Chapter Two: The Catalyst

From the gloom he watched, calloused fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword, not yet unsheathed but at the ready. His storm-grey eyes were used to the dark, trained to see through the shadows and deceit that darkness bore, and so he had no trouble watching, waiting for his prey. He sat silently, observing the comings and goings of those at the Prancing Pony, though the hour was late and there were but few. The hobbits snored behind him on their feather beds, not yet aware of the true danger in which they toiled. But they would know, and know soon.

He shifted in his seat ever so slightly, a noiseless movement. Sound could get one killed if they were less diligent than he. But his boots made no din, his tunic and breeches no rustle. His green cloak lay discarded on the bed set aside for him, though his scant belongings were packed and ready to be tied to saddle if the situation called for a hasty departure.

Which he was almost sure it would.

He turned his head then, a slight movement. His eyes narrowed and he peered through murky glass of the window with strident acuity. A chilling silence had fallen over Bree and simultaneously his nerve endings thrummed with energy. Even from his position, situated on the second floor of the inn, he felt the temperature of the air drop. Not a mouse dared to quiver, not a human risked to be seen. The goings-on of those still awake in the Prancing Pony faltered, feeling the fear and despair that suddenly gripped the atmosphere. He listened as feet began to scramble across wood planks below, heard whispered voices bid the candles and fires put out.

There.

From the shadows they came. Cloaked heavily in black with long, gaping, faceless heads, riderless they were now though he knew from experience they preferred the stench of their hell beasts as their cohorts. They carried blades two-thirds the length of their bodies and glided across the road from whence they came, uncaring of who saw them. For there were none whom they feared, nor were there any who did not fall at their feet and beg for a mercy that would not be given. They had their own single-minded means to achieve, would stop at nothing to see it brought to fruition, their master served. Servants of Mordor, of Sauron himself, they were.

The Nine Ringwraiths.

Nazgûl, Strider thought, his eyes narrowing as he heard the door just two floors below him crash open to admit them entry.

He sat back in his chair and held his breath, listening to every creak of the floor, every step of their metal-booted feet. The hobbits had yet to wake and he envied them their sleep, because it was something he saw little of anymore. They questioned him little when he bid them rub themselves and their belongings with pine needles and fresh hay from the barn to mask their scent, though the looks they had continued to give him made him believe they thought he lost his mind.

To be ignorant like they are, he thought, not unkindly. He had always envied hobbits of their carefree nature, of their quick smiles and boisterous laughter. To be innocent and blissful amongst the evil of this world.

He listened as the nazgûl took the stairs, and he shifted restlessly in his seat, glancing at his cloak and satchel. Should he wake the hobbits? Would the nazgûl fall for his trick? Could he really defend against all nine of them, if it came to it? To run would have been folly… They would have caught us along the road… But will this prove to be any better?

On the floor below him, in the very room where the hobbits once were, Strider listened as the door crashed open with a deafening thwack. Frodo startled awake, and his startlement awakened Samwise, and Strider motioned for them to be silent and still as he listened to the commotion on the floor below. The slicing of swords rent the air, waking the other two hobbits Peregrin and Meriadoc. With a single shake of his head Strider bid them quiet, and together they listened to the upturning and splintering of furniture, and then the shrill shriek of the infuriated nazgûl when they realized they had been slighted.

Strider looked from the pale faces of the hobbits to turn his gaze to the window once more, and his relief was great as he watched the Ringwraiths storm from the Prancing Pony in all their blackened fury. Their horses awaited them, having been called by their cry, and they stomped and bit and reared, feeling the dissent of their masters. With bated breath Strider watched as the Nine mounted, still screaming with rage, and then bled into the night on their beasts once more.

"Quickly."

Strider stood from his chair and grabbed his cloak and satchel, though the hobbits did not move, sat in open-mouthed shock on their beds. He knew they were still leery of him though the letter Gandalf had left Frodo said otherwise, and his annoyance got the better of him when he exclaimed, "Would you like to wait here until they come back?"

They exchanged looks with one another in unease, and Strider's aggravation intensified. "They will know you have not taken to the road once they scent there are no living things out there. We must make haste." The myriad of scents in Bree threw them off, but not for long.

"Where will we go?" Pippin asked, his brown eyes wide with fear.

"Away from here." Strider replied, throwing his satchel over his shoulder and belting his sword at his waist. "Now make haste."

Strider hurried into the stables toting a torch, which he thrust at Sam so he could ready his horse, and then help with the ponies.

"Pippin, Merry, Frodo, see to the ponies." He barked at the other hobbits, who were looking at him with fear shining in their pale faces. "Sam, you follow me. Bring the torch."

"Where are we going?" Sam quipped, struggling to keep up with Strider's long gait as he searched the stalls for his borrowed mount. "Where are you taking us now? And in the middle of the night? Why can we not stay in Bree?"

"Because those Ringwraiths are after you, and you do not want to be caught by them, Samwise." Strider told him, whisking down the aisle of stalls in search of his horse. He frowned when on the first pass he did not find the steed, and briskly walked the length of the stalls once more with Sam trotting in his wake.

"They want the Ring, do they not? The trinket Frodo carries?"

"Yes." Strider replied, at the same moment Merry called, "We cannot find the ponies!"

And Strider could not find his horse. In fact, the stables were empty, save a pathetic looking pony and an elderly workhorse.

They have loosed the horses. Strider thought, working his jaw in his frustration. They are not making this easy.

"There are no horses!" Sam cried, earning a stoic glare from Strider. "What do we do now?"

"Pack the pony with supplies. We must make haste from this place." Strider ordered, storming to the front of the stables, his mood dark.

"But you never told us where we are going!" Sam insisted, his round face muddled with his own irritation.

"We will head for Amon Sûl." Strider replied, helping the hobbits to load the pony with their packs. "We will come from the north, stay off the main road. It is where they will be looking."

"Amon Sûl? Old Weathertop, where the abandoned fortress is?" At Strider's nod he asked, "Will we be safe there?"

Strider paused in his swift movements to glance down at the hobbit. "I do not know." he said honestly, and watched as Sam and Frodo shared a look of dire concern. "But we cannot stay here. They will come back, Sam, and it will be chaos."

Autumn.

It was such a beautiful time of year; Nieriel's most favorite season. When the foliage turned from bright hues of green to burnt orange, deep crimson, or butterfly yellow. When the days were tepid and the nights were chilly enough that one could enjoy an open fire wrapped in a warm blanket. When the sun began to disappear a little sooner each day, and the moon stayed a little longer. When the wind blew not with bitter cold but with the scents of spice and leaves, coercing one to stop for a single moment and enjoy the tranquility. It was a moment she was indulging in now, her book forgotten in her lap as she tipped her face toward a ray of sun and basked in the glorious wonder of an autumn afternoon.

She and Arwen were passing the time as they did most afternoons: in their favorite gazebo that overlooked the city of Rivendell, enjoying the far-off melody of the waterfalls and the larks that called the valley home. This morning, like most mornings, they had tended with Elrond; they broke their fast and spoke about matters of Rivendell or the night before, if Nieriel and Arwen had gone scouting. Although Nieriel was in title only a handmaiden, neither Elrond nor Arwen treated her as such, and every morning Elrond would bid her sit instead of serve; Nieriel grumbled but acquiesced every time. The nobles asked her opinion on matters and conversed with her openly and warmly. At night, she and Arwen could usually be found by the hearth sipping wine when they were not scouting the countryside, ridding the land of orcs and uruk-hai.

It was true, Elrond often fondly remarked that Nieriel was his daughter in all ways except for blood, and there was not one person that held that against her; not even Arwen, for they were closer than sisters. Nieriel had been there when Arwen had been born, had helped raise her alongside Celebrían, and had not left her side since. They had played together as children, studied together as youths, learned how to ride, how to wield a sword, how to play the harp together. And throughout the years, Arwen never made Nieriel feel as though she were beneath her, though Nieriel had her own duties as a servant in the household that she attended to with diligence; it would not be said that the kindness she had been shown by Celebrían and Elrond had gone unappreciated.

Truly, it was only Nieriel's orphanage that separated her and Arwen in rank, for it was not unknown throughout the land that Elrond had found her before he had been wed to Celebrían and Nieriel had no family of which to speak; thus no one had the faintest inkling to what her heritage was. And so she had become part of Elrond's household out of the goodness of his heart, and it was there she had come to dwell in the years that followed. And she was happy with the life she had. She was well-fed, had a roof over her head, was surrounded by her closest companions who regarded her with affection, and never wanted for anything. Indeed, life could have been much worse.

It was a debt she would never be able to repay them.

Elrond had taken her in, healed her, brought her strength in her darkest hours. He had given her shelter and affection when the fates had played against her, and then allowed her to stay when no one came to claim her, and then even after he had his own children. In that he was more of a father to her than the one she had no memory of, and dear Celebrían, long departed from this land into the Undying ones in the west, was the only mother she had ever loved.

How I miss her, Nieriel thought sadly.

She sighed then, and glanced at Arwen, who was beginning to work on a new stitch. Nieriel returned her gaze to her book, already half devoured, entitled The Queens of Noldor. Their conversation was scant, something that bothered neither of them, and instead they basked in the peace of the day after a rather rigorous bout of scouting the night before.

The two had not revisited their conversation from the other day. It was not as if they were afraid of the topic, or scared of what the future may hold. No, these Elven maidens were proud, strong in their loyalty to their house and their land. Rather they were uncertain, and were biding their time to wait for the right information, for neither acted rashly or without consulting least of all one another, but first and foremost Elrond. As it was, Gollum was in the keeping of Thranduil, Bilbo had the Ring, Sauron lurked in Mordor, and there were no new developments. All was still for now, peaceful yet. Selfishly, secretly, the women wanted to revel in it, because they both knew the evil Arwen had spoken of was on the horizon, and both had seen enough battles to last a thousand lifetimes.

"I did not know that Finwë had two wives." Nieriel said passively, turning the page to reveal a picture of his second, Indis.

"His first, Míriel, also called Serindë, was skilled greatly in weaving and needlework." Arwen said, her eyes narrowed on her own work. "I could use her nimble fingers now." she mumbled, drawing a small chuckle from Nieriel.

"Why weave a loom when you can a sword? For what good is a needle going to do you when you have orcs knocking at your door?"

"And what good are books, hm?"

Startled, Nieriel jumped when her book was snatched from her fingers. She looked up and scowled as Elladan, son of Elrond, flipped the pages of her volume with eyes that accused of boredom. His brother, Elrohir, had taken a seat beside Arwen and grinned at his brother's teasing.

"Give that back." Nieriel demanded, making a swipe for her book. Elladan snatched it away, stopping to squint at one of the drawings.

"What are you reading now?" he drawled, glancing at her with mischief twinkling in his grey eyes. "Reading, reading, always reading. And if you are not reading you are fighting. And if you are not fighting you are brooding; always so stern! And if you are not brooding you are eating."

Nieriel scowled, her nostrils flaring and her jaw shifting. Elrohir laughed heartily while Arwen tried more delicately to hide her mirth. "The Queens of Noldor; which you would know if you could read." She snatched at the book again, and was less successful in retrieving it this time than the last.

"I will have you know that father had us a fine tutor." Elladan said, a hand on his heart in mock hurt, as he looked up from rifling through the pages of the tome.

"The best in Middle Earth." Elrohir replied, earning an eye roll from Nieriel.

"You would not know it." Nieriel snapped, reaching for the book once more. But Elladan held it with both hands now, had cocked his head to one side, and was scrutinizing the pages.

"The Queens of Noldor? What are you, looking for your picture?"

The jest roused a laugh from Elrohir, but Nieriel withered ever-so-slightly. Elladan, attuned to her movements, relented and said, "I am sorry, Nee. I did not mean it like that."

"It is nothing." Nieriel said, taking the book from Elladan; this time, there was no struggle. It was not a topic that she liked to talk about, her mysterious lineage. The manner of her birth was a secret she would apparently take to her grave, for she had no recollection of her early years. Had her parents not wanted to claim her? Did she truly have no family, no one that knew her? Had all her kin perished in the War of the Last Alliance, like so many others had?

Had I secretly been searching for an answer? She glanced down at the book, slender, calloused fingers tightening along the binding. It has been hundreds of years. Millennia. You would think I would know better by now.

"Really, Nee, I am sorry. I know that it upsets you." Elladan implored, drawing the she-elf to shake her head.

"It is fine, really."

"Leave her alone, brother." Arwen interjected, glancing up from her needlework. "You have done enough damage."

"Perhaps she will forgive me and mend my wounded heart by acquiescing to lend me her presence?" Elladan offered his outstretched hand. "A walk, my lady?"

Nieriel promptly opened her book and ignored him.

"Do not be like that!"

"Go away, pest."

"Is that how a lady treats her admirer?"

"I am no lady, and you no more admire me than the next passing skirt."

Elladan scoffed. "Surely you have me confused with my brother."

"Since when do we have time to chase skirts?" Elrohir asked, raising a brow. "If you could tell me so I can pen it down, I would greatly appreciate it."

Nieriel scowled between one twin and the next, before returning her eyes to her book. Elladan waved a hand over her page, interrupting her concentration, and she huffed and turned angry green eyes back up to him.

What a nuisance he can be! He was handsome, yes, striking in his features; his bone structure was made to be sculpted in replica. He was tall and lithe, built well with muscle, with long, dark hair and the most breathtaking winter grey eyes. He was as careless and carefree as they came, with a smile to enthrall a goddess and a wit to drive a woman mad. Which he is surely trying to do.

"Really, Elladan, you are being childish."

"And you are being petulant. Come, take a walk with me."

"No."

"I will not give you any peace until you say yes."

"Then you will come to supper one hand less than that of yesterday."

"You might as well go, Nee." Arwen interrupted, glancing up from her stitching once more. "He is right; you will get no peace."

Sighing loudly, Nieriel ignored Elladan's outstretched hand and stood, tucking her book protectively against her side, half hidden in the folds of her green maid's garb. Elladan grinned in victory, and together they disembarked from the gazebo, taking to a winding path that led down to the center of the valley.

Her ill temper dissipating as quickly as it had come, as it always did with Elladan, Nieriel pleasured in the leisure of twilight. The sun was making her descent upon the trees while the moon rose opposite, still pale in his early waking hours. Rivendell was settling down for the evening; women returned from the market, children finished up their chores, and men tied up their wares, preparing to return to a hearty hearth and a healthy meal. However, a few of the homes were empty, and more were emptying by the day. Many of the Elves were sailing for the West, to Aman to be with the rest of their kin. It was a place Nieriel had thought of from time to time, of going to in search of her family, but the thought of never again returning to Rivendell was not one that she had come to terms with yet, and so she remained.

I have not killed enough orcs yet, she thought, a heated stave of anger striking the cords of her heart. She felt the small hairs on her neck raise and her body thrummed with anticipation; there was little else in this world she loved more than killing orc. For she had much to repay them for almost taking her life. From what she had learned from Elrond, she had either wandered into the outer realms of Gondor or been brought a captive, and then beaten or tortured and left for dead. Her mind had been lost for a time; it was not a time she remembered. When she tried to think back on the memories, her body rebuked, throwing up a steadfast wall to block out the sorrow and grief as if it never happened. In turn, she could not remember her mother or father, if she had any family, or even from whence she came.

She was Elvish, at least half, of that much she was sure. She was built like the Elves, her build lean, tall, and honed from years of blade practice with Elrond's children and other cohorts. She moved with agility, was light of feet, and possessed extremely acute senses. She did not age quickly like Men, indeed it had slowed to keep her in the physical prime of her life; most Men assumed she had not yet reached the age of thirty.

She had long, dark, glittering hair of sable, which fell straight to her waist, though she usually kept the locks pulled back from her face. Her intelligent eyes sparkled like the stars the Elves adored, glowing forest green with her mirth, which was so few and far between her stoically austere character. Her face was oval-shaped, with a slightly pointed chin and high, delicate cheekbones that gave away to a pair of dainty, pointed ears. Her nose was long and slender, upturned ever so gently at the end, and gave way to a pair of arcing, stern dark brows. She had a scar that snarled her upper lip ever so slightly; it was one the one that had nearly cleaved her in her childhood. She had never fully healed from the gash no matter what Elrond had tried, and it ran the length of her face, from her temple to her lip. Her bottom lip was fuller than the top, an attribute she hated, as well as her feline eyes. But then again she did not look in the mirror much. She was not some frivolous lady who fretted over her looks, the color of her gowns, the way her hair fell that day. She was strong, a woman of power and intellect, of independence and unwavering loyalty to those and that which she loved most.

This did include the twin sons of Elrond, no matter how vexing they were. She had seen them born, after all; they were like her little brothers. She had kissed their scrapes and bruises and read them stories at bedtime when they were little, and then rode with them to scout lands, encountering enemies and battling together as they grew older. They too were her greatest of friends, knew her every in and out, just as she did theirs.

"Are you going to remain mute for another one hundred years or are you going to talk to me?" Elladan tried to jest, but it was yet another poor one.

After Elrond had found her, Nieriel had remained silent for one hundred years. She did not know why, could not explain it though she had tried many times. It was a part of her past that remained shrouded in mystery, and the reminder of such caused Elladan to be receiving of another glare.

"You do not know when to stop, do you?" she asked rhetorically, though, of course, the witty and endearingly dense Elladan retorted anyway.

"I only want to see you smile, Nee. You are so stern all the time."

"There is nothing wrong with being serious." she replied, only slightly put-off. It was not the first time Elladan would tease her and would most certainly not be the last. However she was not cowed by his imposing height, for he was much taller than she, or his dashing countenance, which the other Elven maids liked to tinkle about during their chores; she gave him his wit straight back.

She looked at him then, from beneath ebony lashes, with a raised brow. "You make enough jests for the both of us, as it is."

They traversed the path easily, for it was one they took often, winding down the road through Rivendell. There were few about, and those that saw them greeted them warmly, smiling at her and bowing slightly toward Elladan.

"I presume you just returned home." Nieriel said, her hands clasping her book before her, her gown rustling with her movements. It was a soothing celadon velvet, with sleeves that laid close to her arms and wrists, and boasted of a simple silver bodice. "How was Nîn-in-Eilph?"

"Rather unbothered, as usual. Those that do not know the area well usually end up drowning in the hidden streams and marshes. We did not come across many enemies." Elladan replied.

"I daresay any that came across you, Elrohir, and Glorfindel would not stand a chance." Nieriel said, causing Elladan to glow with pride.

"It was mostly just me, really. Elrohir and Glorfindel watched as I did all the fighting." Elladan said, and Nieriel looked up at him with great skepticism.

"I am sure we will hear differently at supper."

Elladan laughed, his long, dark hair rippling in the breeze. "What does that pretty golden flower know anyway?" he said, poking fun at Glorfindel's antiquated title as Lord of the House of the Golden Flower.

"I'm sure you would not be saying as such if you were to meet him across a battlefield." Nieriel replied, a slight smile taking her features. She had sparred with Glorfindel a time or two, had seen him fight in battle, and he did not get his reputation as one of the mightiest Elves of Middle Earth for no reason.

"Tell me though," Nieriel continued, changing the subject to one that had plagued her since her conversation with Arwen. "What think you of this so-called Ring War?"

Elladan bowed his head, his hands clasped behind him. His warrior's braids hung long from his temples to brush his shimmering grey tunic, emblazoned with silver embroidery, and his black leather boots barely made a sound as they walked the cobbled stone. His black breeches were clean, boasting that he had washed and changed since returning from their journey on which he, his brother, and their good friend Glorfindel had spent a fortnight scouting Nîn-in-Eilph and its surrounding lands.

"There is nothing 'so-called' about it." Elladan began, his grey eyes usually mirthful now turned serious, his voice deepening from his strong tenor in his concern. "Gondor is under constant attack, lying so close to Mordor. Faramir and Boromir barely have a hold on Osgiliath, and Ithilien has long been overrun. We have seen the number of enemies multiply exponentially, even coming so far as our lands. But you know this. Why do you think it a trivial matter?"

"I do not," Nieriel countered, her own brow marred with her concern. "I just do not know what to think."

"Sauron was before our time, but Father says there is no evil that even comes close to rival his own. And we are sitting back and biding our time while he is making a play for Middle Earth. There is no White Council to rule over the shadow like in times past, and there are many whisperings without a lot of action." Elladan sounded just as annoyed as she had when speaking with Arwen, and she was fond of his warrior's spirit because it so matched her own. "Not even father knows what to do."

"You have spoken to Elrond about this?"

Elladan nodded. "The Elves grow restless. He has been in correspondence with Gandalf, and though the Grey Wizard is reticent, he has hinted that he knows much. Father has met with Celeborn and Galadriel, and they too know there is danger on the horizon. We have not heard from Thranduil, know not how Mirkwood fares. The attacks on Men in the south have not gone unnoticed, and though they do not ask for aide we have ridden there a time or two, have seen the destruction wrought by the enemy."

"I do not understand why we have not quelled Sauron before this." Nieriel insisted vehemently. "We could have sent him to his ruin before any of it had come to this."

"We did not know he had accrued so much power." Elladan replied. "He had been lying in secrecy for so long, and just these past months he has decided to test that new power.

Nieriel felt a pang of dread thud in time with her heart. "And now it is too late."

Later that evening, after the sun had fully set and the moon had risen, the stars glittered down at those in the dell as Arwen and Nieriel prepared for bed. Indeed supper had been a boisterous event; all reveled when Elladan and Elrohir arrived home. They always returned with boastful stories and brought laughter into the household, and Glorfindel was a welcome addition as well. Nieriel enjoyed watching their antics, for their mirth brought great delight to Elrond, who so seldom smiled after Celebrían had departed for Aman.

"I do not know which brother of mine is more prideful." Arwen remarked as Nieriel brushed out her beautiful, russet hair. "It is a wonder their large heads do not get in the way of them when they are in the midst of fighting."

Nieriel chuckled low, her own hair lying in a shining wave of sable down her back. She was dressed in her chemise and night-robe and boasted of bare feet, for her chambers adorned Arwen's and she did not have to travel far to her bed. Thankfully this evening they had decided to reprieve from their scouting, and she would be able to slumber in her own bed instead of riding the fields surrounding Rivendell.

"Where do you see yourself a year from now, Nee?"

Nieriel looked at Arwen through the mirror, a questioning mar to her brow as her ministrations ceased ever so slightly. "That is an odd question. What made you ask?"

"All this increased talk of the Ring and a war… It makes me ponder the future and what it holds."

Nieriel slowly resumed her task, her eyes downcast as her thoughts developed. "I suppose it depends on the fate of Middle Earth."

"Do you see yourself becoming a part of war, if it is to come to that?"

Nieriel glanced up at Arwen. "What you choose to do, I will stand by you."

Arwen grew silent then, and for a time became lost to her own thoughts, her grey eyes vacant as she peered into her reflection. Nieriel broke her reverie when she asked, "And what will you choose to do?"

Arwen smiled softly, and Nieriel thought it was a sad gesture. "I am not a great warrior such as you. I have no desire to be an asset in whatever this may come to be, and I will not fault you if your heart guides you elsewhere; I know the retribution you seek."

I owe them much yet. It was no secret, her hatred of the Shadow. However Nieriel's first and foremost loyalty was to Arwen, without a doubt or second thought. "I will not leave your side."

"But you have such skill! I have seen few wield double blades better than you do."

"It is not up for discussion, Arwen." Nieriel set the brush aside on a small table by the hearth as Arwen swept up from the stool from where she sat. "My loyalty resides with you."

Arwen sighed heavily and glided toward her four-poster bed, which laid beneath a window overlooking the gardens behind the Main House. Adorned with linen of deep, shimmering indigo and pillows of the finest satin, the lady fell onto the piece, her night robe falling in forest green ripples about her frame. Nieriel began to straighten up the pieces on Arwen's vanity before stoking the hearth once more, and then drifting over the wooden floors to pull shut the doors leading to her balcony.

"What if it does not come to war? What if we quell this force? Will you sail for the Undying Lands?" Arwen asked her, propping her head up in one elegant hand, while her other rearranged her robes. "You take little time for yourself, Nee, rarely do anything that brings you pleasure. You know father and I would not hold it against you if you did not work so hard. And I do not believe I have ever known you to have a companion. Unless, of course, you are better at keeping secrets than I thought."

Nieriel looked at Arwen with a raised brow, and the Elven lady laughed richly, her grey eyes sparkling in her mischief.

"I have things more important than that to focus on. Besides, I take time to read."

"And you have never dreamed of romance, like those you have read about? What if you find a great love here on Middle Earth? Will you sail for Aman then?"

Nieriel snorted. Romance. "I have nothing to offer anyone, Arwen. I am no one." A simple maid, without title, lineage, or heritage. "Though I will admit I have thought little of sailing to Aman. Rivendell has been the only home I have ever known; it would be hard to part from here."

Arwen sat up and frowned delicately at her friend, watching as she moved from window to window to draw the shutters. Nieriel knew without looking that Arwen harbored pity; though her friend did not mean to belittle her with such, it was in Arwen's nature to be so compassionate.

"You are someone to me." Arwen said gently then, reaching out to still Nieriel in her task.

Nieriel ceased, her heart softening as she met the kind gaze of her friend. Arwen smiled and squeezed her arm as she said, "Who would I share my deepest desires with, my most whimsical of fantasies with, if not for you? Who would soothe me when I am sad and rejoice with me when I am happy? You are my dearest friend; you will always mean something to me, even without all the frivolous titles."

Nieriel felt emotion pull at her heartstrings; there was little in the world that meant much to her, yet Arwen was one of them. She would lay down her life for her without question or hesitation and knew the lady would do the same. The shared a bond that transcended that of family or friend.

But Nieriel was not very good with words of sentiment, and Arwen knew as such. They shared a simple smile, one that spoke volumes for their sisterhood, and Nieriel went about her task as she said, "Tell me of your Strider. Have you heard from him lately?"

"I have not." Arwen said, her voice softening in her sorrow. "The last letter I received from him he was in the Shire, though for what he did not say; that was over a fortnight ago."

"I wonder what has kept him from writing?" Nieriel commented, pulling the last of the shutters closed.

Arwen sighed, settling back into the pillows on her bed. "I wonder indeed."