"Ada, tell me of Lorien! Please?"
My father gave me a hesitant smile, and merely shook his head in silence as he always did. My begging had become a practiced skill, but my father's continued refusal was an art form.
"You know I cannot tell you, Calah. I was forbidden," he said in the most serious of all his humorous tones.
"I know you were forbidden. But why were you forbidden?" By now, I had jumped from my haystack and was tugging at his riding breeches.
"Because Lothlorien is a very well-guarded place, min heorte, and its secrets are not to be shared with the world of men,"
Carefully, my father pushed me away, watchful to keep a bit of distance between myself and his warhorse, Taros.
"But I am not a man," I murmured bitterly, turning away. Even at the age of six and as the daughter of an incorrigible Lord of men, I knew when I had lost a fight.
I heard my father sigh, and he turned and set me on his hip with a groan.
"You are not a man at all. You are a woman, and therefore, you, like all women," he said with a jab to my chest, "are impossible to satisfy,"
I giggled and tugged my fingers through his prickly beard, "But I'm not a woman either, Ada. I am an elf. An elleth,"
My father's face paled and his smile faded.
"A piece of you is, Calahdra. A chunk,"
He looked into my eyes, his brown irises contrasting sharply with my own.
"But then again, I always wonder…is a child truly half and half, or are they whatever the Gods wish for them to be? For your mother… your mother shines within you, my daughter. And whether that is for the better or the worse, I suspect I shall never know…,"
I certainly had no idea of what he spoke, and instead busied myself with the unbraiding of his goatee.
"You'll have to redo that, you know. I'm no good at braiding... That's what your naneth is for," my father chastised, his attention having been pulled back to the present. He set me down and I twined myself around him.
"I could braid Taros' tail," I told him, staring at the great equine from between my beloved Ada's legs.
"You think so?" He was skeptical.
I nodded, but hesitantly - I had never been allowed to so much as pat Taros before.
My father studied me for a moment, looking deep into my eyes once more.
"Well, let us see if that elf really does shine through, for all animals have some love for your mother's kin, do they not? I have faith in you…"
I wasn't sure why he kept bringing elves back into the conversation… all I wanted then was to play with my father's great, handsome horse.
And I got my wish. Ada had held me up to look Taros in the eyes and had guided my palm up to the stallion's nose. I had giggled mightily when the horse attempted to nibble my hand, or, as my father had said, 'gobble up my entire arm'. And I set to my braiding merrily after my father built me a stool of hay bales behind the horse… for all of four minutes. My attention span at six lasted about as long as my mother's moments of affection
And for a time, my days held much the same pattern. I learned of the elves and of Lothlorien through my own study, and my skill with horses grew infinitely within several years. It was Taros, in his retirement, to whom I'd first uttered a mental 'hullo' and heard the horseish equivalent echoed back.
Eventually, war dissolved the ease of childhood. Ada would leave for months at a time. No word would come on his behalf… merely vague reports of the enemy's atrocities. And for a time, I turned to prayer – if horses could answer my queries, couldn't the Valar as well? For many years, those prayers went unanswered. Until at last my father returned home to fetch me to war as well. And later, he would return home a final time – to die in the ashes of his very home.
When I awoke the following morning, Legolas was gone. A piece of parchment – neat and written in predictably impressive cursive text – was on his pillow. 'Off to fetch the hares we owe Marmagen. Be sure not to wound yourself again in my absence.' I grinned and clutched the parchment tightly for a moment. It served as proof my night had not been a dream.
I roused myself slowly and lazily, treasuring the peace of the early morning and the exceedingly normal sounds of city life rolling in through my window. A baker was calling out that he was down to his last dozen loaves, and farther down the street, I heard children giggling and the 'thwack' of a stick against a leather ball. It felt profound and simultaneously unpretentious – this was the sweet victory of a battle won. Uncharacteristically, I treated myself to a glass of honey wine while I combed the knots from my bedhead.
I dressed plainly and without my weapons, though the emerald shown bright and substantial on my breast. I had rarely worn jewels before, though my mother had sometimes offered me hers. Eriodot's treasure, however, felt like both a badge of honor and a reminder of the weight of my station.
With a basket on my elbow and Mearling slung across my back, I set out for the blacksmith and armorer to make my much-needed repairs. I was relatively undisturbed, though the townsfolk called out to me occasionally with welcome – "Earendel!" the children would say, pointing, and their mothers would smile at me and offer good morning. Their pleasantries warmed the apples of my cheeks, though I returned their salutations politely.
When I tried to offer the blacksmith payment for honing my sword and dagger, he rebuked me with mock orneriness. "King Théoden is good for it, I bet," and he sent me on my way. The same happened with the fletcher when I requested new arrows. He was holding my bow aloft, checking the draw weight, and pretended to ignore my inquiry on price.
Finally, I went to the farrier – he was terribly busy, what with the many Rohirrim who had likely woken significantly earlier than I to secure their place in his queue. But he nodded towards his daughter, who was only a few years younger than I. "You have a kindly mare, though, and my girl is nearly done with her 'prenticeship,"
I smiled at the young woman and bid her forward. "Meleare will be grateful to you, miss,"
As I walked with her to the stable, she told me her name – Idys – and inquired after Meleare's health. Idys was warm and affable, and portly like her ruddy father. I had seen her many times before, though I had not known her father was training her in his craft. I understood the need, though – the young boys he might have taken as apprentices had all been whisked away to war, and Idys was strong and capable.
Meleare was at the far end of the paddock, snuffling at crab apples that had rolled under the fence from a nearby tree, and I needed only whistle once for her to trot over. She huffed in greeting, clearly well-rested and well-fed. "Behave for Idys, yes? You look to be in rare form." Meleare snickered in reply.
As Idys set to work within the stable block, I groomed Meleare free of the burs and ticks she'd accumulated during our romp across the country. Idys bantered jovially as she picked and clipped, and Meleare all the while munched on the bag of oats I'd tied round her head. For the second time that day, I was struck by the normalcy of the moment. It reminded me of my youth, to be perched on a hay bale next to some great warhorse, tying ribbons I'd stole from my mother's armoire in their hair.
Though the stables were not empty, they were far from bustling. A handful of grooms and riders went about their business, but the frantic pace of a few weeks' prior was but a memory. The two hobbits then, though they were small, could not then sneak through unnoticed.
They looked both bashful and curious, like children fearful they were about to be scolded for being some place they shouldn't. I hopped from my fence post and went to them, arms out in welcome. "Be at peace, friends. The horses of Rohan are not some hidden treasure,"
Pippin smiled, seemingly reassured. Merry still looked apprehensive, but he stopped at the stall nearest and peered up at the great bay face that loomed over him.
"That is Alere," I told them, "mount of the Lord of the Westmarch. He was bred in my father's stables,"
"How are they bred so fine?" Pippin asked. "We have no such beasts where we come from. Only ponies and plow-horses brought over from Bree,"
I laid a hand on Alere's neck. He was likely distantly related to Meleare, and nearly as friendly as she.
"It is our people's gift, and our privilege. Come, let me show you Snowmane,"
I brought the hobbits then to the King's horse, who was dozing contentedly in his stall. His forelegs were wrapped with bandages and poultices – battle wounds from his charge at the Hornburg, I presumed.
"He is the greatest of our stock, Snowmane. Not from my father's stables, but from the the Wold in the north, where the bloodlines of the Mearas still linger,"
"The mearas?" Merry asked. He had stepped up on the gate to the stall, and was peering at Snowmane intently. His original apprehension seemed to be fading to curiousity.
"An ancient race of horses, bred by the earliest of the Eorlingas. Their own ancestors were the steeds of the elven gods, brought from the West by Oromë, one of the Ainur,"
I clucked my tongue – and added a bit of mental pressure, as well. Snowmane blinked himself awake, and I bore a parsnip out of my pocket. Idys had been wise enough to pack her own bags with them to bribe horses less saccharine than Meleare.
I broke the vegetable and passed the halves to the hobbits. They held out their offerings – Merry a bit more confidently than Pippin, I noticed, and Snowmane snatched them both.
"It is why the Gondorians named this country Rohan, after the elvish word for horse," I continued.
"And you father, he breeds horses too?" Pippin asked after a pause. Snowmane had come close enough to pat, and the more cautious hobbit seemed to be weighing whether that was worth the risk of a stallion's bite. I reached out and grasped the horse's bridle, pulling him round to me so his teeth were far out of the way of smaller hands. Snowmane brayed frustratedly – he was not usually doted on so, but I hushed him and teased a matted piece of straw from his forelock.
"Aye, all the lords of Rohan do. There is fierce competition amongst them, and in more peaceful times we held yearly cross-country races. Renowned tourneys, that drew competitors even from all of Arda – from Southern Haradwaith, and even from beyond Rhûn. The elves would bring their Elk, and the dwarves their Mountain Sheep. But none could beat a steed of Rohan, blessed as they are with their ancient, holy blood,"
I was smiling now – these were my father's words rolling off my tongue, parables and legends that he had told my brothers and I in front of the hearth or while we lay beneath the stars. It was, of course, a lie that Rohan's steeds were never beaten – but the luxury of a culture with an oral history was that some defeats were more easily forgotten.
Snowmane had decided he had had enough attention, and snapped viciously at my forearm. The hobbits lept back, but I smacked the stallion's neck and scolded him half-heartedly. "You cannot begrudge a beast his nature," my father had told me, "or a warhorse his proclivity for war,"
Meleare would be a kinder introduction, I considered, and I led Merry and Pippin to her. Idys was nearly finished with her ministrations, and she eyed the hobbits with curiosity while she worked.
"We do not often consider mares as chargers, but Meleare has proven her merit over and over again."
Pippin remained trepidatious, but Merry planted himself before Meleare and placed a hand to her nose. The mare sent me a mental question as she snuffled at him, seeking the scent of parsnips still lingering on his hands.
"They're unsure of your kind, my friend. Shall we show them your quality?"
"If they can scrounge up more treats, aye," she replied.
"Ride with me?" I asked the hobbits. Merry smiled brightly, and his enthusiasm was enough tame Pippin's hesitation.
I thanked Idys, demanding that she take the tip I pressed to her hand. Before she left, she bid me join her for a cider in her father's shop and I assured her I would oblige. I tacked Meleare as swiftly as I could, answering Merry's occasional question about this piece and that strap as I went.
I set the hobbits up on Meleare's saddle easily – they were only slightly heavier than an eight-year-old child - and pulled myself up between them. "Hold tight, friends. Meleare, fly,"
And she did.
By mid-day, Meleare was thoroughly drenched in sweat and the hobbits looked sufficiently winded. We had ridden a fair length of the Snowbourne, and then back through the apple orchards east of the city We'd stopped once to water ourselves and our horse, at a small waterfall that had a spectacular tendency to catch the mid-day light and shoot rainbows in all directions. As we made our way back to Edoras, I spied a blonde head on a grey horse and a darker man on a chestnut, and I spurred Meleare after them.
"Two hobbits and an elf-maid!" Aragorn said in greeting. "You've not been so lucky since Lorien, Merry and Pippin,"
At once, he realized that perhaps he'd said too much, and Legolas smirked at him. I ignored the divulgence, knowing I'd wrangle the truth out of Legolas later.
"Lady Calahdra's been showing us Rohan's many wonders," Merry explained.
"And terrors," Pippin said from behind me. He'd been far less keen than Merry whenever Meleare had lept over some obstacle – I suspected he'd spent most of the ride with his face pressed into my cloak.
"Aye, she's apt to do that," Legolas said, a hint of mischief in his voice. I blanched while the others chuckled.
"We'd best make our way home before we're flayed alive by Lady Éowyn," I warned them, jerking my chin towards Meduseld, which glinted in the bright autumn sun.
Still chuckling, Aragorn spurred his own steed on – Brego, I noticed, who had not looked more comfortable and princely in many months. I passed Merry off to Legolas, and we followed.
It was late by the time I'd wiped Meleare down and untacked her, and traffic and anticipation outside the Great Hall was growing. Legolas, Aragorn and the hobbits made out in search of proper attire, and I was left to observe the increasing hubbub. The people of Edoras had not had occasion for a feast other than Théodred's funeral for many years.
I was loathe to end my easy, unhurried day, however, and I made my way to the fletcher to see if he'd made progress on my bow. Indeed, he had, and he passed both bow and quiver to me with a wink. "I think you'll find you'll like it,"
Intrigued - and now thoroughly set on procrastination - I jogged to the archery range and tested his work. He was right – he'd made slight improvements here and there that helped my aim, and his arrows were masterfully made. I played for a while, grateful to be protected from the business nearer to Meduseld.
After a time, I sensed I was being watched. Legolas was in need of chastisement for his earlier public quip. "You've lost the ability to creep up on me, love. I know you too intimately,"
My audience cleared his throat uncomfortably. 'Not Legolas,' I realized, blushing at once.
I spun and gulped at the sight of my brother.
"So. It is true," he said coolly. "You've taken the elf princeling to your bed,"
I leaned on my bow as casually as I could. This was an old game of Huor's – cruel jests and jabs with an air of arrogant superiority. If I did not steady myself, I feared I would fall victim to this racket like I had as a child.
"It is true," I said, "and it is no business of yours,"
Huor stepped towards me. He was already dressed in his feast garb – a dress shirt of dark blue velvet and my father's rings on his fingers. 'How had he gotten those?' Eofel had made it seem like Huor had been far abreast in battle before my mother's fit.
"They say elves have queer taste in bedmates," he told me, malice in his voice. "Strange practices and orgies, I have heard tale of. And even that among them, it is of no consequence if male lies with male or female lies with female,"
He was barbing me, I knew, but then I remembered the way Legolas had embraced Haldir, and the glint in his eye as he had done so. How Haldir had approached me almost with… jealousy?
I shook my head. This was Huor's way. To needle and sow seeds of frustration.
"Huor, I will say it again. It is no business of yours. And more, you forget yourself. You are elf-kind too, as much as I am,"
Huor scoffed, and then to my surprise, he spat. "'Elf-kind'? I am of my own making, Calahdra. Mother's lessons were as unimpressionable as her love. A few elven prayers and parables do not an elf make,"
He stepped closer to me, within arms distance. I stiffened – there was hate in him, and it reminded me too much of a darker confrontation…
"But you, little sister? It shines bright in you." And the way he said this was the queerest mix of maliciousness, jealousy, and covetousness.
I stepped back and swung my knocked bow halfway up. Huor smirked at the sight and reached out as if to snag my drawing wrist. At the same moment, a noise from above – "Calahdra?"
The clear, feminine voice called out from the high bluff atop the range. I turned, squinting as I looked up into the sunlight haloing the figure. It was Éowyn, my blessed protector, with her hands on her hips and a dirty apron round her waist. She even had blood smeared across her forehead and lips.
"What are you thinking, practicing archery now? Get you to my quarters!"
"Yes, m'lady," I called back, both obediently and with thanks. To Huor, I growled. "I must go,"
"Aye," he hissed back. "Run off to your mistress. You've fooled her as you've fooled the elf. Playing both sides, as you always have,"
And then he smirked again. "Perhaps you too have some of that queer elfish desire for women, too? Wouldn't that be a scandal. The princess of Rohan, seduced by her Shieldmaid,"
I shook my head violently and sped away from him and up the bluff. 'Sick,' I thought. 'He's gone utterly sick,'
I'd not been invited to Éowyn's chambers before, and they were both more austere and grander than I could have imagined. Perhaps I should not have been so surprised – her own personality was humble and conservative, yet given she had inherited the late Queen's quarters, so too had she been gifted many relics and antiquities from monarchs past. All the furniture was of dark, perfectly oiled wood. Her bed was wide and hung with brilliant silver tapestries. And her wardrobe – well, wardrobes, to be precise. There were four of them visible in the main chamber.
A servant pulled me at once into a side-chamber, and there I was shepherded towards a drawn washtub. I was still shaking from my exchange with Huor, but the servants worked too quickly to notice. I was spun round and round until I was utterly naked, and then plunged into the deep well.
Éowyn emerged while my feet and fingers were being buffed with some sort of fossilized sponge. She at first did not seem to notice me, and she pressed a palm to her bloodied forehead in wariness.
"My lady, how did you become streaked with blood?" I asked, and she turned towards me with a start.
"Oh, Calahdra!" she replied, and then looked beyond me and into a mirror atop a vanity. "Ah, right," she chuckled, and pulled a corner of her apron up to blot at the mess. "Too many pigs and not enough butchers,"
I laughed – a warrior princess, indeed.
"This night is for you, you know," she explained, sidling up beside the maid now cutting my toenails. I giggled – I was not accustomed to other persons handling my feet.
"Éowyn, this night is for our people," I parried, and she bobbed her head.
"Surely. And to the people of Rohan, you are an emblem of victory and hope. You will look the part,"
I gulped.
A servant helped me up, and then wrapped me up tightly in a soft towel. Éowyn disappeared for a moment into the larger chamber and returned a second later with an impressive bolt of fabric over her arms.
"This was my mother's," she explained. "A gift from the prince of Dol Amroth, when once he had thought to woo her. It has some of that southern grace, don't you think?"
The dress she spoke of looked like the ocean upon which Dol Amroth sat. The fabric was stunning and ethereal – light layers of nearly translucent silk in hues of increasingly dark green and blue. Here and there, silver and golden threads had been used as darts, giving the appearance of starlight dancing on the surface of water.
I was fondling the dress, and Éowyn smiled. "Good, I hoped you would approve,"
While her chambermaids layered me with oils and balms, Éowyn bathed herself. She was slight and fair, almost fragile – yet more womanly in figure than I. She took after a 'proper' woman of Rohan, with fertile-looking hips and breasts that were typically hidden in her modest, queenly dresses. She was telling me of her day of preparations, and I watched and listened to her politely. When she rose from her tub and the water rolled off her, I recalled Huor's crude words and I looked away. 'This is the effect of his poison,' I reminded myself. 'To make you doubt and dismay,' and I forced myself to raise my eyes again.
One of my own maids wordlessly parted from me, and gently helped Éowyn into a white silk robe. As the White Lady set to combing out her flaxen hair, the same chambermaid brought forth a pitcher of mulled wine.
"Please," Éowyn said, after the maid poured two glasses, "help yourself." Somewhat bashful, the two young women gladly took their own share.
Within an hour, all four of us were properly preened and lubricated. We were giggling over nonsense, or gawking at small boxes of jewelry Éowyn dug up from the ancient furniture in her dressing room. I had three glasses of spiced wine, and then four, before the evening bells rang from across the city and Éowyn looked up in panic.
"Quick, quick!" she bid us, and the servant girls finally helped me pull the silk gown over the satin slip I had been lounging in. Éowyn brought me a pair of dark blue slippers, and a circlet was surreptitiously placed over my head. Éowyn wore no crown of her own, only a lovely silk gown in pale green, and I began to protest.
"No," she said simply, "as I said, this night is for you,"
And then she spun me towards a floor-length mirror, and I let out a small gasp.
I was, in fact, the sea. The gown clung to my body lithely and sparkled with the slightest of movements. The skin between my breasts was bare except my emerald necklace. My chestnut hair – usually bound so tightly to my head or left entirely unkempt, lay in soft shining waves except for the two sections nearest my temple, which were wound back in the way that Éowyn wore her own. And the circlet – it was made up of many bronze suns, all bound together in each other's rays. 'Earendel,' I thought. 'Harbringer of day,'
"You are a Lady of Rohan now, Calahdra. And an elven Queen if I have ever seen one,"
And Éowyn reached up and pulled a lock of hair behind my ear, so that the subtly pointed tip was unmistakably evident. I smiled at the sight – even my mother had kept her ears hidden beneath her own dark hair or some matronly headwrap. Éowyn took my hand in hers.
"Come, min drút. Our time has come,"
Arm in arm, we strode to the Great Hall.