So, here's another story that I've decided to try out. Hope you all enjoy!
The plains of Rohan spread across the canvas of Middle Earth, never seeming to end. Green grass mixed with harsh, gray rock formations; the air was warm, clouds rolling all around the hot sun above. An occasional bird would circle overhead, calling out in a brilliant song and eventually fading into the horizon. That was the only movement in our scene, or so it seemed. Hooves pushed rocks around on the soft, cool earth, breaking the brief silence. A large, majestic horse appeared, his head raised high with pride and surveying his surroundings. He was easily 16 hands tall, with a shiny black coat and wild mane. The horse was so startling that it would be easy to overlook his rider, a small figure compared to the massive animal.
The rider had a dark hood covering its head, no doubt for some shade against the sun. Its hands clutched the reins tightly, so that their knuckles were white. These hands were surprisingly small, dainty even—however, they were dirty, the nails and palms caked with dried mud. That was the only visible part of the figure, those cringe-worthy hands. Everything else was covered by the dark cloak, shielding it from prying eyes.
The horse suddenly stopped short, its head swishing back and forth, not uneasily but in suspicion. The figure leaned forward, placed a hand on his neck, caressing it gently and whispering soothing words. A slender, pale nose flashed as the hood was jostled, but it vanished just as quickly. The figure sat back up when the horse calmed, and tossed back the hood and jumped down, revealing a woman. She had, at the most, twenty-five years in her entire life. She had the possibility of being attractive, maybe even beautiful, if not for her unkempt, rough appearance. Her hair, long, chestnut brown, was greasy and tied back at the back of her neck. Her face was pale with the exception of a few blotchy pink spots, no doubt from sunburn, and dirt and mud smeared across her cheeks. The eyes that sprouted from her face were probably her best feature, bright, clear, and green.
There was no question that this woman had been living on her own, in the elements, for several weeks, if not months. She was slender but toned; her muscles must have been formed from at least sparring with a sword. There was a beautifully crafted sword sheathed on her side, with a red ruby on the hilt. This was another queer trait of the young woman—her attire. She was dressed in men's clothing, down to her gray boots and dark green tunic. It was certainly not proper for a lady to wear such masculine clothing.
"Come, Shadow," said the woman softly, taking ahold of the horse's bridle and leading him forward. He nudged her in the back playfully, causing a snort to escape from the woman's throat. "So obnoxious," she laughed quietly.
The pair walked for an hour or so in silence—the woman had desperately needed to stretch her legs after riding for so long, and what better way than to walk alongside her only companion. Abruptly, while they were walking, Shadow came to a halt, tossing his head back and forth irritably. As this must have been a rare occurrence, the woman stopped as well, and looked around her, her hand clenching the hilt of her sword.
A horse was riding towards them at a hasty pace, enough to make the woman's blood run cold. Her eyes narrowed, trying to see if the horse had a rider, but she could not see far ahead enough. Thinking quickly, the woman grabbed Shadow's bridle and pulled him over to a large rock formation, large enough to hide them from immediate sight. She did not want to be found, not yet.
She put a finger to her lips as her eyes searched Shadow's, and he nudged her shoulder in confirmation. Unsheathing her sword, she pulled her hood up and steadied herself, her palms becoming increasingly sweaty in the process.
The horse seemed to slow as it approached their hiding spot, and it was now close enough for the woman to see that it did indeed have a rider. The horse was strong and sturdy, but nowhere near as beautiful as Shadow. He slowed completely, anxiously staring around, as if he could sense that the woman and her horse were hiding. The rider pulled tightly on his reins, and dismounted from his horse. He walked past their hiding spot, his steps slow and methodical, his sword now unsheathed as well-a great shield was slung over his shoulder, but he did not put it to use, not yet.
The woman took a silent breath, in and out, and stepped out, walking silently behind the rider. She could not risk being found, not now. Her steps were silent as she approached the rider, the tip of her sword pointing directly at the back of his neck. When she was practically a breath away from him, she raised it, ready to strike. As her sword made its descent, the rider spun around, holding his own sword up in a block. Thus the sword battle began.
Parry, jab, parry, the woman thought to herself as she battled with the rider. Sweat gathered on her brow and beneath her arms. She caught glimpses of him with each clash of metal on metal—long, rich dark brown hair, steel gray eyes, a strong nose and jaw. She was blessed to have her face hidden in shadow, or else the man would surely underestimate her skill if he realized she was, in fact, a woman.
It went on for minutes, hours, maybe days, the woman could not be sure. It seemed it would never end—they were too evenly matched. Suddenly his leg shot out, kicking her feet out from underneath her and forcing her to topple onto her backside, the rider's sword tip aimed directly at her neck. Her hood slipped, and her disguise ruined.
The rider hesitated, and took a step away from the woman. The shock was evident in his eyes—he clearly did not expect his advisory to be a woman. As they both caught their breath, the woman realized just who she was battling—someone she had seen throughout her time growing up in Minas Tirith, a constant presence in her life. It was none other than the Steward of Gondor's eldest son, Lord Boromir. The woman silently cursed herself for her horrid luck.
"Who are you?" Boromir demanded now, his sword still pointing at her, even though he now had some distance. "Speak, now."
The woman's temper flared, and she instantly got to her feet, ready to fight once more. "How dare you speak to me as if I am some peasant girl you can order around," she snarled, her lip curling in fury.
Boromir's mouth opened, about to retort angrily, but he closed his mouth quickly, thinking better of whatever response he was going to make. "I simply wish to know the name of the woman who attacked me moments before," he said through gritted teeth, still not exactly able to control his emotions.
The woman stared into his eyes, and after a moment's hesitation, responded with, "Neisa. My name is Neisa."
"Thank you," said Boromir sincerely. "My name is—"
"I know perfectly well who you are," Neisa cut him off, now sheathing her sword, sure that she was safe now. Hopefully Lord Boromir hadn't taken to cutting down random maidens in his past time.
"Well then, Neisa, why did you attack me, if you knew who I was?" asked Boromir, sheathing his sword as well and taking a tentative step towards her.
Neisa began to notice details about him she hadn't realized before—like how he was more than a foot taller than her, and was very broad shouldered. This was, no doubt, the reason why so many women back in Minas Tirith would practically swoon over Lord Boromir. "I did not realize who you were until you knocked me down, which was an unfair move, by the way," she added bitterly. "I do not trust lone riders easily. That is why I attacked you."
"There is nothing fair about battle," Boromir responded, and his face was far away for just a moment before Neisa raised her eyebrows at him. "For what it is worth, I am sorry for knocking you down, and possibly harming you."
"There was no harm, I assure you," said Neisa, frowning at the idea that he had still beaten her in battle. She clicked her tongue, and Shadow approached the pair, his eyes watching Boromir's every move. The sight brought a smile to Neisa's face.
Boromir stared at the stunning horse, amazed at both its size and owner. "That is quite a horse," he said after a moment's silence. As if on cue, Shadow nodded his head and nuzzled the side of Neisa's face. A girlish laugh escaped from her, and she nudged him away.
"This is Shadow," she said without turning towards Boromir. "He has been my companion for many years, ever since—" Her voice faded, and it was her turn for her eyes to be thousands of miles away, in a battlefield riddled with bodies forgotten. "Where are you heading, Lord Boromir? You are a long way from Minas Tirith."
There was only silence for several moments, and then Boromir responded vaguely, "I am on a quest for my father. And yourself?"
Neisa could not help but smile wryly, realizing that, of where he was heading, she would never know. "I am simply enjoying this lovely scenery," she said just as vaguely, turning to face Boromir once more.
Boromir studied this young woman—she held such fight and fire within her heart, and had decent skill with a blade. Perhaps it would not hurt to have a companion on this quest, one who could defend herself; there was a clear desire for adventure in her eyes, a restlessness that he had once seen in himself. He would not tell her his intentions, of course, but simply allow her to accompany him to Rivendell. "Well, if you need a change of this 'lovely scenery', as you call it, perhaps you would like to join me on my quest? It would not hurt to have another blade."
She gazed into his eyes, clearly debating within herself whether or not to agree to his proposition. "To where are you going, Lord Boromir?" asked Neisa finally, her eyes never leaving his.
"Rivendell," replied Boromir. "I am sure you have heard of it before?"
Of course she had—when she was a child, Neisa had dreamed of one day visiting the elves, of meeting one of those stunningly beautiful beings. Rivendell was supposed to take your breath away, its beauty so remarkable. She felt her will breaking, and finally agreed, "I will accompany you, Lord Boromir. If only to show you that I am, in fact, more skilled with a blade than you could ever dream to be."
His laugh was hearty and handsome, Neisa easily noticed this. However, her eyes narrowed at his clear amusement, and she rolled her eyes, turning back to Shadow and mounting him. "Come, Shadow—let us make haste and leave this ridiculous man in our dust."
Shadow raced forward, happy to finally be able to sprint and stretch his long, athletic legs. Boromir mounted his horse as well, hastily following the woman that intrigued him so. They rode quickly, never dallying in one place. Before nightfall, they had reached the Gap of Rohan, close enough to see the burning fires of Isengard. "What has happened?" asked Neisa; her father had always told her that Isengard was a lovely place, one filled with evergreen and the clearest of blue rivers.
"I am not sure," replied Boromir honestly; they were only a distance away from the outskirts of Fangorn Forest, and it seemed like a safe enough place for the night. "Come, we will stop here for today, and begin riding in the morning."
After collecting enough wood for a small fire, Boromir and Neisa settled down around the fire, sitting directly across from the other. He handed her a piece of his salted pork, and before she could gracefully deny him, he said, "You have to eat something. You'll need your energy for tomorrow."
Frowning at his knowing eyes, she took the pork and began to chew on it thoughtfully. It made her mouth water—she had honestly forgotten the taste of meat since she had left her home and been out in the wilderness. She did her best to eat it slowly, savoring every last bite. After she was finished, Neisa pulled her knees up to her chest and stared into the fire, thinking of home. She felt Boromir's eyes on her, watching her carefully in the silence.
"I must admit, Lady Neisa—"
"No," she said suddenly, her bright eyes instantly boring into his. "I am no lady, I assure you."
"Alright," Boromir said slowly, as if afraid she would run off into the night, "I will call you Neisa, if you no longer address me as 'Lord Boromir'." Her lips pursed untrustingly, but she nodded, and he continued, "As I was saying, you are quite talented with a blade. Who taught you such skill?"
Neisa did not answer at first, studying the flames hungrily licking the wood. Boromir waited for her reply patiently, his eyes never leaving her face. "My father," she said, her voice low and soft. "He had always dreamed of having a son, of teaching him how to hunt and fight, and one day becoming a soldier, like him. When my mother had me instead, he took it in stride—as soon as I was strong enough to hold a sword, he taught me everything, sparring with me every day. Until—"her voice died off, and she looked up into Boromir's eyes, so kind and warm. Her tongue was twisted, and she stopped herself from saying any more. "Good night, L—Boromir," said Neisa, laying down in the dirt and turning her back towards him. "I shall see you in the morning."
She began to slumber, not knowing that Boromir pulled a blanket from his satchel—the only one that had been packed away—and gently draped it over her slim body, protecting her from the chilly wind. Putting out the fire with his foot, he slowly drifted off to sleep, light enough to where a crack of the twig would alert him immediately. He no longer had to protect himself, you see—he was determined to protect the mysterious young woman who was now plaguing his thoughts.
So, what did you all think? Please review and let me know!