Well I'm making friends with strangers,
making enemies of friends,
When you're living outside the rules there are no rules to bend,
Well I don't need no visitors and I don't need no queen,
I don't need reminding or familiarities

- Get Lonely With Me, George Ezra


From the water there came something, slim and clever and slick. A tentacle snared the hobbit, dragging him back across the rocky bank toward the water. "Strider!" Sam shouted, voice echoing in the halls of Moria. His hobbit fellows were upon him first, light footed as they were they hacked at the limb, freeing him for only a moment before there came a dozen more, knocking them down. Whatever lay waiting in the lake wanted Frodo, the rest of the fellowship left untouched on the bank as their innocent friend was swept ten feet into the air, held by his ankle above a gaping, toothy maw in the water.

Legolas took aim as she and the others bounded into the waist deep water, arrows peppering it's hide and Frodo tossed from limb to limb, keeping him within the monsters grasp even as Boromir felled one of its long limbs like a tree. It was fast, that was clear, attacking from one direction, beckoning them into the water distracting the warriors. Boromir's sword hacked at another long limb to free the ring bearer while behind him snuck another, shooting from the water to grasp him from behind. She was faster, the heavy weight glanced off her shield, battering her into Boromir's back with a foul curse and winded. But it did not find purchase on the weight and width of her shield before she had sliced it in two, making it scream and send another volley toward her. Each she cut down with a quick, ungainly slash until one went beneath her sight, knotting around her ankle under the water and pulling her down beneath the surface.

She had no time to catch a breath, water flooding her open, screaming mouth and nose, stinging her eyes as she was dragged deeper. Blindly she slashed her sword down on its grim tentacle, unable to see or breathe as it drowned her. She curled her body, making herself small as she gripped her blade, having to concentrate hard not to lose its her head felt light, lacking air. Her blade found the limb finally and severed it like raw meat, her slice so hard her blade cut into the skin of her leg and she rose to the surface, coughing up water and diving for the bank. Pain lanced through her, sure to be bruised and bleeding when she had a chance to think beyond the reach of her blade.

When she looked her group was freed, and Frodo scrabbled away as she did, crawling across the rocky bank back into the black tomb of Moria. Hands reached for her, pulling her along into the dark and steadying her weak, loose-limbed steps. She found Boromir's arm around her waist, tugging her away from the entrance where the monster followed. The lake thing pulled its massive body from the water, limbs leveraging it onto the bank behind them, it's grey, slick body shapeless and ugly as it clung to the cliff face, closing in. But the weight of it proved too much, collapsing the entrance down on it, leaving the monster crushed beneath the falling stone. Boromir dragged her away, dodging the heavy stones falling down upon their heads as the entrance sealed, their path plugged by the monsters corpse and the stone. She gasped for breath, skin cold and cold water dripping from her clothes.

Gandalf spoke through the gloom, lighting his staff once more, stepping into the long hall, leading their party across the field of skeletons. "We now have but one choice. We must face the long dark of Moria. Be on your guard...there are older and fouler things than the Orcs in the deep places of the world." Hedda's breath came heavy, breathing in stale air, cold and smelling of decay as Boromir let her go.


Four days they must walk through this oppressive gloom, Gandalf had said as he led the way. The thought a hateful one - only made worse when Gandalf became so plainly lost. On a high platform, three tunnels opened up before them, and in a place like this one could guess that taking the wrong one would be the easiest way for the Ring and the fellowship to starve and die in the darkness. But it gave her time to rest, stopping her limping walk to near collapse upon the stone where they made camp and settled. Boromir had not spoken to her as they walked, and she had not spoken to him, but through the rockier places where they'd had to climb he had taken her arm, helping her unsteady steps and she was glad for it. But she said nothing. Plainly he did not know what to say to her yet and she would not push him again as she had on the mountain.

She settled on a a ledge of hard, cold rock and turned her back to the group as they spoke with one another, not much wanting to entertain them now. Kicking off her boot she rolled up to torn fabric of her leggings to bare it. Before her there was a long but shallow cut, blood congealed and red-brown painting her skin. "You're hurt," came Aragorn's quiet voice above her as she bared the slash, shocking her from her thoughts.

"It's not so deep, but it's badly bruised," She said carelessly, reaching into her pack for the only clean, dry clothes she had - her old travelling clock, shoved to the bottom and hidden away. She ripped a long shred of the hardy, faded black wool and wrapped it around the wound before he batted away her hands, clearly not impressed by her attempt.

He knelt at her feet, moving the heel of her foot to his lap and looking closer, his fingers gentle on the bruised, purpling skin. "It's fine, I am not worried about a little blood," she blurted out, and he looked at her again, one brow raised at her words. As if bribing her he reached into his cloak and took out his pipe, offering it to her and making her laugh. "In that case I am in undeterminable pain," She japed, bringing the back of her hand to her head in a swoon as she took it. She reached into her own pack for her hidden tobacco pouch and matches and filled the barrel as he shook his head at her games, a smile on his lips. He splashed some of the cool liquid from his water skin onto the corner of his cloak, using it to wipe away the dried, red-brown stain from her skin. His motions made her hiss at the contact as she lit his pipe,, the flare of fire drawing his eye. But the cool, slow motion she made soothed her, making her sigh lightly as she looked away from the wound and out into the dark. He looked up at her with a furrowed brow and she looked away, blowing out a short plume of smoke to distract her from the discomfort. "In future you should ask for help when hurt." He told her, some reproach in his tone.

From his own pack he drew a few dried sprigs of greenery wrapped in a grey handkerchief and put them between his lips, chewing them into a paste and that drew her gaze again. The paste he smoothed over her cut and it stung but she didn't flinch, only her eyes tightening as he bound it with the cloth she'd torn from her cloak. When her ankle was bound he did not move, his eye on her bare leg, purpling with bruises but higher, a series of wicked scars curving around the back of her shin. Whip marks from her time serving in the lordly houses of Rohan and Gondor, and a poor one she'd made. That much was clear in the raised silver marks. He ran his calloused fingertips over them, making her shiver softly as he traced them, a question in his gaze.

"In future I will simply not get hurt." She japed, offering his pipe back to him when he was done, trying to make light and shifting her leg from his lap. "But thank you, I'm not the healer you are." She said, voice more honest and open than she was comfortable mustering. She quickly shoved her legging down over the bandage to cover them, stepping into her boot felt better covered, her skin showing too clearly the life she'd led.

Gimli's voice broke their silence, shattering the understanding hanging between them as his fingers had traced her skin and he stood from his knees to sit beside her on the rock. "You've seen the home of dwarves now, Lassie, haunted as they are, and the flighty halls of elves," Gimli spoke across their dark gathering, turning his gaze to her with a glint of merriment and moving to sit with the two children of men. "What of your own? Tell us of your own palace!" He demanded, and Boromir's own eyes were upon her, slinking closer to join their little group.

"There's no palace, Gimli." She answered after a few long moments. "Meduseld, the Golden Hall of the kings is on a hill beneath the white mountains." She said lamely, not giving him the detail he wanted, merely offering the information anyone in Rohan knew, unemotional and unaffected. Licking her lower lip she paused, looking to the ground but knowing from their looks she would have to give more. "We have little use for the art and delicacy of elves, it's built of thatch and timber, but it's grand even still…" her voice took on a lighter quality, not meeting the eyes of the men around her, feeling them all upon her.

"The Rohirrim love their horses, of course, they're known for it. Word across the world is that an Eorling can ride even the wildest mare if they need, and none can face a horsed army of the Riddermark. So it stands that the stables are near as grand as the hall, housing destriers stronger and faster than any you'll find in all Middle Earth." Her eyes went far away, thinking of the rustic timbers of Meduseld, the warm nights and roaring fires and summer fetes.

"Are there many shieldmaidens like you in Rohan?" Aragorn's voice broke her silence, thoughtful as it was. He knew the answer already, she thought, he knew the Westfold never spoke of a shieldmaiden princess. He knew there must be a reason, though his own imaginings were likely wrong.

"No. The Shieldmaidens of old are dead and gone, their swords buried with them. New kings do not want Rohan's daughters warring." She said, her voice taking on a bitter quality until her face coloured, thinking such was saying far too much. "It took much for I alone to learn, the king would not like more women of the mark taking up armour. I merely gave him little choice in the matter."

There was no word of a lie in her words, merely a twisted reality. She presented for them the false image of a strong princess, fighting for her right to carry her weapon when she had done no such thing. Her king would surely hate her for taking up sword, but she felt proud to carry the true sword of a shieldmaiden, even if she had never earned it. Of course, this sword and its legacy was not her own, nor freely given. She and all her pride was but a stolen relic, robbed from a greater heroes grave in the night.

Trying to make light again, she turned up her lips into a wry smile and drew her sword, letting the shining blade lie across her legs. She could speak little of the hall she'd grown in and the life she'd left truthfully or without pain, but she could speak of Shieldmaidens. They were the heroes of her childhood and often their tales had comforted her. "But see here?" She said, eyes flicking from man to dwarf to man, all of them watching her, hanging on her words as she traced the centre knot, a delicate pair of curls, reflecting and refracting from the hilt of her sword like an opening flower.

"The old Eorling mark of womanhood." She explained, voice quiet, moving it to show the etching in the bronze hilt more clearly. She traced it with the bruised, calloused tip of her finger like a tutor. "But when wrapped with this…" She said, drawing her hand to her collar, showing off the stitched knots there, tugging the delicate knotwork into the light. It was the same symbol they saw, the same curls perfectly fitting around the concentric circles of yellow thread crossed through to form one single symbol like a knot. "No man knows they wear the mark of shield maidens on their breast. It is worn on every man's armour in Rohan. It is protection and strength, but none remember what half of it means." She said, eyes gleaming, spinning the tale. Their grouping was quiet, staring at her with indiscernible eyes. She did not look away, face bright and gladdened to share this. At least in this, there was no need for lies on her lips, and her expression was open and brighter than any of them had seen of her before. None the less, she was glad to have the long moment broken as their group was distracted by the loud exclamation "If in doubt, Meriadoc, always follow your nose!" She sheathed her sword, putting away her story and getting to her feet.


I have to say, I really like this chapter for both Hedda characterisation and romance between Arargorn and my girl.

I've updated some earlier chapters to better fit with the themes I have going now,if you haven;t already - give them a check out. So far I've got things written up until they leave Lothlorian.

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