Daughter of the Dunedain

Chapter 1

Disclaimer:

We all realize how pointless this disclaimer is, right? No one's going to read it anyway. Well, here goes. I, the mostly unwilling authoress, do not own anything at all except possibly Aelswyth, a pack of orange slices(those little, yummy, sugary candies, and an empty cup of coffee. All other characters, creations, creatures, etc., etc., are the legal property of whoever is in charge of John Ronald Reuel Tolkien's estate? Also, I got most of my Sindarin from and whatever I could remember. And this is gonna take from both the movies and the books.

A.N.:

I hope Aelswyth doesn't come across as a Mary-Sue! Ewwww! In saying that, I also realize that the term itself is now highly relative. Anyway, this first few chapters are gonna be a long ones. It takes place (mostly) in the 17 years following Mr. Bilbo Baggins's eleventy-first birthday. Also, I lack a beta so if maybe you could point out mistakes I've made, typographical or otherwise, I would greatly appreciate it! OH! And, uhm, review? Please?

Quotage: Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned~William Congreve.

Some Years Ago

The night, it seemed, was not going to end anytime soon. Not for the man and certainly not for his woman who was cursing his very name. He could not blame her, of course, for childbirth was long and painful. She was well within her rights to throttle him within an inch of his life. And she just might yet., he mused as she crushed his hand in hers.

Just then a cry broke the night. It was hearty wail and his heart leapt. Surely, it was son. Surely, it was a boy his wife had birthed.

"Aeldir, tell me, Aeldir, is he well?" Even his wife seemed to suspect it was a son but one glance told Aeldir otherwise.

"Aye, my wife. Our daughter is well and alive."

"A daughter?" And her voice trembled when she spoke.

"That she is, my dear, and lovely as her mother." His wife, who did not feel particularly lovely at the time, laughed warmly as she ran a hand through her husband's greying hair.

"Oh, you always could charm me, Aeldir."

"It is why you love me.," he stated softly as he held his wailing daughter in his arms. Aeldir passed his daughter to his wife and enjoyed this one calm, blessed moment. For moments like this were so few nowadays.

"A! Aeldir, she is lovely!" There was a little pause. "Aelswyth shall be her name and she will be just as great as her father."

Aeldir did not think himself great in any moment of his life before his daughter had been born but here was this little thing that depended on him entirely, that needed him more than the breath of life. Now, he was truly great and all longing for a son had been dimmed though not all together forgotten. Perhaps, she could have a little brother one day...

Aelswyth, seventeen now and still an only child, sparred with one of the other boys in the village. She was straining hard against him but fighting valiantly all the same. He was not much older than her but clearly he was blessed with a sword when it was in his hands. When she had been bested not twice but three times, she relented and let the wooden sword fall to the ground in embellished mock defeat.

"Tiro!.," she called, pointing toward the horizon.

She saw something, someone, running toward them. He wore the rusty green and brown garb of her father and for a moment she thought him to be her father. As he came closer however, she realized that this man was not her father and she looked to her mother for some command.

"Sedho, Aelswyth!," snapped her mother as the grim-looking man approached. "Your name and your purpose, stranger!" Aelswyth had never before heard her mother use so harsh a tone or take such a defensive stance.

"I am a Ranger of Arnor. I owe allegiance to the seven stars and seven stones."

"And one white tree.," finished her mother, visibly relaxing, though she continued to wring her hands in nervous spite.

"I am Strider, son of Arathorn, and I come with news from the West." Aelswyth regarded him with a pair of wide, admiring eyes. Son of Arathorn. Even she knew what that meant and she was young yet. He seemed to be a giant, towering head and shoulders above the meandering folk around him. His eyes were sharp and grey. His hair was shaggy and dark and his face was pale and stern. "I seek the family of one Aeldir, son of Hurdir."

"Then, you have found us.," her mother stated, motioning to her and Aelswyth who had moved a few steps closer to her mother. "What news do you bring of my husband and why could he not bring this news himself?"

"I am sorry but Aeldir was slain in battle. Orcs ambushed the company he was guiding through Nindalf."

Her mother clutched her heart with one hand and with another held onto Aelswyth's shoulder as though to steady herself. Aelswyth glanced up into his eyes, now full of so much compassion and swallowed hard as she looked away. Her mother's body shook against her as she fell to the ground, still clasping Aelswyth's shoulder, and a strangled sob broke the silence.

"Who will take his place?," inquired a somber Aelswyth, disentangling herself from her still weeping mother. She repeated herself when no one answered. She thought that perhaps no one had heard.

"We heard you, gwennig.," said the son of Arathorn in a low, melodious voice. Despair tinged with bemusement flashed in his eyes. "I would not have you fill his place."

"He had no sons; it is my place, my... birth-right?"

Her mother's wordless sob interrupted her. She knelt down to whisper words of comfort in her mother's ear. The sobbing gave way to whimpering which gave way to silence. She did not stand but looked up to him with a gaze steeled and hard as stone.

"I am obligated, gwador vell."

"Do what you must, gwennig." And with that Strider, son of Arathorn, departed in utter silence.

Now, outside the Prancing Pony, his words still rang clearly through her head. In fact, she often found herself thinking of the man who had brought her such grim tidings and perhaps that was why. Often the things she remembered were not things most would wish to recall. The faces of the dead. Their names... Shaking her head of dark hair, she cleared her mind of such foolish thoughts and headed inside. The warmth was stifling at first but then somehow comforting as well. It had been so long since she'd been warm that she hardly knew what it felt like anymore. And the people were absolutely mad. She snorted with discontent when she realized more than half of them were drunk. Oh, she'd give anything for some good elven wine though and a hunk of their bread.

Rubbing her palms together, she shouldered her way to a table in a dark corner. Just where he would expect her to be.

"I hate wizards.," she growled in Sindarin. The whole lot of 'em.

"My dear, whatever did we do to you?," came a soft, commanding voice from ahead of her. Her sharp, grey eyes shot upward and rested on Gandalf the Grey. He was a curious man, though not a Man. He was disguised, she knew, in the sagging, sinking skin of an old man but in his eyes she saw a fire burning there that could not be quenched. An uncontrollable and artless shiver raced down her spine.

"Nothing at all, Mister Gandalf. Nothing at all."

She looked at him expectantly. Already she was impatient and awaited his explanation but he took his time of course. Asked all sorts of arbitrary questions. Ones that did not matter, ones she did not care about or care for. She answered them, naturally but with lessening patience and when the wizard pointed this out with a certain glimmer in his eyes, she could not resist the urge to sneer.

"What do you want?" He laughed though there was little mirth to it. She remembered very clearly something her father had told her once. Never trifle in the business of wizards. They are subtle and quick to anger... I should've listened to him more when he was alive., she realized sadly.

"I? I want to have a nice meal and a little chat with an old friend."

Aelswyth laughed, delight dancing in her grey eyes. "Surely you don't mean me?"

"You? No. No. Not quite." He seemed appropriately ashamed at this but she knew well enough that he wasn't. No, the Ithryn didn't get that way. They hardly ever got any way at all unless it was useful to them. "But I do have a task for you-"

"-Naturally-," she muttered, biting her lower lip.

"What was that, my dear? You'll have to speak up. I'm old and, as such, hard of hearing. Now, where was I? Ah, yes, a task. I need you to go to Minas Tirith, my dear girl-"

"Whatever for?" A sudden and unfamiliar fear gripped her. Minas Tirith? She wondered what he was thinking. Minas... Tirith... What is there for me but heartache and head pains? My mother, my poor mother... After her father had been slain, her mother returned to her own people in Gondor but it did her little good. Aeldir's death had, in a word, killed two birds with one stone. His life and his wife's mind...

"Patience, little one, patience."

So, she bit her tongue and nodded slowly.

"I need you to watch-"

"-Spy, you mean?-"

"Aye, spy, as it were." He chuckled warmly and patted her arm with much affection. "I suspect Denethor of using a palantír for some, ah, less than admirable mission of a sort."

"And I am to do what precisely? And to what purpose" She arched a cool, dark brow and her mouth became very stern.

"Because I ask it of you."

"That is fair enough, I suppose but wha-"

"There you go again. You always did go off half-cocked . If you would've waited a moment more I perhaps would have finished." He eyed her curiously for a moment longer than he should have. Before his stare could probe into her soul, she looked away very quickly. "If would've been more patien you would've heard me say how there is, I fear, little hope for Denethor but his sons, I suspect, will fare better with a little help, of course."

"And I am to provide this help?"

"You and only you, I fear. I know none fiercer nor more admired by the people of Gondor."

"Through no effort of mine. My father was there for whatever reason and-"

But Gandalf held up a lined hand and she fell silent instantly. "I know why, little one, but you could use his name. You could perhaps mention it, couldn't you?"

"Of course, Mister Gandalf.," sighed Aelswyth, suddenly resigned to her fate, it seemed.

"There's a good girl-"

"-I'm no girl!," she snapped, cross.

The wizard smiled kindly. "It's a long journey and you might want to get started on it soon. Perhaps now?"

"I can take a hint well enough.," she growled as she rose out of her chair.

"Not quick enough; here's my man now."

Aelswyth, sighing again, quickly took her leave of the Prancing Pony but saw nothing of Gandalf's man.

"Who was that?," wondered a soft and familiar voice from the other side of the Pony. Aelswyth stopped dead in her tracks. So... familiar. So... And yet she was at a loss. For magic beyond her, she could not hear the reply.

Rather, she rushed out into the cold, harsh day. First, she was off to the stables where her great, black gelding Modig awaited her. He huffed when he saw her and gave his hoof a stamp.

"You're in a right mood.," she grumbled in Sindarin as she saddled Modig up. He stamped his hoof again. Rolling her eyes, she mounted up and spurred him on through the gates of Bree.

She had several options as she saw it. There was the South Road, or the Greenway as it was sometimes called. It presented little trouble aside from an elongated journey but a direct route. There was little shelter along that rode though. Just open Wilds and Tyrn Gorthad but she wouldn't be going through those. Past them, yes, but to go through them that would be foolish and she sought not to be dismembered this night.

Taking the East Road would take her straight into Rivendell but past the Trollshaws. Are there even any trolls left in there?, she mused as Modig cantered along the worn road. She should've asked Gandalf, she realized and cursed her impatience. He would've know. Of course, he's a wizard. They know everything. Besides, she had more friends in Rivendell and there was Glorfindel. And he didn't say Now? He didn't, did he?

There will be time for merry-making and liquor later. Now I must make haste., she decided resolutely.

She opted for the Southern Road. It would take her right up to the gates of the White City after a few long months of travel.

But night was falling fast now so she dismounted carefully and lead Modig off the road a ways before tying him down. His black eyes rolled and he pawed the dirt.

"First sign of trouble," she began to explain to the much annoyed buckskin gelding, "and you'll spook. Then, I'll have to run 'round the whole of this world looking for you and I can't have that."

She wrapped her dark cloak tight about her, threw the cowl up. She lay down and promptly fell asleep.

She wasn't asleep for very long or at least it didn't feel like very long before the sun was warming her face. She rose quickly and climbed into the saddle. With a low sigh from both ranger and gelding, they began the journey in earnest.

The end of the month brought her to the end of the Greenway. Here the Wilds of the Dunland began. Here the soaring hills and gaping vallies began. Here her heart was at peace though not quite as much as she would like.

There was a persistent nagging at the back of her head for four days. It was the feeling of being watched. Modig seemed to feel it too for even at the end of the fourth day, he was snorting and pawing the soft ground beneath his hooves.

"Stille nú...Stille nú..." She spoke softly to him in his language. In the language of Rohan. The horse-language., she mused gently. It was comforting for him though strange to her but she knew enough of it to calm him when she had to. He whinnied and pulled against his harness. "Man le trasta?" What troubles you? Now, it was her turn for comfort.

"Mae govannen, pinig.," came a soft, deep voice from behind her. Well-met, little one. She whirled around, sword drawn faster than a snake could strike or an Eagle take flight. The man who spoke held up his hands, arms out-stretched. "I've no weapons. "

"Iston le?" Do I know you? Her question was followed by rich, deep laughter.

"Iston i nîf dhîn..." I know your face. He spoke in voice much like his laughter. It was low and soft and lovely. Then looking to his face, she saw familiar features there. His eyes were sharp and grey. His hair was flecked with grey though still very dark and shaggy. He seemed like a giant to her. Inexplicably tall.

"I am a Ranger of Arnor. I owe allegiance to the seven stars and seven stones." Her voice was high and sharp when she spoke but held little strain.

"And one white tree." And so the oath was completed.

"And one white tree.," she agreed with a grimace. "I am Aelswyth, daughter of Aeldir, son of Hurdir. What business do you seek with me?" She sheathed her sword but kept her guard up. For there were many things about in this land. Some of them not so hospitable and if any of them were around she wasn't going to be caught napping, as the saying goes. She looked him over once again and a brief smile touched her face. She knew him now to be Strider, Arathorn's son. The very same that had brought her news of her father's demise...

"Pedithanc hi sui vellyn?" May we speak now as freinds? Again, he spoke in a lovely, soft voice. He measured her up in one fell glance. Formidable, he realized, and in such a small package. Big things often times come in little packages., he reminded himself, thinking of Gollum, whom was now foremost in his mind.

"D'a mellon.," You are with a friend. She murmured with a barely perceptible nod.

"He sends you away as well, does he not?"

"Aye, that he does." There could be no denying who the he was. Gandalf, of course. The meddler. The schemer. "To Gondor, I'll go even if I do not wish to."

"What is in Gondor that keeps you from it?"

She frowned, uncomfortable with such a question. Uncomfortable that someone she did not know had asked. Ill at ease that she was more than willing to answer him. "It was in Gondor that father and mother met thier fate and I do not wish to meet mine there." Only half the truth for the other half she did not herself know. She was, though she would not yet admit it(not even to herself) that she was quite frightened by what the future held. And what it holds, she told herself, I do not know.

"I see... Gwennig, do not fear. Your fate will not be theirs."

"Only Illuvatar knows... De vellon nîn an-uir. Faro vae." Forever you are my friend. Good hunting.

"Faro vae.," he replied quietly as she rode on down the Southern Road. He watched Aeldir's daughter ride for quite some time. Untill he could no longer see her. He remember both father and grandfather well and she was much alike both of them whether or not she knew it.

What awaits her in Gondor I do not know but she will not fail him.

Now, he had his own prey to chase. Faro vae was right for it seemed that that was exactly what he was doing.

At the Gap of Rohan, she was ambushed in the night by nine Dunlendings. Modig, of course, was spooked. However kingly his name was, he was not. She was thrown from him in a violent, wrenching motion. She rolled away from the frightened gelding and covered her neck and head. The Dunlendings were caught unawares by the stricken gelding as he ran. He took two of the Dunlendings down even as he ran. He's good for something even when he's not. She pushed herself up and drew her sword. Narnimwen. No songs had yet to be sung of her blade but it had a pointy end and she knew where to stick it.

They were rough, large, hairy beasts, these Dunlendings. They spoke in unintelligible grunts and growls. Snarls and howls. She hummed a few notes before she drew her sword high and charged. The seemed to converge on her en masse but she had been in her fair share of skirmishes. She let her instincts take over.

Parry. Thrust. Parry. Thrust. Lunge forward.

Parry. Parry. Thrust. Lunge. Slash. Slash.

She felt a rending pain in her sword arm. She stifled her cry and pressed on.

Covered in blood- some of it hers, most of it theirs. She stepped back and took stock of the situation.

1. Modig had run off. That meant three things really: she could search for him, she could continue on foot, or he would come back. The latter two were more likely than the first

2. She was wounded. Her left arm was cradled in her right. It burned and she had little to use as bandages.

3. She was hungry.

4. Night was falling.

5. She wouldn't be safe here once it did.

What else, she wondered, fleetingly cynical, could go wrong? As soon as she thought it, she really wished she hadn't. Bad things always seemed to happen after she asked herself that.

She sat down among the waxing slain and soft, blood-soaked grass. She removed her cloak and whipped her dagger out. She cut strips from the worn, dusty fabric and tied them about her arm in a determined lack of silence.

"The Road goes ever, ever on

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet.

And whither then? I cannot say."

A curious, little Hobbit had gladly sung that for her when she was last traveling through the Shire. Hobbits are, by nature, rather shy of the Big Folk, as they call the races of Man and Elf, but not this one. He was just walking along the same path as she and had nattered on for a while about the weather and a few other inane things before bursting into that little bit.

She became quite fond of the little bugger.

With a small sigh escaping from between her lips, she rose and began her journey anew.

She spent her night literaly up a tree. Getting up there had been laborious and painful. Getting to sleep had been much the same. Getting down was also something quite difficult as her arm was still quite useless to her. But, aha! There was Modig waiting at the base of the tree and looking appropriately abashed as he munched away on the lush grass.

"At least now I don't have to walk the rest of the way...," she growled in Rhorric as she threw herself into the saddle and rode on toward Edoras.

On the Sindarin/Rhorric:

Tiro!-Look!

Sedho-Quiet.

Gwador vell-beloved brother

gwennig-maiden

Ithryn, Ithron-Sindarin term for wizard(s)

Stille nú- taken from what Aragorn says to Brego. Means "Quiet" or "Still now" I believe.

Man le trasta- What troubles you?

Mae govannen, pinig- well-met, little one.

Iston le?- do I know you?

Iston i nîf dhîn- I know your face

Pedithanc hi sui vellyn- may we speak as friends now?

D'a mellon- you are with a friend

De vellon nîn an-uir. Faro vae.- Forever you are my friend. Good hunting.