I.
The early morning sea smoke that rolled in and wrapped its lean arms around the hill upon which Líriwyn sat was baleful and vast. It resembled sticky spiderweb strung out across the ragged rolls of grass covering the Riddermark, teasing the muddied ground and blocking sight from most on watch. After hundreds of years of standing watch most hours of the long and lagging nights, Líriwyn figured her intrigue with the pastoral stretch and craggy backdrop surrounding Rohan would have fallen apart by now. However that may be, the winking stars casting coquettish glances down upon the land, and the furtive climbing of mountain peaks closer and closer to the moon never failed to pique her interest.
Though, this night was uncanny; Líriwyn picked up a scent carried by the wind that was entirely new to her, just as it was entirely old. The initial contact with this scent sent her into a short-lived frenzy as she troubled herself with the newness of it, but moments after she settled back into her lace slippers and realized how some similarity lay within the redolence, her mind bent and focused on curiosity in lieu of worry.
What creatures have cast a perfume so old to me? Líriwyn asked herself. In the foothills of a faraway tor three horses galloped toward Edoras, cutting through the fog blanketing the valley of Harrowdale at a quick pace. Líriwyn squinted her eyes to see the riders of the steeds, though their forms were but blurs of earthen tones. The horses' quickening hooves carried the company of three indisputably for Rohan. Yet before she left to notify the royal guards, she noticed the creatures upon which the guests raced. They were three of the Mearas; Líriwyn had spent too long tending to the horses in the Royal Stables to not recognize them.
And how would they procure the beasts of Rohan?
Líriwyn gathered her skirts in her hands and left the tall, timber walls. As she walked speedily across the uneven grounds within the walls of Edoras, she passed the grey peoples of the city and felt spited by the bitterness of the Rohirrim. Once so lively in their gait, they now were ghosts of the gilded men who once roamed the land—now bleak of countenance and ashen of skin. Black and pernicious clouds sewn to the crown of King Théoden had cast long shadows over the people of Rohan.
Líriwyn pushed the wooden portal of Meduseld open and was confronted with the seamstress.
"My lady Líriwyn, Háma has told me he has seen your fair face afeard. Has some sight made ill your favor?" Gríma Wormtongue hissed from the place beside the throne of the king. From across the great Golden Hall, the king's counselor's pale eyes greeted her like eery pools beneath a dark elf's moon. He appeared nothing but a gargoyle upon the ledge of a king's sepulcher.
Though this king was not yet dead, only poisoned by the snake behind Gríma's blackened teeth. The king's brain lay near paralysis in its cavernous cave, consumed by the bitter darkness.
"Visitants near the walls of Edoras—three on our stallions. They ride South from the White Mountains, it appears; they ride fast."
Gríma stopped to lean his heavy head unto the shoulder of the king. "My liege, guests have ridden in upon our beasts; their purpose unknown. Perchance a listen may bid well for us?"
With a guttural grunt, King Théoden approved Gríma's wish. His mind was no longer hard, for Gríma's whispered words had altered it malleable.
The doorward Háma left upon the orders of Gríma to prepare the gates. Líriwyn left the king's hall for the stone porch which overlooked the highest houses of Edoras. The Rohirrim looked to their eternal gentlewoman, with her hair so red and her svelte stature so stiff she looked as though the lasting torch of Rohan. Though nowadays her flame burned dimly and her fire was no longer hot enough to bring blood back to their wan faces.
Éowyn appeared beside her, dressed in a fine white gown. As the banderole of Rohan flew overhead with the hard wind that had torn it from its pole, Éowyn spoke aloud: "Théodred has passed in the night."
Líriwyn looked to the elegiac visage of her companion. "This I know."
"And unmourned was his death by his own father," she spoke. Her eyes then captured the arriving guests, who drew close to the capital's gates. "Who is this company?"
"Not even I know whether friend or foe, but company nonetheless."
The gates creaked open with a somber song, reminding Líriwyn of the last time they had been so noisily opened and closed—behind Éomer and his cavalry upon their permanent leave. The deliverance of the three guests from the exterior to the interior of Edoras was careful, and also surprising seeing the city's general dearth of attentiveness of late.
Four guests came—the horse Beadurof carrying two. Only one did Líriwyn recognize, and that was Gandalf the Grey. Yet his hair was bright like mithril and a dusky cloak lay elegantly 'cross his shoulders. No other countenance was beyond notice aside from a pale-haired passenger, one of the two atop Beadurof. His hair was bright like that of Gandalf, but gloriously alive in comparison to the weathered hair of the old wizard. His eyes were grey and his ears were tipped delicately.
Daresay, another elf? Líriwyn felt an age-old excitement quicken the pace of her heart. Not in many men's lifetimes had she met another elf. Perhaps this had been that peculiar scent that had so moved me before? Its familiarity old, its rarity new.
The gentle thump of hope rang clear in her head, but Líriwyn's ears were suddenly assaulted by the sound of dresses flying. She turned to see Éowyn's fair hair float behind her as she reentered Meduseld hurriedly. Líriwyn called and ran after her, but not before accidentally tying a direct line between her own eyes and those of the elf who rode Beadurof.
On wise toes, Líriwyn did not trip and fall over the folds of her emerald green dress. For too many times had her feet been caught on silks and linens, sending her flying forward in a cumbersome wreck of vermillion and porcelain. She ran like a deer—quick and nimble—after the billowing wings of Éowyn's dress.
"Éowyn, you are well aware I can outrun you!" Líriwyn reminded her prey. Once they had rounded the frontal stretch of Meduseld, Éowyn slowed. "Pray tell, child—from what do you run?" Líriwyn asked sympathetically.
"I fear for Rohan, Líriwyn, and for the King. Long has this winter lasted, and bitter has it been. Not even Théodred, great warrior and prince, could endure this agony… And great shame follows me when I cannot help but think—is he lucky to have lost this battle?" Éowyn cried. Thick rivulets coursed from her woeful eyes, sending salty drips to the curve of her jaw.
Líriwyn tilted her head and looked at Éowyn with empathy. As lives of men carved on and she remained, Líriwyn had faced great hopelessness that had bitten into her own heart; ergo she too knew the sting of despair.
"My dearest child," Líriwyn hushed Éowyn just as she had hushed her when the grown woman was a bawling infant. "I have seen many winters, some as bitter as this—when the wind was harsh and the news harsher. These winters are not easily thawed, and too many of us fall waiting for their ends. Though those of us who do are fragile in heart, and ever since the day you were born did I know your heart was strong.
You and I both will wear the loss of Théodred heavy on our hearts, but we will remember him for his courage and his gallantry, his kindness and his honesty, and we will wear these pieces too. And with these, and your own powerful heart, I am sure you cannot fail. Nor will Rohan."
Éowyn was weak in Líriwyn's arms, shaking like a tree in thick rain. The maiden did not cry often, Líriwyn remembered even as a baby this was true, but when she did she cried hard. However she was interrupted by the sound of calamity echoing from the hall, and Éowyn did wipe from her cheeks her tears and run for the origin of the sound.
In the far distance, the curved tips of Líriwyn's ears picked up the voice of a stern and grounded Gandalf: "Hearken to me!"
Then a withered laugh she knew all too well; a laugh once bright that had been poisoned by a foul and evil script.
Éowyn broke into the central hall's opening, running for her uncle but being held back by the steady arms of a man unknown to Líriwyn. Gandalf dressed in robes of white and held his staff high. The power of the words that left his sage and wrinkled mouth moved with such a force Líriwyn felt knocked over by the sheer swing of their weight. King Théoden arched his curved spine painfully against his wooden throne; his eyes widened and revealed cloudy plates to the sky. Had Líriwyn not been held steady by a gentle hand she would have perhaps faltered from Gandalf's expanding power.
In fact, Líriwyn felt steadied, grounded, secured in place, anchored—more so then she'd ever felt. It was a sensation felt in the twitch of the tops of her fragile ears, felt in the part of her mind that knew she was unique from every other Rohirrim, felt in her fingers which weighed heavy with rings of time, felt in the mithril bound eternally and tightly 'round her neck that had been given to her by her mother so many twelvemonths ago. Though unsteadily, Líriwyn looked for the identity who caught her whilst the fate of her king unfolded.
Painting the blues—not the greys—of his eyes was the scent which had haunted her. It enveloped her entirely as she looked upwards to the face of the other Elf; the only other Elf she had seen since her mother. His features were sharp yet achingly agreeable on the canvas of his fair skin.
A golden glow filled the hall, and the overhang of malevolence vanished. Every hair on Líriwyn's body stood and the very purpose for her placement in the Rohirric courts was revitalized. A power to defend the king; a true and red-blooded king.
"Éowyn… Éowyn is your name," the ready voice of the King Théoden came to life in her head, and her mind refocused as she lunged for the throne.
"Oh, my king!" Líriwyn cried, weeping on his knee beside Éowyn.
"And Líriwyn—whose mystic light is the only I could see behind this black bane! Never have I seen your magic falter so—"
"My lord, 'tis the evil of this earth which grows that halts me—hereat, I have failed Rohan," she stood slowly and turned for the scullion of Saruman. "And you, you loathly snake!"
Líriwyn headed from the throne and toward the slime before her, which looked to the king for mercy. "My liege, this dog has lost her head! I have only ever served you, and whilst this creature befouled your mind and sought power of her own, I have kept you from all harm!"
"Enough!" King Théoden's voice loudened across the entire hall. The metallic movements of guards and cheers for joy were muted by the king's bellow—for long had it been since they had heard such a mighty, virile voice. The king advanced toward Gríma, sending him crawling in the opposite direction like the worm he was. "Your leechcraft… would have had me crawling on all fours like a beast!"
"See the truth, my lord! 'Twas her!" Gríma pointed a crooked, accusatory finger at Líriwyn.
"This eternal Shieldmaiden of Rohan has served us since the times before our greatest forefathers, and yet you say yourself better than her. You are lucky she has not slew you in your sleep, and had I any mind unsoiled by your evil I would have ordered so!"
An electric vehemency riddled the air that was thick with the king's words. Gríma whimpered beneath the hot pressure placed on the room by Rohan's protector; Líriwyn's hold over the hall was so suddenly revivified. A tricky bond clung between Rohan's keeper and Rohan's ruler. When one perished, the other fell. Líriwyn's strength had faltered greatly whilst King Théoden was under the influence of Gríma, but now that the king had found himself again she was far more powerful than before.
"Be gone!" She ordered, and Gríma squirmed away with the help of the guards. Líriwyn could feel the presence of Théoden's battle-hardened hand on the hilt of his sword, but she held up her hand gently to halt him as she said: "He is not worth your stained floor."
"Shieldmaiden—" The king questioned.
"She is right," the dark stranger who had held Éowyn intercepted. Líriwyn looked to him covertly through the corners of her eyes. "Too much blood has already been spilt on his account."
Outside the Royal Stables, Líriwyn looked down to the Cavalry Courtyard, where several soldiers wandered and trained. Their efforts and ambitions had been reinvigorated by the arrival of their old king. They now had a true king beneath which to fight, not some senile puppet dangling on one lonely string tied to Gríma's sickly finger.
She thought of the three guests aside from Gandalf who had arrived. They were three men who had departed from a broken fellowship whose original intent had been to erase evil from the world with the destruction of the ring. Of late Líriwyn had heard much news of this ring, but she had not ever seen it and no one ever spoke of it to her that truly knew about it. The three men and Gandalf, however, had traveled with him who had carried it 'round his neck; a creature called a Hobbit, whose name was Frodo Baggins. Never had she encountered a Hobbit, as her life had dealt almost entirely with the those called Men.
The guests were a Man, an Elf, and a Dwarf, and they had been traveling across the land for much time on nothing but their feet. The size and shape of the Dwarf named Gimli made Líriwyn wonder how such a portly and stout creature such as himself had survived such a perilous trek.
The Man, called Strider by most but called Aragorn by his companions, was one of the finest she'd seen, not only in countenance but also in might. The man was old, Líriwyn could feel his wise will in the air, though he did not look old. Of course he was not as old as herself, but he was old for a man who was still alive and well.
The third, the Elf, was a mysterious fellow. Perhaps Líriwyn found him mysterious because she had never encountered such an elf as him nor had encountered any elf at all in several hundred years. A part of his presence made her feel safer than before, and Líriwyn wondered if just the appearance of one's own kind could placate a person so. For Líriwyn had also felt odd amongst men; though she had learned to live with this oddity and see it typical, the Elf—called Legolas—reignited this sense of anomaly. Líriwyn was always tall and slender, cat-eyed and tip-eared. She was extraordinarily fair, but she did not fit amongst the likes of Men; she towered over them usually and wielded a strength much greater than they.
However this may be, Legolas was taller than her. He was just as lithe, just as strong, just as clever, just as old, and just as odd in a hall of men as she. Líriwyn was fascinated by this phenomenon, and wished to seek him out and speak to him, but she had not the courage. For Legolas was also beautiful, she thought, and she had never found a Man so handsome as she found Legolas.
Líriwyn gathered her skirts in her hand and walked into the Royal Stables, seeking her horse Eowu. The mare whinnied at the site of Líriwyn, she had had many years with the Elven woman to find joy in her presence. Long had Líriwyn ridden Eowu, and some of her long years had transferred into Eowu.
The two trotted along the skinny path that twisted into a small grove. Within the trees soldiers and knights practiced and honed their skills with the sword, the bow, the axe, and the arm. Líriwyn did not take to riding her Mearas mare, they only walked. It was a companionship between them two more so than it was a relationship between rider and beast.
An elastic stretch sounded in the air, drawing Líriwyn deeper into the sparse gathering of trees. It was only a moment until Líriwyn could keenly identify the sound of an arrow shaft speedily tapping against the rest of the bow whilst being aligned with the string. The bowman's hands drew back the string swiftly and an arrow sliced through the air. From centuries of sharpening the skills of Rohirric archers, Líriwyn could identify the sounds she heard as those of a successful load and shot.
Eowu knowingly stayed behind when Líriwyn crept closer toward the archer's domain, for she could identify when passages were too small and tricky for her own hooves and were more suited to the silent and nimble feet of Líriwyn.
Líriwyn moved as inconspicuously as a shadow amongst the trees wrapping around the shooting range. She only peeked one green eye around the side of an oak to catch a glimpse of the scene; and, upon catching this glimpse, did Líriwyn realize she was not surprised to see the Elf Legolas standing far from a single target—a target whose exact center was sliced into pieces by his perpetual arrows hitting the same spot.
He was exceptionally skilled—with clearly no room for improvement as his talent was so vast. The bow and arrow were extensions of him, and they listened to him as well. He had spent many, many years with the bow—Líriwyn could tell—and she hadn't ever seen someone so gifted with the weapon.
Are all elves so deft? Líriwyn asked herself, wondering if Men were simply lacking innate skills and required simply more training to reach a degree of unsurpassable proficiency that was easily surpassed by Elves. Again, Líriwyn wondered about her own people, and it seemed only someone of her own kin could answer these questions. Líriwyn had spent many lives learning all there is to know about everything and everyone except herself.
"A," Líriwyn greeted boldly, taking a quick step away from the oak tree she had hid behind. Legolas looked to her with an incomprehensible and miniature smile on his lips, as though he had known she was there.
"A," he responded. "Hiril nîn," he added, nodding his head in respect. She did the same, then shyly looked away to the targets. She really cared little for ascertaining their exactness on the target, but she felt a new sense of timidness around Legolas. Nothing she had ever felt before a Man, or nothing she had ever felt before at all. She began to regret revealing herself to him, even if he had been aware of her furtive presence.
"Líriwyn," he said, but not with a tone of address. Instead, he said her name like he was tasting it in his mouth. "From where does you name originate?"
"It comes from the Quenya word for song, lírë, and the Rohirric word for friend, wyn. My mother and my father crafted it."
"It is beautiful," he said.
This caused Líriwyn to look at the target once again, for it was difficult to chill the warmth that rose to her fair cheeks. "You are skilled with the bow and arrow," she observed cooly.
"Are you, too?" He immediately returned.
Again, she looked at him beneath her long, russet lashes and nodded. He held out his bow for her to take and her eyes widened quickly. "It is your weapon, I cannot use it."
"I am letting you," he stated.
"It is a fine tool, I would not dare tarnish it."
He laughed, the sounds leaving his mouth as light and heartening as the sounds of a songbird singing the first tune of spring. "You will not, I can see it in your step. You are an archer, you know how to handle a bow."
Líriwyn sought further excuse: "Though you are a prince, and a prince's weapon is not that of a maiden's—"
"A maiden?" Legolas repeated her own words, though reciting with a tone of doubt as opposed to her affirmation. "Long and old tales of the Elven Heir of Rohan would not call you a mere maiden, nor should you call yourself so. You are the daughter of Léod and sister of Eorl, with whom you tamed the first of the Mearas and founded all of Rohan. Upon the death of every Rohirric king, you are offered the throne, and yet you refuse every time. You are no maiden, you are the rightful Queen of Rohan."
Líriwyn silently let out a shuttered breath, one she hoped he could not hear. Yet, she had expected traits of men in him repeatedly and was sorely mistaken.
He is as keen in eye and ear as I, Líriwyn said inwardly.
"You know much of me," she responded quietly.
Legolas held his bow and an arrow for her once again as he spoke: "Your name is riddled in myths across the land. I knew of you once you were born—the daughter of Man and Elf. 'Tis a rare thing; 'tis a miraculous thing."
Líriwyn took the bow and arrow rapidly and flung an arrow toward the target. The spearhead sliced Legolas' last arrow in two as it sank into the center of the target. "You were alive when I was born?" She asked. She was aware it was a silly question, but the idea of someone surpassing her age was a dreamlike concept to her.
Legolas laughed again. "I had been alive a long time before you were born."
Líriwyn instantly began to dismiss her thoughts of him, her wonderings. All throughout Líriwyn's life she had been the wise one, the old one, the one to address to which matters of history and knowledge pertained. She was the One Elf, but then there was Legolas suddenly, who was far older and far wiser. Líriwyn was but an infant to him, and the many years he had on her probably admitted him much experience. Líriwyn did not live amongst the Elves, she never had, but Legolas always had. He knew the ways of the Elf, whilst Líriwyn only knew the ways of the Man.
"You must see me a child," Líriwyn voiced her thoughts. Realizing she still held Legolas' bow, she quickly returned it to his hands, though she immediately missed the sturdy white wood which still teemed with the heat of his large, strong hands.
"I do not. I see you as a woman," Legolas replied. In spite of the corporeal impression his vocabulary gave, he did not seem to be embarrassed. This was equally as frustrating as it was intriguing for Líriwyn, as she blushed more than he when this was said and she hadn't even been the one to speak it.
When Líriwyn failed to respond, she noticed Legolas look down to his bow. She immediately came to realize how disruptive and uninspiring she had been, and prepared to go after shortly apologizing. "I am sorry for being bothersome, I am just so unused to another of my kin being in Rohan. I have spent five hundred years with Men, and not one with Elves—aside from just a handful with my mother. Forgive me and continue," she nodded her head and made way to leave.
"You are in no way bothersome; I quite enjoy your company."
Líriwyn halted her escape and turned hesitantly back to him, looking at him in the vivid green corners of her eyes. Líriwyn could feel his conviction like nothing else—not only in the sound of his voice and the hardness in his eyes, but also in the way the earth felt beneath her feet. Líriwyn had noticed this sensation since her first sighting of him, a new type of connection. She could now fully recognize that between the Elves, any two of them with or without relation, there was an archaic and inherent bond. Líriwyn wanted to think it was animalistic, but she found that word too harsh.
It was really a simple concept—the fact that Líriwyn and Legolas were both Elves connected them.
"Really?" Líriwyn asked him, though she—in heart—did not doubt that he enjoyed her company. She could feel that he enjoyed it. Legolas smiled and nodded.
He put down his bow to show he was genuine about spending his time with her; he would not be distracted by other matters; in fact he would put them to the side.
"Can you tell me of my people?" She asked.