I hope you got your things together
I hope you are quite prepared to die
Look's like we're in for nasty weather
One eye is taken for an eye.
- Bad Moon Rising, Creedence Clearwater Revivel
A flurry of activity overtook the last homely house by the sea and it abated her prowling and snappish boredom significantly. Gandalf came at last, but he was kept busy telling of dark days and meeting with another of his friends, the steadily healing ring bearer. She spent her own hours spent, showing off her skill in the training yard to the new arrivals. Daily she sparred with a new stranger, showing them her strength before anyone could say she had no skill. The Mirkwood elves were often practising their archery there and they had been polite if distant, admiring her skill and telling her of the women in their woods that made up half their guard. The Dwarves she only saw in the yard and the dining hall, drinking and eating to excess. They were loud, practising with less seriousness and she was glad for it, finding their barrel laugh a little infectious even if they did little more than share a cask of ale and a kind word. There was a clear divide between them all, and they spoke only with weapons in hand, discussing their skills and not much else.
It was the men from Gondor she liked far less. She did not greet them primly at the gate when they had arrived, and she learned to duck from the library, the dining hall and the training yard at certain times of day to avoid their leader. The elves may be distant her, the dwarves mistrusting, but the steward's son and guard was something else entirely, and she hoped he would avoid her in kind. Even his men openly misliked her, mocking her in training even after she had beaten them into the dust and shattered the ribs of one.
It was late one evening, the elven songs filling the valley that she'd not the sense to run fast enough. He caught her with a name, coming late from the scroll room and rubbing sleep from her eyes "Idis!" The steward son, a stranger and a brother all in one was before her at last, impossible to evade and he spoke before she could.
"At last," He said, a curious expression on his face, halfway between relief and yet so intertwined with sadness. "I called my men fools when they said you were here - that after all these years you'd appear like the wind."
"A plight such as this one, it's... difficult to ignore. You know why Elrond calls us here?" She said, her eyes on the ground avoid his eye and his expression, hands folded behind her back, gripped tight. When he took a step closer she stepped back sharply, and cursed herself for the foolish action, another chip in her mask for him to pick apart.
"I dreamed terrible things in Gondor. Isildur's Bane, my dream said. Of his sword and coming doom." When she looked up and met his eye he looked wracked by it, and in days long past she would have known how to comfort him for it, to be kind, but now she could not. Now she swallowed down the words on her lips. She did not speak, and it seemed he needed no answer from her, his dark words hanging in the air as he took another step closer, his hands reaching out as if to embrace her. thirteen long years ago she would have accepted it gladly, now she remained still as stone.
"An envoy, Idis? Is this truly where you've been all these years? My father will not believe it, nor will he accept it" He said at last and idly her hand went to the dagger at her side, realising too late how fool the action was when its twin hung upon his own belt. His eyes fell upon it, but his expression was unreadable. "The strife between our lands is stoked by it, only explain, only give reason that I may tell him -"
"Boromir I told you years ago my reasons." She snapped, but he had every right to anger. Her reasons were false and flimsy as the very air around them. "I've not involved myself in our father's strife again, nor will I bargain for our lands. That is not why I have come." She swept away, too fast, unwilling and unable to speak further with the man of Gondor she'd known as hardly more than a child. It would anger him, aye, but she would take his anger and his hatred over his kindness or his hurt.
She was restless to begin, and thankful when the council was ready at last, called in secret and alluded to in murmurs for so many weeks. The hobbit Frodo was still pale but he looked sick no longer, and she smiled at him, trying to be a friend to the one that held the fate of the world in his small, soft hands. She'd learned from the other halflings he couldn't even swing a sword, how was it he had protected the Ring this far? Compared to the beings circling the courtyard, he was delicate and small, easily overlooked.
She fingered the high collar of her tunic distastefully, uncomfortable with the unweathered fabric so close to her skin. She ran the pad of her thumb over the gleaming thread picking out the decorative knots that usually adorned eored armour and the halls of the kings. Her sleeves billowed, pure white and too grand for her tastes, all flair and flounce. She was dressed prettily, of course, but she would not wear her dress for such a meeting - her sword and shield were slung over her back. She may be playing the princess now, but she was pretending to be a shieldmaiden as well. She'd not stand out further as the only woman among them. All the better when the wood elves, the dwarves and the steward's son had half a dozen men beside them to counsel them, and she sat alone. This was simply another battle, one she had to play with fabric.
Her eyes darted from stranger to stranger, the wood elves, dressed in rich silver and pale blue, resplendent and beautiful as they were, they seemed to think themselves above all but Elrond in the circle, not sparing her a glance where she sat quietly. The dwarves were as merry as always they were, joking amongst themselves, seemingly unaffected by the tension in the air. She let her eyes slide over Boromir and turned her eye to the dark stranger, the ranger that had come without a title. He stood alone as well, and this made her frown. To be here she'd taken up an old name, taken on the task of royalty and pretty manners and still the men of Gondor told her she should return home to her husband and her father. It made her want to snap at the dark ranger, who had freedom enough to live in worn leathers so like hers without shame or reprisal. None had told him he had no right to be sitting in council with them, even while he called himself merely 'friend'.
Her thoughts were interrupted when he met her gaze as if he could see her angry thoughts painted on her face. His lips quirked slightly, and her eyes drew over him the way his had once done over her, observing his stature. He looked like no ranger she had known today, she could see that now without the mask of his well-worn leathers and tired eyes. And watching him in days past, walking the halls like a childhood home, elvish words and gesture coming easily to him as manners. He was a contradiction. For the first time, she saw him today dressed more grandly than any ranger, surely a gift of the elves, rich, clean cloth, soft and dark velvet covering him, though he looked as uncomfortable dressed so as she did. Indeed though he suited them well, his face seemed more regal, grander than the rough life it had clearly become accustomed to.
At last Elrond spoke, drawing Strider's eye from her and hers from his and her own thoughts. Elrond stood, clothed in brilliant red finery but his words were dark, and silence reigned over the council in an instant. "Strangers from distant lands, friends of old. You have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle-earth stands on the brink of destruction. None can escape it. You will unite - or you will fall". An unlikely thing, the girl thought, fingernails digging steadily into her palm. "Each race is bound to this fate... this one doom." She shifted, eyes darting around the circle to see the same discomfort in the eyes of every man there, wondering, calculating. Did they do so in case they need defend to ring or take it for themselves?
"Bring forth the Ring, Frodo" He spoke, voice a gentle demand, and every eye, the eyes of kings and princes, elves, dwarves and men, turned to the sweet, pale young man seated quietly, unarmed and apart from the rest. She pitied him a moment as he stood, took a few steps and laid something down upon a pillar at the centre their party. The attention slid from him in an instant and she could hardly pity him when she could feel the soft, cold weight of The One Ring leave his fingers. She could head the imperceptible sound it made as it settled on the stone like a siren. How pretty it could look, she thought to herself, upon her finger and her hand around her sword, swinging down every man at this pitiful council and then Sauron himself. The Ring could give her such, the Ring could give her power more than an army, a title or a throne. The Ring could free her from all in life still tried to trap her, even her mind. She shook her head, feeling dazed, nails digging into her palms to ground herself. They had spoken, whispers, awed words from the council she hadn't heard but Boromir could not be ignored. His voice was powerful and he stood from his chair, circling their fraught gathering.
"In a dream…" he spoke, his voice rough, his eyes intent upon the delicate gold circle. Hedda felt a spike deep within inside her, possessive and sharp. As if such a man dared look upon her ring - how ugly it would look on his meaty fingers, how little he could wield such power. He'd destroy half of Middle Earth and let the rest rot, that was all the Stewards of Gondor wanted, war and power while they sat safe and warm in their towers. "I saw the Eastern sky grow dark… In the West, a pale light lingered. A voice was crying, your doom is near at hand - Isildur's bane is found."
When he reached for the ring she leapt to her feet, teeth bared like an animal, 'Stop!" She demanded of him, but her actions were ignored. It was Gandalf that changed the tide, that stopped her reaching for her blade and cutting off the hand that dared touch the Ring of Power, words spilling from his tongue like foul curses, spitting and filled with black magic so deep and true the sky swelled, dark with gathering clouds.
She folded back onto her chair, making herself small, ashamed by her display, by her weakness. The ring stood on the plinth now and when she looked on it she could only feel disgusted, looking away where once she had been drawn in. Looking at it now she felt sickened.
Elrond and Gandalf spoke, but she was lost in thought again, the words violent and terrible it was not for some long moments passed that she noticed her fist was so tightly clenched, her nails digging hard into her flesh enough to draw pinpricks of blood to the surface, and she was entranced by them. Her head foggy and disconnected with her body.
"It is a gift...a gift to the foes of Mordor! Why not use this Ring?" But her head darted up, neck moving so fast she felt her dazed mind would snap and her brows furrowed, mouth turning into another scowl when she realised it was he again, Boromir, the man that would not stop speaking. In the years since she had known him, he had changed little. But never before had she found his words enraged her quite so much.
"Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, held the forces of Mordor at bay, by the blood of our people are your lands kept safe! Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy… let us use it against him!" She would not allow such judgment to come from him, her voice an ungentle bark -
"And long has Rohan kept back the tides of Orcs and Goblins from the mountains, Boromir. Long has Rohan watered its crop in the blood of riders. Gondor needs no more weapons." Drawing the eye of the circle at last and holding herself straight, regal and proud, one of them and one of this council. Wild for years she may have been, but she had passed through Gondor and Rohan both, and she had seen the funeral pyres, mass graves, the Simbelmynë that grew over the graves of fighters and farmhands, butchered by dark creatures crossing their lands to Mordor. How could any miss it? The steward son scowled at her, and she knew he had much to say to her that he could not spit at her here.
"You cannot wield it. None of us can." Came the voice of the man beside her, the dark ranger dressed in velvet, his words true and above all honest. As if this was a truth she had yet to admit to herself. "The One Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master."
"And what would a ranger know of this matter?" Boromir spat, his own wealth and circumstances clear as he spoke down to the rough stranger he had not met. To him, she was sure, Strider meant little. She had hardly opened her mouth to retort, ready to tear down the red-headed man who denied his counsel, but she was beaten, the silver-haired elf standing firmly and brilliant with rage. Surprising, when before he had imbued the image of calm, still waters to her eye.
"He is no mere Ranger. He is Aragorn son of Arathorn, you owe him your allegiance."
Silence reigned again and she stared at the man beside her, where she had seen good looks she now saw it was breeding. The blood of kings flowing through his veins and even rough work could not beat away the regal tilt to his form. He had not changed with this revelation, though he looked irritated it had come about. He had not changed, but now she knew he was here as more than just a friend. "The true heir to Gondor," She spoke, voice quiet as fury raged around her. Boromir's anger was not quelled by this but stoked. Here before him sat a threat to his father's false throne, here sat the son to take Gondor from Boromir. In long past days he had spoken, quiet and ashamed, of how he feared the true kings return to usurp he and his future, and now here he sat. She pitied him that. "The king that will make the white tree bloom again," she whispered, repeating the beautiful story, he was near forgotten by time but here he sat before her, in the guise of a ranger. His eyes darted to hers, narrowing for an instant before the racket continued around them. She had been right, it seemed. Strider was more regal than a ranger, his blood was as precious to some as the Ring itself, and it had power enough to turn the tide in this war.
"The Ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came. One of you must do this." Elrond spoke, interrupting the fight raging around them. Gimli's axe lay in shatters, the Ring unscathed and her head ringing, screaming out as if she'd taken the blade to her own back. No mortal blade would kill this evil, even a lord or a kings.
She brought her hand to her temple, turning away from them as they fought on, leaping up, shouting, insulting one another with less respect than a tavern brawl. She would not offer, she did not want this task. All around her, kings and princes fought, the good and famed for glory and for their race - let them fight, let the noble and honest quest to their hearts content. Let her fade away from all of this.
The voice that stopped them was small but he was stronger than they, making himself heard among them. Frodo stood, Frodo offered himself, a simple hobbit, lowly, short and unremarkable. Frodo would take the Ring across the world and into the darkest places there was in all of Middle-earth. She shook her head, meeting his brilliant blue eyes and speaking to him alone, though all around her heard her, derisive, unkind and uncharitable. She had no room or time for sacrifice, she was too certain he would fail under such weight.
"Throw it into some pit in Moria, Frodo, have a dragon swallow up this curse and never let it see daylight. Hide it deep and in the dark, my friend, do not carry it with you." She begged of him, but he shook his head. She felt defeat for a moment, heavy and bitter on her tongue. How was it that darkness had taken her own mind after only a few moments with the ring in sight, and yet here offered an innocent thing, willing to carry it with him, close to his heart and accept no such darkness? "I will take the ring to Mordor," His voice became forceful, and he seemed much taller than he was. Gandalf pledged himself to him, to guide him, and she bit her tongue. Then Strider - Aragorn, a fabled king of men, Boromir a stewards son, the beautiful elven prince, Gimli, they offered sword and bow and all of Gondor to the hobbits aid. They stood behind him, not just Frodo standing between Middle Earth and the end but all of them. It made her less certain he would fail and fall. She followed, as Hedda, rogue of nothing, or Idis, daughter of Rohan, she knew not which.
"If you must carry this, Frodo, then you may call me your shield." She said, at last, slipping her round shield from her back and kneeling before him, pledging her oath to him in a grand manner, as if he were her king and she a simple warrior among his army. She could only offer herself, Rohan was not hers to give, and she would not offer him falsehood here in the light of Rivendell, in light of his courage.