, we need to see to you.”

“The others—”

“Are fine.”

The prince wasn’t. That thought alone had Rhosynel’s teeth clenching and pain streaking along her jaw to pulse in the cut at her lip.

“I’m going to help you up, try not to punch me,” Aragorn warned, already starting to hook his hands under her armpits, and before she’d had chance to prepare herself, started to lift Rhosynel.

“ARGH! Balrog fucker!”

The snort from Aragorn wasn’t very kingly, but he still lifted her to her feet. Almost instantly she was half doubled, trying to reduce the pressure to her back. But the fact that the pain was only on her back, not her ribs, was encouraging. Moving was going to be difficult, even with support walking was going to hurt.

It wasn’t far to Haehild and home, but it was going to feel like it.

The familiar kitchen of Héobald’s home was a comfort, the scent of rosemary and herbs hanging in the air, the heat from the hearth keeping the room warm even if only coals remained. A bowl of steaming water had been set on the table, and Haehild was dabbing cautiously at Rhosynel’s lip with light motions.

“I’m not breakable,” Rhosynel said dryly, barely feeling the fabric against her injury.

“I’ll not have you swearing in front of the children.”

A fair point, and a likely risk, considering Aragorn hadn’t started inspecting her back yet. Said Ranger was rinsing his hands with the lavender soap, the motion was familiar, far too akin to the way Rhymenel would prepare. Her sister’s ministrations would have been preferable.

“Let’s take a look at your back then,” he said, approaching the table.

Grimacing against the pain, Rhosynel was aided by Haehild in loosening the ties of the work gown and rolled the upper half down to her waist, although that was enough to leave her breathless with pain. But eventually, with many a held back curse, her back was exposed to the air, leaving her in the linen bralette once again. There was a sharp inhale of breath, either from Aragorn or Haehild, and Rhosynel couldn’t decide which was worse.

“Béma, you can see the pattern of the carvings,” Haehild said quietly.

“Huh?”

“From the bedpost,” Aragorn answered, reaching past her to collect the cotton rag and soaking it in the hot water. “There’s a pattern to the bruises along your spine, you must have hit it with some force.”

An understatement if ever there was one.

“Two sets of bruises, the one from the bedpost, and one with a nasty gash to your ribs, again.” The annoyance in Aragorn’s voice wasn’t directed towards her, but to the injury that had torn through the stitches she already had from the fight at Amon Hen. “I’m going to clean the wound, mind your language.”

“I don’t think th–fuuuargh!”

Rhosynel half said half snarled, hands balling into fists as the cotton was pressed to both fresh and old cuts. Breathing heavily, she doubled over, forearms pressing to the smooth surface of the kitchen table, head hanging and eyes screwed shut. A steadying hand gripped her shoulder, possibly Haehild’s, and a cooler rag was pressed to her forehead. It helped, somewhat, but didn’t detract from the feeling of Aragorn trying to dig out every last grit, thread, or speck of dust that may have lodged in her wound.

“Haehild do you have any spirits?”

“You keep that shi-stuff away from me,” Rhosynel snapped far too sharply.

“If it gets infected, you’ll regret it.”

Twisting to the side, and biting back another curse as she did so, Rhosynel snatched at the gown, yanking a little clay jar from within the fabric, and all but thrust it into Aragorn’s hands. “I prepared kingsfoil for Théodred.”

Silence.

There was a heavy exhale from Aragorn, but he took the jar from her and removed the lid to inspect it. “It’s been mixed well,” he admitted, managing to keep his voice free of surprise. “I’ll use this, but it’ll still burn. Do you have any left for Boromir?”

“Yes.”

“Very well.”

Inhaling deeply, Rhosynel braced herself. The paste hurt, hurt like hell, almost as bad as strong alcohol would have done. No wonder the half dead Théodred had groaned in his sleep, the stinging pain would have been enough to wake the dead. She could tell Aragorn was being gentle, but it didn’t stop the pain that zinged across her nerves and had her shaking with the effort of remaining still.

“Nearly done,” Haehild reassured, doing her best to smooth Rhosynel’s hair back from her sweaty face.

“It shouldn’t need stitches, but do you have bandages?” Aragorn asked.

“Here.”

Oh thank Bema the worst was over. The cloth pad that was pressed to her flank barely registered to Rhosynel, exhaustion beginning to creep into her limbs, making it hard to remain upright. The bandage was passed back and forth between the pair, tight enough to be mildly uncomfortable, but not so tight to restrict her breathing.

“All done.”

The relief that swept through Rhosynel had her crumpling against the tabletop, forehead pressed to the smooth wood and trying to ignore the shivers that flickered through her body. It hurt, her entire body ached with pain both new and old, her head was thumping, and her chest was unbearably tight with anxiety.

“Rhos, I need to return to the hall,” Aragorn was saying, “there’s a lot of work to be done… will you join me?”

The last thing she wanted to do was go near the Meduseld.

“I’m… tired,” she replied weakly.

It was a poor lie, but Aragorn nodded in acceptance, and then looked to Haehild.

“She and Boromir have been staying with us,” her cousin answered readily enough, “she has a room to recover in.”

Aragorn sank into a crouch alongside her seat, trying to meet her eye. “You did well,” he said, “get some rest.”

She couldn’t return the eye contact.

She hadn’t done well. At all. Saving Théodred had been a longshot. A risk. And it hadn’t paid off. Instead, it had cost the Prince his life. Maybe if she hadn’t tried to save him, he would still live.

Aragorn was saying something to Haehild, but then he was leaving, and her cousin was helping her climb the stairs. The baggy blue tunic was gingerly pulled on over her head, and the covers thrown back on the bed. It was a relief to crumple onto the mattress, a relief to curl up, no matter how it stretched the bruises at her back.

But it was even more of a relief to be left alone.

Sleep didn’t come easily, and when Rhosynel did finally relax enough to claim it, it was an odd half state. Every creak and groan within the house filtered through to her, every step on the stairs, every hushed voice or quiet playing from the twins, even when Héobald and Héomod returned home, hearing the news, changing from their armour. She was aware of it, but it seemed insignificant, unimportant. It was far easier to remain curled up, head pillowed, and blanket drawn up to her chin, ignoring the world outside.

Her body slept, even if her mind didn’t.

Again and again Rhosynel had warned others that there was no guarantee of Théodred’s recovery, warning them that she wasn’t a healer, that she could only try.

What she hadn’t expected, was to be responsible for his death.

Grima may have simply been trying to shift the blame away from himself and onto her, but the fact of the matter was that the snake had been right. If she and Boromir hadn’t ridden to the city gates on that first day, there was every chance that suspicion wouldn’t have been raised. Or even if she hadn’t started meddling within the hall, it wouldn’t have drawn his and Drath’s attention, the brute had been suspicious of her almost immediately, of course he’d voice that to Grima. And then one of them poured Snakes Bile down the prince’s throat.

They wouldn’t have acted rashly, had she waited to enter the city with the others.

Those thoughts plagued Rhosynel as she desperately tried to block them out, clawing at the walls she tried and failed to build against them. No matter how many times she told herself she wasn’t to blame, no matter how she tried to rationalize, it still came down to her actions.

On the lower floor of the house, she heard the distinct sound of the front door opening and closing in quick succession, no doubt one of the others had come home. But what she didn’t expect to hear was the rapid climbing of steps. All too soon there were footsteps on the landing, and the sound of the bedroom doorhandle creaking.

The men of the Fellowship would still be caught up in whatever business was being conducted up at the Meduseld. Was it Fulred checking on her? Or perhaps Haehild?

Keeping her eyes shut and her breathing steady, Rhosynel tried to ignore the presence of whoever entered the room. Willing herself to be fully asleep, willing them to fall for it, willing them to leave her be. The bed creaked as their weight settled on the edge, and then a hand brushed against her face, sweeping a strand of hair back from her eyes.

Inhaling sharply, Rhosynel’s eyes snapped open.

Almost as sharply, Boromir snatched his hand back away from her face, a look of chagrin flickering across his features before he wrestled it under control.

“Ah, forgive me,” Boromir said roughly, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

His brows raised at that admittance, at the confession that she was ignoring him –or at least whoever had entered– but his expression was rueful rather than disappointed.

“Have you slept at all?” he asked instead, resting his elbows on his knees, hands tightly clasped before him.

The knuckles of his right hand had been cleaned, but they were still torn and traces of blood lingered. The sight had Rhosynel exhaling heavily, and shutting her eyes once more. She didn’t need to see it, didn’t need the reminder of what had happened, of what had nearly happened, of what could have happened had Boromir taken only a few moments longer to reach her.

“A little,” she managed to say, forcing the words past the tightness in her throat. It was still faintly light out, although the sun seemed low in the sky. Héomod’s room was bathed in a golden light which told her sunset wasn’t far off. She must have been ‘sleeping’ for a good few hours. “What’s happening, up at the hall?”

“Funeral plans, mostly,” Boromir replied, “there’s also a lot of discussion as to what influence Grima’s exerted, going over documents signed within the past year, discussion over who was most receptive towards Grima and who remained loyal.”

There was a pause as he inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, Rhosynel watching his profile keenly, how hunched over he seemed, how heavily his shoulders dropped.

“It’s a mess.”

“Sounds it,” she said quietly.

That drew a faint smile from him.

“How are you doing?” he asked, looking down to her, brows furrow in concern.

With the blanket drawn up to her chin, the only part of her he could scan was her face. Although it bore enough injuries to have the muscle in his jaw feathering, shadowed eyes resting on her lips and the cut that split through it. Almost without conscious thought, Boromir reached out, testing her lip with his thumb, and without actually meaning to, she shifted her head away from his touch.

His hand was quick to return to his side.

“Badly,” she admitted, and promptly changed the topic, “you said they’re planning the funeral for Théodred? When for?”

“Tomorrow morning. One of the family barrows is being prepared, although Théoden never expected his son to claim it before him.”

“And the King? How is he?”

“Grieving, keeping it stoic when the attentions on him, but grief weighs heavily in his eyes,” Boromir replied, “there’s little we can do to alleviate it…”

“How long had you known Théodred?”

“Years, I’ll miss him dearly. The last time I saw him was—” a shaky exhale left Boromir, his right hand lifting to drag his hair back from his face. It was getting longer, somewhat unruly, she’d have to see if she could find a spare hair tie to keep it back from his face, or else ask Haehild for some shears to trim it with. “I last saw him on the way to Rivendell. But we were close in age, he’d often come to Minas Tirith on diplomatic visits with his father, we’d spar, train together, share stories… He gifted me that shield, said it would serve me better than our tower shields, since I was already getting too broad for them to protect me much.”

Despite herself, Rhosynel snorted slightly, getting a puzzled glance. “Built like a brick outhouse, as my father would say,” she muttered, earning a quiet chuckle. “No offence.”

“None taken,” Boromir replied dryly, but he didn’t continue, instead, he remained quiet, frowning down at her. Head tilting as though trying to solve a puzzle.

The one benefit of her injuries meant that Rhosynel couldn’t shift under the scrutiny, or at least not without pain and revealing just how much she was hurt. No, Boromir didn’t need to know about the bruises, about the gash to her ribs, about the imprint of the carvings from the prince’s own bedpost. Aragorn had said Drath was in jail, but after seeing Boromir try to beat the man to death and the shadow that had clouded his eyes, she didn’t want to risk him taking a detour to the jails on his return to the Meduseld.

His mouth opened, and she could see the questions forming on his lips. Only to fall silent as footsteps began up the stairs. The pair looked to the door, and a moment later there was a quiet knock.

“Rhos? Sir?” Héomod’s voice asked uncertainly. “I’ve brought you both some tea.”

He did not enter the room.

“Ah thank you lad,” Boromir said, rising to his feet and opening the door. Her cousin was stood awkwardly, clay mugs in hand, shifting from foot to foot. Once again, he looked more than a little starstruck to be speaking with Boromir. “I didn’t get chance to thank you earlier, for getting Aragorn and the others into the city,” he continued, accepting the mugs, “because of you and your father we were able to free the King of Grima’s influence and whatever foul curse had been placed on Théoden.”

“I, well, we just did as you asked,” Héomod shrugged, fidgeting with his hands since they’d been freed from the task of carrying mugs.

“Regardless, it takes courage to go against your superiors. Thank you.”

Rhosynel smiled as colour flooded the young man’s face, and then grinned as he made an awkward noise. If it hadn’t hurt so much, she would have laughed as Héomod inclined his head far too formally, and then bolted back down the stairs.

“Was it something I said?” Boromir asked, looking to her in bewilderment.

“He admires you.”

Boromir’s face fell. “He shouldn’t.”

“You’re Lord Boromir, Captain of Gondor, Warden of the White Tower, and son of Steward Denethor,” she replied, “of course he does.”

There was a heavy sigh from that very same Captain, and he settled on the edge of the bed again, extending one of the mugs towards Rhosynel.

She didn’t reach out for it, didn’t try to sit upright, didn’t try to move from her recumbent position. The only things that did move, was the smile falling from her face, and her eyes darting away from Boromir.

“Rhosynel…?”

She could do this, she could play it off, she could move, she just had to keep her face neutral and impassive.

Uncurling her arms from their tucked position against her chest was easy. But pressing herself upwards hurt like the fires of Mordor. Trails of pain blazed down her spine, and even if she kept her eyes away from Boromir’s face, he’d have to be blind to miss how they welled up immediately. Teeth gritted, stomach muscles protesting, and back utterly alight with pain, Rhosynel managed to sit upright. Even an oblivious man would have noticed the pain she was in, and when it came to her Boromir was anything but oblivious.

There was a clack as he hastily set both mugs on the floor out of the way. And his newly freed hands reached towards her, cautiously touching her upper arms and helping support her as she hunched in on herself, prepared to release her if she flinched. Rhosynel could feel the concern radiating from him, even if she kept her eyes downcast and avoiding looking to his face as she tried to catch her breath, limbs shaking with the effort she’d exerted.

“You’re injured,” he said, a statement not a question. “Where? How? Was it that man?”

“My back, Drath, yes.”

“Rhosynel.”

His annoyance sounded so much like Aragorn’s that she almost laughed, if the inhale hadn’t sent sparks of pain flickering through the wounds on her ribs. The laugh turned to a pained noise, a noise that sounded far too akin to a whimper.

The hands on her arms tightened fractionally.

“Do you need me to find Aragorn?”

Had… had the Ranger not told Boromir? Or had Aragorn assumed that he already knew?

“He’s already seen to me,” she replied, risking a glance to Boromir’s face and immediately regretting it. Dark grey eyes, filled with concern, but almost eclipsed by a shadow of anger. Anger that she’d not told him? Or anger at Drath? She didn’t want to find out. “It’s just bruising, it’ll fade soon enough.”

“Show me.” The request bordered on an order, Boromir’s voice becoming sharp, strained with worry. “Please?”

Grimacing, Rhosynel tried and failed to think of a way to distract him, to change the topic without annoying or upsetting him. Besides leaping from the bed and bolting from the house –and that would be too difficult to do– nothing came to mind. With a heavy sigh, she shifted stiffly, grabbing the hem of the tunic and pulling it upwards to expose her back. It was a struggle, but with Boromir’s assistance she dragged it up and over her head, and once again left her in the linen bralette.

“He slammed the door open and into my back,” she said quietly, as Boromir moved around to inspect the damage. “Then threw me into Théodred’s bedpost. My face happened in the corridor.”

At his sharp inhale, Rhosynel became glad she couldn’t see his expression.

There was the lightest graze of fingers across her skin, seemingly tracing a pattern down the left side of her spine. An odd pattern, looping back and forth like the knotwork so popular in Rohan, no doubt the carving that had embedded into her skin. His fingers were rough, but gentle in their tracing of the bruise. Sparks flickered through her even at that light touch, making Rhosynel inhale to steady herself. She wasn’t sure if it was actually pain, the anticipation of pain, or the lack of pain that caused such a reaction, but it was uncomfortable regardless. Boromir’s concern for her was almost too much to bear.

“I should never have let you into that place.”

“You didn’t let me do anything,” she shot back, irritation snaked through her chest but was easily snuffed out by her exhaustion. Frustrated, she snatched at the tunic, beginning to thread her arms into it once again, despite how struggling to do so hurt. “It was my actions that got me into this mess, and my actions that got Théodred killed.”

“Your— Rhosynel,” Boromir said her name so plaintively that she couldn’t help but flinch. A heavy sigh brushed across her back as she wrestled with the fucking tunic, but he was quick to assist, helping lift her arms and drawing the tunic back down over herself. “Do not blame yourself,” he said sternly, even as his next words were softened. “Please, do not shoulder Théodred’s death. You already carry our fates far too heavily.”

Somebody had to.

She’d survived death more times than she could count, more times than was fair, usually when she was in the process of trying to save someone else. So yes, she’d shoulder Théodred’s death, just like she would carry the fates of the Fellowship, no matter how far and wide they’d been scattered.

“Drink.”

A cup of tea was held before her face, still steaming although since cooled, the familiar bitter scent of willow bark infused with it. Had Aragorn left instructions with Haehild? She’d been pretty out of it by the time he left. Accepting the cup, she sipped silently at it, Boromir resettling on the bed alongside her and drinking at his regular tea.

“Will you attend his funeral?” he asked quietly after some minutes had passed.

“If I can manage the walk.”

The lie on her tongue tasted more bitter than the tea.

Chapter Text

It was a large funeral, the death of the prince drawing forth every citizen of Edoras, lining the streets, showing their respect for Théodred. His body was carried to the barrows of his forefathers on the shoulders of his men, but also of Boromir. Théoden leading his son to his resting place. Éowyn’s voice rising in a dirge.

Keeping to the back of the crowds, Rhosynel’s brows were drawn into a frown. The advisor, Grima, was long gone, but he’d spent years within the halls of Meduseld, had his words corrupted anyone else? Should they be wary of other traitors within Edoras?

Boromir had asked her not to shoulder the prince’s death, but it was proving difficult, considering her actions could have caused it.

Once the procession had passed her street, Rhosynel turned back. Héobald and his kin were attending the funeral, which meant she had the house to herself, even if for only a few minutes. It felt strange to be away from the Fellowship, but she wasn’t worried, she had managed to tell Aragorn about Boromir’s behaviour, no doubt he’d pass that on to Legolas and Gimli. No, she could afford a few quiet moments away from them, and allow herself a semblance of normality.

In the silence of the house, Rhosynel found herself restless. With the bruising to her back, it was difficult to remain in one position for too long least her muscles seize and cramp, but likewise, moving hurt just as much. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she gently stretched her arms, feeling the muscles in her back protesting at the movement, and the stitches across her ribs pull and ache in tandem. Perhaps it had been unwise to sleep so much, she should have kept moving, kept her muscles loose, but instead she’d allowed herself to rest.

She’d be useless in this condition.

Moving carefully and cautiously, Rhosynel busied herself within the kitchen, finding carrots, potatoes, and more tucked into various cupboards. Hauling them up onto the counter wasn’t easy, but she managed with muffled curses, and began preparing them. The others would be back soon, and with midday creeping closer, she may as well start on the meal.

The gentle pattern of chopping and dicing was familiar, almost soothing. It kept her hands busy, even if it didn’t distract her mind.

With the Hunters back, and Gandalf too, what was to be their next steps? Merry and Pippin were still missing, so perhaps north to Fangorn once more. Would Ilmara be able to find them? Or had the Hobbits already been dragged to Isengard? Just what, exactly, did the White Wizard want with them?

Not knowing was possibly worse.

“Lass!” Héobald’s voice called out as they returned.

“In the kitchen!”

Several sets of footsteps, two of which were light and quick as the twins darted into the room. Her uncle was close behind, as was Haehild, Fulred, and Héomod.

“Aren’t you working?” Rhosynel asked, somewhat confused by the fact everyone was present at once. It was unusual, normally only the late evenings meant the entire family was together.

“King’s reorganising the watches,” Fulred replied, “and the hall’s staff have been given leave for the day.”

“Rhosyn, you should be resting,” Haehild chided lightly.

“I needed to move around.”

No protests or disagreements to that, the others automatically falling into step as they began preparing for lunch. It was comfortingly familiar, feeling almost like home with the children getting underfoot. It made her realise how much she missed her family and the kids. Homesickness trying once more to dig its talons into her heart and drag her into misery. But there was no time for that, as before the food had finished cooking, there was a knock at the door and the keening of Ilmara outside.

Since she had her hands full, Héomod was sent to get the door, but then his voice rang out uncertainly. “Rhosyn? There’s an elf and a dwarf, here for you…”

Sticking her head around the door to the kitchen, she almost laughed at the sight of the young man staring between the two visitors in bewilderment, and Ilmara, perched on Legolas’s shoulder like usual.

“Well stop staring and invite them in!” she called back with a grin.

There was no answer, but she heard the familiar heaviness of Gimli’s steps, and a moment later the two were entering the kitchen. Both peering around in curiosity as to how humans lived.

“Gā inn!” Rhosynel greeted over her shoulder, sweeping the neatly chopped carrots into a pan already filled with boiling water and seasonings. “I’m just helping Haehild finish dinner.”

“Oh aye, what are we eating lass?” Gimli asked, drawing alongside, and peering past her. “Oh lamb! Very nice, braised well too!”

“Who said anything about you eating this,” she chided. Glancing over towards Legolas, who had a pair of under-tens, staring up at him in bewilderment. The elf looked as equally concerned.

“Freaer, Fendig,” Haehild scolded, catching sight of her kids too. “It’s rude to stare!”

“I do not mind,” Legolas was quick to reply, and sank into a crouch beside the kids. “I don’t get to meet many human children, are you always so short?”

“I’m not short!” Fendig exclaimed, apparently horrified that he was considered as such. “I’m taller than Freaer!”

“Barely!” his sister retorted, digging an elbow into his side. “Why do you have a bird?”

“This is Ilmara, she’s Rhosynel’s, not mine,” Legolas was quick to correct, “she just likes me mor—”

He didn’t get chance to finish as a chunk of carrot bounced off his temple.

Ignoring his withering glare, Rhosynel looked to Gimli again, keeping the vegetables moving, even as Haehild added a handful of herbs. “What are you two doing here anyway? I’ve not been gone that long.”

“Your presence has been requested by his lordship,” Gimli announced with a flourishing bow.

“You may need to be a little more specific, which lord?”

“The King,” Legolas replied, and her stomach dropped even as he rose to his feet once more. “Although Aragorn and Boromir are wondering where you are, and Gandalf also asked after you.”

“Can it wait till after dinner?”

“Rhosyn,” Héobald chided, having watched the exchange with some amusement. “That’s your King you know.”

“I live in Gondor.”

“And was born here.”

“Semantics,” she wafted the issue away with a hand. “The benefit of being from both, means I can pick and choose as I wish.”

“I… don’t think that’s how it works,” Legolas said slowly, brow furrowed. “Surely both claim sway over you?”

“Oh she doesn’t like that,” Gimli chortled as Rhosynel’s face dropped into a glower. “Regardless,” he quickly continued as she turned said glare onto him. “Boromir’s been asking after you since the funeral.”

With a long-suffering sigh, she handed the ladle to Haehild, and turned to the sink.

“Oh yes,” Héobald piped up again, from where he was laying the table, and she immediately braced herself against whatever he said next. “With everything going on, I forgot to ask, when is he coming to ask my permission?”

Oh Bema’s Bow she’d forgotten about that passing comment she’d used as a ruse.

The hasty glare she levelled at her uncle was easily ignore, Héobald was far too accustomed to such things, instead, he just grinned back at her good naturedly.

“You are not my father,” Rhosynel said with as much gentleness as her irritation would allow. “And you know it was just a ruse, I don’t have time for that.”

Unfortunately, she didn’t miss the glance Legolas and Gimli shared, before turning both their eyes to her. Eager not to get into that discussion, Rhosynel quickly shook her hands dry, and turned, chivvying the elf and dwarf back towards the door.

“I’ll try and come by again,” she said over her shoulder. “If not come find me up at Meduseld, yeah?”

“Will do lass!” she heard her uncle call, joined by several voices yelling bye.

“Permission?” Gimli asked with a grin once they were heading up the road, nudging her with his elbow, and nearly knocking her over.

“Does Boromir know about this plan of yours, Lady Rovailor?” Legolas added, with a teasing grin.

“Ilmara, dagor,” Rhosynel said bluntly.

And got a confused chatter from the goshawk who couldn’t see any enemies to slay.

In a stark contrast to her uncle’s home and family, within the walls of the Meduseld it was dreary, sombre, and quiet. The guards at the door barely glanced to the three returning to the halls, their faces drawn and serious.

It was much the same inside, with a group of men clustered around the central table, pouring over the papers there. Théoden King was stood straight, still in the clothing he’d worn to the funeral, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the maps and parchment. Gandalf was seated alongside him, with Aragorn and Boromir on the other. Several other men she half recalled were gathered, as was Éowyn, hanging back slightly.

“So you are the Messenger?” A stoic voice asked almost the moment she entered.

Blinking against the change in light level and being addressed directly by the King, it took Rhosynel a moment to gather her thoughts.

“I am, your majesty,” she answered shortly. “I’m Rhosynel.”

“Éowyn said it was you that found the cause of my son’s death?”

For half a second she misheard him, her brain scrabbling to catch up. No, he’d not called her the cause of his son’s death, just that she’d found the cause.

Rhosynel swallowed thickly.

“Yes, I had hoped I’d be able to aid him, but when I realised it was too late… I could tell there was something wrong, so I inspected him instead,” she said, somewhat haltingly, remaining on her feet and shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. “I realised he had a considerable amount of Snake’s Bile in his mouth and throat.”

“Poison.” It wasn’t a question, nor elaborated on, so Rhosynel stayed quiet. The King heaved a sigh, or maybe just frustration. “If the situation were not so dire, I would have my staff questioned, to see how far Grima’s influence was spread…”

“Théodred had been deteriorating for weeks,” Háma said, “why poison him so abruptly now?”

“Something must have spooked him,” another said, “made him act rashly.”

Rhosynel’s stomach twisted sharply, nausea rising in her throat. Did the Kings’ advisors know? Did the King know? Lady Éowyn must, she’d seen how it had played out… There was no chance to consider, as Théoden King was speaking once more.

“Regardless Gamling, we cannot interrogate the staff now, not with the dire news,” he was saying, and then looked to Rhosynel and motioning for her to step forwards. “Messenger, you travel do you not?”

It was an effort to squash her anxieties and move closer to the table, trying not to wring her hands anxiously. “Rhosynel, sir, and yes, I travel.”

It was literally her job to do so.

“Then what do you make of this?” he gestured to the map.

With incredibly little to go on and no context as to what ‘this’ or the ‘dire’ situation was, it took Rhosynel a few moments to understand what she was looking at. A map of Rohan, fairly detailed, with the edges of neighbouring lands included. Several thick lines had been drawn on it, angling towards Edoras, all descending from Isengard. A brief memory surfaced, that Gandalf had been injured and delayed there, and then the white hand of Saurman stamped onto the armour of those unnatural orcs. Looking closer, several settlements had been crossed out, those in the path of what she could only guess to be an army.

“Judging by this,” she said slowly, fingers tracing one line, arcing from Isengard in almost the exact same route she would have used to hasten travel times. “They’re only a few days out. Are they mounted or walking?”

“Walking.”

“Five days, maybe less depending on if they run at times,” she said, nodding more to herself than anyone else. “What are their numbers?”

“Ten thousand Uruk-Hai,” Aragorn said quietly.

Ten, thousand? Surely he jested?

The breath that left her was less to do with surprise and more… panic. Ten thousand of those horrific creatures. Fear, panic, alarm, all shot through her with alarming force. And quite without meaning to, Rhosynel stepped back away from the table. This was far beyond her understanding, why had the King asked her opinion on what was happening? She was beyond out of her depth.

“Messenger Rhosynel,” she distantly heard the King say again.

She wanted nothing more than to shrink away from his words, but she forced herself to look up and meet his gaze. Despite how she could feel the blood draining from her face

“How long would you estimate to travel to Helms Deep?”

That was something she could answer, she’d often run messages from Edoras to the fortifications in the White Mountains. “For me, a day,” she answered easily. “Why?”

It was a blunt question, but she needed to understand more before she could answer.

“We are thinking of evacuating the city.”

“The cit—” Rhosynel cut herself off before she could get carried away. “Then you’ll be far slower. You can only go as fast as your slowest member. On horseback two days, with wagons, carts, and walking, longer. Three, maybe.”

The King nodded, eyes back on the map. “Then we must begin. Now.”

Immediately there was discussions, people talking over one another, minor arguments, and debates over the effectiveness of routes. But through it all, Rhosynel remained stood frozen, eyes locked onto the maps. Black streaks of charcoal, indicating the force of ten thousand strong, heading for Edoras.

Ten thousand.

Thundering in her chest, she needed to move, to run. Anything.

A hand landed on her shoulder.

Boromir had her in his focus.

“Breathe,” he commanded, and automatically she sucked in a rattling breath. “They’re not here yet. We have time to prepare.”

It didn’t feel like it.

“Breathe.”

She heard him say again, and another struggling breath filled her lungs.

“Min gebedscipe,Lady Rhosynel?” a feminine voice said a second later, making Rhosynel start, and twist around. The Lady Éowyn had approached, eyeing her somewhat warily. “May I have your assistance?”

With a glance to Boromir, who quickly released her, Rhosynel followed the lady as she headed from the main hall.

“You looked close to fainting,” she was saying, golden hair gleaming in the candlelight.

“I feel it.”

Apparently, that was amusing as Éowyn gave a soft hum, not quite a laugh, but close. Deeper into Meduseld Rhosynel was led, through corridors and down a flight of steps, until they reached a storeroom.

“I figured, while they’re discussing routes and defence, which will no doubt take all night,” Éowyn was saying, picking something up and turning to Rhosynel. “We should start acting.”

A stack of strong hessian bags was dropped into Rhosynel’s arms. Followed rapidly by another, until she was having to use her chin to anchor the top ones in place. Her back ached and stung, the stretching of her skin and the straining of her muscles hurt, but also helped banish the panic that had been threatening to overwhelm.

“The guards will go door to door,” the lady was explained, lifting her own large stack of bags with ease. “Each household gets one, maybe two bags, and that’s all they are to bring.”

“You sound like you’ve been expecting this,” Rhosynel managed to say, backing cautiously out of the storeroom, and awaiting further instructions.

“Isengard has been casting a fell shadow for some time now,” Éowyn replied, “and I had little else to do but wait and think. With my brother banished, my cousin dying, my uncle ailing, and Grima creeping through the halls, all I could do was think.”

A shudder ran through Rhosynel at the thought of being so trapped. But she hefted the bags and followed the Lady’s steps as they headed to what seemed to be a guard’s common room only a short distance away from the rear of the Meduseld. Dropping them onto the table as Éowyn gave instructions, Rhosynel divided the stack into smaller piles, handing them off to each man that approached.

Within minutes the pile was gone, and she was fetching more from the storeroom. Edoras was a large place, and it seemed Éowyn had been stockpiling provisions for some time now.

“Are you coming into the city?” Rhosynel asked, pausing before following the men outside.

“I… I don’t think… I’m not sure if I…”

“Lady Éowyn,” Rhosynel said gently, “it’s your choice.”

The younger woman blinked once, then twice, before the ghost of a smile flitted across her face. “Yes, yes it is.” And with that she grabbed her own stack of bags and was quick to follow as the pair headed into the city.

Before the day was over, bags had been handed out, news had spread, and the city was preparing to set off the very next morning. It was surprisingly hard work, hiking back and forth, up and down the hill city. But it gave Rhosynel something to do and helped quell the mounting anxiety, the movement seemed to help loosen her muscles, and while it still ached, her back was regaining some of its mobility. It also seemed to help Lady Éowyn too, as she began talking with the people, many of whom were incredibly relieved to see her again. By the time they returned, those with more tactical inclinations seemed to have settled on a plan. But her name was called for almost the moment she came into view.

“Rhosynel!” Aragorn beckoned her over and she approached, Éowyn following closely. “Cast your eye over this route for me.”

That was something she could do. Settling at the table, she took the offered map, and began going over it with a fine comb, comparing it to the mental map she had of the lands of Rohan.

“Not bad,” she admitted a few minutes later, “this patch,” she tapped a section by a river. “Is atop a cliff alongside a river, it would be a bad place for us to be ambushed, as there’s little cover or escape routes.”

“What would you suggest?”

“Head a little further south before turning west,” she replied quickly, taking her own charcoal, and lightly etching an alternate route. “There’s more hills in this area, but if we weave through their valleys, they’ll conceal our progress from anyone on higher ground.”

A hand clapped on her shoulder, making her wince.

“She knows her routes; I can see why you travel with her.”

“It would help if they listened to me,” she shot back automatically. Only to belatedly realise it was Théoden King who had spoken.

But to her surprise, he gave a sharp bark of laughter, and continued his way, to speak with his men. Her eyes snapped back to Aragorn with a guilty expression, but he just seemed amused.

“Where have you been anyway?”

“With Lady Éowyn, alerting the city and handing out supplies,” Rhosynel replied, gesturing to the Lady stood alongside, who was gazing wide eyed at Aragorn.

“You keep wondering off.”

“I was requested, thank you very much,” she retorted. “But it did me good, I feel less stiff and anxious now.”

“Good, we can’t have you bolting off.”

There was no point replying to that, but she did roll her eyes for good measure, as she pushed to her feet. “Lady Éowyn… Éowyn,” she had to repeat herself to get the woman’s attention, but it finally snapped away from her studying of Aragorn’s profile. “What else can I help with?”

“Oh, of course… If you can help me pack up the household that would be appreciated,” Éowyn was quick to reply, a slight flush to her cheeks. But already leading the way once more. “There’s certain heirlooms that we’d rather not get pillaged, not to mention sorting through the armoury for the men.”

Following in her footsteps, Rhosynel let the Lady talk through the plan, nodding when needed, and trying to ignore the tension which was building up in her shoulders. It was silly, really, Rhosynel had known what was happening in the world, with the forces of Mordor slowly building up. But for a brief time, when with her uncle and cousins, she had managed to convince herself that everything was alright, that the world was returning to normal.

She wished it was.

“—that way we should have enou— Rhosynel are you listening?”

It was Rhosynel’s turn to look guilty.

“No,” she said honestly. “Sorry.” At which point had she gained an armful of fabrics? Banners of Rohan it seemed. The Lady was looking annoyed, but Rhosynel could only offer a sheepish grin, earning her a huff, and another pile of fabric added to her arms.

“You are an odd one.”

“Comes with the territory of being a Messenger,” Rhosynel replied voice muffled. “Spend too much time on the road alone and you go a bit… weird.”

“Have you done this for long?”

A hand tugged at her sleeve, and Rhosynel followed blindly.

“Hmm, joined the Rangers at eighteen, then switched to being a Messenger at twenty-six, so about ten years now?”

“You were a Ranger? With… him?”

“Who Aragorn? No thank goodness, we’d probably have stabbed one another by now.”

“I heard that!” A voice shouted across the hall they were passing through.

“See my point?” Rhosynel said, managing to peer over the fabric and at Éowyn, earning a quiet chuckle.

They soon made it to the armoury, and the pile of banners was collected by a man there. No doubt they’d soon be strapped to pole arms, pikes, spears, and more, and then passed out to the riders as they prepared to set off. She didn’t miss the suspicious squint from Aragorn, now speaking with Boromir who looked far to invigorated by the whole armies-descending-upon-them situation. But then again, he was the Captain of Gondor, this was exactly his forte.

“Can you use a sword?” Rhosynel asked, as yet again, they entered the halls.

“Yes, but my uncle does not like me to wear it.”

“What why tha—Éowyn. There’re ten thousand orcs bearing down on us! wear the damn sword!” she exclaimed, far too loudly, as several men glanced their way.

The Lady arched an elegant eyebrow at Rhosynel’s demand. “I will be carrying it regardless, I just won’t be wearing it,” she conceded, “I doubt I’ll come so close to the fighting as to need it…”

That would have to be enough, Rhosynel had forgotten how restrictive social pressures could be. Let alone for the niece of the King. But Boromir had said Éowyn had training, she should be able to defend herself. Regardless, Rhosynel would be sticking close to the Lady to ensure her safety, especially with the threat of ten thousand orcs on the horizon.

Chapter Text

The dawn light drifted through the clouds, filling the streets of Edoras with a familiar golden light. The glow of the sun filtered through the shutters into Éowyn’s room, where Rhosynel was sprawled out on a fur rug. Most the evening had been taken up by the Lady quizzing Rhosynel on many aspects of her life, and as such the pair had stayed up far too late.

It seemed the younger woman had felt trapped under Gríma’s influence, and as such, Rhosynel had done her best to dredge up as many stories of Gondor, travel, and the places she’d seen and the people she’d met. Anything to provide some escapism for Éowyn. When had she joined the Rangers? What had made her want to join? What battles had she fought in? Why did she leave? Did she prefer being a Messenger? Where had she travelled?

By the time Rhosynel realised how late it had gotten, Éowyn was offering lodging within her own room, and despite how Rhosynel’s stomach had twisted at the idea of remaining within the hall, she’d accepted, allowing herself to be towed down and all too familiar corridor.

She tried to ignore the flecks of blood across the walls.

Familiar doors and familiar rooms passed her by, and with each step it felt like her chest became tighter and tighter. But thankfully, Éowyn’s rooms came sooner than Théodred’s, she wouldn’t have to pass by it just yet.

“Have you need of any provisions?” Éowyn asked come dawn.

“No, although I’ll need to collect mine from Héobald’s before we set out.”

“How, exactly, are you related to him again?”

“My mother’s father, he was uncle to Héobald,” Rhosynel replied, gingerly stretching and feeling the muscles of her back protest with the motion. “We lived on the same street when I was growing up, and Héobald had worked with my mother. His kids were almost my own siblings.”

“And your mother was Rhysnaur, Rhysnaur Flame Shield, correct?” Éowyn pressed, “she answered Gondor’s call for soldiers, and travelled to the battle of Umbar?”

And nearly lost her life for it.

“Yes, Héobald went with her, as did my actual uncle, Rhosthain.”

For a moment Éowyn was silent, bundling a change of clothing, gathering up a boar bristle brush with silver back and intricate engravings, tucking them into a bag. She wasn’t taking much, only the bare minimum, as though she knew she’d be returning, or perhaps guessing that she wouldn’t.

“Did you…” Éowyn was quick to trail off, pausing, her hand hovering over the Rohirric sword she’d been about to collect. “Was it difficult, living in her shadow?”

Rhosynel blinked.

That was an odd question, one that she didn’t have the mental swiftness to untangle quickly enough to answer correctly. What did Lady Éowyn even mean by that?

“No?” Rhosynel replied carefully, “she’s my ma. She brought us up, taught us how to fight, how to ride, she just… she’s my ma.”

For some reason, Lady Éowyn’s shoulders dropped and realisation struck Rhosynel. Was Éowyn living in someone’s shadow? Her brothers? Her cousins? Her uncles? Did she feel the need to prove herself or to excel in some way to make a name for herself?

There wasn’t chance to ask, as a loud rap at the door ended that line of conversation.

“Lady Éowyn?” a male voice called out, Gamling or Háma? “Thirty minutes.”

“Thank you Háma,” Éowyn replied, and picked up her sword belt, slinging it over one shoulder. Apparently that one pack and sword was all she planned to take, as Éowyn took one last look about the room and nodded to herself. With a deep inhale, she let out a long sigh. “Very well, let us be off.”

It was easy to fall into step to the right and slightly behind Éowyn, following the younger lady as she paced through the corridor towards the main hall. To say the Meduseld was in a state of chaos would have been a mild understatement. Guards clanked, servants scurried, and lords swept past. It was, however, equally as interesting to see the people’s reactions to Éowyn’s arrival. Almost everyone they passed had someone greeting, nodding, or smiling to Éowyn.

Respect for the Lady was clearly evident in their actions.

“Rhos!”

A familiar voice called above the general hubbub, and her head immediately swivelled in the direction of the main doors. Indeed, a recognizable face was hovering at the entrance, Héomod, casting anxious glances to the two men flanking the door. On his back a pair of bulky packs, apparently the lad had taken it upon himself to bring her and Boromir’s belongings up to the Hall.

“Héomod,” she greeted in turn, beckoning to him, only to belatedly realise the door guards may not permit him entry. But one of them glanced to her, and then motioned for the lad to enter the Hall. He was quick to hasten to her side. “Are you all ready to go?”

“We are, but…” There was an uncertain pause from him, looking conflicted. “Fulred, he’s volunteered to remain behind.”

“What?” Her exclamation was a little too loud and carried a little too well over the hubbub of the hall, prompting her to drop her voice sharply. “Why?”

“They were asking for volunteer guards to keep watch over the city,” Héomod explained, with a shrug, even if his hands anxiously twisted at the straps over his shoulder. “There won’t be many, just a skeleton crew. Its less to do with defending the city and more to just keep an eye on it.”

In other words, the remaining guards were to watch for more refugees, prevent opportunists, and if the orcs did indeed assault the near-empty city, die.

And Fulred had volunteered.

“Are the rest of you coming? Are Haehild and the kids joining us?” Rhosynel asked, trying to quell the anxiety that roiled through her chest at the thought of leaving them behind. They couldn’t stay in Eodras, not with everyone leaving, it was bad enough that Fulred wouldn’t be joining.

“We are.”

“Oh thank Bema.” Dragging her hand across her face, Rhosynel shook her head in relief. “It’s too dangerous for you to remain here.”

“I doubt Helms Deep will be much better,” Héomod replied wryly.

A sobering thought, and one Rhosynel was reluctant to consider for too long, least the bars of iron begin to lock about her chest once more.

“Anyway, I brought your stuff, and Lord Boromir’s,” he was saying, swinging the packs from his shoulder and passing them over. “But I need to get back and help sort out the twins.”

“Of course, thank you.”

And with that, the young lad was off again.

Gritting her teeth against the strain to her back, Rhosynel hauled her pack onto her shoulder, and all but dragged Boromir’s along with her. Thankfully it wasn’t too hard to locate the others, both Aragorn and Boromir standing tall amongst the Rohirrim, not to mention the usual flash of Legolas’s stark blond hair. Weaving through the crowd, she reached them quickly, hanging back slightly in a bid to avoid too much notice from the King and his advisors, no matter how Aragorn and Boromir were amongst them.

“Here,” she said quietly, hefting up Boromir’s bag with one hand, “Héomod brought our packs.”

“Ah, good lad.”

“Do you not have your shield?” Aragorn’s asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“No, no it was… damaged at Amon Hen,” Boromir replied haltingly, as he took the weight of his bag from Rhosynel and hooked the strap over his shoulder. “A shame, it was a gift from Théodred and would have been useful in the coming days.”

And understatement, if ever there was one.

But his words had caught Éowyn’s attention, her sharp blue eyes scanning across Boromir with a slight furrow to her brow. A moment later and Rhosynel watched as she turned to Théoden speaking quietly to him for a moment. The King’s own eyes flicked to Boromir, but then he nodded, and the Lady moved swiftly back towards the bedchambers. Had she forgotten to pack something?  

“Gandalf has set out to seek aid,” Aragorn’s voice dragged Rhosynel’s eyes away from the distraction. “He’s attempting to round up the banished éoreds.”

“When will he return?”

“The first light on the fifth day.”

“Well that’s… mysterious,” Rhosynel muttered under her breath, but not quietly enough as Gimli chuckled at her shoulder. “I didn’t even get to say welcome back…”

“Wizards,” he replied gruffly. “Damned with em, damned without em.”

“I’d rather not be damned at all.”

 “Hm, well we’re shit out of luck for tha—”

“Lord Boromir?” Éowyn’s voice interrupted Gimli’s rather depressing response, “could you make use of this?”

Rhosynel had to tilt her head to see past Boromir’s broadness, only to blink again at the sight that greeted her. Lady Éowyn, for all her slenderness, was managing to hold out a large Rohirric shield with surprising ease. But it wasn’t the unexpected strength that surprised Rhosynel, but the familiar motif emblazoned across the shields front.

A green field, with running white horses, and golden sun at its centre.

Instantly Rhosynel’s eyes were snapping up, away from the shield, up over the heads of the gathered men, and over the throne. Where, flanked by others, hung a banner.

A green field, with running white horse, and golden sun at its peak.

Her sharp inhale was drowned out by Boromir’s own noise of alarm, the far taller lord shifted onto his back foot at the sight of the slender woman approaching him. Even as she extended the shield towards him, he made no bid to lift his hands or accept it.

“My Lady, I cannot,” Boromir declined gently.

Éowyn’s head cocked to one side at his words, a motion almost mirrored by several of the others gathered. The chatter and discussions slowly falling silent in a growing ripple, leaving the cluster about the King quiet and still as they watched this exchange.

“Whyever not?” Éowyn asked in plain confusion. “You’re in need of a shield and Théodred gifted you your previous one, I remember how close the two of you were during visits between our cities. It would be fitting, for you to have his old one.”

From her position, Rhosynel couldn’t see Boromir’s face, only the edge of his profile, but that was enough for her to see the way the muscle in his jaw jumped and feathered, the way the fingers of his left hand flexed and curled. He was reluctant, he didn’t wish to accept the shield, and Rhosynel had a good idea as to why.

“I’m not worthy of carrying Théodred’s shield.”

His words confirmed her thoughts.

Boromir had been reluctant to leave his old shield behind but had done so quickly. He’d not had it with him during the attack at Amon Hen, during his attempt to take the Ring, and now, for Éowyn to offer this one… If Boromir hadn’t thought himself worthy of taking the cloven shield, Rhosynel wasn’t surprised that he declined one of greater worth.

“Thank you, my lady, but I’ll make do withou—”

“A shield should not lay unused, especially in times like these,” Théoden’s voice interrupted his protests. “If it is to go to anyone it should be you, Lord Boromir. You were a good friend of my son, I… Théodred would agree to this.”

 The Kings words were enough to silence Boromir with a near audible click of teeth. For a moment, Rhosynel half expected him to decline once more, but then, slowly and stiffly, Boromir lifted his hands to Éowyn.

The weight of the shield seemed to settle heavily not just in his arms, but his shoulders too. But the moment passed, and Boromir straightened up, hefting the weight of the shield, and neatly flipping it over to slide his arm through the straps, testing its balance, testing how it rested against his arm.

Rhosynel didn’t miss the way his arm shook with the added weight to his injured shoulder.

“I… I will try to honour his memory as I carry it,” Boromir said quietly.

“Good, we will have need of it, and you, before the week is out,” Théoden said decisively, and then began moving. “Now come! We must ride.”

The effect was instantaneous, voices rising above the noise, calls for horses, a clatter of feet, the clanks of armour. The abrupt change from quiet to chaos, left Rhosynel reeling somewhat. At the king’s words people began heading from the Meduseld, a river of bodies and people and soldiers and lords. It was an effort not to get caught up in the flow, but Rhosynel dug her heels in, looking back against the stream. Boromir stood like a rock against the tide, still inspecting the shield with a mixture of wariness and shock on his features.

“Boromir,” she said gently. He looked up at her voice, and for a brief moment, she caught a flash of trepidation in his eyes, before it was quickly smothered once more. “It suits you.”

The faint smile that pulled at one corner of his mouth was still a shadow of his previous grins, but it would do. “Hopefully I can live up to him.”

“I have no doub—”

“Messenger!” the kings voice barked out, and Rhosynel flinched.

With an apologetic grimace to Boromir, she was waved off with amusement, and sped after the rapidly retreating back of Théoden. The king could move fast when he wanted to, she had to duck and weave past far too many people to reach him.

“You recommended this route,” the king asked-ordered, almost the second she entered his line of vision, “can you travel with the scouts to ensure the way is clear?”

“I can, and I have my Messenger bird, she can relay messages but will likely fly to Legolas,” she explained. With a whistle, she heard a flutter of wings, and Ilmara landed upon her shoulder.

Only to pause, waiting for actual permission to leave.

“See to it then.”

The thrill and adrenaline of setting off thrummed through Rhosynel’s veins as she bounded down the last few steps of the Meduseld, feathered cloak flaring out behind her as she sprinted towards the stables. It didn’t take long to find Tallagor, and even less time to get him free of the stables, the building was as familiar to her as breathing, having spent the first decade of her waking life within its walls.

Within minutes she was mounted up, racing out of the city to find those who were to be scouting the path and watching for enemies. A glance over her shoulder, back towards Edoras and the Golden Hall, revealed the steady stream of an entire cities worth of people. Helms deep and the Hornberg was less than a day’s ride away, for a Messenger. But for such a large group of people to travel, they would be hard pressed to reach its protective walls before the Uruk-Hai caught up.

(Théodred/Boromir's shield, designed by the incredible GarbageCanWitch on Tumblr, this is now the canon design!)

The feeling of wind in her hair, the reins in her hands, and a horse beneath her was freeing. Travelling familiar routes, sending Ilmara to and fro, discussing thoughts and routes with other scouts. All of it was so familiar and a relief to once again be doing her job. True the convoy of refugees moved far slower than she would like, so Rhosynel made sure to travel to the rear of the line on occasion, riding into the foothills, and then dismounting to scout the land behind their trail. So far, she’d not seen any sign of the ten thousand Uruk-Hai, which with any luck would hold out until well after they reached Helms Deep.

But the slow pace still grated on her.

 Tallagor’s hooves pounded across the sandy ground, easily striding out across the rolling hills and grasslands of Rohan. The White Mountains towered in the distance, a constant presence and reassurance that they were on the right track, northwest, their destination of the Hornberg settled within the Deeping-Coomb was well fortified both by the landscape and by mortal hands.

They’d be safe there, they just had to reach it before the Uruk-Hai did.

A keen from Ilmara high above had Rhosynel’s eyes lifting, putting her somewhat wary trust in Tallagor not to buck her off. The goshawk was circling, and then sharply turned off, swooping across their path and leading south-west.

“Hold back,” Rhosynel called to the scouts, “she’s seen something!”

“The bird?”

Ignoring the confused comment, Rhosynel followed Ilmara’s flight path, noting how the goshawk was heading towards a series of low hills. Motioning for the scouts to remain where they’d drawn to a stop, Rhosynel slid down from Tallagor’s back and began bounding forwards.

A low whistle had Ilmara circling back to glide overhead.

“Cennada!”

The Limroval responded to the order, and began leading Rhosynel towards what she’d seen. Keeping herself low, Rhosynel darted along in Ilmara’s shadow, eyes flicking from the sky, to the horizon, to her feet in rapid order. As she began to scale one rise, Ilmara gave a chatter, and Rhosynel dropped into a crouch.

Not a moment too soon, as a snarled command and doglike growl reached her ears. She knew that noise, she’d heard it far too many times during her time with the Rangers, and far too close and personal.

Wargs.

Grimacing, Rhosynel flattened herself down, eyes now fully locked on Ilmara as she circled high in the sky. It wasn’t one spot she maintained position over, but a slightly shifting path. Not a camp then, but something on the move.

Thankfully, it was heading north-east, rather than towards her position.

Moving carefully, paying keen attention to where her hands and feet were placed, Rhosynel dragged herself to the crest of the hill, lifting her head only enough to see into the next valley.

Indeed, there was a Warg along with an orc mounted on its back. But only one? Perhaps it too was scouting the route ahead of the hoards? But with it heading north-east, moving further into the Westfold and towards the Great West Road, it meant the convoy of refugees may remain undetected, provided they kept close to the foothills of the White Mountains.

Pushing herself down the hill, Rhosynel half slid, half rolled, until she was sufficiently below the crest of the hill, only then did she rise to her feet and hasten back to the others.

“Single Warg and rider,” she greeted the scouts on her returned, hauling herself onto Tallagor’s back, and almost getting reared off for her abrupt return. “They’re heading north-east towards the road, so if we keep to the foothills, we may remain unnoticed.”

“I’ll report back to Théoden King,” one of the scouts offered, and upon Rhosynel’s nod of agreement, turned his horse about and began the gallop back towards the others.

With that taken care of, they were free to resume their route.

The pace was suffocatingly slow, and Rhosynel had the sense that Tallagor agreed. The dun horse was constantly tossing his head and champing at the bit, as though eager to go pelting across the landscape with little regard for his own safety. As it was, Rhosynel kept him under control, but sympathised with him.

The Hornberg was at least another day away.

If it had been her and Gwaedal she’d have made it to the fortification by now, and possibly even returned to the convoy. But moving a city worth of people wouldn’t be easy, there were women and children, old and young, carts and wagons. And despite being Rohan, not nearly enough horses to go around. All in all, it meant they were reduced the speed of their slowest member, and by Bema’s Bow the wagons were slow.

So Rhosynel shouldn’t have been surprised when the sun began to sink, and the instruction to set up a camp was given out.

“At this rate Tallagor is going to kill me before the orcs can,” she greeted, dropping her pack alongside that of Legolas and Gimli, before dropping herself heavily to the ground with a wince. Her back was less stiff, but it still ached with abrupt movements. “He’s tried to buck me off twice and almost kicked me once.”

“Missing Gwaedal?” Legolas asked with some amusement.

“So much,” she lamented, “I’m starting to think Éomer gave me Tallagor just to try and kill me off.”

“It’ll take more than a horse t’finish you off,” Gimli commented, tossing a hunk of bread in her direction, which Rhosynel managed to catch with only a minor amount of fumbling. “Although by now Gwaedal will be too fat to be ridden.”

“I doubt Arwen will have spoilt him quite that much.” She gnawed on the crust, almost breaking her teeth on the stale bread, but it was food and after spending all day on the road, she was hungry enough not to care as to its age. “Anyway,” she said, kicking her legs out and leaning back against her pack, “I haven’t had chance to catch up with you two. Would you care to explain just how you managed to survive Fangorn, not find the Hobbits, but somehow find Gandalf of all people!?”

There was a muffled snort from Legolas which was eclipsed by Gimli’s own bark of laughter.

“Gandalf seems to think the Hobbits are safe,” Legolas reassured, apparently sensing the root of the matter, “while I don’t think his sight allows the exact details, he’s confident enough in his belief that they’re in good hands.”

“That is not reassuring.”

“You won’t be reassured ‘til they’re back under your wings,” Gimli interjected, getting a hum of agreement from her, “we gave it a good shot in catching up with em, if we’d been half a day quicker we’d of had em.”

“Éomer’s herd came across the orc pack before we did,” Legolas explained, and Rhosynel tried not to snort at the éored being called a herd. “They slaughtered the lot and burnt the remains, but Aragorn was able to find evidence of their survival and followed their tracks—”

“And broke his toes in the process.”

Gimli may have whispered that part, but Rhosynel certainly didn’t keep her voice down.

“He broke his foot!?”

Apparently her exclamation was audible across the camp, as more than a few faces looked her way, and over by the king, Aragorn’s head snapped up, and then around to glare in their direction. As though annoyed that his secret had been let out.

“No, just his toes, two of them,” Legolas corrected calmly, with an apologetic grimace in Aragorn’s direction. “He kicked a helmet but didn—”

“He kicked a helmet? And broke his foot on it?”

“The orcs head was still instead it,” Gimli helpfully supplied, and Rhosynel dissolved into laughter.

“Are you quite done mocking me?” Aragorn’s voice asked, apparently having headed over, no doubt in a bid to prevent any impending mockery. Pity he was too late. “If you must know, I kicked the damn thing because I found Merry’s belt in the bonfire.”

That sobered Rhosynel up quick.

“But,” Aragorn was quick to continue, settling onto his own sleeping roll, a bowl of stew in hand, “I also found evidence of the pair getting away.”

“So either they’re dead or they’re still missing in Fangorn?” she asked.

“Essentially, yes.”

“Gandalf thinks the Hobbits are safe,” Legolas repeated, leaning over to squeeze Rhosynel’s shoulder. “I know that is of little reassurance, but what else can we do?”

“Head north to Fangorn and dig them out of the forest ourselves?”

“Good luck heading north,” Boromir’s voice greeted, the thud of his shield and pack landing alongside Aragorn. “The Uruk-Hai have been sighted, they’re between us and Fangorn, still a day or two out. But there are half a dozen patrols set up,” he explained to Aragorn, “as well as the scouts doubling back and forth to keep watch.”

“I suppose that will have to do, until we reach the fort.”

That was a sobering reminder of just why they were on the move. Thankfully he’d kept his voice down, as he settled on the ground with a poorly concealed wince. If those about them, the men, women, and children of Edoras, heard Boromir announce that, there’d be panic. And panic out in the open wasn’t a good thing.

It wasn’t what Rhosynel needed either, the tightness in her chest was already bordering on unbearable. The mere thought of the Uruk-Hai being behind them by only a day or two at the most, was harrowing. The men were discussing something between themselves, and she was content to leave them to it.

It didn’t take long to spot someone she knew.

“Uncle!” Rhosynel called, catching sight of Héobald passing by. “How’s Haehild and the kids doing?”

“They’re coping, complaining all the bloody way, but coping,” he replied, easily changing direction and coming to stand just on the outskirts of their camp, leaning heavily on his spear. “Freaer’s missing her da, but Fendig’s more excited than anything.”

“I’ll help you wrangle them tomorrow, we’re close enough to the fort that they’ll not need me scouting again.”

“Appreciate it lass,” Héobald replied, “though you don’t have to leave your friends for our sakes.”

“I’m sure they’ll cope for one morning,” Rhosynel replied wryly, with a glance to the others as though expecting them to say anything.

Apparently following her eye, Rhosynel found her uncle scanning their motley group with some amusement. Admittedly Legolas and Gimli had been earning their fair share of glances, and while Aragorn and Boromir were less unusual, the pair were still earning curious looks. Rhosynel had noted more than one young woman shooting all four of them covert glances, before exchanging quiet words and soft giggles. It was rather entertaining to watch the men of the Fellowship politely pretend they hadn’t noticed.

Although Legolas had flashed one girl a smile, and she’d promptly turned scarlet.

“You seem familiar,” Héobald said abruptly, making Rhosynel blink and look up at him. His eyes were on Aragorn, with his head cocked to one side, scanning his face and the sword at his side as though trying to place him. “Have you been through Edoras?”

 “I’ve travelled by it a few times,” Aragorn replied, setting aside his barely touched stew and sitting up a little straighter.  “The most recent was a last year, after travelling back south from Mirkwood.”

There was a considerate hum from Héobald, still scrutinising the Ranger. “What’s your name again?”

“Aragorn.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” her uncle replied slowly, but then shook his head, “ignore me, I’ve spent too many years on the gate, I’ve probably met half the folk in the Mark by now so I ain’t surprised you’re familiar. G’night, I’ll see you in the morn, lass.”

“G’night Héo!”

There was a round of polite goodnights from the others, and Héobald was quick to take his leave, although judging by the furrow of his brow, Rhosynel could tell he was still trying to figure out just how he knew of Aragorn. Although judging by comments Aragorn had made, she was surprised such things didn’t happen more often.

“Are you not gonna finish your stew, lad?” Gimli asked, drawing Rhosynel from her thoughts.

“Hm? No, you can have it.” Aragorn had a pensive frown on his brow, but was quick to pass the stew over.

The dwarf was equally quick to scarf it down.

Sleeping on a hard floor after a few nights in a real bed, certainly disagreed with Rhosynel. She’d already spent a few hours tossing and turning, and had settled on one side in resignation. With hard dirt and lumps of soil beneath her sleeping roll, sleep wouldn’t be claiming her anytime soon. So when there was the sound of movement, and the crunch of footsteps, she was more than aware.

Cracking her eyes open, Rhosynel tried to figure out which of the men couldn’t sleep either. Only to blink at a familiar voice.

“Boromir?” Aragorn asked quietly, “where are you going?”

There was an indistinct response, as though Boromir had been caught by surprise and didn’t have an answer, floundering to find an excuse. It took far too long for him to reply.

“I needed to walk.”

Again. Waking at night. Walking to… where exactly? Rhosynel’s shoulders grew tense with worry at what his excuse might mean.

Silence met Boromir’s words, and despite the fact Rhosynel’s back was to the pair, she could well imagine the calculating and intensity of Aragorn’s gaze. There was something about the Heir’s eyes, that had a way of seeing through you, and as such, she had no doubt he could see to the root of whatever was bothering Boromir.

“It’s a little late, to be walking,” Aragorn replied carefully, “take a seat, I’ll make some tea.”

More silence, more stillness. Was Boromir glaring at him? Or was he weighing up his chances of escape?

But there was a sigh, soft and tired, as though drained of energy. She heard someone resettle, and then the sounds of Aragorn moving about, the gentle tink of a spoon as he dropped herbs into the pot, the sound of water pouring.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Boromir said quietly, voice almost lost to the little metal kettle being set within the coals. “I shouldn’t, be, here.”

“Where else would you be, but with us?”

There was a gentle reassurance to Aragorn’s words, a reassurance that where Boromir was, the here and now, was where he’s meant to be.

“She told you, didn’t she?”

It was an effort not to flinch at Boromir’s words. Unless he spoke of Éowyn, there was no other ‘she’ within their group, and as far as Rhosynel knew the Lady hadn’t interacted with Boromir enough to know what plagued him. His voice was… begrudging, but not angry, thank Béma.

“She’s worried for you,” Aragorn answered without answering, “we all are. A shadow hangs over you, and while I’m sure Rhos wishes she could remove it, I doubt its within her power to do so.”

There was a soft huff of not quite laughter from Boromir. More movement, the sound of tea being poured, and the soft clink of cups been passed over. A faint scent reached Rhosynel, clear and fresh, like the open road or the air after a storm, something distinctly free.

“Kingsfoil?” Boromir asked, surprise colouring his voice, “I’d have thought you’d save it for any injuries.”

“I would, but there’s always enough for tea.”

“You sound like a Hobbit.”

That drew a chuckle from the Ranger, no matter how quickly it faded.

“They’ll be alright, Boromir,” Aragorn said quietly.

“You can’t know that.”

“I don’t know, but I believe it. What I do know, is that they’re incredibly hardy and full of surprises,” he replied with little hesitation, “the fact they made it from the Shire to Rivendell, and then all through Moria, tells me that they’ll be alright.”

There was a deep inhale, and a long, slow, heavy exhale, as though Boromir was trying to banish his doubts with his breath. Would it work, would he find peace? Would he rise later in the night and vanish without notice? Or would he convince himself to believe Aragorn’s words, as it was easier than believing his own thoughts?

“Thank you, for the tea,” Boromir said quietly.

“Of course, brother.”

Chapter Text

The walls of the Hornburg were dark and dank, not exactly the welcoming refuge that the citizens of Edoras were hoping for. But even from Rhosynel’s perch atop the hill leading down, it looked sturdy, thick walls, stocky towers, a good defensive wall surrounding it. It looked as though it could withstand the storm bearing down on them.

It also looked like a cage of stone.

Anxiety prickled at the nape of Rhosynel’s neck, and she made no move to descend towards the thick walls and strong gates, instead, she remained on the rise, atop Tallagor, encouraging the refugees to start down, watching them pass, scanning the faces both familiar and new to her. Watching the relief spread as they caught sight of the Hornburg.

Éowyn and Théoden King had already headed down, being welcomed by the small battalion that was stationed there year-round. No doubt the refugees flooding in were already getting sorted, finding space to spread out, unloading heavy packs and sacks. Finally feeling secure within the walls.

“Is there another way out?” she asked Héobald, stood alongside her, his horses rein in his hand. “Other than the main gate, that is?”

“The Glittering Caves are accessible from within, that leads to a mountain pass. They women and children will be heading there, as we can defend the entrance to the caves from the common room,” he replied easily, eyes on the fortress as well. “But the mountain route is a long way, and then where do you go?”

So the fortress of stone concealed the entrance to caves.

A shudder ran through her body at that thought, making Tallagor toss his head. The thought of entering the fortress was bad enough, let alone being underground again. Already she could feel the weight of mountains settling upon her shoulders, crushing her spine, constricting her chest. It was enough to have Rhosynel’s stomach roiling in fear.

No, she’d had enough of caves or mines.

“Alright, that’s the last of em,” her uncle spoke up again, pulling himself into the saddle. “Naught but the scouts, and even they’re on their way back.”

Looking over her shoulder, Rhosynel scanned the horizon, seeking any escape.

“Lass?”

“I want to run.”

“So do we all,” he replied, not harshly, nodding in understanding. “But if we have any hope of surviving this hoard, we have to stand together.”

Together.

Rhosynel could fight, she wouldn’t be sitting and waiting for her fate to befall her. She would fight alongside the others. Her feathered cloak was wrapped snuggly around her shoulders, and she’d taken to wearing the leather hand loops about her wrists, meaning the wings followed her movements. A silent reminder that even Galadriel thought she was where she was meant to be.

The scouts caught up, looking from her to Héobald, as though expecting instructions.

“Any sign of the orcs?” she found herself asking, watching as the leader sat up smartly.

“Not yet ma’am,” he replied formally. “Some smoke on the skyline, but it could be from pillaged villages still smouldering. But we’ve not yet laid eyes on the hoard.”

Glancing around, Rhosynel realised that it was just her, Héobald, and the three scouts left behind. No sign of anyone else in charge. Well, shoot.

“The hills to the east and west, they give a good view back across the Mark,” Rhosynel started cautiously, “two of you head up to take watch, at the first sign of the army, return to the keep. I’ll have replacement scouts sent out once night starts to fall,” she instructed, trying to sound more confident than she felt.

“Aye, yes ma’am,” the leader said, clapping a hand to his chest, and turning to send the other two off to the respective hills. “If it’s alright with you ma’am, I’ll report to Théoden King.”

“Of course.”

With that he was off, cantering down the hill.

There was no reason not to follow, but Rhosynel found herself lingering, waiting until the scouts were out of view. Only then, did she drag her eyes back to the stone cage below.

“Rhos gal, we’ll be late,” Héobald said gently.

“Betra ær þonne nǣfre,” Rhosynel muttered under her breath, earning a quiet snort from him, “Uncle, I won’t say goodbye… but…”

“I know lass, I know,” he replied gently, reaching over to clap his hand on her shoulder. “We’ll be alright, we always have been.”

Nodding, Rhosynel swallowed, and nudged Tallagor, following her uncle down the steep embankment. His hooves thundered with a sureness of step, neck stretching out as he raced the pull of gravity. And then his hooves struck flagstones of the causeway, and they all but flew under the gatehouse arch.

Once she had seen to Tallagor, and ensured he was stabled comfortably, Rhosynel headed through the fortress, trying to quickly map its layout in her mind. The lower levels consisted of storerooms and the stables, then the mid-level held armouries, good sized barracks, a massive food hall, and common room, the cave entrance led off from the common room. The third flight of stairs had a pair of guards keeping watch, but they made no move to stop her as she passed.

Familiar voices reached her, through the thick oak doors that bared the war room. Yet again, no motion to stop her from the guards stationed there, and she half queried their lax security, before catching sight of the feather embroidery of her cloak. No, there was no mistaking that she was different, no other woman wore an elven cloak of feathers.

Slipping into the room, she paced down its length, aware of a few of the gathered men glancing to her.

“Sorry I’m late,” Rhosynel greeted, despite no one mentioning it. “I waited for the last of the refugees and had a couple of scouts take up positions on the east and west hills to keep watch for the army. Replacement men will be needed around nightfall.”

“Ah, thank you,” Théoden King said, glancing to her before returning his attention to Háma who had been explaining something. And then his head snapped back to her. “Why have you not gone to the caves?”

“I-pardon? My lord?” she asked in plain confusion, trying to ignore Gimli’s mutter of ‘oh boy’.

“The women and children are to head for the caves, and remain there until the battle is done,” Théoden explained as though this was obvious. “My own niece is there, why have you not yet joined them?”

A peculiar mixture of anger and fear roiled though Rhosynel’s chest, and a flush began creeping up her neck at the indignation. “I have no need to join them.” Her voice was oddly calm and flat, even to her own ears, completely devoid of emotion. “I am more than capable of fighting and holding my own in the com—”

“No,” the King cut her off, “head to the cave.”

“With all due respect,” Rhosynel started speaking slowly to keep her voice steady, knowing full well that what she was about to say was anything but respectful. “You, are not my Captain.”

Behind the King, Aragorn dragged a hand down his face.

For several long seconds the King glared at her, and Rhosynel tried not to shake. This was possibly the most foolish thing she’d ever done, which was saying a lot. But she would not be forced to cower and wait within caves.

“You are a woman—”

“Who is perfectly capable of fighti—”

“Regardless I cannot have my me—”

“I do not need looking aft—”

It wasn’t an argument, she could convince herself of that, but neither she nor Théoden King seemed willing to let the other speak. Their voices remained steady, no matter how they overlapped one another. And despite how Rhosynel’s common sense was catching up and berating her for arguing with a King, she didn’t back down.

She wouldn’t be entering any caves.

“My lord!” Aragorn finally interrupted, thank Bema. The King forcibly broke his glare from her direction to look at Aragorn sceptically. “Rhosynel is a capable fighter, she killed two dozen of these orcs, alone, while protecting Boromir. She can fight.”

“An exaggeration but not untrue.”

“No lass,” Gimli spoke up far too loud for the silence on the room. “We counted; you got twenty-one of the bastards before we reached you.”

Twenty-one. Had she really killed so many? Rhosynel believed him of course, the dwarf was prone to exaggeration, but not lying. If he had counted, no doubt with Legolas, then she believed him. No matter how difficult to comprehend.

There was an incredibly longsuffering sigh from Théoden, apparently sensing this was one argument she wouldn’t back down from. “You will not go to the caves? Even on order of your King?”

“No, I will not.”

It would not be fitting for a King to roll his eyes or throw his hands up in defeat, but she got the distinct impression that Théoden came close to doing so. “On your head be it,” he said, shaking his own, as he returned to the table and parchments laid out there.

A shaky breath left Rhosynel as they returned to their planning, sheer relief that she wasn’t going to be forced into the dark and twisting maze beneath a mountain. No, she’d had enough of caves for a lifetime. Nothing on Arda or beyond, could make her enter them.

There was a shift of moment at her shoulder, and a quiet voice spoke up.

“And if your Captain asks it of you?”

Boromir.

Shit.

Rhosynel winced, before she could hide it. Of course, he would speak up, especially after her throw away comment about Captains, no matter how she may have been referencing Faramir. But Boromir, his elder brother and Captain of the White Tower, still technically held rank over her. She should have expected this to happen really.

Forcing herself to look at him, Rhosynel cocked her head. His eyes seemed dark, shadowed almost, even though the war room was brightly lit with candles and lanterns. A muscle feathered in his jaw as he gazed down at her.

“No,” she answered gently, “not even then.”

His brows dropped into a scowl, not of anger, but of concern.

“Would it help assuage your concerns if I remained on the wall with the archers?” she offered.

“Barely,” He replied, “I know you Rhosynel, you’ll still end up in the thick of it, the caves would be safer.”

The glare she levelled at him used to be enough to make her sister drop the matter, but apparently Boromir was made of sterner stuff, as he simply folded his arms, returning her glare with one of his own

“No.”

Rhosynel knew he was concerned by what may happen, but if he thought she wasn’t equally concerned about them, he was sorely mistaken. At least higher up she could watch over the Fellowship and see when they needed aid. Locked into a cave… she’d go insane.

“If the keep is breached, will you go to the caves?” he asked, apparently trying to find a middle ground. “That way you can remain with the archers, until it becomes dire.”

“Would you go to the caves?”

If Boromir frowned any harder, his face would be stuck looking like Éomer’s.

But Rhosynel bit back a sigh of frustration, turning fully towards Boromir, frowning up at him with her arms folded across her chest, mirroring his own stance. “If I go to the caves, what do you think will happen? I’ll waltz through them and come out on the mountain pass unharmed? Or will I freeze up again? Block the way for the women and children?”

There was a flicker of a grimace across his features. “The alternative is death.”

True.

She’d almost prefer it.

“Do not ask me to enter a cave Boromir, please. Not after last time.”

It was either the quiet pleading in her voice, or the reminder of what had happened in the previous cave –in Moria– that cleared the darkness in his eyes, but Boromir straightened up sharply at her words.

Would he keep pushing the matter? Would he pressure her further?

But there was a huff as Boromir relaxed, dragged a hand down his face, tension leaving his shoulders that she hadn’t even seen him holding in.

“You are infuriating,” he said dryly. “Fine, fine, but if you’re going to insist on fighting and not falling back to the caves, then you need some armour.”

It took a second for his words to sink in. The relief that he wasn’t going to force her into the caves was quickly negated by the apparent need, to weigh her down with hulking great lumps of metal instead.

It seemed, Rhosynel was to have the life crushed out of her either way.

Unfortunately, that prediction wasn’t too far off the truth.

The first set of armour that was heaped into her arms, was solid metal and weighed a ton, the moment the chainmail was added to the pile, Rhosynel’s knees buckled, and she staggered to the side. Thankfully the impractically of a fairly slender woman wearing full plate mail wasn’t lost on Boromir, and the heap was promptly removed from her arms.

“That probably wouldn’t fit me anyway,” Rhosynel wheezed, watching with some amusement as Gimli wrestled himself into the same chainmail.

“Fits me like a glove!”

That was up for debate, as now he had it on, it seemed difficult for Gimli to bend at the waist or move his arms.

“There’s some leather armour back here!” Legolas’s voice echoed from some distant part of the armoury. “These might fit.”

A bracer hurtled through the air fast enough that Rhosynel barely slapped it away from her face in time, and then was quick to duck out of range least any more boiled leather was thrown at her.

“You lot will kill me before the orcs get here at this rate.”

“Do not tempt fate,” Boromir chided, and dropped a leather breastplate over her head, earning a strangled noise as it landed on her shoulders.

Bema, even that felt too heavy.

In battle Rhosynel relied on the swiftness of her feet, but being bogged down with armour –be it metal or leather– was sure to slow her too much.

“Have you worn armour before?” Boromir asked, accepting the pauldrons that Legolas offered, and clearly bit back a sigh as Rhosynel shook her head. “Buckles for the breastplate are here—” a tap to either side of her ribs “—the upper arm guards buckle around your bicep, while the pauldrons connect here, and here—” a pair of taps to the front and back of her shoulders.

“How am I meant to do this up?” Rhosynel asked, reaching over her shoulder to where had been indicated, and almost knocking a tooth loose as the other pauldron smacked her chin.

“You’re not,” Boromir answered with some amusement, batting her hand away, before grasping her shoulder and pushing till her back was to him. “Why do you think knights have squires?”

“It doesn’t seem practical if you can’t dress yourself.”

“Tell that to every high-born woman,” Gimli piped up, “the number of laces they have? Ridiculous.”

“Have you never worn a corset?” Legolas asked.

“No, thankf-urk!” The buckles of Rhosynel’s breastplate were abruptly tightened, driving the wind from her lungs at the sharp gesture. “Now I have.”

Thankfully Aragorn’s arrival at the door to the armoury distracted her from Boromir’s quiet chuckles at her back. The Captain had taken far too much pleasure from that, she was certain of it. But Aragorn was eyeing the lot of them with a mixture of amusement, and resignation. At their antics, or their impending fates?

“Are you lot done yet?” he asked.

“Where’s your armour?” she shot back, rolling her shoulders and getting a gentle smack to the back of her head for shifting about too much.

“I don’t need any.”

Four sets of eyes, turned to glare at the Ranger.

There was a sigh of frustration. “Is there any leather armour left?”

It was growing dark, the sun dropping below the mountain peaks, casting great shadows over the valley and the Hornburg within. Hands tucked into her armpits for a semblance of warmth, Rhosynel paced along the defensive Deeping-Wall, weaving between the men who’d been stationed there, eyes flicking across the landscape and the fortification.

Considering the length of the wall, there weren’t all that many stairs down. Perhaps it was meant to be some sort of additional defence, forcing attackers to bottle neck, or maybe it was just built with a small defending force in mind. But while it might slow any attackers that managed to scale or breech the wall, it would also slow their own men from escaping.

The drop down to solid ground was a good thirty feet, high enough to seriously hurt and injure should anyone fall or slip. Fighting off a chill at the thought of falling, Rhosynel pulled her cloak tighter about her shoulders.

“—station archers along here,” Aragorn was saying.

“The men are few and far between,” Boromir pointed out, “we have archers, but they’ll be spread thin.”

“Some is better than none.”

Their numbers were too few, not enough men of age, not enough strong arms and keen eyes. Already Rhosynel had noted a disconcerting number of elderly, and even worse, far too many children. True, the youngest boys were being kept within the keep itself, in a bid to give them the strongest chance of survival, but the fact they’d been armoured and armed was harrowing in of itself.

They couldn’t be much older than Faelrys…

The idea of her sister’s son being put to the wall, being given a true sword rather than his wooden toy, filled Rhosynel with horror. Twisting and writhing through her chest and gut with such ferocity that she inhaled sharply, hand reaching out to press to the stone of the Deeping-Wall, trying to ground her racing thoughts.

Would… Would he be made to fight, if battle reached Minas Tirith?

“Rhosynel?”

Her head whipped about, hastily smoothing her fears from her face. “Yes?”

“We were just discussing Gandalf,” Aragorn was saying, seemingly oblivious to her turmoil. “With any luck he should be due come morning, but it may be worth sending Ilmara out to him with details on the Uruk-Hai’s numbers.”

“I can do that,” she agreed readily enough, trying to ignore Boromir’s heavy assessing gaze. “I’d rather send her away from battle as it is.”

“I figured as such.”

The Ranger knew her too well.

With that agreed, Rhosynel turned about, eyes lifting skywards in search of her Limroval, and pointedly not meeting Boromir’s gaze. He’d relented and allowed her to join rather than be cloistered within caves, but she could see the shadow of doubt, of reconsideration. If she showed any fear or reluctance, he’d seize upon it and send her away from the battle.

But that would take him from her reach.

With a short sharp whistle, a grey flicker descended from atop the tower housing the Horn of Helm Hammerhand, elegantly spiralling and gliding down to settle upon Rhosynel’s upraised arm. A soft chatter of her beak, head swivelling about to stare up the valley and into the encroaching gloom.

“I know girl,” Rhosynel soothed, running her fingers through Ilmara’s feathers. “I know, they’re comi—”

There sound of hooves had Rhosynel’s head lifting, following the goshawks gaze. A single figure rode through the darkness, horse galloping, neck stretched out and mane streaming from the haste of their flight.

One of the scouts.

“Strider!” Rhosynel barked. “A scout!”

She was already moving, sprinting along the wall, Ilmara taking flight once more as Rhosynel began to bound down the steps three at a time, her cloak flaring out behind her. Hearing the footsteps of the men hastening after her and struggling to keep up. Across the uneven ground she flew, thundering up the steps towards the postern door, already standing open, she flashed through, catching glimpses of alarmed soldiers lurching out of her path.

Tumbling into the courtyard, Rhosynel found the scouts horse skidding to a stop, hooves sliding across the flagstone floor.

“Ma’am!” they greeted, “where’s the King?”

“War room,” she answered quickly, already reaching out for the reins as he slid down from the horses back. “Are they here?”

Aragorn and Boromir finally caught up.

“It’s an army, but not the orcs,” he called over his shoulder, already starting for the stairs.

He didn’t get very far, as the King had apparently been alerted to the scout’s approach. Descending the steps to the courtyard with his entourage of advisors and generals trailing in his wake like a living cape.

“Ceorl, do you have a report?” the King greeted the scout.

“My Lord! We’ve sighted an army, some five hundred strong, but it’s not orcs,” Ceorl hastened to explain, “they fly a banner we don’t know, white with green and gold.”

That didn’t sound like any emblems Rhosynel was familiar with, true her missive runs had typically remained to the north of the White Mountains and east of the Misty Mountains. And since she very much doubted Dale or Erebor would turn up in Rohan of all places, it only left a few options as to just who these soldiers were representi—

“Lothlorien.”

Aragorn’s quiet voice neatly banished any more speculation.

“Elves?” Théoden asked, scepticism colouring his voice, “what stake do elves have in this battle?”

“I don’t doubt that Saruman would turn his eye to their forest, should Rohan fall,” the Ranger pointed out, “it is not the first time the Lady has assisted the men of Rohan.”

There was little chance for explanation, as a horn rang out, rolling through the valley and echoing about the walls. If Rhosynel strained her ears, she could hear the stamp of feet, the clank of armour, growing closer with every passing second.

“Open the gates,” Théoden said, with a gesture to the men at the wall.

The order was called out more strongly, and the great gates atop the causeway began to be hauled open. Ceorl was quick to collect the reins of his horse, and quicker to move out of the way.

Rhosynel hastened to mimic his actions, darting to the side and keeping well back as rank upon rank of elven soldiers began to enter. Elegant sweeps, long thin banners snapping and lashing in the wind. Silvery grey cloaks flung about their shoulders, and on each and every one of them, elven bows.

From her vantage point she could see the blond elf that Aragorn had convinced to let them enter Lothlorien. Marchwarden Haldir, which meant these were Galadhrim, elves of the golden woods, elves of Galadriel.

Théoden strode down the steps, looking wary and concerned by this development, grey eyes flickering across the ranks, clearly trying to come to terms with this unexpected development.

“How is this possible,” the King asked cautiously.

The Marchwarden, Haldir, turned to Théoden with an incline of his head in greeting. “Long ago men and elves fought and died together. We come to honour that allegiance. The Galadhrim are proud to fight alongside men, once more.”

“Then you are most welcome,” Théoden said, still looking taken aback.

Five hundred archers, five hundred swords, five hundred men. No not men. Elves.

It still wasn’t enough in the face of ten thousand Uruk-Hai, but it was better. So long as the walls of the keep remained strong, so long as they held their ground, then maybe, just maybe, there was a better chance of survival. Already the men were discussing, planning, words and thoughts a constant flow that Rhosynel struggled to keep up with, and as such, rapidly chose not to.

High above, Ilmara gave a chatter.

The sort of chatter she usually reserved for Rhosynel –or Legolas– after hours or days apart. Looking up, she watched in mild alarm, as the Limroval dove downwards, a flash of silver and white through the air, heading for the midst of the Galadhrim ranks. Panic lanced through Rhosynel’s chest, and she took a step forwards, only to watch in confusion as Ilmara attempted to land on an elf’s shoulder.

The elf flinched, breaking rank as they turned, arm coming up in a defensive manner, only to jerk back as Ilmara’s talons swung forwards at the offer of a perch. Amongst the pin straight ranks, this disruption was notable.

“Rhos,” Aragorn’s voice called over, “do you mind?”

“I do not control her,” she shot back in irritation, but took the hint regardless.

Stepping forwards, Rhosynel edged towards the wall of elves, as Haldir and Théoden spoke. And then flinched as the ranks abruptly pivoted, and parted, allowing a narrow pathway to the beleaguered elf. It was a little intimidating to say the least, but she stepped into their midst, quickly moving towards Ilmara.

“Senda,” she said soothingly, half to the bird and half to the elf. “Senda, Ilmara knock it off.”

The goshawk had managed to land on the upraised arm, and it was with no small amount of self-control that the elf was resisting the urge to shake his arm free of her grasp. But Ilmara seemed pleased with herself, letting out chatters and keens, wings ruffling and head bobbing in greeting to this stranger.

“I’m sorry,” Rhosynel found herself apologising despite the fact the elf probably didn’t speak Westron. Trying to encourage Ilmara onto her own hand wasn’t working, leaving her severely tempted to just grab the damned hawk. “She’s not normally like this, I don’t know what’s gotten into her.”

“It’s… fine,” the elf ground out, sounding anything but fine.

At the accented Westron, Rhosynel glanced to him, his oddly shaped helm concealed much of his face, but left his lower jaw free, and his eyes partially shadowed. But despite that, despite the flickering torch light, a flash of spring green eyes greeted her.

Inhaling sharply, Rhosynel would have flinched, would have lurched backwards, away from the elf, away from the one that had harmed Ilmara, away from the one she’d come so close to throttling with her own bare hands. But instead of rage filling her, Rhosynel felt…

Nothing.

Oh there was alarm and surprise, but no rage, no anger, no ferocity at being greeted by the eyes of Ilmara’s attacker.

That very same Limroval gave a chatter, and leapt the short distance from the elf’s wrist to his shoulder, and promptly settled down, her feathers fluffed up in contentment.

“The fuck?”

Rhosynel’s perplexed reaction seemed to be echoed by the elf, both staring at the large hawk that had clearly decided to claim his shoulder as her new perch. Why wasn’t she afraid of the elf? She’d hissed at him, had been aggressive, had shown fear or irritation towards the one that shot her, why was she treating him as a frien—

Dawning realisation settled on Rhosynel’s shoulders. She had called him friend. Called him mellon. Both this grumpy elf and Ribrion the falconer who’d aided Ilmara, she’d called them friend in the elven tongue.

And apparently Ilmara had taken that to heart.

“Head for the Deeping-Wall!” A voice called out, echoed by Haldir repeating the order in Sindarin. “Archers to the wall, swords behind!”

All about Rhosynel and Ilmara’s new friend, the elves snapped to attention. Alarm flashed through her, torn between snatching up Ilmara and hastening away without her, the indecision cost her, as the elves started to march, and she found her arm being seized. Hauled along with the group, she managed to get her feet under her, and keep pace.

“Why is she on me?” Grumpy demanded, voice low as he all but dragged her, “did you put her up to this?”

“I didn’t even know it was you,” she hissed back indignantly. “She thinks you’re a friend, I called you and Ribrion, mellon.”

There was a clack of beak at that word.

Rhosynel didn’t need to speak Sindarin to recognise the muttered curses he gave, and the subsequent chiding from the elf on his other side.

The soldiers filtered through the door of the keep and made for the wall, and she kept pace even after he released her elbow. Dragging a hand over her face, Rhosynel tried to marshal her thoughts into a semblance of order. Ilmara thought him a friend and showed no fear. Rhosynel’s own anger had… vanished, leaving her wondering why it had been so vicious to begin with. Even this elf, while his jaw was clenched with tension wasn’t being half as derisive towards her as last time.

“What’s your name?”

Her question earned a spring green glare, but it faded when he saw her sincerity.

“Coruven.”

“Ilmara thinks you’re a friend, and she is… a better judge of character than I,” Rhosynel said carefully, as the pair drew to a stop atop the wall. “If she takes no issue with your presence, then I guess I can tolerate you too.”

Coruven was looking at her, but Rhosynel kept her eyes to the open valley beyond. If he disagreed, she wouldn’t complain, if he wished to argue, she’d keep quiet. There was too much at stake to start bickering with a strange elf.

Movement to the mouth of the valley, and the slightest echoes of noises, of stamping feet, clashing armour, and distant growls. The Uruk-Hai were approaching.

Rhosynel’s stomach twisted unpleasantly.

“Very well then, Lady Rovailor,” Coruven said slowly, his own eyes turning back to watch their shared foe. “Allies?”

An offer extended.

“Allies,” Rhosynel accepted quietly.

Chapter Text

Snarling, growls, bellows, and roars, the very sound rattled her heart and made her quake. The sheer number of Uruk-Hai gathering before the keep was terrifying, let alone that they were intent on slaughtering every man, elf, woman, and child sheltered within. Despite her bold face claims of being able to handle herself, Rhosynel’s hands shook as she withdrew a parchment strip and charcoal stick.

She needed to write, needed to tell Gandalf what they were facing, needed to give a good an accurate report of the sheer force that was steadily approaching the walls of the Hornburg.

A large freezing raindrop struck the back of her neck, drawing a hiss from between Rhosynel’s teeth. A second later and the heavens opened, rain sleeting down, rendering the visibility to nothing.

Shoulders hunching in on herself, she tried to keep the parchment dry.

“Are you writing to Gandalf?” the familiar voice of Legolas greeted her as he reached the wall, Gimli half a stride behind him. “Ten thousand strong Uruk-Hai, mostly pikemen and swords by my guess, although there’s a few archers and I see battering rams.”

“Wonderful,” Gimli chuntered, nudging her along slightly so he could squint out between the crenelations. “This will be an excellent battle.”

Rhosynel grunted, eyes down, away from the encroaching army, hand rapidly flashing across the parchment. But all too soon, it was complete, and she was forced to straighten up once more, turning to Ilmara and Coruven. Dragging the leather messenger harness free of her hip bag, she spent a moment carefully looping it about Ilmara’s wings, buckling it up to be snug but not constrictive. That done, she slotted the parchment into the pouch.

The Limroval, smart as she was, willingly hopped onto her wrist.

“Ilmara, you must fly fast and swift,” Rhosynel said quietly and gently, and the hawk gently nibbled at her fingers in response. Legolas was repeating her in elvish for the hawk to better understand. “You must not be seen or heard; you must find Gandalf. Return, if you can, but do not seek me.”

Gimli looked to her sharply.

“Gandalf, Ilmara,” Rhosynel repeated once more, hand smoothing over her wings one last time, and with a thick swallow, launched her skywards. “Reevia!”

Her dark grey form was instantly lost in the night and the rain, winging her way north as quickly as her broad wings could carry her. It was only once Legolas said she’d made it out of the valley, that Rhosynel’s white knuckled grip on the battlements relaxed. She’d done her job; she’d done all she could. Now she just had to survive. If that was even possible.

“You do not expect to live,” Coruven said quietly by her shoulder.

“Do you?”

There was no answer to Rhosynel’s question from the gathered elves and single dwarf, as the ten thousand Uruk-Hai marched towards the walls of the Hornburg. Their guttural screams and roars filling the air and rattling her bones with fear.

Fuck. Why hadn’t she gone to the caves like Boromir had asked?

Almost as though her thoughts had summoned him, a heavy hand landed on her shoulder, the familiarity grounding her, dragging her mind from the spiralling despair.

“Hold steady,” Boromir said, looking to her, before glancing over to Legolas and Gimli. “It won’t be long now.”

The mute nod Rhosynel managed would have to be answer enough, no matter how unconvinced Boromir looked. With a squeeze to her shoulder, he kept moving down the line, speaking to the other men, exchanging nods with the elves. He didn’t look worried, he seemed far too calm, but then again, he was a Captain, he had to seem in control.

Inhaling shakily, Rhosynel dragged her eyes from his retreating shield, and fixed her eyes on the Uruk-Hai.

The stomp of their boots made the ground rumble and shake, their snarls echoing and reverberating within the valley, but with a clatter of armour, the slam of swords on shields, they drew to a stop.

“Archers ready!” The distant voice of Aragorn echoed along the wall.

Setting an arrow, Rhosynel kept her bow low, fingers on the string but not drawing back, not yet, not until they were to fire. Her heart was thundering in her chest, throwing itself at the cage of her ribs, beating and pounding in its desperation to escape.

Further down the line, a lone bow twanged.

Despite the fact she knew it wasn’t her bow, her eyes snapped down to her string –yes, the arrow was still there– and snapped back up just as quickly. Whoever had loosed the arrow, had good aim. It flew straight, it flew true, straight into the throat of an Uruk.

The snarls abruptly fell silent.

A garbled noise rose up, and that lone Uruk toppled. A crash of armour sounded as it hit the floor, motionless and still.

The snarls redoubled, the sound making her breath catch in her throat. If she thought the previous growls had been terrifying, it was nothing compared to this. Savage, furious, and primal.

What the fuck was she doing here?

Rhosynel wasn’t built for battle, she wasn’t built for warfare, she was made to flit through the trees, to catch her foes unaware, to dart away as swift as the wind, and as hard to catch. She was made to avoid danger, not stand on a battlement in the pouring rain looking death in the eye and praying that she’d survive or at least die quickly and easily.

But it was too late.

Aragorn barked a word, and the elven archers raised their bows, the human archers a fraction of a second behind them. But as one, a volley of arrows was released.

A hundred Uruk-Hai fell, but nine thousand nine hundred remained standing.

Almost before their bodies had crumpled, the army surged forwards, booted feet pounding across the mud-slicked ground, across the bodies of their fallen kin, across the space in a beat of a heart, to slam against the Deeping-Wall.

The sound of armour striking stone was enough to make Rhosynel wince, already reaching to her quiver. Again and again she released arrow after arrow, scarcely making a dent in the forces before her.

Further into the melee she could see shapes being carried. Battering rams? She couldn’t make sense of it, the strangeness standing out between the hulking orc-like forms. And then one rose up, arcing through the air, and with a sinking horror Rhosynel’s mind made sense of the object.

The ladder clattered against the battlements.

Immediately elves were lunging for the ladders, but even as they pushed them free, another two would raise. It was useless, already the Uruk-Hai were swarming upwards.

Alongside her, Gimli gave a maniacal cackle and pulled his axes free of his belt.

“Let them come!”

At least someone was enjoying himself.

Taking the hint, Rhosynel jammed her bow back into her still near full quiver. Drawing her swords, she took one last deep breath. And lunged.

Twin blades slammed into the gut of the Uruk starting to climb over the wall, its snarls dying in its throat as it toppled backwards. Darting to one side, she lashed out, slicing across arms, necks, faces, chests, anything that dared raise above the battlements met the keen edges of her blades. But it seemed no matter how many she cut down; another swiftly took their place.

Within seconds of the battle starting, the Uruk-Hai were atop the wall, within minutes Rhosynel was being pushed backwards.

And a problem became apparent.

The wall was cramped, narrow, and crowded. Far beyond the sort of conditions she’d rather fight in. Gone were the wide-open spaces, or the heavily wooded forests, or the sparse sparring ring. This was less like a battle, and more of a brawl.

Her swords flashed through the air, slicing, and cutting with a desperation she didn’t know she had. Behind her, the grunts, and roars of Gimli, and Rhosynel made sure to keep close to his back, back to back, mostly to protect one another, but also to avoid the wild swings of his axe.

“Five! Six!”

Why the dwarf was counting was beyond her, but Rhosynel found her strikes lashing out almost in time with his bellows. Neck, leg, gut, chest. Slash, cut, stab, maim. A morbid rhythm rising up in the maelstrom of battle, a pattern, a frenzied beat of sword on flesh of metal on shields of armour on stone. It was deafening and overwhelming and her arms were already starting to ache.

“Nine!” Gimli bellowed and flung himself directly at the midriff of an Uruk-Hai. “Ten!”

The move left Rhosynel far too exposed to attacks, something that was immediately taken advantage of. A boot, or maybe an elbow, slammed into her back, and she lurched forwards towards the crenelations. Her chest hit the stone battlements with enough force to drag the air from her lungs, and a hand seized her shoulder, yanking her about.

An Uruk raised its sword, snarling and aiming for her head.

The crude sword failed to fall, as a silvery longsword sliced through its arm, whipping back just as quickly to take off its head. The creature crumpled, and Rhosynel sucked in a lungful of foul air and raindrops, relief flooding her as a familiar face materialised through the rain.

“Are you alright!?” Boromir demanded.

His round green shield was held up, giving them the briefest respite from attacks, no matter how the wood and metal shuddered beneath the blow of a strike. But Boromir shoved back, sword whipping about the edge of the shield to maim the Uruk.

His attention was quick to snap back to her.

“Talk to me Rhos!”

“I’m f-ine.”

It did not sound convincing.

But she was alive, she could just about breathe, her arms still worked, and her head was still attached. Pushing away from the crenelations, her steps were quick to steady. Twisting about, her swords flashed through the gut of another Uruk, and then back across a second’s chest.

“Head for the keep,” Boromir urged, “it’s not too late to change your mind.”

It was an effort not to roll her eyes, lashing out with a booted foot to fling an Uruk over the edge of the wall, falling thirty feet to land with a crunch of bone and armour.

“We’ve only just started!” she retorted instead, as though every instinct wasn’t screaming at her to flee. “I can’t let you have all the fu—”

The blade of an Uruk whistled past her face, making Rhosynel lurch backwards in shock. Her shoulders slammed into a chest she sincerely hoped was Boromir’s, and a round shield descended just in time for the same Uruk’s sword to bounce off it. All but pinned back against his chest, Rhosynel heard his grunt of pain, no doubt his shoulder was taking a battering, the arrow wounds would be posing a far greater risk at this rate.

Another slam, and Rhosynel braced her hands to the back of the shield, taking some of the strain. The attack forced them back another pace, and she heard the air leave Boromir’s lungs as his back struck the crenelations.

“On three!” Boromir ordered.

Another slam, her arms shook, making her teeth rattle and shake in her skull. She threw him a bewildered look, trying to understand what hairbrained plan he had. So close that his jaw brushed her cheek, Rhosynel caught a glimpse of bared teeth, his body tense against her back. There wasn’t chance to ask, no chance to clarify just what he planned.

“One! Two! Three!”

With a shocking display of strength, Boromir’s shield powered upwards, knocking back the Uruk-Hai shoving at them. Seizing the opportunity Rhosynel lunged forwards, her blades skimming beneath the shield and into the creature’s gut, with a vicious yank, she split it open, at the same time the familiar longsword whistled over her to slam through its chest.

“See?” Rhosynel barely managed to say, struggling to catch her breath, “I’m indispensable!”

“You’re infuriating that’s what you are,” Boromir retorted sharply.

True, but she saw the briefest flicker of a grin.

Twisting around so her back was pressed to Boromir’s, Rhosynel used him to lean and forcibly kick another Uruk-Hai in the chest, making it stagger back off the wall.

Another lunge into a crouch, and Rhosynel severed a leg. A longsword flashed overhead, so close she heard it whistle, and removed the creatures head in one stroke. A spin and strike, stunning a creature enough that she could trip it and send it crashing over the wall again. The longsword glinted past her, into the chest of another, even as she dragged her blade across its throat.

Yet another Uruk lunged for her, sword flashing, and she was quick to catch the blade in the V of her swords.

Which left her open to its other hand. A black metal shield flashed through the air towards her, the edge catching her arm and slicing through the gap between her bracer and the leather armour, easily cutting through her tunic, and into her arm. A yell pulled from her throat as Rhosynel twisted with the strike, lessening the impact as she sent the Uruk reeling with a shove. Before the pain could register, her swords whipped about and slammed into its back.

“Rhos?”

“I’m fine!” she replied, despite the fact her arm was now burning, “just grazed me!”

She couldn’t let him know, couldn’t let him realise she’d been injured, if she reacted if she showed pain if she faltered, she wouldn’t put it past Boromir to carry her back into the keep and throw her into the caves.

Rhosynel gritted her teeth and forged onwards.

Swift steps carried her further along the wall, frequently pausing alongside elves, or men, occasional flashes of Legolas, Gimli, Aragorn, even Haldir, came to her through the melee, but there was no chance to regroup. It took everything in Rhosynel just to prevent blades or fists from meeting her flesh. No sooner had she cut down one Uruk, another would take its place, and another, and another, another, another.

How long had they been fighting? How many had she killed? She could hear Gimli yelling numbers, but they lost all meaning. All that mattered was that her feet moved, her arms swung, her blades cut. There was nothing else she could do.

A flash of blond hair drew alongside, the familiar forest green garb of Legolas.

“You’re bleeding?” he asked, sounding like he was taking a brisk stroll rather than battering away at Uruk-Hai. “How bad is it?”

“A scratch,” she replied through teeth gritted with exhaustion.

His wry glance suggested he didn’t believe her. “Very well, I’ll leave you to it then.”

The elf darted onwards, and rather than be left behind, Rhosynel followed. For a brief moment it became far easier to ignore the Uruk-Hai, instead she darted and flitted about them in Legolas’ wake. The cloak about her shoulder flaring with the motion, and a second later, she was overtaking the elf.

A startled exclamation followed her steps.

“Well if that’s how you want to play—” she heard at her back “—try and keep up!”

Oh for Béma’s sake why was he and the dwarf so competitive.

Legolas flashed past once again, swords flickering like fire in the moonlight, hair flaring as he spun through the melee.

Rhosynel joined him, shifting onto the balls of her feet, twisting and darting, swords little more than an extension of her arms as she lashed out, cutting across arms, legs, necks, guts, faces, with reckless abandonment. It almost became easier to do than standing her ground and meeting blow for blow. True the strikes weren’t all fatal, but if it meant the Uruk-Hai were weakened for the next soldier, it was good enough.

Through her whirling, she caught sight of Legolas, blue eyes wide in shock.

Trying to ignore his surprise, Rhosynel kept moving, dimly aware that she’d progressed far further along the wall than she’d initially expected. It didn’t matter, there were Uruk-Hai everywhere, and still the valley beyond the Deeping-Wall was surging and rippling with the impatience of orcs eager to join the fight.

Were there Uruk-Hai to the back, missing out on all the action?

“Legolas!” The distant voice of Aragorn bellowed. “Togo hon dad, Legolas!”

What did that mean? Rhosynel twisted, narrowly missing a sword to her gut, and caught the briefest glimpse of Legolas, reaching for his bow. A flicker of light was beyond the wall, an Uruk running, torch in hand sparking and burning with a white-hot fire. It wasn’t anything she’d witnessed before, but the creature was soon pierced by one of Legolas’s arrows.

It didn’t slow its steps.

“Togo hon dad!”

There was no chance to snatch up her own bow, no chance to try and aid, and she was forced to watch as the Uruk gained ground, three, four, five, arrows all embedded in his body. And then he leaped.

Into a culvert. Below the wall.

Rhosynel wasn’t much aware of the fireball that erupted from beneath the wall, nor was she much aware of the rocks exploding in all directions. What she did become painfully aware of, was the sheer force of air being displaced by the explosion. Slamming into her chest, launching her skywards, flinging her up, up, up. Tumbling and spinning and flipping through the air like a ragdoll her cloak twisting and flaring as she spun until the world became an indistinct blur of sky, stone, earth, fortress, and army.

And then gravity sank its talons in.

Dragged downwards, Rhosynel would have screamed, would have panicked. But there was no time, not when the stone of the Deeping-Wall was rushing up to greet her, not when she was plummeting to her death, not when her chances of survival slipped through her fingers like smoke.

Her body twisted, feathered cloak flaring with her motions as she fell.

It was a shock to land on her feet.

Which was immediately negated as her momentum sent her tumbling over and over and over again, until she crashed into the legs of an equally disorientated Uruk-Hai. The pair skidded and tumbled down the wall, slamming into others and taking out the legs of more than one person as they passed, but eventually their momentum struck stone, and the pair came to a painful stop.

For a brief moment both friend and foe remained sprawled out, shaking their heads, fighting to come to their senses.

At which point then Rhosynel realised she was lying prone, directly under the Uruk-Hai. Even if she’d been able to reach her swords –wherever they’d been flung to– there was no time to kill the beast before it noticed her.

And notice her it did.

There was an odd barking noise from its throat, and bladeless it lunged for her throat instead, hands outstretched and fingers curling. By some small miracle, Rhosynel managed to intercept its attack. She snared its wrists, as the fell creature shoved and yanked to break free, jostling her back and forth her head rattling and neck jarring painfully with each motion.

Her hands were flung free, and Rhosynel twisted in a bid to lunge away, only for a hand to grip the back of her head, fingers wrenching at her hair, dragging her upwards in preparation to slam her face down into the ston—

A squealing snarl rent the air, gagging, as an arrow slammed into its throat.

Instead, it just crashed down onto her, and she was nearly brained on the rubble regardless. With a grunt and a heave, Rhosynel rolled it off herself. A hand seized her shoulder, and she found herself being dragged to her feet. Ears ringing and head pounding, it took a minute to recognise who had grabbed her. Spring green eyes, wide in alarm and concern. Raini—no, Coruven. The elf shook her, saying something she couldn’t hear, but was apparently satisfied that she was alive.

Something hot and sticky was on her face, threatening to gum up her eye, and his hands briefly touched something on her brow that sent pain flickering across her scalp.

He said something else.

“What?” Rhosynel yell-asked, making the elf wince.

He didn’t answer, reaching up and unbuckling his helm with the odd upswept blade on its brow, it came free, his hair looking wild and dishevelled. The next thing she knew, the helm was being jammed onto her own head, and the buckle done up under her chin.

Oh.

A helmet would have made sense, but all the ones she’d tired within the armoury had been far too large. This one fit slightly better, but still shifted when she turned her head.

But unarmed, with an elf at her side, Rhosynel shook herself, trying to regain her senses. The ringing was starting to subside, being replaced by groans and screams instead. She missed the ringing already.

“—where are your swords?” Coruven was asking.

“I don’t, I don’t know.”

She’d been holding them, but then the wall had exploded, and she’d been flung. Reaching over her shoulder, her quiver proved empty too. Well shit.

“Take this,” he said, pressing a bow into her hands, and hastily pulling the quiver from his shoulders. “We’re cut off.”

What?

Blinking, Rhosynel looked around again, and her stomach plummeted.

The wall had almost been cleared by the blast, and a gaping hole had been torn out of it, as though a giant had decided to take a bite of stone and iron. Jagged edges, a gap almost twenty feet wide at its top, the stones and rock strewn about from within the wall, a horrific rent that stood wide open and vulnerable.

The Uruk-Hai surged forwards.

Scrambling to shoulder the quiver, Rhosynel was firing arrows as swiftly as her mortal hands could. At her back were the sounds of more creatures, and the risky glance she shot back, revealed Coruven battling away, fending off the Uruk-Hai that were still using ladders to scale the wall.

They were cut off.

They were alone.

The keep was breeched.

Technically, they should be doing as requested and running for the Hornburg. But war was rarely technical. A gaping chasm left them unable to reach the keep’s walls, and the narrow stairs that lead up to a small postern door barely two men wide. The only way to get there, would be to descend into the melee on the ground.

A thirty-foot drop.

Maybe Coruven would survive it, but she certainly wouldn’t, or at least not unscathed.

She couldn’t get to the keep, so the least she could do was defend her side of the wall. Without elves and men on this side, it gave her more space to work. With a whirl, Rhosynel dove into the fray, arrows firing, hands and feet lashing out with strikes powerful from desperation. She didn’t dare stop moving, didn’t dare stop fighting, didn’t dare stop her whirling dance alongside the elf she’d once wanted to kill.

One by one they fell, but two by two they came. The once cleared wall soon became covered in bodies and snarling Uruk-Hai, leaving them little room to manoeuvre.

And then the King’s voice echoed out from the keep.

“Fall back! Fall back!”

How? They were on the wrong side of the wall, with a dozen Uruk-Hai between her and the stairs.

Voices were yelling out, and amongst them Rhosynel could hear her kin.

“Haldir!”

Coruven’s head whipped about at his Marchwarden’s name, eyes flying wide. Rhosynel mimicking his actions at the sound of Aragorn’s voice, eyes darting across the crowd, finding Haldir on the opposite side of the chasm.

And could only watch as he was struck in the flank.

One moment she was watching the Marchwarden stagger, the next she was moving.

There was a vicious curse from Coruven at her back, the elf already bolting forwards, towards the gap, the pair moving in unconscious tandem. But there was no way she’d make it across that gap, not even with an elf’s assistance. Maybe she could cover for Coruven? Maybe she could try to bring down the Uruk-Hai between him and his Marchwarden? It didn’t matter if she couldn’t make the jump, she had to try anyway.

Rhosynel ran.

Her feet thundered across the stone, directly towards the gap, Rhosynel knew how to run, it was what she was built for, to stride across the ground, to adjust her steps, to duck and dart about the enemy. Alongside Coruven, she timed her steps, hit the edge of the chasm and the pair launched into the air. The elf’s hand still tight about her arm.

Feathers flared, her leap arced, and she was flying. Clearing the gap in one jump that no human should ever manage.

Hitting the stone, all it took was a second bound to slam her shoulder into Haldir and launch the pair of them out of the way of descending swords. Plummeting off the wall, down towards the ground.

Once again, she twisted in midair, once again Rhosynel’s feet came below, and once again landed heavily on the muddy ground.

Haldir staggered, almost falling, but managed to keep himself upright. Turning to look at her with clear shock and no small amount of fear. He’d nearly been killed by an Uruk-Hai, so she’d hurled the pair of them over a thirty-foot drop. And landed it.

There was a thud and a scramble as Coruven reached her side, white as a sheet and eyes wild in some emotion she couldn’t name let alone place. Far too many voices yelling her name. Strangled. Shocked. Horrified. Afraid. Boromir Aragon Legolas backed by maniacal cackling from Gimli.

It didn’t matter.

Seizing Haldir’s arm, she dragged it over her shoulder, and half carried, half hauled him towards the steps and the keep. A moment later and his weight lightened still, as Coruven took the Marchwarden’s other arm over his own shoulders.

A glance back revealed the Uruk-Hai, not far behind and gaining fast. But their steps were swift, the men ahead of them making for the postern door, and with a rush of bodies they were through, and the door was slammed shut behind them.

“What the fuck was that Rhos!” Someone was yelling.

“You jumped!?” Another demanded. “Are you insane!”

Probably. She felt it.

Rhosynel’s head was still ringing from the explosion, Haldir was still bleeding, she had no weapons other than a borrowed bow and barely any arrows, and Rhosynel could really do without their scolding and reprimands for an impulsive thought that had succeeded.

“I’m alive, I’m fine, Haldir is bleeding out, shut up and scold me later!” she barked back.

And then promptly ignored any chiding levelled her way.

The Marchwarden was slumped against a wall, his hand pressed to his flank and doing very little to stem the bleeding from a vicious gash across his side. Rhosynel yanked at the pouches on her hip, pulling free some of the medical supplies she had on hand. A cloth pad was slapped against the elf’s side, earning a bark of pain.

“Pain is good it means you’re still alive,” she said, voice blunt and curt as she rapidly unravelled a bandaged.

Rhymenel would have her hide for such a slapdash bandaging, but they were in the midst of a battle. If they survived, if they lived through this rotten night, then maybe just maybe she’d be able to stitch up his flank properly. But until then, a yank of the bandage and several more curses would have to do.

“How did you do that?” Coruven asked, half supporting the Marchwarden, half pressing the bandage tighter. “How did you jump so far?”

“You were helping me.”

“I let go, how did you do that?”

“I… I don’t know.”

Rhosynel truly didn’t, she hadn’t expected to get halfway let alone across a twenty-foot gap and then a thirty-foot drop.

“Rovacoll,” Haldir hissed through his teeth.

“You mean Rovailor?” she asked, the strange name the elves had referred to her with.

“No. Rovacoll, your cloak.”

Rhosynel didn’t look away from her binding, the cloak in her periphery shifted with her movement, the detailed embroidery on the feathers catching the light as she moved. Had it… done something to her? She’d been flung through the air like a ragdoll and lived, then leapt an impossible gap and made it.

There was no chance to ask, no chance to question, as a dull thud reverberated through the keep.

As one, she and the elves looked up.

Where the fuck were the others? Fuck fuck fuck she hadn’t kept track in her haste to see to Haldir’s side and now she couldn’t see Aragorn, or Legolas, hear Gimli, or see Boromir. Panic lanced through her chest, hands yanking a hasty knot about Haldir’s waist and lurching to her feet.

“Head for the common room, up the steps from the main courtyard,” she instructed hastily. “It’s where the last stand will be, if the keep is breache—”

Another dull thud sounded, and the words died in her throat.

“Man nî han lhôn?”

“Dringa fen.”

“What?” Rhosynel asked, voice sounding far too small.

“A battering ram,” Haldir replied, and with a pained grunt pushed himself upright, leaning heavily on the others no matter how he tried to stand straight. “They’re striking the door of the keep.”

It felt hard to breathe.

“Head for the common room,” she repeated with a heavy swallow and a gesture in the vague direction, “I, I need. I have to find the others.”

Not that it would do any good.

They were saying something, but Rhosynel was already moving. Her steps were unsteady, disorientated by the rushing people, the flicker of faces, the groans of injured men. Beyond the stone walls she could hear the roars of Uruk-Hai, could hear screams from those on the wall being struck, could hear nothing but the pounding of the battering ram.

The others… They would head to where the fighting was thickest.

Without her swords, with a borrowed bow on her back, Rhosynel kept moving, kept pressing deeper into the Hornburg. Spilling into the courtyard was alarming, the sheer chaos and storm of colours noise pain and heavy reek of blood in the air. She kept going, towards the gate.

Only to hang back, she could see how the men were running to reinforce it, how there were already gaps and breaks in the strong wood. She also couldn’t see any sign of the others.

“Lass!” Okay at least Gimli was here, hastening past her with a massive stack of wood in his stocky arms. “Mind out!”

“Where—Where are Aragorn and Boromir?” she demanded, trying to follow and almost getting knocked down by the wood as he turned to look at her. “I don’t see them?”

“Who’d you think are holding the Uruk’s back!”

Rhosynel blinked, and her eyes snapped to the wooden doors once more.

Even now the gaps were being patched, but if she squinted, if she shifted to the side, she could make out the briefest flash of green. A green field, with white horses and golden sun. Boromir’s new shield.

They were on the other side of the gate.

Her stomach gave a vicious lurch, eyes fixed on the wood.

“Rhos, Rhosynel,” Gimli was saying, and yanked on her tunic sleeve. “They have a way back, they’re fin—”

“How is any of this fine!” That sounded hysterical even to her own ears. “How! How are they mean t—”

A stack of Valar heavy wood was shoved into her arms, and Rhosynel’s panic was promptly shoved away as she staggered beneath the weight. “Gimli!”

“HEY LADS!” The dwarf bellowed, voice carrying even over the sound of battle and roars and screams. “We’re done! Get on outta there!”

There was a yell of confirmation.

Rhosynel’s nerves were very much not reassured by that, but it would have to do.

That thought had barely crossed her mind, when a metal grappling hook almost her height, slammed into the courtyard. Several men were knocked back with startled screams, another was impaled by one of the vicious hooks, and then chaos broke out as the chain attached began to pull.

The impaled soldier was crushed as the grappling hook caught purchase on the wall.

Dropping the armful of wood Gimli had passed her, Rhosynel bolted towards the stairs, taking them three as a time she hurtled up onto the wall, bow pulling free and arrows materialising in hand as she went. Almost before she stopped moving, she was pulling back on the elven bow, aiming for the Uruk-Hai clinging to massive iron ladders, firing as swiftly as her fingers would allow.

Men were trying to prize the grappling hook free, but even as they struggled a second was fired, then a third, then a fourth.

This wasn’t going to work. The hooks were iron, the rope was replaced with chain, the ladders were attached and strong enough to carry a dozen Uruk-Hai, and they were coming ever closer to the top of the wall.

An almighty slam rung out, as the ladder stuck its mark. Uruk-Hai spilled onto the wall top, and Rhosynel ran.

“Fall back!” Théoden King’s voice echoed out. “Retreat!”

The battlements curved about the perimeter of the Hornburg, but there was a narrow walkway leading towards one of the inner walls and the thick door there. If she moved quickly, she could reach it, could get to safety.

Rhosynel was used to the yells of the men, was used to the hoarse bellows, was used to the pained cries and desperate screams. The screams of men were all around her. But there was a voice, a voice that didn’t fit in.

“Help!”

High pitched, panicked, and young.

Twisting about, Rhosynel’s feet skidded backwards across the rain slicked stones of the Hornburg, her eyes darting back and forth across the crowds, across the men running past her in terror, fleeing from the Uruk-Hai that spilled across the keep like dark blood from an open wound.

“Help!”

Her eyes snapped upwards.

Atop the gate house was a blond head of curls, and for a brief heart-stopping moment Rhosynel could have sworn it was Merry’s face. Visions of the Hobbits, being dragged through the forests by Uruk-Hai, being used against them, being tortured and dragged along to war for sport.

But it couldn’t be him, it wasn’t him.

A child, blond hair wide eyes, atop the gatehouse and utterly alone.

Already Rhosynel was moving without conscious decision. A dozen Uruk-Hai were on the wall between her and the boy, but her steps didn’t slow.

Swift footsteps, pounding across the stones, bounding across the parapet carved into the side of the mountain. Rhosynel moved swiftly, on sure feet, honed by years of familiarity with running at full tilt. The Uruk-Hai barely had chance to recognise that she was passing, a blur of leather armour and feathered cloak whipping past them in her haste. She didn’t engage, she dodged, she ducked, she evaded, and she kept moving.

The base of the gatehouse was surrounded, the creatures hammering at the door trying to force it down force it open force their way inside to the child at the top. He was no threat but they didn’t care they heard cries for help and wanted to hunt for sport, for fun.

By Rhosynel’s guess the gatehouse was ten feet tall from the top of the battlements to the edge of the roof where his face peered over, the only feature to its walls, was a single narrow window cut into the side.

She could work with that.

Teeth gritted, cloak flaring, Rhosynel thundered towards them. Kicked off, her foot landed on the crenelation, kicked off again, and launched herself upwards. Years of bounding around Minas Tirith’s rooftops and streets for fun came into fruition, as her hands seized the upper edge of the gatehouse. Her foot dug into the narrow window, twisting awkwardly to give herself purchase despite the slickness of rain, and with a heave and a snarl, she hauled herself up and over.

There were twin screams from the boys –boys? Two of them?– as she crashed to the floor atop the men who’d been brought down by arrows.

Below, there was an almighty crunch as the door was forced open.

She didn’t give the two boys chance to react, lunging forwards, arms outspread, wings of her cloak sweeping them up. They were big, but no bigger than the Hobbits were. Bundling them against her chest, Rhosynel didn’t second guess her instincts, shoving herself up, onto the edge of the roof, and with somewhat reckless abandon, launched herself off.

They screamed as they fell, Rhosynel’s voice joining them, severely regretting her instincts. But the cloak –the Rovacoll– flared once more, and her feet struck solid stone without so much as jarring her knees.

She was down from the gatehouse but now there were a pack of pissed off Uruk-Hai at her back and a long route to the common room. Even now she could see men sprinting for it, could see the flash of Legolas’ blond hair, how he was at the door, eyes scanning the crowd. A moment later and Gimli barrelled past him. But Legolas was still yelling, beckoning to someone.

In that fraction of a second, she saw who he motioned to.

Boromir, still in the courtyard, head whipping about, as he searched for someone amongst the fleeing men. His hands cupped about his mouth, yelling out. His voice didn’t carry over the cacophony of battle, but she saw his lips move.

Rhosynel.

He was waiting for her, he wasn’t entering the keep until she was with him.

Fuck fuck fuck.

“Hold on,” she barked to the two boys, as though they weren’t already clinging to her tunic and armour with a desperation of children out of their depth. Ignoring the Uruk-Hai barrelling towards her, Rhosynel tensed, and threw herself forwards.

Once again, she leapt, the drop from the battlements rapidly became insignificant as the ground rushed up to embrace her. But once again instead of pain greeting her, the landing was shockingly soft.

It did, however, draw attention.

“Rhosynel!”

Her name was a strangled curse, pulled from Boromir’s throat at her abrupt and unlikely appearance scarcely twenty feet from him.

Unwilling to be chided once more, Rhosynel unceremoniously shoved one of the boys towards him, and exactly as she knew he would, Boromir’s attention shifted, snatching the youngster up.

With the dozens of Uruk-Hai snarling at their backs, snapping at their heels, lashing out with wicked blades, the pair bolted for the common room, children in their arms. Legolas was holding the door, holding it open against the panicked men within, but he shifted to one side, and the pair barrelled through the gap.

Chapter Text

It was a temporary relief, to reach the common room.

Almost immediately there was thuds at the door, strong enough to throw the gathered men back. Others were rushing to snatch up benches and tables, anything they could use to brace it. She could hear Aragorn calling to Théoden, the King almost frozen with a pale face of horror. But the men were still moving, they were still acting, they were still fighting.

“Help me get them to the caves,” Rhosynel said, already hauling her boy towards the back of the room.

“Rhos—”

“Stop chiding and help m—”

“Rhosynel!”

She looked to Boromir, his face as white as sheet, staring down at the boy he was all but carrying. Her own gaze dropped to the child—

It was a familiar face. Not Merry like she’d first mistakenly thought.

Fendig.

Haehild’s son. Her little cousin. The same boy who’d played at horses with Freaer and Boromir, and tried to lift his sword, and eagerly greeted her and Haehild when they returned from work. Her stomach heaved, and it was only by savagely biting her tongue, that Rhosynel avoided throwing up.

“Get him to the caves,” Boromir was saying, and she automatically held her arm out to accept Fendig beneath her wing. “Get them to their mums.”

Rhosynel nodded silently and hastened onwards.

The corridor to the caves was too long, too narrow, too steep, but she hurtled downwards regardless. If she stopped, if she thought about the weight above her, Rhosynel would freeze. The two blond boys were deathly silent, faces streaked with tears and hollow eyes, being all but dragged along with her. Their feet stumbled, hands gripping her tunic and arms so hard that Rhosynel knew there’d be bruises come morning.

If she lived that long.

“Haehild!” she yelled, almost the second she entered the cave. “Éowyn!”

There was a commotion, startled yelps from the women at her abrupt arrival and sheer state of her, but just as quickly the Lady was bounding over, eyes flying wide at the sight of Rhosynel, and somehow paling further as she saw the boys.

“FENDIG!”

Haehild’s scream was almost deafening, echoing and rebounding about the vast cavern as she sprinted towards them, not slowing before she slammed into Rhosynel and her son. There were no words, only choked sobs and wails as she clung to her boy, and he clung to her, starting to cry in earnest as the effect of war sank in.

“Find this boys mum,” Rhosynel said to Éowyn, and the Lady was quick to gather up the other boy against her side. “The Uruk-Hai have breached the keep, I’ll start barricading the doors from outside, but you need to get everyone ready to run. Do you know the mountain route?”

Éowyn’s eyes were wide, fearful, but determined too, as she set her jaw and gave a sharp nod. “Are you coming?”

It was tempting to lie to her.

“No.”

To her surprise, Éowyn threw her arm about Rhosynel’s neck in a crushing hug. “I’ll lead them to Minas Tirith if I must,” she said, pulling back. “Now go. Go!”

She went, the whisper of her cloak spurring her on.

Rhosynel didn’t let herself second guess her decision, didn’t reconsider that her actions were potentially leading to her death, didn’t hesitate to slip back into the large chamber. A makeshift barricade had been set up against the entrance, but the door to the caves were unprotected.

Sounds of strikes came from the main door, but Rhosynel’s steps didn’t slow, snatching at one of the untouched tables, and with a strength born of desperation, upended it, spilling the contents of its surface everywhere, as she began to drag it towards the back of the room. Attention was all on the main doors, but Rhosynel needed to barricade the doors to the caves, no matter how useless it was.

Even if it slowed the Uruk-Hai for a second, a minute, even ten, it would give the women and children more chance to escape.

Another pair of hands seized the other end, and Rhosynel looked up to find an elf assisting, an unfamiliar one. Where was Coruven? Had he fallen? There was no to find out, they simply helped. A table, a bench, another table, jamming stools and chairs into the gap, trying to reinforce the doors, trying to make it harder for anyone trying to enter. Trying trying trying.

“Hantalë,” Rhosynel said, “Hantalë. Hantalë.”

Thanks fell from her lips, over and over again until the word lost all sense and became a meaningless jumble of sounds.

“Îdh. Îdh mellon, îdh.”

She didn’t know what that meant. It didn’t matter.

Jamming the last bench into place, Rhosynel staggered back a step, eyes darting across the hasty attempt to barricade. It would have to do, they didn’t have tim—

BOOM

The room shook, the sound of the doors groaning under the strain of some fresh new onslaught, she whirled about, eyes fixed on the doors of the room. Dust and grit falling free of the ceiling, carved from the living stone of the mountain, the weight of the Hornburg was pressing down on them all, it was crushing them entombing them they were trappe—

BOOM

In the silence that followed the strike a panicked noise slipped free of her lips.

Rhosynel’s hands clamped over her mouth, but it was too late, she’d been heard. She saw heads turn, saw the glances thrown her way. Even as the door was struck again, rattling on its hinges, she watched, frozen and immobile as Boromir splintered off from the group at the doors. And headed towards her.

She knew what he was going to ask. Knew what he was going to say. He was approaching cautiously, hands held up, palms towards her in a calming gesture. Like she was a spooked horse or frightened dog. Her head was shaking, trying to delay the inevitable, she wouldn’t go she couldn’t go she couldn’t enter the caves.

Rhosynel’s back struck solid stone –when had she backed away from him?– and Boromir reached her side.

“No,” she choked out, the word having to force its way past her fingers, “no, don’t ask, don’t. I’m not going. No. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”

“Rhosy-Rhosynel,” Boromir was speaking, trying to get a word in between her panicked ramblings, “Rhos-Rhosynel.”

His hands landed on either side of her jaw, framing her head and halting the furious shakes and refusal to listen. Immobilised between Boromir and the stone wall at her back, Rhosynel stared up at him, panic writhing and coiling in her throat, wincing as another boom echoed throughout the room sending dust showering down upon them once more.

“I’m not going to ask you to go to the cave,” Boromir said quietly, voice rough, “it’s okay. I’m not asking that of you.”

The panic didn’t ease up, but there was a flicker or relief deep in her chest. A flicker that was snuffed out by his next words.

“But I need you to remain in the keep.”

“What…?”

“We’re riding out,” Boromir pressed on, “we’re going to try and draw the Uruk-Hai out of the keep, we’re going to tr—” His words cut off, and with a deep inhale, Rhosynel watched as he forcibly shoved aside any fear, the fingers that rested against her cheeks twitched as though wanting to dig into her skin but resisting. A muscle in his jaw feathering with the strain of self-control. “I need you to remain here, between them and the caves. Can you do that for me?”

The clatter of hooves drew her attention, the horses being brought up from the stables, men were starting to mount up. She was a good rider she should be riding out with them, she should be fighting alongside them. Not trapped beneath mountain and stone.

“Rhosynel,” Boromir said, low and rough with emotion, the pressure of his hands, of his voice, dragging her attention back to his face scarcely inches from her own. “I cannot fight if I’m worrying for you. Stay in the keep.”

Even as her head shook, unwilling, his thumb swept across her cheekbone through the track of tears she’d not noticed falling.

“Please.”

There was a desperation in his voice at that single word, grey and silver eyes gleaming with what could only be called fear.

Against her own judgment, she surrendered.

“I—I’ll remain in the keep. But come back—” Rhosynel’s throat tightened, and the last two words remained lodged in her throat. ‘To me.’

Some of the tension faded from Boromir’s eyes, the hands framing her jaw relaxing against her skin as he nodded silently, unable to promise verbally. A voice called out to him from the front of the room. Her fingers curled into his arm, trying to grip the metal bracers. With one last lingering glance to her, Boromir slipped from Rhosynel’s grasp.

Panic writhed and coiled behind Rhosynel’s breastbone, clawing and scratching at her ribs with a savage desperation. It was overwhelming, it was terrifying, it was furious. Stamping down the panic and fear was useless, but maybe, just maybe, she could channel it.

The men were mounting up, less than a hundred of them, but there were others, still bracing the door. A cluster of elves to one side, arguing in that lilting language with Marchwarden Haldir, the reins of a horse in his grip, hand still clamped to his side, blood soaking him. He was planning to ride out, but in that condition, she doubted he’d come back. Would any of them come back?

But there weren’t enough horses for all the elves…

“Haldir!”

Rhosynel was darting towards him without conscious thought, a haphazard plan forming as she moved. He looked around to her, brows furrowed, but paused in his argument as she hastily approached.

“I’m remaining behind to guard the caves,” she asked quickly, aware that they only had seconds left, “are any of your men fit enough to remain with me?”

“Yes, Lady Rovailor, I have twenty heads, all of them are able.”

“Then I ask that they follow me.”

“Aphad heryn Rovailor,” the Marchwarden was quick to instruct the elves without steeds, injured and battered but on their feet. “Lasta—”

She was already moving on, there was no time to panic, no time to plan, she had to think fast and act swiftly.

“Anyone that can draw a bow, draw it! If you can use a sword, remain here!” Her voice was barking out, circling the room and directing her demands to the injured men without horses. “Defend this door! Nothing gets into the caves while we stand!”

The men who weren’t mounted up, started to move, a group remaining at the doors in a bid to delay the battering ram, but the others flocked to the back of the room, forming haphazard ranks between the cave and the pending onslaught. She could see familiar faces amongst their ranks, uncle Héobald alongside Héomod, the messenger Ceorl sporting an injured arm and grim determination, a dozen familiar faces and unknown names, all with gritted teeth and fierceness in their eyes.

“Let this be the hour when we draw swords together!” Théoden king’s voice boomed out. “Fell deeds awake. Now for wrath! Now for ruin! And a red dawn! FORTH EORLINGAS!!”

The doors to the room burst open, a stream of arrows from the prepared men flew forth, taking the Uruk-Hai at the front down. Théoden roared, sword raised, Aragorn, Legolas, and Boromir at his back. The horses surged forth. A great clamouring of hooves on flagstones, as they ploughed through the gathered Uruk-Hai, knocking them down or throwing them aside.

The Horn of Helm Hammerhand sounded, a great bellowing that shook the walls, rattling dust and grit down upon their heads. Her teeth vibrated within her skull and left Rhosynel unsteady. So loud it felt like her ears would shatter and her bones would splinter but she was sheltered from the strength of the horn by rock and stone.

Her borrowed bow joined the chorus of singing strings, of whistling arrows slicing through the air, of Uruk-Hai growls and snarls as they died to the archer’s onslaught. But arrows could only do so much. The horses passed, the doors were open, and Uruk-Hai were entering the common room.

Throwing her bow aside, Rhosynel’s hands snapped to her swords and—

And closed on nothing.

“Fuck!”

She’d lost her swords and not found a replacement and now the Uruk-Hai were rushing towards them.

There was no chance to regret her forgetfulness, as a black sword lashed out towards her. Jerking back, it missed her throat by inches, and Rhosynel ducked, whirling beneath the Uruk’s arm and slamming the heel of her hand into its flank as she passed.

Without a blade there was little she could do other than dodge and flit between the attackers, cloak whirling and flaring with each spin and twist and strike of empty hands. The harsh black armour threating to cut open her hands. Maybe she could snatch up an Uruk sword? But the handles were ragged metal, it would cut her hands to ribbons.

“Rovailor!”

The strange title the elves had given her was barked out, and she spun towards the shouter. They were already darting alongside, grip shifting on the hilt of their own blade, all but slapping it into her open hand as they flitted past. The sword was far longer than what she was used to, but it was light and of elven make, and it was a blade. It would do.

Now armed, Rhosynel could fight.

Lunging forwards, sword raised and teeth snarling. Rhosynel spun, slicing her sword across the chest of the Uruk-Hai. Behind her she could hear the shouts of the men, their own weapons slamming against flesh and armour. Pushing forwards, she heard nothing of the elves but caught glimpses of their silvery blades whistling through the air.

A pained scream cut through the melee, and Rhosynel caught a grisly glimpse of an arm being cloven free from a solide—

Héobald?

Her uncle staggered back, wide eyes locked on the stump of his arm, and Rhosynel lunged. Her borrowed blade slammed through the back of the one who’d wounded her kin, shoving it aside as she battled to her uncle’s side. With one hand, her swordless belt was wrenched free, and the leather strip whipped about the remains of his arm, tightening with a vicious yank.

“Las—Watch out!”

Héobald’s warning came a fraction too late, as Rhosynel turned just in time for a black shield to slam into her leather breastplate and fling her aside. The cloak tangled about her legs, and her back slammed into the wall before crashing to the floor.

Pain rippled and pulsed through her body, the old bruises to her back screaming in protest as Rhosynel rolled onto her side with a groan. Blinking in disorientation, she tried to push herself upwards, tried to make sense of the room spinning about her. There were more screams, yells, and the sound of breaking wood.

Staggering, she made it to her feet, borrowed sword hanging precariously from her fingers. One blink, two, and on the third, Rhosynel’s heart dropped.

The barricade had been torn asunder, and the door to the caves stood open.

It hurt to move, every step sent bolts of pain through her body, but still Rhosynel moved forwards regardless. One step, two, five, and then she was running.

“Galadhrim! Aphad!” 

The elves about the room were quick to obey, disengaging or slaughtering their foes, but they turned, they followed. The corridor was too narrow, it was too long, it was too steep, but Rhosynel’s steps thundered onwards, echoing and reverberating as she hurtled into the depths of the earth chasing the Uruk-Hai that had gotten past them.

If they didn’t catch up, it would be a slaughterhouse.

The corridor ended, and the Glittering Caves spread out before them, shimmering and gleaming in the torch light. The beautiful sight at a strange juxtaposition to the horrific noises. Screams of the women and cries of the children echoed and multiplied into a disorientating storm of noise, punctuated by guttural snarls.

“Rui!” Rhosynel barked, “rui, dagor!”

She was ordering the elves like they were Ilmara, but if it worked, it worked.

They streaked past, bounding over stones and stalagmites, darting between pillars of rock and terrified women. With the ferocity of hunting dogs and the keen focus of hawks, the Galadhrim surged through the Glittering Caves in search of their prey.

A blackened blade flashed towards her neck, and she barely parried it to one side, twisting past the Uruk and whirling about its back to cleave its spine open. Darting around a stalagmite, another blade descended, and Rhosynel slammed her blade up, halting its path. Only to freeze as their face came into view.

Golden hair, a pale white face, and panicked pale blue eyes.

“Éowyn?”

“Rhosyn?”

The relief that flooded through Rhosynel was mirrored in the Lady’s face.

“The Uruk—”

“The elves will—”

“The keep—”

“We’re holding it,” Rhosynel said, hoping it was true, “the men have ridden out in a rout.”

Lady Éowyn did not look comforted.

“Rovailor, aglarond glaen!” An elf called out, heading back towards them.

“Hantalë,” she gasped struggling to catch her breath. She had no idea what they were saying, but the fact the screaming had died down was reassuring. “We need to go back,” she said to Éowyn, “we need to hold the keep.”

“Go!”

Rhosynel’s steps were getting unsteady, but she forced her legs to keep moving, forced her body up through the long corridor once again. She could hear the footsteps behind her, the elves following, short words being exchanged back and forth as they progressed.

Spilling out into the common room once more, Rhosynel was alarmed to find it almost empty. Where were the men? Where were the Uruk-Hai?

“Lass,” a strained voice greeted her. Héobald, slumped against the foot of a pillar. His arm was still bleeding, a pool of blood slowly spreading about his seat. “We pushed—pushed them back… the courtyard.”

She’d taken one step towards him, when a blonde figure brushed past. “I’ll see to him, you go.”

“Éowyn!”

Apparently, the Lady had taken it upon herself to leave the caves, but she was already ripping one of the sleeves from her gown, and hastily constructing a makeshift bandage.

“Go!”

Rhosynel went.

Leading the way out of the building, Rhosynel cautiously darted to a low wall, aware of whispering footsteps behind her. Trusting that the elves followed as instructed, a quick glance revealed close to a hundred Uruk-Hai, battering away at the remaining two score men. But even more Uruk-Hai were on the walls and spilling into the Hornburg from the causeway gates.

They needed to get the gates closed.

But what in the name of Béma’s Horn was the elvish word for gates?

“The gates,” she hissed.

A dozen faces looked blankly back at her.

Well shit.

“The gates,” Rhosynel tried again this time with a gesture, but with the sheer amount of stuff and people and Uruk-Hai between them and the gates it could have been anything. “The-the doors the –fuck’s sake– gates? The doors? The, the Doors of Durin!”

There was a muffled snort at her blurting of the only elvish gates she knew of and prayed they knew of too.

“Annon?” one suggested, “le thel annon?”

Rhosynel had no idea if that was correct. “Yes! Annon!”

The elves scattered, leaving her in their wake and somewhat bewildered. Trusting them to get the job done, Rhosynel forced to her feet, to stumble down the steps and join the melee within the courtyard. Already she could see a handful of elves flitting about the battlements, there was no time to watch, but they flowed like water, sweeping Uruk-Hai out of their paths with vicious precision.

“Rhos!”

Attention dragged back down, she found herself alongside Héomod.

“The gates—”

“The elves are on it!”

She blocked a downswing, and shoving it away, her sword whipped about, cleaving through the Uruk’s arm like it was nothing. Some distant thought in the back of her head made a note to track down some elves’ blades of her own. Light, sharp, and lethal, it became almost too easy to cut down the Uruk-Hai.

Not that she was complaining.

A new sound reached her, a bellow, different to that of the Uruk-Hai, deeper than that of the men. From some distant corner of the keep came Gimli, charging into the fray with both axes drawn and a bloodthirsty grin shining through his beard. He was little more than a whirling storm, lashing out at the black armoured creatures with a shocking force.

Over the clash of swords and armour, rose a groaning sound. Like the boughs of some great tree swaying in a storm, Rhosynel caught a glimpse of the great gates moving. Two elves to either door, another four pushing back the Uruk-Hai that tried to spill through it. The gate was in terrible condition, but if they could just get it closed, it would give them a semblance of hope.

With an echoing slam, the gates of the keep were pushed shut.

The group of elves remained alongside it, preventing the holes within the wood from being widened. But the gates were closed. The Uruk-Hai between the fighting men and the gates, seemed to panic, their attacks becoming more chaotic, spurred on by the fact they were now cornered. A musical sound filled the air, of bowstrings being released, of arrows whistling through the air, the thuds as they found their marks.

All of a sudden, the courtyard just… stopped.

Rhosynel’s ears were ringing in the near silence. Beyond the walls there were snarls and bellows, the clash of swords and shrill cries of horses. But within the Hornburg… it was still. All about her the men were reeling at the change, looking stunned and lost.

“Archers to the walls!” Rhosynel called out, the fortress may have fallen quiet, but that didn’t mean they were safe, or that it was over. “Men to the gates! Scour the keep, kill any survivors!”

“What about the postern door?” Héomod asked, “we need to make sure that’s shut too!”

“Go!”

Her younger cousin and a few other men bolted off across the courtyard, hurdling over bodies and skidding across the blood slicked stones in their haste.

The few standing men and elves scattered, moving in pairs as they began to sweep through the keep. They held the Hornburg, but what use was that if the force outside its walls attacked once more? Shaking off the threat of despair, Rhosynel bounded up the steps of the gatehouse tower where she’d found Fendig and the other boy, until she reached its roof.

Fixing her eyes on the riders, she tried to make out the details. Of the ten thousand Uruk-Hai that had approached, less than half remained. Were the others out there? Did Théoden still ride? What of Aragorn, of Legolas, or Boromir? The horsemen were surrounded, fighting for their lives.

Fighting to defend those who remained within the Hornburg.

Fighting for Rohan.

A shrill keen broke through the sounds of battle.

Eyes snapping to the sky, Rhosynel found Ilmara dropping out of the air, directly towards her.

Ilmara.

Going against orders, she’d sough Rhosynel out, tracked her down through the battles and the carnage, sought her out and returned unscathed. The Limroval’s wings flared in a flicker of silver and pearl, as she landed easily on Rhosynel’s shaking arm.

“Lass!” The heavy stomp of boots thundering up the stairs announced Gimli, bursting into the narrow gate top. “Is it Gandalf? Is he here?”

She was already opening the missive from Ilmara’s harness, hands trembling as she read it.

And then read it again.

“Well!?”

“Two thousand,” she breathed, scarcely daring to believe the words. “He’s rallied Éomer, Erkenbrand, and two thousand men.”

The dwarves hand slapped onto her shoulder, almost pitching her from the keep.

“Look!”

To the east, the dawns light had been slowly brightening the sky, the valley’s walls were still in shadow, but Rhosynel could see the dawn approaching.

Atop the valley, a white rider stood. Then another joined him, and another, horseman after horseman joined the first. Their numbers doubled, tripled, until a veritable herd of horses and their riders were primed and ready.

The white rider –Gandalf– thrust his staff skywards, and the riders descended.

It didn’t take long for the Uruk-Hai to notice, their formations shifting focus, away from the beleaguered riders of the Hornburg, turning their eyes to the newcomers. Pikes and spears levelled, facing the rapidly approaching force, forming a bristling wall against the onslaught of horses.

The sun crested.

And bright pure light beamed down, blinding the Uruk-Hai.

The riders slammed into them.

What had been a desperate last stand, shifted, becoming a battle once more. Two thousand riders crashing into the remaining Uruk-Hai. Two thousand riders coming to the aid of their King. Fixed on the battle, Rhosynel didn’t dare leave the wall, not until the Uruk-Hai began to break, and then scatter.

They were fleeing, the Uruk-Hai were fleeing.

A choked sob of relief was wrenched from her chest, and it was only though Gimli’s strength that Rhosynel didn’t crumple to the floor.

It was over.

Chapter Text

The news of the Éoreds spread quickly, jubilant shouts from the men on the walls, cheers and calls throughout, even the elves joining, their melodious voices and speech mingling and lifting the mood rapidly.

Uruk-Hai fleeing. Being chased off by the riders. The tides of battle had shifted.

It felt like Rhosynel’s strength was leaving her, half leaning half draped over the crenelations. It felt hard to breathe, her chest tightening painfully. Eyes locked on the distant horsemen.

They were too far off to make out details.

“Did they survive?”

Gimli hadn’t joined the yells of relief, his voice tight and sombre. But at least he was present enough to ask the question plaguing Rhosynel’s own mind.

“Ilmara,” she croaked, “Cennada… Théoden.”

It wasn’t the name she wanted to say, but if he had survived… he would be close to the King. Would the Limroval know who Rhosynel really wanted her to seek? She was smart, but she wasn’t a mind reader…

But there was a flurry of wings, as the goshawk leapt from her shoulder, dropping over the edge of the battlements and hurtling ground-ward, until an updraft caught her wings and launched her skywards once more.

The pair remained in painful silence, watching her flight out across the battlefield, watching with bated breath, as she reached a cluster. Something or someone within the pack must have drawn her attention, as Ilmara soon spiralled downwards, towards an uplifted arm. A shock of gleaming white-blond hair amongst the Rohirric golds…

“Huh, the elf survived then.”

Rhosynel spared a brief glance to Gimli. “Don’t act like you’re not relieved.”

There was a grunt, but he neither disagreed nor agreed.

Swallowing thickly, she pushed herself upright, forcing herself to turn her back on the valley. Forcing herself to start down the stairs, forcing herself to move, rather than stand, stare, and wait.

There was work to be done.

“Find Éowyn, we need to ready the keep for the survivors,” she said to Gimli, “the kitchens, the barracks, the stables, not to mention we nee—”

“I’m on it lass, don’t you fret,” Gimli was quick to reassure, with a gentle pat to her shoulder.

Already he was moving away, stepping over or on the Uruk-Hai bodies that littered the courtyard. At the door to the common room, Rhosynel could see Éowyn, could see the pale and drawn figure of Héobald. It seemed he’d survived, his arm bandaged to stop the bleeding, no matter how the once white fabric was now crimson.

But Gimli called up to the pair, and Éowyn sagged in relief, only to nod, and darted back into the common room as the dwarf took over assisting Héobald.

One moment the keep had been empty and silent with the dead, and then the next, it was swarming with the women and children, all rushing about, clearing the way for the returning men. The kitchens were brought to life as any and all food that could be cooked quickly was started on, and the barracks were rapidly turned into a makeshift infirmary with beds being stripped and the fabrics rapidly sliced into bandages.

Within the Hornburg, wounded men were scouring the keep from top to bottom, killing any surviving Uruk-Hai, and finding other survivors as they went. Apparently, the fortress had many nooks and crannies, as more and more men appeared out of the woodwork from where they had barricaded themselves in a desperate attempt to survive. All around there were calls to familiar faces, the relief of finding kin alive, the sorrow of finding them missing.

Rhosynel’s steps felt heavy, as she trudged across the courtyard, eyes on the battered and shattered gates.

“Galadhrim?” she croaked, seeing the group still clustered there, and trying not to blanche as a dozen eyes turned to her.

Was that all that were left of the elves?

“Heryn Rovailor,” one greeted, “man card baura?”

“Annon,” she replied, taking a guess at what they asked, and gestured at the gates.

“Edra annon!”

Apparently her miming was understood easily, as the elves were quick to begin hauling the gates open once again. She was quick to assist, quick to start dragging the horrid creatures out of the way or rolling them from the causeway.

“Senda.”

At the familiar word, Rhosynel dragged her eyes upwards from the dismembered body of a young man, to find one of the elves watching her with concern.

“Senda.”

Rest.

But how could she rest? The bodies of the Rohir, either those who had fallen from the wall, or those who had been cut down within the keep… they had been mangled, mauled, limbs torn from bodies, dismembered and hacked apart.

She was no stranger to blood, no stranger to gore, but this… this was foul. It was malicious. It was desecration of bodies. Something even she nor the elves nor the riders of the mark, would consider doing to the Uruk-Hai that had attacked them. Rhosynel’s stomach twisted and writhed, her breathing becoming harsh as she tried to keep her head.

She couldn’t rest, not yet, but maybe she could be of use within the infirmary? She had some knowledge there, maybe she could help. There was death all about her, the injured were wailing or gasping or groaning, the living called back and forth, and the sound of hooves approached.

Hooves?

Twisting about, Rhosynel pressed her hand to a rain and blood slicked wall, eyes locked on the open gates and the riders now approaching. Anxiety, worry, and fear, writhed through her chest. Eyes roving across those returning. Seeking out familiar faces. Trying to gauge who had been lost. How many of her friends had survived. The condition of those riding. How badly injured they were.

There were too many worries and fears and not nearly enough chance to process them, as with a clamouring of hoof steps, the riders returned.

At the head of the group rode Théoden King, sat upright, but favouring his arm, while alongside him rode Éomer, and then Gandalf with the man that must be Erkenbrand. It was a relief to see that the King lived, even if she’d had mild confirmation through Ilmara, but at that reassurance Rhosynel’s eyes were quick to continue their scanning.

Not far behind the King, rode Aragorn and Legolas, her chest loosened fractionally at the sight of them, and while the pair of them were upright and riding, they were both reaching out to the rider between them.

Haldir looked like death. Pale faced and sweating, one hand was pressed to his flank and the silvery bundle of cloak he’d repurposed to stem his bleeding. It wasn’t working. Blood soaked his side, seeping thought his cloak, staining his armour, soaking into his tunic, his breeches. So much blood. It coated the flank of his horse’s flank in a grisly display, continuing to steadily drip from his boot and stirrup as the group continued further into the keep.

It seemed the Marchwarden was only upright thanks to the combined efforts of Aragorn and Legolas…

But there, riding half a horse length behind them, was Boromir. His eyes alternating between keeping keep eye on the others and roving across the crowded courtyard. Blood marred his breastplate, his left arm was held close to his chest, the fingers of that hand flexing and shifting with discomfort.

But he was there, Boromir was alive.

All at once, the anxiety, worry, and fear, that writhed through her chest, simply… dissipated. Vanishing into the air like smoke from a fire. One moment it was there and overwhelming and all encompassing. The next, Rhosynel sagged back against the wall, hand pressed to her mouth in sheer overpowering relief.

They were all alive. They were all okay. They had all survived.

As the horses clattered to a stop, their riders beginning to dismount, and Rhosynel straightened up, moving forwards to help, to assist, to do what she could.

The weight of Boromir’s eyes landing on her was almost physical.

Even at her distance, Rhosynel met his eyes, and could only watch as relief flooded Boromir’s features, the way he dragged a hand across his face as his shoulders sagged with the tension leaving body. A feeling she’d felt mirrored in her own posture. Had he been worried? Was the fear now leaving his features for her?

Rhosynel had taken one step forwards, one step towards Boromir, when there was a startled yell and Haldir slid from his horse.

It was only though the combined efforts of Aragorn and Legolas lunging forwards, that meant the Marchwarden didn’t slam to the ground. A barked yelp pulled from his throat, as he landed heavily, staggering to the side.

Instantly she was changing course.

No matter how relieved she was by Boromir’s survival, the leader of the Galadhrim wouldn’t last much longer if that wound wasn’t seen to.

“With me,” Rhosynel was quick to instruct, “we’ve set up an infirmary.”

“I’m fine,” Haldir said through gritted teeth and bloodless lips.

“You look it.”

The withering glare she got for her retort had her raising a brow, he could barely stand, was struggling to hold his head up enough to glare, being supported by both Aragorn and Legolas. From what Rhosynel could see, he was anything but fine.

Instead, she looked to Aragorn, but the Ranger was already dragging one of the elf’s arms over his shoulder, and between him and Legolas, the pair half carried, half dragged Haldir towards the keep. It was easy to lead the way, even easier to collect some of the shredded linens and cotton sheets, as Haldir was lowered into a seat, apparently refusing to lie down.

Wordlessly spreading out the supplies on the table, Rhosynel grabbed a bowl of water and a clean cloth, already settling into a crouch alongside as Aragorn and Legolas damn near wrestled with Haldir to expose his injury.

A horrific gash cut across his flank, the meat of his side between hip and ribs had been torn open, blood glistening and shining wetly even in the low light of the barracks-turned-infirmary. It was only thanks to the poor lighting that she couldn’t see his internal organs.

‘Fuck that’s bad,’ Rhosynel swore privately, trying to school her expression as she set to cleaning it out. How the Marchwarden was still alive, was beyond Rhosynel’s knowledge, were elves naturally resistant injuries? Could they withstand wounds that would fell a human? Probably, but she didn’t know enough to be sure.

“It’s still seeping,” Aragorn said, voice low, “we’ll have to stitch it.”

“Here,” she offered the needle and thread already prepared.

“Your hand is neater than mine.”

“Debatable.”

“I do not need stitches,” Haldir snapped, making to rise,

It was only the combined efforts of Legolas and Aragorn, that held him down.

“You know what my hand is neater,” Rhosynel said, returning to crouch alongside Haldir’s side. Aragorn was needed to keep the elf stationary, and while Rhosynel would have done her best, she had the sense he was used to dealing with the Marchwarden.

Pinching the skin of his flank together, she resisted the urge to apologise with each prick of the needle and tug of the thread. The stream of half snarled curses was in elvish, but it was easy to recognise the intent behind his words, no matter how beautifully they flowed, they were still harsh.

“If we do not, you’ll die,” Legolas replied plainly in Westron, seeming unimpressed with Haldir’s words. “Stop fighting it and accept help.”

Rhosynel pressed her lips together, focusing on stitching his skin as neatly as her hands would allow. No matter how amusing it was to hear Legolas chiding an unruly patient, she wouldn’t let it show on her face.

“Nearly done,” she said instead, “three more by my guess.”

“Is there ointment?” Aragorn asked.

“Clay jar.”

He released Haldir’s arm, who was still muttering, but the Marchwarden made no bid for freedom, apparently having become resigned to his fate.

“Done, your turn,” she said, snipping the end of the thread, and moving to one side so Aragorn could smooth the chamomile and comfrey salve across Haldir’s flank. As the Marchwarden hissed, Rhosynel turned her attention to his face.

“Your men were incredibly helpful, the Uruk-Hai breached the caves—” Aragorn looked up sharply at her words “—and while Éowyn was able to fend them off somewhat, the Galadhrim you left with me were able to hunt down any that got past her. They helped protect the women and children with no hesitation.”

Something flickered across Haldir’s features at that, too fast for her to make out, his scowl and bared teeth fading at her words. “It’s what they are trained for,” he said, somewhat crisply.

“I’m in your debt, for their aid,” Rhosynel said quietly.

All three men looked sharply at her.

“Rhosynel,” Legolas chided lightly, brows furrowed, even if he was fending off a smile.

“I am well aware of what weight that holds amongst your kin,” she added with a glance to Legolas, but still turned her attention to Haldir. “Regardless of what they are trained for, it could have been much worse, had they not been there. Thank you.”

The last of the irritation vanished entirely, his brow now furrowed pensively. But then Haldir nodded curtly, even as Aragorn pressed a cloth pad to his flank and began binding it in place with the available bandages. An acknowledgement to her thanks, and acceptance of her debt to him, no matter how wordless it may be.

“Done,” Aragorn said, rising to his feet, “you must rest Haldir, else the wound reopens.”

The Marchwarden looked set to object.

“Rest, mellon nin,” Aragorn pressed, hand landing on Haldir’s shoulder.

“I believe your men made for the kitchens,” Rhosynel supplied, and glanced to Legolas.

Easily taking the hint, Legolas helped up the Marchwarden. “Come I will show you the way.”

Eyes fixed to the pairs back, Rhosynel waited until they were gone from view, before she tilted her head towards Aragorn. “Will he live?”

“If he rests.”

A polite way of saying maybe if ever she’d heard one.

“Elves heal quickly, in a few days he’ll be able to move naturally, in a few weeks, the skin will have closed up,” Aragorn continued, rinsing his hands of blood and dirt. “By the end of the month he may be fully healed.”

“If he rests.”

“Indeed,” Aragorn said, brows furrowed, “you are well?”

“Enough, yourself?” she asked, looking to him, and finding Aragorn’s attention had turned to the injured men steadily filling up the makeshift infirmary.

“Enough,” he repeated, words quiet, “there are many injured men. We had best get to work.”

The exhaustion that had threatened to settle on Rhosynel’s shoulders was shaken off with a little effort. She could rest later, for now, she could help aid those injured.

Those with minor wounds were handed a cloth or bandage, and neatly turned around with instructions to head for the kitchens, while those with more serious injuries were admitted and led to a bed, chair, or empty patch of floor to be tended to.

But it was those with the worst injuries she found difficult to handle. Rhosynel’s instinct was to try and save every man brought in, but there were those with injuries so severe that no number of bandages or medicine would rescue them from deaths door. In the end, some of the more iron stomached women took over, escorting those to another barrack, and did their best to make them comfortable for their last hours, minutes, or seconds.

Missing limbs, cuts, gashes, scrabes, stabs, and punctures, too many injuries and not enough bandages.

Another dozen men, some faring well, others struggling with bad injuries, passed through the doorway. At this rate the infirmary would be spilling over into the corridor. Not a single man had survived unscathed, as far as she could tell. Everything from minor cuts to major breaks seemed to pass before her eye.

With every passing minute, tension constricted her ribs, coiling about Rhosynel’s heart. More men, more injuries, more blood. She was beginning to regret opting to aid the infirmary. She’d seen enough blood to last a lifetime. Her stomach was roiling every time another man passed with a missing limb, or a gaping wound in his stomach or chest.

She’d never been the sort to faint at the sight of blood. But this wasn’t just blood.

It was a slaughterhouse.

It was too crowded, too noisy, the smell of blood, vomit, and worse was filling the air.

At this rate she was going to faint, and then she’d never hear the end of it from the men. The thought of Éomer finding out and lording it over her was enough to make Rhosynel bite her tongue in a bid to remain conscious and upright, even as she wound a bandaged about a soldier’s leg, hopefully slowing the bleeding from a nasty gash across his thigh.

“Rhos? Rhosynel!” she heard a voice calling over the general hubbub filling the room.

Tying off the bandage, she clambered to her feet, head up scanning over the crowd, and distantly spotting a familiar face. “Haehild?” she called back, seeing the familiar blond hair of her cousin.

“Rhos! Its Héomod!” Haehild exclaimed, quick to reach Rhosynel’s side, hands latching onto her arm, eyes wild and desperate. “We found him, he’s not—I don’t—”

The anxiety in her voice told Rhosynel more than any words could.

“Show me,” was all she said, allowing herself to be towed along by the younger woman.

Through the infirmary, into the main body of the keep, winding through corridors and passing rooms all crowded with men. Further and further she was led, until the pair reached a familiar area.

The postern door.

For a brief moment, Rhosynel’s steps faltered. Héomod and other men had headed this way to secure the door. They’d splintered off from the courtyard, and headed to the furthest side of the keep. Had there been Uruk-Hai trying to escape or gain entry?

She could see the door, shattered and broken, beyond it was a flight of steps leading to the now destroyed curtain wall, bodies of Uruk-Hai crowding the corridor. And there, slumped against the foot of the postern door—

Rhosynel inhaled sharply, heels digging in automatically. It was only by Haehild’s grip on her arm, that she kept moving. Her stomach roiling and twisting at the sight that greeted her.

At the foot of the door, Héobald and Héostor, crouched over a prone body.

Héomod was sprawled out, face slack and unconscious, blood soaking his clothes and armour, utterly oblivious to his father and siblings now crowded about him. Carefully sinking to her knees, they met still warm blood, instantly soaking the fabric.

It was only though Rhymenel’s repeated instructing, that Rhosynel was able to move. Progressing through familiar checks; testing his temperature and finding him cold, checking his eyes to find little reaction, checking his pulse and finding it weak, listening to his breathing and hearing the gurgle of blood in his lungs. His wound was obvious, a puncture through his breastplate, vanishing into his ribs and chest, a faint pinkish foam about the wound that bubbled and popped with each laboured shallow breath.

This was a wound she didn’t know how to fix.

Bile rose in her throat, and Rhosynel barely managed to swallow the vomit back. She didn’t want to lift her eyes, didn’t want to see the hope she could feel being pinned on her arrival, didn’t want to watch it drain from their eyes as surely as the life was draining from Héomod.

“I’m sorry,” she manged to say, eyes fixed on Héomod’s face. Like a coward. Unable to meet their gazes. “I can’t, there’s nothing I can do…”

The strangled noise that left Haehild made Rhosynel flinch as surely as being struck. A wail of anguish, of pain and sorrow, desperation clawing from her cousin’s throat. Echoed by Héostor’s own horrified groan of despair, only just returned to his kin, to find his little brother dying.

“Lass?” Héobald asked, voice cracking as the hope drained from him.

“His lungs, they’re damaged, I don’t know how to—I can’t fix…”

Her uncle’s hand landed on her shoulder, squeezing in wordless understanding. Her chest constricted, forcing the air from her lungs, horrified that he should feel the need to comfort her, even when his own son was dying before them.

Pushing backwards, Rhosynel could only stare down at Héomod’s body, even as Héostor gathered his little brother into his arms. Haehild dropped to the ground alongside, heedless of the blood that rapidly soaked her skirts. And then Héobald joined them, crouching and gripping Héomod’s hand in his own, his other, severed arm lifting, as though to sweep the hair from his son’s face, only to fall limply back down.

With a jerk, Rhosynel pushed to her feet, unable to drag her eyes from her kin. Kin regardless of how closely related they were. They were her kin. They were her family. They’d invited her into their home. Had sheltered Boromir. Had helped the others gain access to the Meduseld and King.

But now Héomod was dying. And she couldn’t do anything.

She wanted to run away, she wanted to flee. She wanted to stay, wanted to comfort.

Héobald glanced up, and Rhosynel forced herself to meet his eyes. But instead of anger, his expression softened, glancing past her, before returning to her face again. A nod.

Rhosynel took one step back, then another, and another.

Héobald’s attention returned to his children, as Rhosynel turned and fled.

Chapter Text

Rhosynel had hoped the air outside would be somewhat fresher, but instead of blood, it reeked of Uruk-Hai. Multiple bodies were tied behind horses and dragged out of the keep. Leaving great long smears behind them as she passed, the central courtyard was busy but slowly dispersing of men and horses. Rhosynel wondered through them with unseeing eyes, even if her feet knew where to travel.

The main gates were still ruined and destroyed, standing wide open.

She made it to one side of the courtyard, stopping and swaying in place. Eyes roving across the masses of Uruk-Hai corpses yet to be cleared. The churned mud beyond the gate, the fallen spears and pikes, the crows descending to feast on the carrion scattered about.

Perhaps outside had been a bad idea.

No sooner than that thought had crossed her mind, Rhosynel’s legs buckled, and she slammed to her knees, leaning over and vomiting. Her stomach heaved, constricting again and again, purging her body of what little food or water she’d managed to consume before the battle. When had she last eaten? When had she last rested? It felt like weeks ago.

But eventually her body stopped rebelling, leaving Rhosynel slumped against the wall, shivering in the cooling air, sweat coating her face, tremors wracking her limbs. Was she sick from losing Héomod? From the battle? From aiding all the wounded? Or simply from the heavy stench of Uruk?

Kneeling, arms wrapped about her stomach and staring unseeingly into the distance, Rhosynel would have been content to remain there. Even as footsteps approached, hesitating at her back, before coming to her side. A heavy hand landed on her back, the heat radiating from it easily sinking into her shoulders and spine. Like the sun breaching the clouds on a winter’s day, it was soothing. That, more than anything, told her who had knelt by her side.

Silence, no words spoken, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, if anything it was the opposite.

A comfort.

“Who?” Boromir asked quietly some minutes later.

“Héomod.”

There was a sharp inhale, hand tightening on her shoulder. Fear, sorrow, sympathy, a heavy look, one of regret, one of acknowledgement. His brows drew down, eyes shutting for a moment with a soft sigh. Clearly understanding what she was feeling. How many times had he seen young men die? How many times had they died in following his orders?

He looked to her, and Rhosynel was quick to look away.

“Fuck. I… I’m so sorry, Rhosynel,” he said gently, sincerity laced through every word. “He was a good lad. Bright and smart. I’m so sorry.”

“He wasn’t even dead yet, I just couldn’t do anything,” she lamented, trying to ignore how her voice cracked, how her eyes blurred the stones beneath her knees. “Stabbed in the chest. I could hear the blood in his lungs. I can’t save him from that, and Haehild had sought me out. They had hoped, but I couldn’t—”

Her words cut off with a sharp sob, her hand clapping to her mouth in a bid to silence her grief. Doubling up once again, eyes screwed shut, no matter how the image of Héomod’s body lingered behind her eyelids. She hadn’t been able to save him. It was too late. He was already dying. Blood on his lips, a rattle in his chest.

There was nothing she could have done, but that didn’t negate the guilt, the grief, the feeling of failing. Why did she get to survive, when Héomod died?

It wasn’t fair.

Boromir’s hand on her shoulder tightened its grip and pulled lightly. Almost instinctively she turned towards him, eyes still shut against the world and reality that threatened to tear her apart. Blindly, her head rested against his chest, forehead pressed to the cool metal of his breastplate, seeking the reassurance of his presence.

One arm snaked about her shoulders, holding her closer.

Eyes screwed shut, Rhosynel focused on her breathing, refusing to let the tears that threatened to overwhelm her escape. There was too much death, too much agony, too much pain. If she started crying, she wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop sobbing and wailing and screaming and mourning until she was a dried husk.

There were indistinct murmurs, useless empty comforts, whispered into her hair, the arm about her shoulders all but crushing her to Boromir’s chest. His free hand tangled his fingers with hers, squeezing and clinging to her as though trying to reassure himself that she still lived.

She was alive, but Héomod and countless others were dead.

At that thought, a silent sob dragged from her throat, little more than a gasp, and Rhosynel crumpled against him.

Boromir gave a quiet grunt of pain.

Instantly Rhosynel pulled back, eyes flying open and snapping to his face, just as Boromir attempted to erase any sign of discomfort from his expression. Alarm flashed through her, had he been hurt during the battle? Had he been seen to yet? She’d not seen him within the infirmary, but it had been so chaotic she could have missed him. But would Boromir have let himself be seen to before the men?

Probably not, which meant he was in pain, and letting himself suffer through it. Again.

“Boromir?” she croaked. Eyes flickering across him in a bid to find the injury, hands hovering alongside him, wanting to touch and check and test, but afraid of what she might find. “You’re injured?”

“Have been for a while now,” he replied with a lopsided smile.

Apparently, her attitude was rubbing off on him.

“Your shoulder?”

Shifting her weight towards him, hands finally reaching out to lightly touch his arm, only for her fingers to meet the damp sleeve of his tunic visible beneath his armour. Blood, not fresh, but still wet. But even some blood was too much.

He remained still, letting her fuss.

“Amongst others, yes,” Boromir admitted quietly, watching her closely, brows still furrowed with worry.

He wasn’t denying it? Why?

Every other time he had shied away from her concern, brushed it off, deflected, anything to try and distract her from fussing over him. But this time he remained still as she inspected his arm, and the cut that was barely visible through the tear of his tunic, between the gaps of his armour. Why was he letting her fret over him—

Oh.

Instead of brushing off her concerns, he was allowing her to feel useful.

Something loosened in Rhosynel’s chest, the iron bars slipping somewhat free at Boromir’s silent gesture. He was allowing her to fuss over him, and his non-threatening wounds, allowing her to help, to succeed in helping.

Which meant she could check his arrow wounds in the process.

“Alright.” It was an effort to push away the miasma that had been dragging her down, but at least now she could help. “L-let’s get you patched up.”

Climbing to her feet with the barest of winces, Rhosynel offered a hand, helping Boromir rise to his own feet.

He didn’t let go of her hand, not once he’d risen to his full height, not even as she’d turned back to re-enter the keep, not even as she half led, half towed him through the corridors towards the infirmary.

But her resolve faltered at the door to that room. It was still busy, maybe slightly less so, but the sounds, sights, and smells, were still in abundance, making her stomach twist painfully.

There was a subtle squeeze to her fingers.

Fighting down the urge to be sick –not that she had anything left in her stomach– Rhosynel released his hand, and darted into the room, snatching up what she needed, and darted back out as swiftly as her feet and cloak would allow her to be. A roll of bandages, a couple of fabric pads, and a small jar of salve would have to do.

Tucking them into one arm, she caught Boromir’s hand again, unwilling to let him out of reach. And then hesitated.

The keep was busy, it was positively crowded, heaving with men and women and far too much activity. She couldn’t think of where to see to his wounds, where might have escaped the chaos of battle. It was too loud, to noisy, too busy, she couldn’t think couldn’t cop—

“This way,” Boromir’s voice cut through the chaos in her head, his hand squeezing hers as he led the way.

Heading up a flight of stairs, the war room was empty. Apparently planning the return to Edoras had not yet begun, not when the men were injured and the soldiers starving after fighting for so many hours through the night. A relieved breath left her. It was quiet, it was calm, and it was secluded, just what she needed to check on Boromir’s injuries and ground her whirling thoughts. How had he’d known where to lead her and what she needed?

“Sit,” Rhosynel directed, setting the medical items she gathered on the large table. “Let’s get this armour off yo—”

Her words died in her throat, as she turned to Boromir and found him right there.

There was no chance to react, no chance to chide him for not sitting, no chance to do anything other than inhale sharply, as Boromir reached out, grabbing her arms –dragging a startled squeak from her throat– and pulled her to him.

Alarm flashed through her, only to stutter and fizzle out, as his arms wrapped about her body, drawing her into a hug. The metal armour he wore was uncomfortable, her own leather armour not much better, but that didn’t seem to matter. Boromir’s face was buried in the tangle of her hair, the tension in his shoulders slowly seeping away as he relaxed against her, a sigh warming the skin of her cheek and neck.

Almost instinctively, Rhosynel looped her arms about his shoulders, fingers curling into the edges of his breastplate, face tucking into the side of his neck.

There was something about the embrace inherently… safe.

No matter how the leather and metal dug into them, no matter the blood that stained her skin and heart, no matter the exhaustion and trials they’d survived. Rhosynel, for the first time in hours, days, or weeks, felt safe.

It took a great deal of willpower, not to crumple to the floor in a heap. Almost as though sensing that, Boromir’s arms seemed to tighten, almost lifting her with the motion. Now on her toes, all but crushing her to his chest, his face pressed into the crux of her shoulder, beard rough against her neck.

A heavy sigh left him.

“What’s wrong?” Rhosynel murmured.

“You’re alive,” Boromir’s voice was muffled against her, “you survived.”

So it was concern and relief all tangled up. He just needed a moment, to know that they were both safe. His arms around her were heavy, but secure. Her fingers finding the ends of Boromir’s hair and carding through it, earning a quiet hum. It was longer, becoming tangled and snarled, either she needed to find some shears, or a spare ribbon to tie it back with.

“I’m sorry for worrying you,” she found herself murmuring, anything to fill the silence. “But I know, if, if… I had been in the caves. I, it… I couldn—”

“It’s alright.”

Boromir’s voice was little more than a hum against her, but then he shifted, head turning towards her, nose grazing across her pulse. There was a deep inhale, and heavy exhale, but then he drew back slightly, forehead grazing hers as he gazed at her with poorly concealed concern. Rhosynel let her hands fall from his hair to grasp his arms, as he didn’t yet release her waist from his grip just yet.

“We –I– shouldn’t have suggested it,” he replied quietly, “not after how you were in Moria… That was unfair of me to demand, I’m sorry. I was just worried, and afraid.”

“I’ll let you off as long as you never ask me to enter a cav—”

“Deal.”

He replied so quickly Rhosynel had barely finished speaking.

Despite the battle, despite the injuries to the men, the deaths, the loss of Héomod, Rhosynel breathed a laugh, shaking her head. The bars that had been locking so tightly about her heart were loosening. Not fully, the pain of grief still threatened to strike, but for now those same bars were helping deflect. Hopefully she could keep going a little longer, before her emotions fully overwhelmed her.

Something must have changed in her face, as Boromir’s brows finally relaxed from the concern they’d been locked into since he found her at the courtyard. His fingers tightened against her waist for half a second, and then released her.

Rhosynel felt far too cold for his absence.

Trying to drag her focus back to the matter at hand, she turned her attention to his armour and the traces of human blood that stood out amongst the black Uruk-Hai blood.

A combination of mud and blood had caked onto the armour, rendering the buckles incredibly hard to undo, but her stubbornness prevailed, and soon she’d freed one arm of his armour. Likewise, Boromir had been working on the other arm, clanks and clatters echoed about the room, as piece by piece the heavy metal was divested. How he was meant to fight with that weight, was beyond her understanding. But with his armour removed, Boromir was able to work on the buckles of his surcoat, while Rhosynel sorted through the supplies she’d snatched from the infirmary.

Comfrey and chamomile salve to help prevent infections, a layered cloth pad to cushion the wound and soak up blood, and finally several long strips of fabric cut from bedding to act as bandages. The war room had an ewer set to one side, a quick check revealed it was indeed water –thankfully not wine– and it was promptly pilfered for her own needs.

Hands rinsed, Rhosynel turn back to him, and blinked.

Despite needing to see to the arrow wounds, she hadn’t quite registered that Boromir would need to be shirtless to do so. Had she actually seen him shirtless before? She must hav—no, no she’d cut his tunic to shreds at Amon Hen, and then he’d slept in his undershirt at Héobald’s.

A flush threatened to strain her cheeks, but at the sight of the bloodstained bandages wrapped about him, Rhosynel forced the alarm from her mind and got to work. The bandages that that covered his arrow wounds had become saturated with blood again, grime and sweat staining them an off white.

There were new wounds as well, a cut to his left arm, partially slicing through the bandages of his shoulder, and stopping just above his elbow, and another, cutting into the muscle of his right flank just above the waistband of his breeches. Thankfully shallow and nowhere near as severe had Haldir’s had been, it would probably survive not being bandaged, provided she cleaned it first.

Hissing through her teeth, she took Boromir’s arm, carefully turning it back and forth to inspect the cut. Thankfully it wasn’t deep, just long, the muscle hadn’t been parted, no doubt the padded leather and mail shirt he wore had prevented the blade from digging in.

Since the bandages had been cut, Rhosynel took a knife from her belt pouches usually reserved for hunting and cutting parchment strips, slicing through the bandage to free his shoulder. The pads that were pressed over the arrow wounds was a little harder to lift, making Boromir growl under his breath, hands clenching and unclenching as he tried not to react. Finally removed, she was able to check the injuries.

“Ah good, they’re healing up well,” Rhosynel said somewhat surprised, they weren’t that old and had already improved. Perhaps thanks to the kingsfoil Aragorn had applied. Testing the skin with her fingertips. Boromir was far too hot beneath her hands, which was concerning, she pressed a hand to his forehead worrying for a fever.

Only to blink as Boromir leant heavily into her hand, eyes falling half shut.

“Are you alright?” she asked in concern.

“I—yes.” He was quick to sit up straighter, leaning back again. “Just tired.”

That was understandable.

“There’s no sign of the poison around them,” Rhosynel explained, “with any luck we’ll not need to reapply Kingsfoil again.”

“Good, it burns like hell.”

“Then you’ll love this salve.”

There was a low groan, but no other protests from him as she renewed her inspection of his wounds, not until she cleaned them at least. Low snarls of pain, but he remained still, and didn’t try to shy away from the salve she carefully applied to the wounds. With how well they were healing, hopefully he’d be able to use his arm comfortably in the near future, even if the strength took longer to return.

Likewise, the cut to his arm and flank weren’t threatening, the mail shirt he constantly wore had possibly helped prevent it from becoming worse. With more apologies, she applied the salve, aware of how his fingers curled into the wood of his chair, and how his stomach tensed with each application, how his thigh flexed beneath the arm she’d rested upon him. But before long, it was done.

“Salves done.”

“Thank Oromë.”

Taking the bandage, Rhosynel settled into a crouch before him, winding it about his arm first –making sure to cover the new cut in the process– and then around his torso. The arrow wound to his ribs was in good condition too, hopefully the bandage would keep it clean enough. He even went as far as passing her the padded cloths to reapply over the arrow wounds. Looping it up and over his shoulder, anchoring the cloth pad in place. Around again, a loop, and back.

Each pass of the bandage had her leaning into Boromir’s space, reaching around his body, trying to ignore how close his face was, how his head turned towards her each time. The fact that Boromir was currently shirtless only made it more distracting. Rhosynel knew he was strong and broad, but it was different, seeing him up close. Dark hair across his chest, silvery scars of old wounds lacing through it, the way his stomach muscles tensed every time she pulled the bandages tight.

The fact his dark grey eyes had barely looked away from her face as she worked was the hardest to ignore. She could feel a blush spreading across her cheeks at the intensity of his gaze, her breathing oddly shaky.

“There.” Rhosynel’s face was burning, but she refused to acknowledge it, tying the ends of the bandages in a neat knot. “All done.”

Boromir did not lean back, or sit up straight, or any number of things which would have meant he gave her space. Rhosynel found herself almost frozen in place, fussing with the bandage to give her hands and eyes something to focus on, unable to rise from her kneeling position. Not with him leaning so close to her.

“Rhosynel…”

Her eyes darted to him and then snapped away from his heavy gaze just as quickly with a sharp inhale.

“My lady…” Boromir tried again. A pause. “Are you injured?”

“No,” Rhosynel replied quickly, too quickly, as there was a barely perceptible sigh from him. She pushed back out of his space, and rose swiftly to her feet, intending to clear up the mess she’d made. “We should go check on the othe—”

Boromir’s hand closed about hers, stilling her movements instantly. He rose to his feet, easily towering over her, and every word of protest or deflection fled her brain, as his free hand landed on her cheek, his face far too close to hers. It became imperative that she not make eye contact, even if it meant fixing her eyes on his shoulder, or his chest, or his stomac—No, no, focus on the shoulder.

His hand shifted, touching her brow and came back with tacky blood to the tips.

“Are you sure you’re not injured?” he asked wryly.

She grimaced.

“Honestly Rhosynel,” Boromir was saying. Hands gently steering her around, a push, and she mutely sat in the seat he’d just vacated. “You’re so insistent on looking after others, but not yourself.”

“I’d see to it.”

“Let me see to it.”

It was tempting to huff, protest, deflect, but exhaustion weighed heavily on her shoulders. With a start, Rhosynel realised it was the first time she’d sat down since arriving at the Hornburg. She’d dismounted from Tallagor, and then remained on her feet throughout the meeting, the battle, the skirmishes, the infirmary. Now she was sat, and her body was betraying her, leeching all the energy from her muscles, rendering her lifeless and heavy.

Boromir was rinsing his hands like she had, before returning to her with a scrap torn from the bandages. He dropped to one knee before her, his warm hand resting heavily on her leg.

He was nearly on an eye level with her, that was unfair.

Dabbing at the wound, the cold water was… soothing. Rhosynel felt her eyelids and body grow heavier, slumping slightly, leaning into the hand supporting her head, while the cloth smoothed blood from her face.

“It looks like a shard of stone nicked you,” Boromir explained quietly, “lots of blood but it’s not deep, should I apply the salve?”

“Yea…”

Béma, she must have looked like a walking corpse.

“Are you alright?” His question was quiet, as though unwilling to disturb the peace and quiet as he reached for the little jar.

“Just… tired.”

That earnt a soft chuckle.

“This’ll wake you up.”

That was all the warning Rhosynel before liquid fire was smoothed across her brow.

“OW! Son of a Balrog fucker, that hurts!”

There was a very unlordly snort from Boromir at her cursing, but he was quick to back up and rise to his feet once more, giving her space to curl her lip and shake her hands out as though that would disrupt the burning.

“It’s only a small cut, although that ‘graze’ to your arm will hurt more…”

The flush that stained Rhosynel’s cheeks gave the game away, earning her a reproachful tut of disappointment from him. “How’d you know?”