I slept an hour or two before waking with the queer feeling of being watched. My room was dark – the fire had died out – and my bed was empty. I pressed my hand to the place where Legolas had lain next to me, rolling his hand down my back until at last I had fallen asleep. It was still warm.
Around me the air was thick and preternaturally quiet. If I strained my ears, all I could hear were motes of dust crashing together. I could smell nothing, taste nothing on my tongue. When I lifted my hands before my eyes, to test that this was not a dream, I had the sensation that my skin was cutting through dense fog, but no fog could be seen.
All at once my door, though it had surely been locked, crashed open. I bolted upwards and first grasped my cloak, which I wrapped around my sheer nightdress, and then Mearling. I bounded out into the night.
The courtyard outside my quarters held the same eerie emptiness. Above, I noticed that the stars seemed to have been blotted from the very sky, despite there being no clouds in sight. I took a tentative step out from under the eaves of my building and into the courtyard. There was foulness amidst.
Across courtyard, only 30 or so yards, I sensed a presence. Squinting, I began to make out the figure of a person. Yet the figure was merely shadow, and the edges seemed to ripple like pipesmoke. In place of eyes, I saw chasms of dark flame. The phantom was staring at me directly, and when I stared back, it turned and fled down the alley behind.
Perhaps foolishly, I sprinted after. My bare feet made no sound on the cobblestones below, nor did my breath. The evil damper remained.
When I passed through the alley, I came to the clearing before the steps to Meduseld – the figure was nowhere to be seen. From here I had a clear vantage of the city below, and of the mountain vistas to the south and east. I trembled with fear – not a single candlelight was lit in the windows of Edoras, nor did smoke plume from the chimneys. 'Surely this must be a dream,'
I cast my mind out to Legolas, and was relieved when I found him, as it served as proof that I was not trapped in some nightmare. But in his mind, I sensed the same terror I felt, and he rebuked me as if he had been preparing for some attack.
My attention was inexplicably pulled to the East, and I gazed out towards Fenmarch, towards the Anorien, and even beyond Minas Tirith. In my mind, I sensed utter horror, and if I squinted, I swore I could see an orange flame ascending into the sky.
"Calahdra." It was Legolas, summoning me. I twirled and raced up the steps behind me, certain I would find him in Meduseld.
In the guest chambers, where we had laid Gimli to sleep, a great commotion had erupted. Shouting and cursing was ensuing, and some were even fleeing as I rushed in. I looked towards the source of the panic, and on the far side of the hall and I saw then that in one of the hobbit's hands was the stone Gandalf had bid away from the ruins of Isengard. But instead of the lifeless black orb I had first seen, it was alit with a sinister glow that seemed to leech the color and very life from the now seizing hobbit. Pippin's face, contorted with pain, mouthed screams he could not release.
Gandalf looked on with horror until his eyes met mine. A half second later, Aragorn flew into the room. Legolas, following after, took no notice of me, for his eyes were bent merely on the source of the Eye's attention, as mine had been.
Aragorn, acting on impulse, stole the orb away from the hobbit and collapsed much like Pippin had. Legolas lunged for his friend as I did. Legolas wrapped iron arms about Aragorn's waist, pulling him back. I reached for the orb, seeking to hide it, destroy it, anything to lift the foul blaze from the air. As my fingers reached out, a moment's contact with the ebony orb sent me back with a gasp.
"You too will die, Calahdra Medlinniel. But only after your gift becomes my weapon,"
The voice was like the grating squeal of a whetting stone against granite, and my spirit recoiled as it burrowed into the deepest crevices of my bones.
"My lady!" It was Merry whose lap I ultimately fell into.
I righted myself and looked about. Tremors racked my body, yet I hid them. Aragorn was writhing in Legolas' embrace, and the orb went rolling across the ground as it slipped from Aragorn's hands. Gandalf lunged and tossed a fallen cloak over it, cursing as he did so.
I found the nearest water pitcher and splashed a fair portion of its contents across the ranger's face. He came to, though he blinked and sputtered.
Carefully, Legolas and I set the pale man against a wall. Aragorn gave us a small nod, but unconvinced that he was well, Legolas stayed with him. Before I could turn away, Aragorn reached for my hand.
"What did the Eye say to you?" His voice was hoarse, as if he had swallowed fire.
I shook my head, too terrified of the memory to dwell on it.
I went then to Pippin, who had been left in the care of Gandalf. Merry kneeled before his friend as well, and when I saw the shocked and nearly sickened look upon his face, I put a hand on his shoulder. Merry leaned into me as if faint and took my hand.
The wizard, seeming to have gathered what information he could from Pippin, looked to us.
"He will live," Gandalf announced, a hint of disappointment painting his voice. Merry took no notice of it, and merely sighed.
I traded places with Legolas for a time while he conferred with Gandalf. They spoke in hushed Quenya, and I picked up words like 'doom', 'leave', and 'White City'. Aragorn, eyes closed tight, was clearly focused on re-catching his breath, and I mopped at his brow with a damp rag.
When Legolas returned to me, he and I helped Aragorn up. Éomer now stood in the doorway – "What new terror is this?" he asked exasperatedly.
Gandalf addressed the Marshal with his weighty, serious tone. "Summon the King at first light. A foul thing has happened,"
For reasons unbeknownst to me, the Wizard demanded that the hobbits be separated for the remainder of the night, and that they both be kept under guard. Gandalf would not let Pippin out of his sight, and so I offered to keep Merry in my quarters. Éomer woke 6 of his guard, and half lingered outside of my doorway. Legolas, too, sulked on the rooftops overhead, his eagle eyes primed for any mischief.
Though the evil veil was lifted from Meduseld, I could not rest. Merry curled up on my bed, but I sat in the straight-backed chair before my hearth and gazed glassy-eyed into the embers. Merry's breath did not slow for an hour or so, but when at last he fell asleep, I tested again that my window and door were locked, and that Mearling was propped within reach of my place at the fire.
Though there were only a few hours left before dawn, they passed tediously. My mind was embroiled with visions of the phantom figure I had seen across the courtyard, and the sinister flame within its eyes and beyond the Eastern plains. Was this the Enemy? The whispered foe enslaved to Morgoth and set upon the earth's ruin? I recalled the cursed images from my Mother's tome – engravings of rings of power, legions of enslaved people, and a single Eye.
I was so caught within my musings that I did not immediately notice the first bell of morning. I did notice, however, when Merry lept up and crashed out of my front door, clearly in some state of panic over Pippin's well-being. I rose too, though far more slowly. My joints crackled, and I noticed that I bitten my fingernails down to the quick.
I washed up and dressed quick as I could, and followed in the hobbit's steps minutes later. Halfway to the Hall, Legolas found me and matched my stride.
"You were kind to have harbored him, though I wished I might have held you," he said to me quietly, brushing his fingertips against the back of my hand as discretely as he could. The morning traffic had already commenced, and the city folk seemed not to have noticed or been perturbed by the night's strange happenings.
"Aye, it was a dark night," I told him, shivering again as I spoke. "Thank you for keeping watch,"
In the Great Hall, a small company had already gathered. Pippin sat at a bench, guarded fiercely by Gandalf. Both were dressed for travel, and my heart sunk at the sullen look on Merry's face.
I rounded the outskirts of the hall and stood behind Théoden, who gave me a solemn nod.
"The Palantíri were once a mighty gift of the elves to the Númenóreans," Gandalf began, "though many were lost. Now, those that remain seem only to be mechanisms for great evil. It is the Palantir, I believe, that led Saruman to succumb to Sauron's will,"
'Sauron.' So it was true. I looked up with a start, but neither my King nor Éomer nor any other now in the room appeared shocked at Gandalf's words. So these were the discussions that were had without me, before I had become a Shieldmaiden and councilor.
"Sauron knows of Saruman's fall, and he knows by whom he was destroyed. He suspects the nature of our quest, and that it is a Hobbit that carries his greatest desire,"
Gandalf looked to me directly and confirmed what I had been anxiously musing over all night. "You know of what I speak, Lady Peredhel. The legends in your mother's tomes are true,"
A ring. One ring. A device with ancient, deadly power, thought for so long to be lost to legend and myth.
Gandalf returned his gaze to Théoden, who paced uncomfortably to and fro.
"There was no lie in Pippin's eyes. A fool… but an honest fool." The Wizard's glance at Pippin was caustic, and I winced for the hobbit, who still looked utterly weary from his ordeal.
"He told Sauron nothing of Frodo and the ring,"
'So it was Sauron who had foretold my doom and my death,'
Gimli huffed with relief, and Legolas stepped closer to his stout friend in allyship.
"We've been strangely fortunate," Gandalf continued. "Pippin saw in the Palantir a glimpse of the enemy's plan. Sauron moves to strike the city of Minas Tirith. His defeat at Helm's Deep showed our enemy one thing - he knows the heir of Elendil has come forth. Men are not as weak as he supposed," Gandalf nodded at Aragorn, and then at me. "There is courage still, strength enough perhaps to challenge him. Sauron fears this – he will not risk the peoples of Middle Earth uniting under one banner,"
Théoden appeared pensive, but vaguely obstinate. I recalled his words at Isengard, when he did not heed Gandalf's advice to warn those other than our own people of the enemy's cunning. I feared he would decide the same now.
The Wizard must have sensed the same, for his voice rose with consternation. "He will raze Minas Tirith to the ground before he sees a King return to the throne of men. If the beacons of Gondor are lit… Rohan must be ready for war,"
A pin-drop silence ensued for a moment, except for the gently click of Théoden's jaw as he worried his teeth. He did not look at Gandalf, or Aragorn, before he began to respond. From behind him, I watched as he wrung his hands anxiously where they were clasped at the small of his back.
"Tell me. Why should we ride to the aid of those who did not come to ours?"
I gulped. It was as I feared. Our King was stubborn and clinging to the precarious peace we had built for the people of Rohan at great cost. Gandalf looked crestfallen, but Aragorn quirked his head. I had suspected his regal lineage for some time – now it seemed he was stepping into the role.
When Théoden queried – "What do owe Gondor?" Aragorn cast him a sour look and rubbed at the serpentine ring on his left forefinger.
"I will go," the Ranger murmured.
"No," Gandalf barked.
"They must be warned!"
"They will be," and Gandalf bent to Aragorn's ear, whispering brisk instructions. When he turned back around, he considered Théoden with the air of a disappointed parent. "Understand this. Things are now in motion that cannot be undone. I ride for Minas Tirith." He appraised the sorry-looking hobbits. "And I won't be going alone,"
In the days after Gandalf and Pippin's departure, life maintained the semblance of a regular hum. Despite the King's mulishness, not all were resigned to presume that war was not still on our peoples near horizon. At dawn, Éomer drilled his men hard and I often joined them. By mid-morning, Éowyn finished setting Meduseld's servants to their chores, and she and I sparred in her bedroom in secret.
"Good," I would tell her, "but with more force. You are stronger than you know." Though she was slight, she was indeed nimble and fearless. I found her a large, round stone from the banks of the Snowbourne, approximately 20 pounds in weight, and I showed her how to squat and raise the stone overhead. "Deeper," I coached her as she lunged. "Our womanly power comes from our thighs," And though I smirked as I said it, her face was set in fixed focus. I did not believe that if her King asked it of her, she would resign herself to remain behind while the fighters of Rohan forged East.
In the afternoons, I coaxed Merry out of his somberness. He often sat at Aragorn's side, and Aragorn could not possibly be moved from his spot on the eastern watchtower. Merry, though depressed at the loss of his kinsmen, retained some of his precocious spark. With Marmagen's help, I identified a sturdy but orphaned pony, and trained Merry in proper riding. Merry cantered in circles around me while I held a large buoy, goading him to strike with a child-sized spear. When he tired, we would polish his pony to a fine gloss alongside Meleare in her paddock, and Merry would tell me of the Shire.
"You've no warrior folk among hobbits?" I asked, struggling to imagine a country or life without threat of bandits or worse.
"Nay, only Sheriffs and Constables, and mostly they chase foxes out of gardens or wallop mischievous children,"
In the evenings, I supped with Merry, Legolas, Aragorn, and Gimli. They made for colorful company, though in truth their conversations were solemn. Occasionally they would recall their journey over the previous months, and I would better understand bits and pieces of the nature of their quest. There had once been nine of them, I understood, including a noble captain of Gondor who had fallen to the same Uruk-hai that had carried Merry and Pippin nearly to Isengard. Legolas also managed to wrangle more detail on the manner of ents from Merry, though the hobbit seemed to consider the experience with the great Shepherds to have been a frustrating slog. "Too slow," he would counter each time Legolas expressed some sort of wonderment.
In the evenings, Legolas would recant to me what he had learned of Rohan's culture, or take to reading through the Rohirric dictionary I had rescued from the ruin of Isengard while I would mend our clothing and armor. Legolas too had taken to morning duels with the Rohirrim, though in truth he had taken on the role of trainer rather than trainee – he was far quicker than the sturdy Eorlingas, both on foot and on horseback.
We spoke very little of Sauron, or the ring, or the trials ahead. Nor did we speak of Huor, to whom Legolas had never been introduced yet had surely encountered among the morning spar or meals in the Great Hall. Much as it had before we had fled to Helm's Deep, time felt too precious and fleeting to waste on recanting our fears and anguish.
When my hearth would glow low, and I had exhausted the supply of ruptured seams or knife-holes to repair, Legolas would come to me wordlessly and gather me up in his arms. Night after night, he made true on his promise to show me what he knew of pleasure.
Over time, the scores of Rohirrim gathering in Edoras began to grow again. Éomer must have sent word even if his uncle had not asked him too, for our warriors came with all their weapons, tents, and accoutrements for battle.
Huor, who I had managed to avoid almost entirely since our confrontation the night of the feast, surprised me one morning when he appeared at Théoden's long counsel table, where I was taking breakfast alone.
"Come sister, we have a guest,"
I blinked at him but rose as he requested and trailed after him to the stables.
In the courtyard stood a tall black destrier, saddled with tack I recognizes. On the horse's leather champron, a flaming eagle carried the light of Halifirien towards the heavens.
"Lenwe," Huor stated matter-of-factly, and from around the great stallion walked my other brother, so fair like my mother yet tall and firm as any man of Rohan
I nearly tripped over my own feet when I sped towards him, and he embraced me thoroughly, pressing a kiss to my head.
"Sister," he said simply, and stepped back to assess me.
For Lenwe's part, he looked nearly identical to when I'd seen him last save a long, crusted scar that ran from the corner of his right eye towards his nose. I lifted a finger, but before I could graze the wound, he caught my hand.
"An orc-kiss," he said dryly, his lips curling back to reveal a dark smile.
"And you are too proud to heal it properly?"
"Nay, I am sorely in need of a wife, and this will earn me my renown,"
I snorted, and backed up to pat his horse, who I knew. It was, after all, my father's stallion.
"Meldis, you fair well,"
"Aye," Lenwe said, trailing his fingers down the beast's neck with fondness. "The best of father's stock, save your mare of course,"
I smiled. "Let Meleare tell you that herself," and I led him on to the stables, without care for Huor who dogged us awkwardly.
"Do you come from Fenmarch direct?" I asked, a thousand questions on the tip of my tongue. 'How was mother? Was home safe?'
"No. From the Folde. It goes ill with Uncle. Too few of his men returned home from the Hornburg,"
I blanched. This was not good news for my already politically embroiled family.
I set to helping Lenwe untack his horse, and Meleare appeared at the gate to her stall.
"Kin!" she said brightly and brayed at her cousin. Meldis snorted back and bared his teeth. I chuckled. Such was the way of stallions.
Lenwe gave my mare a tender pat and she snuffled at him. "Ai mellon nin. You remain my sister's strongest shield, maethor-rîs,"
Huor had grown bored of our sentimentality. "Where is Mother?"
Lenwe turned, slowly and not friendly in the slightest. 'What had gone ill between them?' "Still locked in her cell, per your orders, muindor,"
"Brother does fine," Huor retorted, nearly sneering. "Save your Sindarin for your tender private moments with our sister,"
I looked between them, not comprehending. They had been thicker than thieves all our lives, despite any evidence of Huor's contempt for me. Lenwe had been the very definition of nonconfrontation as far as family and politics went. This new side of him was a conundrum.
But Lenwe's countenance suddenly shifted to one of defeat, and he looked to his boots.
"Naneth will sail West,"
"Sail?" Huor and I echoed incredulously. "When?" I demanded. Huor spat.
"Foul, evil bitch," my oldest brother hissed, and he began to pace. "To make such a catastrophic mess of things only to turn tail and flea,"
Lenwe, though he looked disgusted at Huor's contemptuous language, ignored this. He spoke very quietly to me then "Her grief is immense. It is a wonder she has lasted this long. She cannot bear this land any longer. She will make for Lorien by month's end, and then to the Grey Havens,"
I could not entirely say that I was shocked. My mother had no love for life among mortals other than life with my father. But she did not harbor love for the elves either, which I understood much better now having been told her backstory by Galadriel. And this – this choice would bind her to elvendom for eternity.
And more, I had not seen her since before I had made my pilgrimage to Edoras. She would leave me without farewell? We had not shared the typical bond between Rohirric mother and daughter, that was certain. But there had not been hate between us either.
This pained me, but I could not continue the conversation further without threat of erupting into either tears or ire. Huor, though, continued his feverish pacing.
"There are preparations she has not seen to. Documents that need signing, heirlooms that are likely being plundered as we speak…,"
Lenwe stiffened. "We are on the eve of battle, brother. I hardly think the ceramic plates and horses' titles matter now,"
Huor looked up, and his mouth parted as if he was going to quarrel, but instead he looked at me and narrowed his eyes sinisterly. Ever had I been his scapegoat and whipping boy. I steeled myself for whatever poison he would utter next.
Instead, he surprised me and Lenwe both by turning heel and leaving the stable swiftly.
Lenwe shook himself with a motion that reminded me so much of myself that I could not help but smile. Meeting my eyes, he smiled too. "Tell me, Shieldmaiden. What news does the King's hand bear?"
When Lenwe had finished Meldis' untacking, and we found the noble stallion a proper stall, I led my brother to Meduseld, to find him a cot among the other soldiers. We ascended the stairs to the Hall in good spirits – our familial banter had not suffered from our parting, I was relieved to note.
At the top of the landing, Lenwe tripped – this as unlike him, as he was as elfish as I, but I knew his journey from the Folde had been long. The pack he was carrying in his arms went flying and unraveled enough that the contents spilled out over the granite landing.
We both laughed and dashed for the items, clunking heads as we did so and laughing harder for it. We knelt, and I gathered his shaving set in my cloak while he refolded a tunic.
A third set of arms – aged and dressed in purple silk rolled to the elbows – joined us. The regal voice grew thick with emotion as it gathered up an embossed leather journal.
"The holy eagle of Fenmarch, guardian of Amon Anwar. Always has it protected our border with Gondor,"
Though Lenwe scrabbled somewhat, I rose slowly and bowed a graceful head to Théoden.
My words were both calculated and honest - "Aye my Lord, as it has guarded Gondor's border with us,"
To this, Théoden seemed momentarily awestruck. It was the truth, and in his eyes I saw that he knew it too – the flaming eagle was not only the mark of Fenmarch, but also of Eilenaer, the small but fearless Gondorian fief at the southernmost base of the Mountain. In recent years, most beacon wardens were young men from the Fendowns, but every two years or so, an Eilenaerian would offer himself up.
Théoden regathered himself, and looked to Lenwe, who still stood with his head bowed.
"And who is this, then, Lady Fenmarch?"
"My brother Lenwe, my liege. A fierce soldier of Rohan,"
"And the spitting image of your mother, I would warrant. As your brother Huor is the picture of your father,"
Lenwe grinned and smiled politely at the King, but I wondered at how Théoden and Huor had become acquainted. Huor was not Lord of Fenmarch yet.
"Aye, my King," Lenwe replied, "I have my Lady Mother's looks, but all of Lord Cadda's steel. As does Calahdra,"
"As does Calahdra," Théoden agreed, and he put a hand on Lenwe's shoulder. "You are welcome, son of Cadda. We will have need of your steel, I suspect,"
And the King took his leave. A weight fell from my shoulders. Perhaps his stubbornness was abating.
It was at breakfast the next day - when I had only just had the chance to introduce Legolas to a better-rested Lenwe – that Aragorn came crashing in.
Aragorn's next words rekindled a scene I only spoke of in story – the memory of gathering up the oil from beneath the furnace atop the Holy Mountain and carrying it back down through a snow squall with intent to fell an evil beast.
"The beacons of Minas Tirith!" the heir of Elendil cried. "The beacons are lit! Gondor calls for aid,"
Lenwe stood at once, his hand on my shoulder. The King had turned from his council table, absorbing the weight of Aragorn's words as we all had. His eyes found my brother and I, and the eagle crest on Lenwe's cloak.
"And Rohan will answer. Muster the Rohirrim!"