Wheat Thins fueled this chapter :)
Brief thanks goes to Realelvish and the Thain's Book. Far greater thanks is due to Tolkien.
Enjoy :)
I had been dreaming before a squeeze to my hand awoke me.
In my fantasy, I had been climbing a tall tree into the Heavens at sunset. And when I had reached the top, I had looked out over the ascending boughs and seen white sails fluttering in a seaward breeze.
On the horizon was Valinor, and it called to me as nothing had ever called to me before.
"Is this what you choose, Calahdra? Do you choose eternity?"
Beside me was a woman clad in gray silk. She was beautiful, but sorrowful in her glory.
Though I had never seen the likes of her, I knew who she was.
"Estë,"
The Vala nodded once to me, and then turned away to watch the sunset caress the folds of the West.
"I do not know, my lady. I do not know if that is my fate,"
"The Valar will not extend this offer for long, Calahdra. We have found valiance in your deeds, for few could withstand the might of the Abhorred, but we have other tasks to see to. There are other prayers that we must answer,"
I looked out over the rustling leaves of the forest canopy, which rolled down and over the pearlescent beaches of the coast.
"How long do I have before I must decide?"
Estë followed my gaze to where it rested on the curving mass in the rose-tinted horizon. Her voice, like that of mourning doves, echoed throughout the falling twilight.
"You have seven days, should you survive them. And it is my hope, Calahdra, that you shall,"
Before I could ask anymore of her, I was struck silent by the spectacle before me. As the sun finally dipped beneath the edge of the earth, rays of lilac and honeysuckle snaked through the clouds overhead. The sun whispered its farewell in the sea breeze.
The Goddess of Sorrow turned to me, a faint smile appearing in her timeless eyes. "You have been the subject of much wrong-doing, Calahdra. I understand why it was why you lost hope for a future, but you must hear me now,"
Estë took my hands in hers, and I felt then her will begin to coil with mine. "You are meant for greater deeds, daughter of Rochand. You are not meant to fill a hole within the ground. You are meant to walk upon it and bring hope to the hearts of others. I charge you with this now; for all the days that you still walk upon the Earth, carry forth healing and strength into the hearts of those whose spirit has diminished. A warrior you shall remain, but not of the sort that breaks apart sinew and bone in order to avenge those whose time has past. Rather, you shall fight for those who have time yet but fail to see it.
"A healer in arms you shall be, unto the undoing of time,"
Estë sealed this vow with a tender kiss upon my brow, and as she did so I trembled. The touch of the Vala was nearly as powerful as her words, and the sensation spread throughout my veins.
"You shall not grieve any longer, for the path you walk will carry no resemblance to the path that lies behind you,"
Within the dream, a memory blossomed.
"For no matter how badly we may wish to erase the yesterday we left behind, there is only tomorrow. There is only what lies ahead,"
And in the depths of the Vala's parting glance, I saw Legolas.
"Let your grief become my own, for that is my task to bear. And may your days be blessed, Calahdra,"
My eyes opened to a candlelit reality.
"Good morrow to you," came a voice beyond the shadows of my ill-adjusted eyes.
When at last my vision cleared, I found the speaker to be a good-natured woman in her latter years. She reminded me a little of Marmagen, and homesickness began to throb in my heart.
And as I realized that homesickness was indeed what I was feeling, a sense of wonder came over me.
My days with Lenwe had been clouded by either misery or apathy. I felt no such sentiment now.
'Estë… to you I am eternally grateful,'
I attempted then to return the woman's greeting, but my throat hissed and sputtered in its parched state.
The woman chuckled and turned to a pitcher and goblet. While she poured, I looked about the chamber I was in. A single window revealed that it was near midnight, and the room was lit by the glow of several candles.
I was not the only patient; in fact, I was one of many. Fallen soldiers littered cots and bedrolls throughout the chamber, and several healers were bent about the room, applying bandages and spoon-feeding their charges.
It seemed that Lenwe had been successful, and that he had deposited me in the Houses of Healing. The whimsical rooms of those that lay dying. Bitter in its irony, yet glorious in its purpose. A place where flowers bloomed above failing hearts.
I looked down at myself. I seemed whole, and I was dressed in a thin, gray dress. The sleeves had been cut to the elbows, and covering my forearms was a layer of bandages that encircled my palms.
Slowly, the healer helped me to sit, and I felt in my back the sort of stiffness that came from a hard day's ride. No longer did I wish to scream with agony as I had before, when it had felt as though several thousand shards of glass were embedded in my shoulders and spine.
When at last my thirst was quenched, I nodded to the woman in thanks.
"I am Maedeth, and I have been seeing to you this last day,"
"I thank you then, for you have worked a miracle on my back,"
Maedeth chuckled, and she placed in my hands a wooden bowl of thin broth.
"Tis' not your back anymore that is of concern, but your thanks is welcome,"
I gave the elderly healer an inquisitive look as I took a sip from the bowl.
"Your brother explained to elder healers and me what it is that happened to your mind. Though your physical ailments have been mended and your mind has been made safe, we expect you may become ill,"
"Why is that?"
Maedeth looked pointedly across the small chamber. I followed her gaze to the cot that laid there, and who it was that laid within it.
"Eowyn," I gasped, feeling the urge to run to her. She laid still in sleep, and not death as I had assumed. I recalled Lenwe's words, and though they remained woeful, they made better sense now.
Maedeth put a hand around my wrist. "She is well now, but she was terribly ill before. She succeeded in slaying one of the Nazgul, but in doing so she was poisoned gravely. If not for the skill of the King-to-be, Aragorn, she would have passed beyond shadow. We feared that a similar fate would be your own, and therefore I am to beg you to take caution,"
I did not respond to the healer, for my eyes were pasted to Eowyn's glassy pallor. I wondered if it had been Mearling that had brought death to Sauron's servant. I began to long for my sword.
"Where now is Aragorn? I wish to speak to him,"
Maedeth was quiet, and I turned to her, prepared to repeat my inquiry.
But Maedeth's expression stilled me.
"He passed out of the City three days ago, with a great host of all that remained of the armies of Rohan and Gondor. They are to stand before the Black Gate, and there they wish to seal the fate of our time,"
Horror began to churn my stomach.
But not of the sort that became the chilling vice grip I was used to.
Rather, my very veins filled with molten steel.
I refused to be left behind. For I was a warrior, a healer. Not a patient, bound by injury and infirmity.
I was a doer of great deeds, a soldier who struck out against malice. And if the time of men was to end before the Black Gates, then it was my creed to see that I too ended there before I succumbed to idleness.
"I am the sword of Estë, and I shall not be left behind,"
And so I tore from Maedeth's feeble grasp and bolted from the room, filled with a childish sort of impatience and a fury like that of wildfire.
Healers called out to me as I spun through the many chambers and arches. But I paid no heed to their alarm, and ran through the halls. Guided by mere instinct, I found my way to an exit.
The streets of Minas Tirith were bleached and faded by the subtle shimmer of Ithil, and I was grateful for the light, for the intuition that had led me out of the mazes of the hospital vanished as my feet met marble streets.
Never before had I stood before buildings as mammoth as those that confronted me. I had heard of the wonders of the White City before, but scarcely had I imagined simply how large it was.
Quite frankly, I was frightened. I felt lost at once, dwarfed by the shadow of the Citadel and the many governmental buildings. And though it did not seem that the healers had followed me or called upon guards to retrieve me, I felt as though I was being followed anyways.
Like a child that has awoken from a bad dream, I broke into a sweat at the sight of so many shadows. Claustrophobia began to smother me.
I wandered about, gazing this way and that as the many sights of the sleeping city begged for my attention. The thought of walking through the city during day, when its inhabitants would be crowded about, nearly made me feel lightheaded.
Eventually, I descended a long set of stairs and found myself in what seemed to be a separate city entirely. Instead of grand marble monoliths and decorative archways, I found wooden shops and stone apartment buildings. And the further I walked, the more and more I was reminded of Edoras. I breathed easier as familiarity began to replace apprehension.
Intuition returned.
'If Minas Tirith is anything like Edoras, than its barracks and stables would not be so near to the residential areas, but not so far from the Citadel either,' I thought, and with a deep breath I plunged through side streets and staircases into the depths of the city.
Before long, my path of travel became governed not by intuition but rather by the smell of horses. My nose had been trained to locate stables from miles away.
At last I came to the place I had been searching for; a Gondorian armory.
I looked for guards, but found none. I remembered then that the city had been emptied of soldiers, as well horses, and the thought renewed my haste.
The doors were locked and the windows closed, but my determination was not dampened. A savage kick to one of the lower lying window panes allowed for my entry.
I dressed myself in the smallest shirt of mail I could find, a leather jerkin, and a pair of riding breeches that I was forced to cut shorter in the legs. I stuffed the scraps that remained into the toes of a pair of riding boots. I chose also a gray cloak embellished with a pendant in the shape of one of the Seven Stars of Gondor.
When I set to clasping the cloak about my neck, I realized that two chains already hung there. I looked down in surprise, and realized that I was wearing the jewel of the Shieldmaiden and my mithril leaf. A slow smile flew up from my heart and into my eyes.
When confronted with a choice of weaponry, I pined once more for Mearling. Unable to confront the possibility of replacing my father's sword, I opted for a curved blade and shoulder harness that reminded me a great deal of Legolas' knives. I chose also a set of knives that I placed on a sword belt and the only long bow that remained. There were few arrows to my liking, and the bow itself was poorly wrought, but I accepted these shortcomings in silence.
'Should I survive, I shall return to Rohan and empty my dowry upon a new bow. And I shall find Mearling again, or search to the end of the world to find its match,' I vowed, placing my palm over my heart.
When I came to the stable, I realized the brevity of the sin that I was preparing to commit. Horse thievery was punishable by death in Rohan, and I doubted that Gondorian steeds were worth any less no matter what their people's law might have been. For in Rohan, the bond between horse and rider was nearly as strong as that between husband and wife, for horses were as precious and costly as the keeping of a loved one was.
'I shall commit this crime and atone to it before the Gates of Mordor, as I shall atone for all of my many sins,' I decided, placing my hand upon my heart once more.
I entered the stable with this pledge in my mind, and failed to recognize that, unlike the armory, the stable was not devoid of guards.
A blade was thrust before my breast, and I jumped back, startled.
"I shall kill you if you do not leave, wench!"
I eyed the speaker and nearly laughed.
The horse guard was a young boy, no more than ten years old. He had a hardy seriousness in his eyes, but his blade trembled. Perhaps it was because the knife was too large for him, or perhaps it was because he was secretly afraid.
"I do not wish to harm you, young master, but I must find a steed," I told him, earnest and unafraid.
"I cannot let you steal one of our horses. I would kill you first," but his resolve faltered or his arm tired, and he lowered his blade as he saw the scimitar glint behind my back.
I stepped forward, and he stepped away. Fear was now plain on his face.
"I say again, I will not hurt you. Now tell me your name,"
The boy remained mute, and I began to pity him. I knelt, and reached out for his blade.
He looked up at me through unruly hair. I nodded to him, "Come now, tell me your name and give me your blade,"
He did as I bade, and I lade the knife in my hands. "Rochirion," he said.
"Ah, so your father must run this fine stable,"
"My father is dead," he said sternly.
I looked up and frowned.
"He was killed in the attack. He told me that I must protect the stable, for it is the only thing that I have left,"
I took the boy's hand in mine, feeling calluses there that could only have come from riding for hours on end.
"I am sorry, Rochirion. That is quite a burden to bear,"
The youth did not move, but I could see in his eyes that he agreed.
I stood, and switched his poor blade out for one of my own. I pulled the finest of the set and bestowed it to him.
"This is my gift to you, Rochirion. It is not much, but it is better suited for your size. It will better protect your stable,"
Rochirion turned the knife in his hands. He stopped when he saw the gold inlay in the hilt.
I lowered my voice to a dramatic whisper. "It will also fetch you enough coin to buy a lesser knife, but enough horse feed for a month…but I would not tell anyone that, if were you,"
Rochirion looked up at me and smiled a little, thanks painting his sullen features. And suddenly a smile sparked in his eyes.
"You speak funnily,"
The remark was so out of place that I nearly choked on my laughter.
"Westron is not my native tongue, Rochirion. I am from Rohan," I told him, now walking down the aisle of the stable. Most of the stalls were empty, as I had suspected, but a few elderly steeds remained.
The boy followed me warily, the knife I had gifted him still in his hand. I realized that I was not going to be able to entrance him with tales of far off lands.
He reminded me of myself.
And so I bent and took his face in my hands, staring into startled eyes the color of amber.
"I am from Rohan, Rochirion. My love for horses is too deep for me to wish one harm. I was born with that love, and it runs," I placed his free hand upon my above my heart, "undying through my veins. I swear to you that I would protect one of your father's horses with my life. And if I had life yet left in my body, I would see that it was returned to you,"
Rochirion's Adam's apple bobbed once, and he looked away. He put the knife in his belt and held out a hand to me. I took it, and he led me to the end of the stable.
In the last stall on the right rested a great black stallion with eyes like opals.
I gasped at the sight of him, at his regal majesty. He was crowned with a white star behind his forelocks, as if he truly was a prince, and his body was a mass of pure muscle and heady strength.
I reached out to the stallion over the stall gate. He blew his hot breath across my knuckles and neighed, and the war horse stepped to me.
Rochirion whistled. I looked at him as the horse lipped my palm.
"He would not let anyone touch him after the attack. He was injured, you see, and that is why the soldiers did not take him with," he told me, and he pointed to a scabbed gash across the stallion's left foreleg.
"What is his name?" I asked, admiring the stallion further. He appeared to be of some southern blood, and he had clearly been bred for speed.
"He is called Fuidhroch by the soldiers, for they say he moves like a shadow before the sun. But my father called him Ellerocco,"
I smiled, and twirled my thumb over the stallion's star. "A fitting name, and kingly, too,"
"My father had always wished for him to be ridden by a King,"
I heard the hesitation accompanying the admiration in the boy's voice. I looked down at him, smiling gently.
"I am a Shieldmaiden, or I was once before. I am no King, but I do protect one,"
Rochirion took a deep breath and bit his lip.
"Father said Ellerocco was bred for war, and that he was not meant to be locked in a stable. And if you are riding to battle, than I think that Ellerocco should go with you,"
I nodded earnestly. "I swear that I shall not fail you, nor your father's spirit, nor Ellerocco, Rochirion,"
And in the boy's eyes was the understanding of a much older man. For war had aged this youth tenfold.
In silence, Rochirion brought forth Ellerocco's tack, all of which was of impressive make. I saddled the stallion and apologized quietly as I bridled him and placed the bit in his mouth, as I had with Meleare.
When at last he was tacked, I made ready to mount him. With one foot in a stirrup, I ran my hand down his neck.
'Together we shall ride to War. And together, if it is our time, we shall die. As a true Eored,'
The stallion did not respond with confusion as Meleare first had, for now my craft was honed. I drilled the emotion into his head as much as I did the words, and in return I received a base level of understanding.
I pulled myself up, and when I sat squarely in the foreign saddle, Rochirion handed me a crop.
I shook my head. "I am not his master. I am merely his rider,"
The boy shrugged in indifference.
"Farewell, Rochirion. Thank you for your gift to me, for it is far nobler than any knife,"
The boy blushed, but managed to mumble a farewell.
I gave him an encouraging smile. "May you grow to become a fine stable master, and may you find brighter days ahead,"
And with that, I spurred Ellerocco forward. Into the night we rode, towards a host three days ahead of us.
But as Ellerocco ran, I found no doubt in my mind that we would not reach them in time. For the stallion may have moved like a shadow before the sun, but beneath the moon he passed like a comet, blazing with all the fury of the Heavens.
Chapter End Notes:
Rochand: The original, Sindarin name for Rohan.
Maedeth: Sindarin for 'Skilled Woman'.
Estë: Vala of Grieving.
Rochirion: Sindarin for 'Son of a Horselord'.
Fuidhroch: Sindarin for 'Shadow Horse'.
Ellerocco: Quenya for 'Star Horse'.