You made me run like I'd never run
Try like I'd never tried
Fight like I'd never fought
Made me want it
- Little Giant, Roo Panes
Her brow was beaded with sweat when she entered the citadel through the serving gate, her armour foreign, ill-fitting and heavy on her back. Beneath her Amsden's horse strained beneath the weight of two armoured fighters and an ascent too steep and fast but all too necessary. Her eyes were fixed ahead and up, glancing toward the white towers and green courtyards and expecting with every passing moment that the steward would be hung over its white stones. The image was rife because she'd seen it, in that vile seeing stone she'd seen her own body broken and swinging from the citadel courtyard, and in her heart, she knew the steward would have done it. Gods if she had her way she'd let Ghad do it, slow the horse and turn to safety. But she drove the stallion beneath her harder still.
Their entrance to the citadel was not grand or weighted, her last look to the land beyond this wretched city could not hide the shadow of an army beyond. They were a stain on the dry land, indistinct but massive and it stilled her breath. But she could not contend with the army outside before she dealt with those within. The hooves of her horse clattered on the stone slope, leading she and Amsden higher and higher, toward the great entrance with its emerald grass and snarled tree, following the path of a dead man dragged behind his horse and the bitter grouping that had forced her to follow. She was not far behind them, she was sure, woken and dressed in her stolen armour before any horn had yet to sound or any activity seemed to spark within the city.
From her journey to the city astride Amsden's horse, they'd come across hundreds, fearful, frightened men women and children cutting a path through the city. Some looked ready to scream, to run, to stampede, but they were strictly organised into groups, the groups with a guide and the guide with a weapon to keep the peace. From what she had seen it was working, and she was glad this at least, seemed to be going right as they made their way to the stone keep. Amsden had demanded she bring more men, that the two of them against the suspected near thirty splinters would be cut down in a moment, but Hedda had denied him, unwilling to take so many away from the protection of the people. It would be worth nothing to win in the white tower and lose the people in the houses of the dead.
Truth be told she had some certainty she might be able to stem the splinter group with the right words, the right lies, from all their intelligence they didn't want her dead, they wanted her in power, and cutting her down would not achieve that. As they unhorsed, however, she kept her palm on the pommel of her sword, her eyes slit and nervous through the visor of her helm. Two guards from the lower rings, come to deliver news to the steward, that was all they were if they were asked, that was all they were until they had cause to reveal themselves.
"He'll command from the courtyard if he commands, we must start there," Hedda breathed, the sound echoing in the unfamiliar metal that made her feel claustrophobic and trapped. None the less she hurried, her heavy metal greaves sounding on their path toward the grand courtyard as they rounded the last steps and it came into view.
The white tree, gods in all this she'd near forgotten the dead thing. In her dreams, it had been wreathed in green leaves and white blossoms but it stood tall, still dead and dry like a grave marker. Beneath it, curled and weak was a pile of dark furs, crying out. She held up her hand, stilling Amsden as they took in the scene, half hidden in the shadows of the entrance. It was a fair distance but even from there she could hear Denethor whimper and cry, cursing high heaven over the body of his son, surrounded by his soldiers. She did not signal for them to move, her own breath heavy beneath her breast plate and she felt cruel. What right did the steward have to mourn the son he'd marked for death? A scowl curled her lips, seeing the quieter brother lie limp and pale beneath his hands. Like so many, he had deserved so much more than this broken, whimpering man. To see Faramir so made her only think of Boromir's passing, bloody and violent as it had been and in the service of Denethor and his city as well. To think he deserved to command the city, to lead more to death was a slight, but it was their best chance.
"Nurthan!" Amsden hissed behind her, gesturing to the far horizon and the orc horde beyond. They made their attack, catapults flung and rocks falling from the sky, small as they were the first act of war had gone unnoticed by both she and Denethor. More rain came, heavier stone and beneath them the stone quaked, those missiles that hit their mark crumbling the stone. She did not answer him, her eyes flitting desperately from the assault below to the crumbling man before, willing him to stand, to fight, to do anything.
"Stars Old Man, stand your ground," she bit out, speaking to the distant man, too far away to be heard him, too far away to even truly see him shrouded by his guards and the circle of men too close and too still. "Ready your forces," she begged of him, her eyes flicking about the courtyard, surrounded as it was by guards there was no way to tell if Ghad's men were situated afar with arrows, with poison, with a knife to the back out here or inside. "Fight damn you!" She snapped, her voice too loud but it drew no eye. Stars if he would only order his men to arms he might well save himself alongside his city.
He stood slowly, at last, his steps stumbling and foolish, his voice a wail that carried on the breeze and her eyes followed him as he near fell toward the far edge of the courtyard, overlooking the dark shadow of the horde, raining stones down on his kingdom. "My line has ended!" He screamed, clinging to the white stone ringing the courtyard. Did he even see the army beyond? Did he see anything beyond his own grief? Her eyes darted about the courtyard, taking in the gathered guards, their steps echoing on the stone as they left Faramir on his pallet and their perimeter at the gates and the white tree. A small figure fell beside Faramir - too small to be anyone but Pippin, kneeling beside the fallen lord. Gods if she survived this she'd be glad to see him again. But she had no time to think of Pippin, nor even the flash of white that could only be Gandalf, taking in the scene and doing nothing. He was a wizard, he had magic and power, he could take the city if he could not make Denethor see sense, he would be followed, but yet he did nothing. Her teeth clenched, turning her eyes away to the guards. They moved, walking in uncertain steps and her eyes widened. No.
She cursed bitterly, thinking herself a fool as she snatched the horse's reins. The guards were not meant to leave their stations, not to comfort a crying steward, not to protect him, their mere bearing betraying them, crooked backed, armour ill-fitting. That was not Denethor's guard. With a heavy swing, she mounted the horse, kicking its sides until she flew across the white stone, rearing in their path until they fell back, ungainly in unfamiliar armour and spooked by a heavy warhorse.
Denethor noticed nothing, though she was mere feet away, his bitter mumblings speaking of betrayal, of failure, of his damned line as she unhorsed. Her blade flashed in the sunlight, her stance wide and strong, ready to fight even as the fool behind her screamed the very thing she'd dreaded of him.
"Abandon your posts! Flee! Flee for your lives!" He cried to his citizens, to his army, turning, at last, to see the lone soldier guarding him while a pack advanced. Twenty she guessed, their swords drawn but some used cruder weapons, axes and bows and picks unbefitting of the citadels guards but deadly in the hands of Ghad's men. His guard had not brought the steward his son, but a rebellion only waited to see him break.
"Be quiet Old Man!" She bellowed, her sword raised threateningly, jabbing the point forward to push them back. "Ghad? Are you among these turncloaks? These assassins?" There was silence, overwhelming on the courtyard but beyond she could hear the city guard shouting for orders, unwilling to flee, she could hear the fall of rocks, the city shaking as ancient rock crumbled under the assault. At last, a man on the left stepped forward, a heavy sword loose in hand as he tugged off his helm. Ah, there was the pock faced sell sword that had brought such anarchy.
"You protect this weasel, Girl? You protect him with your sword and your life? Ha! Tell me Girl, you hold your sword but have you ever even swung it?" He spoke bitterly, spitting as he finished his point and baring broken teeth. With slow movement she reached for her own helm, tugging off the shimmering metal and letting it fall, her red gold hair knotted beneath. She had no shield, no protection and she drew her knife in her other hand, the blades flashing together dangerously. Her expression was cold, eyes fixed on Ghad. Even with her back turned the steward seemed to finally have turned his attention to the fight for his life.
"My daughter!" He shrieked, spittle gleaming at his lips and his expression animal. Daughter? It seemed in such danger he had forgotten his disavowal of her name and house, it seemed in the light of real danger his death wish took pause, the ruined man desperate to save himself and leave survive the rubble. "My son - my son -" he gasped, and behind her, it sounded as though he were weeping.
"Quiet! Were it my choice I'd cut out your heart myself for your cowardice, Old Man!" She shouted her chest heaving beneath her heavy plate. She did not turn to look at him, taking a step forward but Ghad gave no ground and she was sorely outnumbered, more than half the guard on his side and the other half terrified, confused, not certain whose side was right anymore. She could not ascertain who had the higher ground here, but she was certain it was not here, even as every armoured man stood still before her. "Were it yours you'd see him dead - were it his he'd throw us all off the rock and be glad for the blood he spilt!" She roared, "But that is not justice! Those are the actions of powerful men Aye, but those are the actions of fools! Denethor's crimes are many and his punishments will be many, but they will not be by your hand!"
"While he lives he murders his city! While he lives his weakness lives!" Ghad hissed, his small army behind him joining In his words, spitting abuses toward the steward. She half expected the old man to reply, to fight them but he howled, crying the names of his fallen sons in agony. "Kill him and his armies have none to follow but you!" He bit out, offering her everything as if she were fool enough to take it. All her words and he did not yet understand that this throne was not hers, this army, this city did not belong to her and she was not fit to lead it. She chanced her gaze to Gandalf again, hoping against hope he'd make claim himself but he watched her from behind the line of soldiers, his blue eyes steady on her own. She could not, would not lead it, she could not be the reason Aragon's city fell before he could claim it, she could not be the reason the worlds of men splintered and fought - not again. She felt cornered, animal, a stallion penned in again with the whole world at her feet.
"Why do you want this?" She screamed, her anger over taking her and unable to quell it. Her shoulders heaved, face red beneath her armour and sword hefted to fend off a likely blow and Ghad, the pockmarked man took a step forward, sword still in hand but lowered. "Your king is coming! The white tree is blooming and you will have your peace! I cannot give it to you!"
"The white tree rotted and died beneath the king and his forebear's recency!" Ghad returned, his sword loose in his fingers, "My family starved and fought and died for him!" He spat, his face blistering red and his muscles contracting beneath his gleaming and stolen armour, the memory bringing strength and fight back into his bones and she flinched, ready to parry any blow he might attempt - but she heard his words. "I have not seen some king and aye - I've seen the white flowers and heard the stories but all I've seen with my eyes is you! You came to the city and the tree bloomed and the people were ready to fight again - and you'd deny us?" He shouted, voice raising to a quivering high and his sword slashing, ungainly toward her. Her hands shot out, smacking away his sword with an unfocused hit that reverberated up her arm. She swung hard in retaliation, turning to lay one hard hit across his chest plate and force him back a pace from the cowering steward. He snarled, loud and high like a scream, throwing up his blade to catch her legs but she dodged the heft of his blade, casting out her armoured left hand and laying a heavy blow across his plated shoulder and are cheek, blood erupting from his already broken nose as it cracked against her gauntlet.
Barely an arm's length of space yet between them as he lifted his sword high, swinging it down in a brutal arc that she caught with the flat of her blade. Metal crashed, making her ears ring and though he was stronger she held it, two sword edges inches away from their unharmed faces. Her arms screamed against the weight of holding him, and she breathed out her words at last through gritted teeth, still so unsure why this stranger fought, ready to suffer treason and die to see a stranger high above his city. "And if I command this city? If I command you what difference does it make?" She snarled. She had no right, no claim, she'd be as lost as Denethor.
"Then I will be commanded by a leader I have seen!" He bit out, the effort between them heavy and wrought, sweat beading on her brow as she met his gaze. She expected a light there, she supposed, or the rage of tavern men slighted or merely blood hunger. The moment lasted an age between them when she saw nothing like it, his expression fearful and tired. Tired of fighting, tired of struggling - like her, he wanted to see his final battle done and finished and his people better for it. He, like her and her fellowship, fought battle after battle hoping this one would be the last they need raise sword for. She had asked starving, hungry men to wait but this man and so many more had been waiting all their lives for their king.
She raised one hand, her palm forward and fingers unfurled in peace. His eyes darted toward it and the pressure between them faltered, their crossed swords lowered slowly, singing as they dropped. Their gazes did not stray and she held him with her eyes, no attention laid on his other men, quiet as they were. This was what they had wanted in the taverns in those lower rings, to see her command their city above their fallen, faltering steward and she'd denied them what they asked. She could not deny them any longer. She may not heal them, but a bandage was better than salt in a bleeding wound.
Her sword still in hand but looser, ready for another blow but not expecting it, her palm still raised. "Then I command you to lower your blades," she said, fighting to keep her breathless voice steady. Ghad hesitated a moment, uncertainty clear on his features. Her heart could have stopped, eyes widening, but he did, casting away his steel. The metal clattered across the white stones. Blood dripped, steady and striking down his face and spilling over his armour, his eyes wet, as cornered as she was.
"My daughter we must leave -" Denethor's drivel began behind her and she turned, feeling his fingers curling at her cloak, tugging her down or trying to raise himself up to run. Without thought, without kindness, she drew back her hand, heavy with metal and swung it down. The action held more weight than any blow she'd ever laid, she thought, as her heavy palm knocked back his face and sent him sprawling over the white stones, quieting him finally. His eyes, those lifeless, teary eyes looked up at her, his lips moving soundlessly in shock. Her eyes stayed on the floor, head moving too fast and shock, pure, unbridled fear racing through her. But there was a certainty there as well.
"Amsden!" She called out, not looking behind her, not seeing Ghad's men part to let him through to join her at her side. "Take him to the cells, when the battle is done his fate will be decided." She did not look upon him, turning once more to Ghad and his men as she wiped her brow. The ground shifted beneath her, another bitter reminder of the siege that righted her in reality. Too long they'd tarried in this courtyard, bickering in the sun while the orc horde laid siege to their city with their catapults. She spun on her toes toward Ghad's men, expecting half to be up in arms again, to fight Amsden, to fight amongst themselves. But when she turned their weapons were laid down, kneeling on the white flagstones in their ill-fitting armour. Her mouth hung open at the scene, breath catching. She looked up, helpless and already weary of this, waiting for the jape, the murder, the laughter at the very idea, but none came. They were quiet, waiting to be commanded. Behind them, Gandalf, distant and beside Faramir on his funeral litter with Pippin knelt beside the steward's son. They were speaking, their words quiet but, in her shock and silence, the old man's blue eyes found her. He inclined his head gently, not turning away from her or standing in thunder to deny the power she'd taken.
She breathed in sharply, nodding to herself a moment. She could do this.
"Stand men, we've no time to bow when the wolves are at our door," she called, her voice carrying over them and they complied, lifting their weapons again. They were ready. "Ghad - three men to the streets on horseback, lead any that remain to the higher rings where the walls are stronger and defended, I'll not have you beside me after this, but you can yet prove your men's honour." She tried to make her voice sound strong, her fingers fluttering on the pommel of her sword as Amsden forced Denethor from the scene, the steward quiet, shocked and limp.
She took only a moment, breathing in through tight lungs on top of the world of men as Gandalf hurried to her side, his white robes billowing and laying his hand on her shoulder. In his other hand, his sword was drawn. She swallowed, her throat sticking but she moved as another blow rained down on the city, the ancient seat crumbling - but she couldn't let it fall.
"Catapaults!" She cried, raising her sword high, bellowing her demand to the soldiers around her, those that followed her, those that did not know her, those that would see her dead, dethroned, risen up or cast down, it mattered not, not when the very sky around them was falling and the ancient rock beneath their feet was shaking, not with an army in their sights. These men needed a leader now, she'd not deny them it. "Fall back to the walls, defend your posts, defend your city!"
Man this took such a long time, I hope it seems realistic, Ghad's motivation may seem a little off, but realistically with so long under a useless leader that has absolutely no respect or care for anyone but himself, I thought the bolder common people would be desperate for A: any leader that actually showed them precedence, and B: a leader they knew, had seen to be caring and brave and wise. Honestly the way this went it's near feudal democracy.
So close to the end - please please let me know what you think! Your reviews are the thing that gets me writing again.