Those Who Wander
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, or Lord of the Rings. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.
Chapter Four: The Road to Weathertop
All things considered, it's not a wholly unpleasant sojourn to Weathertop. They've been graced with bright, sunny days, made cool by the wind that blows down from the mountains, and for the most part, the scenery is beautiful. The halflings, too, aren't necessarily terrible charges, which is something of a relief. They're unassuming and inquisitive, and they talk perhaps more than Eleanor or Strider would prefer, but they're sensible, not prone to causing trouble for their guides, and very much conscious of the danger they'd all like to avoid.
Strider, too, is a pleasant travel companion. He doesn't doubt her skills, doesn't undermine her ability to protect herself or the halflings, leaves her to her own devices when she wanders off to forage, or hunt, or to ensure they haven't been followed by any unsavoury sorts. It's a refreshing change from the Rangers of Gondor she'd last travelled alongside, and in some respects, Eleanor's still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
All the while, it takes them six days to catch sight of Weathertop, and by that point, Eleanor's more or less had her fill of curious hobbits and their unending questions. She's grown too accustomed to her isolation, perhaps, because she's ready to be alone again, to rest and recuperate after a week in other people's company. She's tired, physically and mentally drained, and the constant state of awareness is an exhaustion Eleanor can feel in her bones.
"We'll make camp here," Strider declares.
They're in the shadow of Weathertop, near a stream, and sheltered from the elements by a few, fat alder trees. It's bleak here, wildlife scarce, and sentient habitation is long gone from these lands. It's treacherous, too - their allies aren't the only individuals aware of the sightline advantages posed by the old watchtower - but it would be reckless to proceed after dark, and there is a lot more at stake than their own lives.
With that in mind, Eleanor deposits her pack on the most level section of ground she can find, stretches out her bedroll, and makes herself comfortable on top of it. Sam builds up a small fire, and sets to work preparing something moderately tasteful for supper.
Leant against one of the alder trees, Strider smokes his pipe, gaze on the dark outline of Weathertop. It's unsettlingly quiet here, the night broken only by the calls of a few lonely birds, and Eleanor holds her sword close, far too on edge to properly rest.
"Have you ever been to Rivendell, Lady Raven?" Sam enquires.
"I have not," Eleanor answers, "My home is South, in Gondor, and I generally prefer to remain close. Bree is perhaps the northernmost settlement I've visited."
"Is it common for women to learn how to fight, in Gondor?"
"No," Eleanor laughs, and adds with a self-deprecating smile, "It's considered unseemly, in fact. My mother despairs for my marriage prospects."
"Is that something you would like?" Merry wonders, "Marriage?"
Eleanor is noncommittal. "Perhaps."
They don't pry much beyond that, and return to the topic of Rivendell. Sam's excited to meet the notoriously - at least in recent years - reclusive elves, and he speaks animatedly about what he's heard regarding the Last Homely House, and it's inhabitants therein. Merry and Pippin listen raptly, but Frodo and Strider are both distracted, and despite the hot food and the crackling fire, their melancholy is contagious.
It's a solemn group, therefore, that seeks rest upon their bedrolls, and even as they set a watch throughout the night, the sleep they hope for is hard to come by.
Eleanor gives up shortly passed midnight, and settles herself beside Strider. She's bundled up in her blanket, her sword close at hand, and the silence between them is broken only by the hobbits' rumbling snores, and the sound of the crackling fire.
That is, until…
"Who taught you to wield a sword?" Strider asks her, curious. There is no judgement in his gaze.
"My father," Eleanor answers, He told me - and everyone who criticised us - that should Gondor ever fall, his daughter would not fall with her. Not without a fight. He taught my sister, too, but she doesn't care much for it."
Her sister, Lothíriel, is sophisticated, ladylike, and elegant in ways Eleanor will never be, though no less fierce because of it. She revels in court intrigue, in politics, in wordplay that Eleanor has never had the patience for, and she is their father's greatest asset in the Court of Gondor.
Eleanor doesn't pretend to understand her sister's interest in politics, just as Lothíriel doesn't pretend to understand Eleanor's comfort with a sword, shield, or lance. Nevertheless, they are sisters, love each other as such, and most days, Eleanor misses her fiercely.
She wonders, sometimes, if Lothíriel misses her just as much.
"That sounds like him," Strider acknowledges. There's a reminiscent smile on his face, "I'd never met a man of Gondor more intrigued by Rohan. It took me two months to realise it wasn't Rohan, but rather, Rohan's shield maidens that interested him."
"What was it, specifically?" Eleanor asks, mirthful.
"I believe it was their ability to destroy a man without trying," Strider answers, tone droll, "But then, I never asked for the particulars."
Eleanor contains her humour to an irrepressible grin, and she shakes her head, unable too find an appropriate response to a comment like that. She admires her father, for his open mind and for the unequivocal faith he has in his daughters, but she can't quite imagine a young Prince Imrahil drawn to Rohan's historically tall, blonde, and blue-eyed shield maidens for their martial ability.
At least, not solely for that reason.
"What were your thoughts? Regarding the shield maidens?"
Strider smokes his pipe, his expression thoughtful. "I think it is a shame so few of them remain."
"The sensibilities of Gondor have reached the Court of Rohan in that regard," Eleanor explains with a grimace of displeasure.
"Rohan will remember their history, in time," Strider says, "I firmly believe we've not yet seen the last of Rohan's shield maidens."
"I hope you are right," Eleanor answers solemnly.
Aragorn smiles, and his eyes crinkle in the corners. He doesn't acknowledge her response verbally, however, and instead smokes his pipe with the careless ease of someone who has been smoking for a long, long time. Eleanor doesn't smoke, personally - she'd lived through too many of Hermione Granger's lectures regarding the perils of smoking, addiction, and lung cancer to ever feel inclined to - but the smell of Strider's tobacco is comforting and familiar.
It takes her a while to realise it's the same sort of tobacco the eldest of her brothers, Elphir, smokes, and Eleanor is struck with a sudden, poignant feeling of homesickness. She'd just been there, travelling and fighting alongside her cousin, Faramir, but she'd not taken the opportunity to visit Dol Amroth, and far from home, Eleanor wishes she had.
When would she lay eyes upon her homeland, once more? And given the ongoing conflict Gondor continues to face against the armies of Mordor, what would be left when she does so?
Author's Note: Apologies for the delay. There was supposed to be a second part to this chapter - the Weathertop Scene - but it didn't want to be written. Hope you've enjoyed, in any case. Thanks for reading. Until next time, -t.
