1 May, T.A. 3019
The banners snapped gleefully in the wind, as if even they understood the magnitude of the day. Gondor once again had a king, a strong and wise king that did not falter in the face of evil. But as Ardith dressed in her black gown of mourning, she could not quite bring herself to share fully in her nation's joy. The cost had been so very high. Her hands shook slightly as she placed the embroidered head covering over her hair. Ríndir had always so admired her hair, long and honey colored. He'd run his hands through the long locks affectionately each night as they drifted off to sleep and called her his sunshine. Unwilling to see the golden waves fall over her shoulders now, Ardith kept her hair tightly braided and bound, only releasing the strands from their bonds once each night to comb it out before quickly returning them to their plaits.
As ready as she could possibly be, Ardith turned to leave her small house, situated on the third level of the great white city. Ríndir had often spoken of looking for a new house further up, and closer for her to walk to the citadel where she worked as a seamstress. But she'd dissuaded him each time. His own job took him to the lowest level, where he worked in the stables, and it seemed better to be closer to them, in case he was needed to quickly prepare horses for the soldiers to ride out. That was where he was when death found him, the great black army having swept through the first level without mercy. Ardith and their boys had been relatively safe in their house, which was on an inner street near the third level market, but when the great wall was breached, they were told to evacuate to the upper levels. It sounded as wisdom, until the orc siege engine had lobbed a massive stone at the battlement above them. When Ardith awoke some time later, covered in dust and rubble, her boys were both gone, their small bodies lifeless beside her. Medlindir and Gauldir - such strong names for boys that never had a chance to grow into them. The days following were lost to her, as she walked hazily through a nightmare existence, not knowing what to do or how to move forward. Seemingly heedless of her pain, the city began cleaning up and preparing for the great coronation, welcoming their new warrior king with open arms.
Ardith did not feel particularly welcoming that spring day. She was tired. Tired of kings and stewards and armies and battles. Tired of sewing shrouds and funeral garb. Tired of shoveling debris and scrubbing red and black blood from stones. Tired of waking up alone every day for six weeks in the house that had once held such joy and love. Nightmares had plagued her since the day of Sauron's fall. Dark dreams of fire and blackened trees. Enough, she suddenly decided. There was no law that said she had to remain here, to give the rest of her life to the city that had taken everything from her. She would attend the coronation, and then she would pack her few belongings and leave. Some small part of her her immediately began questioning the logic of this, but she ignored that voice in favor of the one that promised change was a step toward healing.
Go to a place that I will show you.
Ardith jerked her head around, searching for the source of the voice.
For the vision is yet for the appointed time; It hastens toward the goal and it will not fail. Though it tarries, wait for it; For it will certainly come, it will not delay.
"What vision?" she whispered, certain her grief had driven her mad.
For wickedness burns like a fire; it consumes briars and thorns. It even sets the thickets of the forest aflame, and they roll upward in a column of smoke.
One will come on my behalf, and you will have much to say to him for me.
"Who are you?" she asked, her mouth dry with an uncertain fear; the air around her thick and heavy.
I am The One.
11 November, T.A. 3020
This dark heaviness was her constant companion, drowning her in its gloom. Ardith tried to press on, to continue her life and her work as best she could, but it became increasingly harder. The effort exhausted her, and slowly she pulled away from the pulse of daily life in the city. Except for her hours at work in the citadel, she remained closeted in her home, only occasionally venturing out to buy food. She climbed the last set of steps and placed her hand on the latch of the door to the sewing workroom, pausing at the voices within.
"Her work is not as…precise as it once was," Brithon said softly, holding out the embroidered bodice of the wedding gown.
Gwaenel sniffed haughtily. "She has let despair consume her, skulking through the city streets as though she were the specter of grief itself. Typical. Ardith has always been one to think too much on her own situation."
"She did lose her family," Brithon chided.
"And who hasn't lost someone, I ask you?" Gwaenel continued. "But you don't see the rest of us driven mad by it. And if you ask me…"
"I do not recall actually doing so," the tailor quietly remarked, but his seamstress continued as though he had not spoken.
"She's guilt-ridden," pronounced the woman triumphantly. "After years of hen-pecking that poor husband of hers and those little boys enduring her sharp tongue, now she's left with only regrets."
"That's enough, Gwaenel," admonished the old man. "I dare say her regrets punish her enough without your help. Leave the woman to her memories. Our only concern is preparing the wedding clothes and trousseau for the Steward and his intended. You must restitch this bodice."
Ardith, standing just outside the door, stuffed a fist to her mouth to prevent a scream escaping. How dare they speak of her so! Turning silently she rushed from the citadel, heedless of the people she shoved past. Reaching her little house, she collapsed onto the floor, sobbing.
It wasn't true! She had been a good wife, a good mother. Ríndir had loved her. He hadn't thought she was some sort of…of shrew…had he? Dozens of memories tumbled over themselves in her mind, as the darkness settled in her soul. Their faces rose up before her, accusing…
"You're a hard woman sometimes, my love."
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to break the plate!"
"Can you not give a man a moment's peace?"
"But why can I not play now? Aderthon is going, and his mother says you are too strict!"
Every pause in Ríndir's speech, every sigh, every resigned look came into question. And her boys…had they cowed before her as though she wielded her words like a knife? They were boys. Wild at times and unwilling to obey, so she'd had to be firm. That was all. Wasn't it ? Gwaenel's words echoed in her head, harsh and mocking. But was she being driven mad by grief? Perhaps. After more than a year her nightmares were frequent and unchanging, the voice that spoke of doom relentless.
Enough. She would not subject herself to the snide remarks and glances of her city any longer. If they could not stand her mourning the loss of everything that gave her life meaning, she would trouble them no longer. She had been too feeble to make good on her resolution when King Elessar had taken his throne, uncertain of how she would support herself, but there was no more reason to delay. The past eighteen months had allowed her to save a little money, and lay in some supplies. Now it was time to leave. She supposed she had also stayed waiting to see if there was some glimmer of hope left to her, but she had found none. Her life seemed a farce.
Therefore, behold, I will allure you, and bring you into the wilderness, and speak kindly to you. I will set the valley of trouble before you as a doorway to hope.
Curse that voice! Would it never let her be!
24, March, Fo.A. 1
A scream was ripped from her throat as she jerked awake, her bed linens soaked with sweat. Shaking, Ardith threw back the blanket and stumbled from her bed. With trembling hands she lit the lamp and fumbled for a cup of water. Part of her wished she simply relived the horror of Gondor's siege, but her dreams always diverged from those memories. She saw no city, no orcs, heard no wraiths' shriek. There was darkness and fire, and the very foundations of the earth faltered. She watched the charge of the enemies on the field of battle, as if the pillars of the kings had come to life, warriors as tall as mountains. All was death and blood. And then the voice. That rich, deep voice that intruded into her waking moments.
The Corruptor will be unbound.
Ardith pressed her hands to her ears, trying to drown out the memory. "It's not real. I'm just going mad," she said aloud.
Sun and Moon die 'ere the trees are reborn.
"Why are you doing this?!" she shouted, flinging her cup of water. The cheap pottery crashed and shattered, leaving a wet trail down the rough stone wall.
A moment later there was a hesitant knock at her door. Ardith released a deep sigh. A traveler would come now? Now that she was shouting at no one in the middle of the night. Throwing a shawl over her nightdress, she opened the door. A man in a hooded cloak stood in the gloom of night, just beyond where her lamp cast its golden glow.
"I was hoping to ask of you some food and perhaps a place to sleep, when I heard a shout. Are you in need of aid?" he asked in a gruff voice.
HE IS MINE.
The voice rang through her head, and Ardith stumbled back a step. The man moved forward, presumably to assist a woman he must surely assume drunk, and Ardith pulled further away, trying to close the door. "You need not trouble yourself," she mumbled. There is shelter for you in the barn, and you will be welcome to share my breakfast soon after daybreak."
You will be called out, a city not forsaken. I have not rejected you, and you will not be forgotten by me.
"Please stop," she whispered under her breath, leaning heavily against the doorframe.
"Madame, I only wish to ensure that everything is—" he began as he pushed the door open and walked past her into the house. His words trailed off as he looked around. "But…you are alone," he said, a bewildered note to his voice. "Why were you shouting?"
"Have you not heard of the mad witch in the glen?" she asked acerbically. "A welcome respite for travelers through the forest, but one must keep ever a wary eye open in case she uses you for her own nefarious purposes."
The head under the cloak titled slightly and a wry voice responded, "I believe I will take my chances and trust my fate to Eru."
In the beginning I am. Before the Elves were awakened. Before the creation of Arda. Before the song of the Ainur.
Ardith felt her guts twist at the words. "What do you know of this name?" she whispered. "Of this voice who will not give me a day's peace? Of these words of doom that burn my very bones as fire for fear I will not speak them aloud?"