*****************
The days passed in a blaze of preparations, hurried and desperate,
with Siobhangé sealed off from the outside world by a cycle of spells
that were constantly replenished by teams of fey song-weavers. The beautiful
city was completely enclosed, a haven into which reports came of the movement
of orcs through the forest of Ré-Nancet, hinting at the still more
deadly battles to come.
Gimli, Legolas, Boromir, and Aragorn were in their element, with their
counsel grudgingly welcomed by the fey warriors. Aragorn especially was
fascinated by the fey style of fighting, with its feral, whirling movements
that were most effective when allowed to reach the fever pitch of an unstoppable
predator tearing at its prey. Kerra's lithe form was best suited to this
style, and she possessed the ability to lose all control of herself within
the heat of battle, destroying anything in her path. She had within her
certain magic powers of bowel-wrenching ferocity; she was a huntress of
ancient times, one of the oldest and most feared of the fey. Those sapphire-ice
eyes could burn like the fires of Mount Doom, and a single word from her
could unleash the legendary fury of the fey.
And she was held accountable to only one: the Lady Radika herself.
Anemosi had matured swiftly as the days flew by, struggling to take hold of the spiral of events before they could escape her. She not had to deal with burden of grief over the loss of her beloved father, but she know that she held the very fate of her people in her hands, and the weight showed in the barely noticeable shortness of breath, of the unfamiliar tenseness of the back and shoulders, in the dark grey shadows traced under her eyes, in the ever-more pronounced hollows of her cheekbones. And above all, she wrestled with the power of the Ring. Its siren call had begun to beckon to her seductively, whispering to her of a solution to all her pains. She could take back her father, avenge her mother and brother, save her people, and, most agonizing of all, keep Sam by her side, if she only took the Ring from Frodo.
She would be doing him a great service, after all, she thought to herself as she rested briefly in her rooms. He was a mere halfling, not at all near the level of the Lady Radika. If any was prepared to receive the Ring, was it not she, the avatar of the Lady herself? Why had it not passed to her? How could a hobbit succeed where a king of Numenor had fallen short?
She shivered and drew her shawl more tightly around herself. Such thoughts were useless, but more frightening as they came more and more often, and with more force. She could never get warm anymore, she thought disjointedly. The chill had seemed to settle within her very marrow, and would not be dislodged. A sudden breeze blew through her thin gown, making her entire body break out in gooseflesh. What portents did this soft wind bring with it? She closed her eyes, sending out her subtle mind into the forest, searching, sensing, learning...
The gentle touch of a pair of hands on her shoulders brought her back with a start to her rooms. With a shudder, she was pulled back inside her body, all too aware of its boundaries and weaknesses.
Sam stood behind her, his eyes lighting upon her with such love that she felt herself shivering anew. She could hardly bear the intensity in his gaze, and loved him all the more for letting his feelings show for her so clearly. Her heart ached as she saw how he still moved stiffly, and she could see bruises peering out from under the collar of his shirt.
"Hullo, Anemosi...I just wanted to check up on you, see if you needed anything..." his voice trailed off as she graced him with a blinding smile. He would have abandoned the Shire in an instant if he could be sure she would never have cause not to smile like that.
"I have everything I need here, Sam." She raised her hand to his cheek, all but his presence forgotten. He covered her hand tenderly, his eyes sorrowful as he met her ravaged gaze.
"You're hurting," he said quietly. She nodded miserably, knowing it useless to hide anything from this gentle creature who knew her so well. He gathered her in, as she hoped he would, whispering soft words of comfort that fell to silence as he turned to kisses to soothe her. His lips were warm, and soon trailed away from hers to smooth over the tender flesh of her throat. She shivered, but not with fear.
"Sam..." He pulled back, a wondering look in his eyes, but she quelled his anxiety by sliding the shoulders of her gown down her arms. The sun was setting, and now was the time to gather what comfort they could from each other.
His gaze grew more heated as she slowly undressed, but his face contracted with pain as he saw a puckered scar, mottled and thick, marring the perfect skin between her breasts. She would carry this memento, acquired by saving Frodo, for all of time. Trying to hold back his tears, he bent his head and kissed the wound softly. She sighed, brushing her hands through his soft hair, and that was the end of anything she could remember, because he lifted her to the bed, and the moon had risen before she was conscious of the outside world again.
After that night, he rarely left her side. By day, she may have been separated from him as she attended secret councils with Gandalf and Aragorn, but she was never alone at night. Never.