"The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against Fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and Crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crookèd scythe and spade. "
-James Shirley
Prologue
Horns echoed upon the sultry morning air, mingling with the clamor of hearty shouts and stampeding hooves. Waves of silver, black, and green flooded across the river shallows, steel and banners blazing in the early sun. They trampled across the abandoned enemy barricades, chasing the remaining combatants from the shore. When their western forces had crossed, drums billowed from the nearby hills. Countless figures swarmed over the horizon ahead.
The escorts at the front of the Gondorian and Rohirrim forces halted, redirecting their men. Torrents of arrows rained upon the encroaching Haradrim, before the troops surged against the invaders. The Rohirrim cavalry crashed into the towering Oliphaunts, deploying ropes and arrows to bring down the animals. As the caravans finally dwindled, the western infantry went forth.
The Haradrim broke through the front lines, cutting down everything in their path. The Gondorian and Rohirrim forces split, exposing their core. The enemy surrounded two leaders of the Rohirrim army. The officers fought alongside their men in the thick of battle. One fell from his white steed, a spear lodged in his chest.
"Brother!"
The second officer was thrown from his horse, the animal's legs destroyed by hacking steel. A Haradrim champion struck at him, then toppled harmlessly to the ground. Another soldier helped the surviving prince to his feet and returned his weapon.
"My lord, we must break through. Your vanguard is nearly obliterated."
"I agree, Captain."
Their comrades went ahead, seeking to clear a path, but fell one by one. Haradrim encircled them and raised their bows, showering them with arrows. The Captain seized his shield and knocked his commander to the ground, seconds too late. An arrow pierced the prince's neck, killing him instantly. The Captain huddled under his shield, desperately checking for a pulse. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the hilt of his sword. He whispered offerings to the Valar, preparing himself to die.
He cast the shield aside and vaulted into the enemy horde, slashing at random vulnerable flesh. Every moment passed in agony, his body screaming with anger and loss. The enemy swords grew tighter around him, circling to kill.
Suddenly half of the surrounding enemy fell dead, the unit of his most loyal men swooping upon them. They roared together against the Haradrim, advancing the center of Rohan's forces to those of Gondor. Reunited, they obliterated the rest of the invaders, driving the remains from the Crossings. The Captain and his men returned to the site of the fallen princes, bearing their bodies onto horses.
The Gondorians and Rohirrim gathered at the western end of the ford, surrounding protectively around the victorious Steward Túrin and his son Turgon. The Rohirrim Captain and his men dutifully marched towards the gathering, leading the horses one by one. The dead princes were balanced delicately upon the saddles, covered with banners in reverence.
At the border of the encampment, they were accosted by soldiers of Gondor. Without explanation, their unit's weapons were confiscated. They were led to the center of camp, where the tents of the military leaders stood. Several dozen armed Gondorians called their commanders and enclosed the Rohirrim unit, watching them suspiciously
Captain Turgon arrived immediately and entered the ring of men. He circled the arrivals inquisitively, urging the Rohirrim Captain forward.
"These are the bodies of Prince Folcred and Fastred of Rohan. Why do you bear them?"
"Our lords died surrounded by Haradrim in the midst of battle. We request leave to build a barrow at the foot of the river crossing for them."
"Liars! You defile these honorable men by covering them with banners of the Harad. I'll bet you slaughtered them yourselves. Remove your helmets, all of you!"
Turgon ripped the grey banners with black stars from the horses, stomping them into the ground with his boots. The unit soldiers slid off their gear, revealing blond hair on all except the leader.
The dark haired Captain gazed at Turgon, grimacing. "My lord, there is no reason to insult my house or my men with this nonsense."
"You are clearly not Rohirrim, yet you call yourself an officer among them. These are the markings of the royal house of the Harad."
The man grit his teeth and picked up the banner gently, brushing the dirt off. "Their banners carry four pointed stars in black, not eight. It was taken in mockery of my house."
The Gondorian stared at him and raised his hand in dismissal. "A likely story—"
"Stand down Captain Turgon, before you make a bigger fool of yourself," interrupted a deep voice.
Startled, he bowed and retreated into the men surrounding the Rohirrim unit. They stepped respectfully aside for the Steward of Gondor, his stern form towering over them. Rich fabric and heavy mail draped over his aging frame, and the White Tree stood upon the center of his chest. Lord Túrin picked up the second damaged banner, examining it closely.
He surveyed the foreign Captain with his piercing stare. "You are Dúnedain, no doubt. I see it in your face. Who are you?"
The man bowed in acquiescence. "Elored, of the house Indûrion."
"You claim descent from a house exiled before the end of the Kings? None are left in Gondor with that name."
"I do not deceive you Lord Steward."
"Who bore you?"
"Nóruiel of Haranór in East Anórien," he said slowly.
"Then you belong to Gondor. Why do you serve King Folcwine of Rohan?" asked Túrin scathingly.
"My father sent me there for foster after the White Tree died."
The Steward handed the banner back, his brow furrowing. "You are no longer in his service. You will enter into my guard, submitting to my rule. The blood of Númenor will remain in Gondor."
"Lord—"
Túrin turned, motioning to his men. "Bury the Princes of Rohan with honor."
Elored narrowed his eyes and whipped towards his men, fury raging in his heart. They worked upon a barrow without sleeping, and carried the princes there at dawn. The Rohirrim forces lined along the river edge, and hailed the procession with solemn voices. Sweat and tears rolled down their faces, all fixated on the two biers. Captain Elored stood silently, the death hymns echoing distantly in his ears. There was a heavy sigh next to him as a shorter man with red hair stepped close.
Elored bowed in acknowledgment and murmured, "Marshal Déor."
When the last stone was placed on the barrow, the leaders turned to each other. "I am ashamed I couldn't protect them. My failure hastened their deaths."
"Lord Marshal, the forces were halved in two. I nearly joined them in death," said Elored.
Déor studied the barrow, his hair falling protectively across his face. "It is better to be dead beside my kin. This is an unpayable debt to their father." He continued, "I am now in command of our deployed force. Steward Túrin questioned me, and discovered my kinship to his son's wife. He used the connection to compel our troops to stay here. He declared it is our duty."
"Isn't there some other way—"
Déor shook his head, tightening his grip on the sword sheathed upon his side. "You and I…our roots run in deep in soil far away. Nonetheless, the dignity and power of the Dúnedain is not to be violated. King Folcwine will bow to the demand, for a time."
"Ridiculous," murmured Elored.
"Even one year is too long. Many of our men may choose to settle here. Perhaps the population of Gondor will slowly swell with more soldiers," replied Deor.
"My father once said we are all one people, strayed in our paths from another," said Elored. "This Steward does not ally men together. He twists their hopes to stay his fear and manipulates them to increase control. This is not the kind of man I wish to serve."
The main gathering departed around them, leaving the site in stillness. He gazed at the rising sun, burned brightly over the top of the freshly turned soil. Abruptly loud shouts rent the air, and three fellow soldiers appeared behind them.
The Marshal seized one by the arm, clenching tightly. "Why do you disturb the peace of our Princes?"
"We bear them a gift my lord," stuttered the man. His comrade stepped forward, unwrapping cloth from a large object. "The head of the Harad leader who assaulted them!"
The grisly war painted face of the enemy was planted atop a wooden stake, his features caked in blood. Both Rohirrim leaders froze, their mouths opening blankly.
"You call yourselves Men of Rohan? Bury that man immediately!" commanded Déor.
"Sir?"
"There is no honor in this desecration," said Elored quietly. "We will not walk in the darkness with the enemy."
They urged the other soldiers away, and stood closer together. "We may have stopped this army's invasion, but the Shadow has already fallen on the West."
"We must journey into this night with swords drawn," said Captain Elored. "All those follow after us will be swallowed up."
Battle of the Crossings of Poros, Gondor. Third Age, in the year 2885.
Chapter One: Prodigal
"Every parent is at some time the father of the unreturned prodigal,
with nothing to do but keep his house open to hope."
-John Ciardi
Arcúnalin, Anórien, Gondor.
27th of Nénimë 3003, Third Age.
Fear.
Piercing wails and frenzied steps.
The noises broke the solid stillness enshrining her body. A firm hand yanked her upward and attempted to shield her face. She struggled and kicked her tiny feet hard, loosening her mother's grip. Her head lolled sideways, allowing her to see the trampled man on the ground. Blood pooled beneath his mangled body, and his familiar eyes were devoid of emotion.
Her three years of life were too few to know his true name, but she had called him "mellon". This man was a bringer of toys, playmates, and bright smiles. He did not smile now, he could not smile again. She fought her mother's restraining hands and tried to scream, her voice strangled by tears.
The distress of those minutes clung to the farthest reaches of her memory. They engulfed every dream of this place, not allowing her to forget. Memories of her happier youth in distant hills were fading into colorless dreams of better days. She had felt the burdened shroud of this land descend upon her when she'd returned. Her ancestors watched expectantly in every corner of Haemuin, in graves and immortalizing portraits.
She cursed extensively at the hefty yoke they'd thrust onto her, dragging her out of the only home she wanted, or knew. Her muffled voice broke the silence, returning her from tangled and disturbing thoughts. Her dim hiding spot suddenly flooded with light. The table cloth pulled upward from view, replaced by a boy's face.
"Hallas, I found Aira!" he shouted.
The volume of his voice penetrated deep, rattling her eardrums. She jumped in reaction, hitting her head against the table's underside. The wooden scrollwork dug into her scalp, the pain making her eyes water. Struggling for balance, she dropped forward onto her palms and growled at the boy. He jumped backward, nearly slipping on the shining floor tiles.
The main door of the dining hall swung open, stirring the tapestries on nearby walls. A well-built young man with chestnut hair and grey eyes appeared, dressed in training gear. He visually swept the room and strode towards the noisy children. He grasped the shoulder of Aira's riding coat, forcing her to stand before she could gain her feet.
"You are too old for hiding under tables, sister. I hoped womanhood would stop these foolish games."
"I'm only thirteen," Aira grumbled.
The boy smiled nervously, dashing away before Hallas could release her.
"I'll get you Amlaith," she shouted after him.
"You should already be headed for Minas Tirith," said Hallas. "By the looks of it, you're hiding from father, not Amlaith."
The girl frowned, stepping away. "Of course I don't want to go to Minas Tirith. I want to return to Núnhel!"
"Father forbids it."
"He is not my father," she said, stamping her foot. "I want Selethryth and Caranthir back."
"Hush," said Hallas sharply. "They are not your parents. They've spoiled you, and father is disgusted."
"You have no right. Everyone abandoned me in Núnhel, even you and Imlach. They're the only ones who ever cared about me."
"Not true," he said. "Do not start crying, or you'll look frightful."
She offered no response, allowing her brother to smooth her hair. Hallas retained his grip on her clothing, guiding her through the house to the front gate. Even when events didn't concern him, her brother would always enforce their father's will. The boy she knew in Núnhel was gone and unrecognizable in manhood. A group of horses filled the entryway to their estate, each mount packed and mounted. One of the riders stared down at them, his gaze piercing.
"Does either of you care to explain this delay to the Steward of Gondor tomorrow?" he asked sternly. "I will gladly drag you before him."
"No sir," the pair mumbled in unison.
Aira cringed at the man's expression, keeping her face fixed on his knee. When he finished reprimanding them, she abashedly climbed onto her horse. Following the grey banner with black stars, she continued the onslaught of earlier cursing against her ancestors. She'd had no intention of coming back here, or visiting Minas Tirith. Her individuality and personal desires meant nothing in these parts of Gondor. Here she was chattel, the property of her lord father.
Their group traveled at quick pace to the central road of Arcúnalin, leaving Haemuin behind. In spite of the growing distance between her and the town, she remained dispirited during the journey. The silence between father and daughter grew steeper, Aira not daring to open her mouth. Her father seemed fully occupied, preferring to spend time with others in their company. She stuffed herself into her cloak against the chilly air, allowing her horse free range after the others.
Early the next morning, endless stretches of land gave way into a new landscape. Minas Tirith appeared across the Pelennor Fields, radiant in white despite the overcast weather. Her gaze never left the utmost pinnacle of the city, where the royal court stood on a shoulder of stone. Aira's apprehension melted into awe, increasing her confidence regarding the journey. Her foster family rarely left the confines of Núnhel, or traveled past the northern half of the White Mountains.
Their party stopped their ascent at the city's fifth level, near its fortified gate. A branch of the road led along the border of the defensive outer wall, under high white arches to the lane's end. The windows of a stately house rose above them, shadowing the narrow courtyard in its clutches. Unlike her family's green sprawling estate, this building soared into the sky in a column. A small ensemble of people exited the dwelling, surrounding the arrivals while they dismounted. Aira lingered next to the horse, watching her father embrace a man similar in appearance.
"You must be Aira."
She started in surprise, discovering an elegantly dressed woman at her side. Long tapers of blue fabric cloaked her elegant figure, radiating welcoming warmth. Taking in the woman's coal black hair and shapely features, she bowed.
"Yes milady."
"No need for trifles," the woman said. "I am your Aunt Emmelin."
Surrendering at recognition of the name, she allowed her aunt to grasp her hand. They approached Aira's father and the other stranger. Emmelin squeezed the man affectionately, entwining their arms together.
"Istoan, you haven't said hello."
Aira was struck by the man's countenance, clearly marking him as family. His cheeks and nose were thin, making him appear more fragile than her broadly framed father. She balked at the prospect of dealing with her uncle; her father was more than enough.
Istoan smiled at her kindly, but did not alleviate her suspicion. "Another child of the Indûrion. You are always welcome in my house, niece."
"Brother. Our delays have cost us too much time, but fetch us fresh clothes. I do not wish to present myself in such a state," said Iradan. He paused for moment, gesturing to his daughter. "My daughter sullied her clothing on the road; she is in a sorry state."
Aira held back a smile, patting her soiled cloak proudly. Countless stains were embedded in her clothes after skillfully dirty horseback riding, and her extra dresses were conveniently abandoned to a poor farm family.
Emmelin examined the girl's clothing, and shook her head. "My eldest girl Aethel's dresses should fit you, though you almost surpass her in height."
All hope of avoiding the social gathering vanished, replaced by frustration and concern. Hiding her frown, Aira struggled to give a false smile of appreciation.
"Iradan, she has blossomed like a tree in the sunshine of Anórien," said Istoan.
"At a price," said Iradan, almost inaudible.
Their party departed the house at noon to the upper portion of Minas Tirith. They passed through an enormous guarded gate into the Citadel. The grey daylight flattened the brightness of the Tower of Ecthelion, but its size caused Aira to visibly gape. Her pace slowed, the somber corpse of the White Tree catching her attention. Her feet stopped at the rim of the fountain centered in the courtyard, her face pale. Noticing her wandering, Iradan stood beside his daughter. Aira's mouth closed in a tight line, her grey eyes watery and hard.
"The Caeadan never brought you to Minas Tirith?" he asked, voice low.
"No, sir. Caranthir believes in avoiding city folk."
"Fool turned my daughter into a peasant farmer," grunted Iradan.
Aira glanced at him, trying to restrain her irritation. "Why have we come here?"
"The Council has called a social meeting. Most of the members are bringing their families. I am exposing you to high society. Once you are of marriageable age, it will be easier for you to join the house of a notable family. The days of the Dúnedain are numbered. I am protecting you.""
She winced, lowering her sight from the White Tree. It was worse than she thought. No wonder he was so smug on the way to Minas Tirith, despite her best attempts to avoid the event. He was determined to get his way, ego and all. Not if she could help it.
Narrowing her eyes, she filled her voice with false sincerity. "Our house is among the last Númenórean lines, what more is there?"
Iradan raised an eyebrow, his features tightening into a grimace. "Curb your cheek, and humble yourself before the Steward Denethor. The Arandur demand obedience and respect," he said sharply.
He urged his daughter to the group waiting in the distance. They entered the massive shadow of the nearest building, passing into the great hall. Murky light streamed through deep aisles of windows, illuminating the black pillars on either side. Long forgotten images of the Kings stared at her in the alcoves, adding to the solemnity. The cold faces imitated the portraits of her ancestors, making her skin crawl.
Iradan fell silent upon reaching the far end of the chamber, where the daises of two chairs were elevated at separate heights. A greying man occupied the lower seat, his ivory skin contrasting against the black stone. He spoke easily to the people gathered in a line. Individuals took turns presenting themselves, each bowing and keeping their voices low.
Iradan stepped forward first, partially blocking the view of Aira behind him. She fixed her eyes waist-level, wanting to disappear as dozens of people noticed her. Iradan towered over the other man, his lengthy frame fixed in a confident pose. Despite his seniority in age, her father appeared two decades younger than Denethor, fewer flecks of grey staining his dark hair.
"Lord Steward, I am honored before your presence."
"Strange, you appear for invitations by the Council, but not my summons," retorted Denethor.
A glint formed in Iradan's eyes as he replied. "I have not set foot here in years, though my kin live within these walls. Grave matters keep me away, I mean no offense."
"You will be expected to return," said the Steward. "At my command."
He paused, shifting his attention beyond the nobleman. Denethor extended a finger in Aira's direction, causing her to edge forward. She remained bowed slightly downward, the edges of her face obscured by its frame of chestnut hair.
"Rise child, name yourself."
She stood beside her father and squared herself before the chair. "My name is Aira, named Irien in the House of Indûrion."
She concentrated on the Steward's big nose, avoiding his grey irises. This man was far colder and manipulative than her father. He was not to be trusted.
"None were aware of your third born, Lord Iradan," said Denethor. "Is she of legitimate birth?"
"Yes. She and my older sons were sent for foster with the Caeadan in Núnhel. Someone attempted to harm them early in life."
"They were raised in an untitled household? Dire measures indeed."
"I assure you all of my children are prepared for their stations," retorted Iradan.
Denethor fixed his gaze on the girl. "I expect nothing less in your offspring. They will need to produce strong sons for Gondor. I suggest securing proper spouses for your children, lest they go astray."
"I would delight in such luxury, but our laws state individuals must agree mutually to marriage," said Iradan.
"Your province is overreaching in many traditions," said the Steward. "I hope it does not promote your misfortune."
Their conversation disintegrated, allowing the Indûrion family to move away. The highest ranking nobleman departed the social gathering into a separate chamber, leaving Aira with her Aunt Emmelin. They followed the remaining group beyond the hall's confines, where the garden began. Parades of colored fabric obscured the burgeoning plants lining the walkways, innumerable people occupying the courtyard. The shade of the overhanging stone enclosed around Aira, her blood chilling. Noise numbed her hearing, and a laugh pierced into her heart. Emmelin halted on a walkway, finding her niece several paces behind.
"Aira?"
She remained in place, transfixed before the mass of people. Beckoning her forth, Emmelin dutifully adjusted Aira's dress sleeves and leaned over her.
"It's alright. We will blend in," whispered Emmelin. She observed Aira's right hand clenched near her left hip. "What ails you?"
Beaded pupils unlocked, swiveling upward. "Father forbade me to carry a weapon. He had the maid seize it while I changed clothes earlier."
"Why would you desire one?" asked Emmelin.
"The first time our family decided not to bear arms at a last public gathering…my guardian Lord Kiril was killed. His body served as my shield."
Emmelin stared at her. "You remember the ransack of Herindol?"
"Yes."
"Valar, your father is inconsiderate. I promise no harm will come to you here. My family will always protect you."
She slid something metal and smooth into the girl's palm, urging her forward. Imagining the weight and texture of a hilt, Aira fell into stride alongside her aunt. They walked to the fringes of the garden, where the sun shone brightest. The minutes were agonizingly slow during their quiet stroll. They avoided the notice of others, until the crowd flowed in their direction.
The noblemen rejoined the gathering, causing Aira to move about frequently, hoping Iradan wouldn't spot them. Emmelin introduced her to old acquaintances, but they ignored her. During an aimless conversation with Lord Duinhir, a familiar face appeared nearby. Surprising Emmelin, she excused herself and strode away in determination. She touched the shoulder of a middle-aged man, catching him off guard.
"Uncle Marhad!" she said enthusiastically.
"Little Aira," he said, turning to greet her. He smiled with genuine sincerity, but abstained from his usual hug.
His blonde companion lunged at Aira with enthusiasm, clasping her tight. "I am happy to see you."
"You too, Ilfrith."
Emmelin encroached on the trio, murmuring greetings. "Master Caeadan, did others come with you?"
"I'm afraid not, with Súlimë nearly upon us. Unbelievable Lord Iradan had time to attend this event with Aira. She left my sister under a month ago," said Marhad. He glanced at his daughter, sharing look. "You have not seen her in two seasons. Roam about and speak of baubles or jewels."
Ilfrith rolled her eyes, but willingly pulled the girl along. "Escape with me, before he suggests men we should court."
The girls stifled their laughter, ducking around statues and clusters of people. They stole the last of the served desserts, and wandered the gardens together. The barren coldness of the event was quickly forgotten in her foster cousin's presence. Occasionally they followed Marhad, eavesdropping on random conversations. Ilfrith retreated when a heavyset man approached her father, steering Aira to safety.
"That is Lord Halnar of Calceryn. He began to manipulate our traders once grandfather died. Father tries to stop it, but it became harder once he joined the Council. I spotted Panthael of Lamedon too; he is a womanizing boor. Is there anyone you dislike amongst the prime of Gondor?" she asked.
"You mean besides my father?" asked Aira, furtively gazing at Lord Halnar. "I did not like the house of Morthond Vale. They seem cruel."
"Their daughter Dorwen is a toad," said Ilfrith.
"I shouldn't say it," said Aira in a low voice. "But…I dislike the Steward."
Ilfrith smirked, patting the girl's shoulder. "I do not blame you. There are more like him here."
"His son Boromir became the Captain-General last year. His unit pillaged Selethryth's livestock this winter without payment or apology. He is a pig head."
"Aira," hissed Ilfrith.
A broadly framed figure stepped across their path, its shadow falling on them. "Rarely have I heard compliments of my boar-like features."
The girls froze mid-stride, their faces raised upward in panic. Commanding a powerful bearing and strength, a dark haired man blocked their way. Recognizing proud features similar to the Steward, Aira's heart wilted under the Captain-General's gaze.
"My lord, she is a child. She meant no offense," said Ilfrith, lowering her flushed face.
He nodded, the light of his eyes irksome. "I am not so small, my lord." said Aira, "And I will not apologize for my opinion."
"I value candor. One in my station finds little of it," said Boromir. "Though such harshness is troubling in a child."
Ilfrith raised an eyebrow. "She is nigh fourteen, but has much to learn."
Boromir grunted, stepping back to allow them passage. Several bystanders watched them curiously. "Who are you girl?"
"Aira Indûrion. My father is Iradan of Arcúnalin."
"Ah, I know him," he said, face darkening. "Enjoy the gathering."
He walked off quickly without another word, abandoning the girls. Before Ilfrith could say anything else, a hand seized Aira's arm, Iradan's angry glare above her.
Oh no.
-.-.-.
The pendant's curves glistened against the rose sky, its silver sails reflecting the color. Aira ran her fingers along the swan shaped prow, wishing for such a ship. It would be light as a bird on water , capable of taking her far away. Salt stung her eyes; a troubling reminder of the recent journey and her subsequent punishment.
"What are you doing up there?"
Jumping in surprise, Aira found a girl standing below and relaxed considerably in recognition. Inquisitive eyes examined her from beneath strands of awkwardly braided dark hair. The girl's leather jerkin was stained with years of use, but her roughly made clothes were meticulously tidy. Calloused hands gripped the tree's lowest branch, easily swinging the girl towards Aira.
"I'm hiding, Melle."
"I heard things about your trip," said Melle. "Why didn't you tell me?"
The girl settled onto an opposite branch, examining Aira more closely.
"Nothing really happened. Iradan didn't think so; he erupted at everyone after the gathering in Minas Tirith."
"Yelling isn't so bad."
"It gets worse," she said softly. "I am barred from Núnhel and forced into etiquette lessons."
"With who?" chortled Melle.
Aira glared at her, and gripped the necklace pendant tightly. "Gweneth, Kiril's daughter. Iradan believes the Caeadan corrupted me," said Aira.
"Maybe he's right," said Melle. "You are planning to spend the night in a tree!"
"What would you know about conduct?" snapped Aira.
Melle flicked a twig at her. "Nothing. I am not a lady. I am a bastard. I have nothing, except my life. I am surrendering it to the Guard of Arcúnalin, because I cannot accomplish anything else."
Aira gaped at her friend, forgetting her meditations immediately. "I shouldn't have said that. You actually made the Guard?"
"Vîramar confirmed it."
"The Captain of the Haemuin Rangers told you himself?" asked Aira.
"I am surprised you know his name," replied Melle, studying her warily.
"He is the greatest archer in Anórien," said Aira. "How did you manage it?"
Melle paused, holding her breath and watching her closely. Their eyes met, realization dawning on her. "You want to join the Guard? Did you fall out of the tree earlier? It's impossible."
"Countless other women have done it," said Aira. She exhaled loudly, studying her friend. "Your strength is greater than others believe, and you will be successful."
"Your obstacles are bigger," said Melle. "Lord Iradan, the almighty leader of our province, likely will block you from the military. Even if he allowed it, you would subject to his direct command, and that of your brothers."
"I can handle it."
They passed a look in wordless acknowledgment. Melle lowered her head, messy hair falling over her forehead.
"It's self-torture, but alright," she sighed. "I will introduce you to Vîramar; you need his support—and training, lots of it."
"I'm perfectly capable." Aira sprang onto the ground below, landing on both feet. "See?"
"Sure. We'll continue pretending you never accidentally shot any of Selethryth's poultry."
Playfully Aira yanked on the other girl's boot, pulling her from the tree.
"Mature," said Melle. She brushed the dirt from her garments and punched her in retaliation.
Rubbing her shoulder and wincing, Aira said, "I deserve that."
"And a little extra," said Melle.
Aira tidied her tunic and fastened the ship pendant around her neck. It glinted dully in the rays of sunset, the silver reflecting an array of color. Curiously Melle bent closer, brushing it with a finger.
"Where did you get this?"
"My aunt. She said they sail these ships where she was born. They look like swans floating on the sea."
"That's strange."
Protectively she placed it beneath her tunic. They left the shade of the tree, and ignored the nearby road.
They strode into a meadow instead, navigating through the new spring growth. The stillness of the evening air froze the world around them, letting them pass like ghosts through the grass.
"Melle, do you remember when we promised to join the Guard together?"
The girls turned from the tree, cutting into an adjacent farm field.
"Yes, and we both should keep our promise. I am afraid we can't defeat your parents."
"I don't want to defeat them," said Aira, grunting. "They built this wall around me. I am trying to break it down. I know they put it there to protect me, but I don't need to be locked away. They ripped everything away from me."
"I miss Caras Gwedeir, but Haemuin is more beautiful," said Melle softly. "Your mother Elrîn was kind in persuading Vîramar to accept me."
"What?"
"Your mother set-up my training with him, so I could support myself. She said it gave me a better chance at doing something honorable.'"
Aira stared at her friend in disbelief. "I didn't know that. I blamed her for separating us last year."
They lapsed into silence, loping through the fields until the lights of Haemuin appeared ahead.
Haemuin, Arcúnalin, Anórien, Gondor.
(23 Mar., Spring Feast), Tuilérë.
The clatter of the town dissipated with each step upon the hill, the countryside sprawling away. Aira passed beneath the outer wall mounted on the slope, its watchmen unmoving at spotting the gold stag emblazoned on her clothing. The barracks stood empty, leaving very few soldiers to notice her. On the far side of the fort, she found the training grounds, empty and lined with equipment. Shouting disturbed the stillness, leading her past a large shed. Upon an open spread of dirt, two boys squared off, a man judging the fight. The taller of the two gained an upper hand, kicking the other to the ground. The smaller boy yanked behind his opponent's knee, causing him to fall. He leapt on top, but toppled backward from a kick.
"Boys."
He punched at the bigger boy, but the man seized their arms, sending them in separate directions.
"Daro!" the man yelled, causing both boys to freeze in fear. "If either of you violates training protocol again, I will snap your bows and discharge you from service."
Both shuddered, their shoulders soaked with sweat. "Yes, Captain," they mumbled in unison.
"You are soldiers, not drunk thugs arguing in the gutter."
He paused, a glint of gold across the arena capTúring his attention. The soldier studied the female, from tightly bound hair to well-made boots. Both boys followed his gaze, staring dumbfounded at the girl. As they attempted to react, the soldier motioned for them to stay still. Aira swallowed uncertainly at his approach, her nerve fraying. Remembering the sting of potential punishments, she fortified her mind and tilted her head in acknowledgment.
"Greetings, Lady Aira."
"Greetings, Captain Vîramar. I prefer to not be called that."
"But it is your title."
"I never asked for it," she said softly. "How did you recognize me?"
"Few wear the gold stag of Dorómal, or your brother Imlach's cuirass. I am sure he would appreciate its return," he said, frowning.
"You trained him?" she asked.
"No. I served with him when he first joined the Guard. How do you know who I am?"
She lowered her gaze. "Hallas pointed you out once, and Melle told me where to find you."
Vîramar responded hesitantly, "Why would she guide you here?"
"I wish to enter training under your supervision," she paused, drawing a deep breath. "So I may become a soldier of Arcúnalin."
His face remained unmoving, every feature locked in position. She clenched her fists, pouring her will into returning the stare.
"Why?"
"Excuse me?" she asked.
"Melle said you are the only one who treats her equal, not to be downtrodden or pitied because of birth. Despite your positions, you respected one another like sisters, and hoped to join Guard together. Why?"
Aira stuttered, overwhelmed by his bluntness. "My brothers both serve. I want to bring honor to my house like they do."
"You lie, Lady Aira," he said. "The strength of your house lies not in your loyalty to duty, but the fire of your hearts. It gave your ancestors the unfaltering ability to survive and lead. I am oathbound to protect it. If you cannot follow your instincts, I will not train you."
"I do not need to be protected," she said. Her face smoldered as she stepped closer. "All my life, I sat in a cage, watching my life go by unlived. My family stuck me there out of terror. I befriended Melle because she helped me see past it. We use hope to break free the shackles of fear in the face of shadow. I do not need defense, but strength. If I do not claim it, if you do not train me, then my clipped wings will keep me spiraling earthward. One day I will hit the bottom. I don't need to be the best like Melle, just strong."
"Now you're being honest." Vîramar smiled. "The Indûrion have greater ability than you realize."
"I don't see it," she said.
"I will guide you," he said suddenly. "You will do everything I say, even if it may kill you."
Aira examined his stern features, courage surging into her veins like a tidal wave. "Yes, sir."
"We'll begin now," said Vîramar. He pointed wayward to the two ogling teenage boys. "I want you to best them in a fight."
S/N (Story Notes)
-Nénimë: the second month in the calendars of the Men of Middle-earth. It runs from about modern day 22 January to 20 February.
-"Mellon": (Sindarin): "friend".
-Cuirass: piece of armor constructed from rigid material, which covers the torso (chest). Think Faramir's leather one with the White Tree from The Two Towers movie.
-Dorómal: A province of Númenor.
-"Daro!" (Sindarin): "Stop!"
Character notes:
Hallas, Imlach and Aira are the children of Iradan Indûrion and Elrîn (his wife). Captain Elored from the prologue is Iradan and Istoan's father. This is Aira's biological family. She and her brothers were raised by foster parents named Selethryth Caeadan and Caranthir. The Caeadan family lives in Núnhel.
Aira is her common/familiar name, though she was named Irien at birth. Most of the characters appearing in the story have a birth name and common name (due to social standards), but I will not cover this.
Arcúnalin is a province in the territory of Anórien, within Gondor. It extends from the meeting point of the Rivers Entwash and Anduin, to the edges of Amon Din and Drúadan forest. The Indûrion are the ruling house of this province, with Iradan as its lord. Haemuin is the central town ("capital") of Arcúnalin.
Dates. I strongly advise you pay attention to these or look back from time to time. No, I didn't typo any of them. I apologize for any discrepancies in language or names. I have worked on this story for many years. I will try to catch iffy things where possible. This story builds another structure within the Lord of the Rings. I will try to explain where I can, but I will leave the rest up to you reader. I will provide a resource page for this story. If you have any questions, feel free to ask!
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Author's Note: An introduction is mandated for readers starting this story. This story has developed over a period of seven years and nearly two hundred pages of family trees, plot lines, notes, and painstaking research. It took a very long time to begin writing it, since the task and story seemed insurmountable. Inspired by the mastermind of Middle-earth, the history I created for The Black Crown spans millennia and nearly a thousand characters. The aim was to explore the events inside and contributing to the setting of the Lord of the Rings series, especially through the eyes of independent observers. My goal took on a life of its own, spawning a large creation for the world which captured my heart.
PS: It is highly recommended that you have read some of Tolkien's work, at least Lord of the Rings. There will be a lot of canon material in here, but keep in mind this is fan-fiction. I will clarify material and facts where I can, including ones used for my own purposes.
I will answer any questions, feel free to ask!
