I like this chapter better than the last one. It was much easier for me to write, but much longer as well. It's over thirty pages in my notebook. At the rate I'm going, I'm gonna need to buy a new notebook.

Chapter 15

Edoras approaches. From here, it looks like a march of beetles across a mountain, but as it comes closer, the shapes of thatched-roof buildings and dark, wind-blown houses become steadily clearer. I think of Edoras as a hulking giant, lumbering toward me. But it is I who goes to it. To my new life.

I miss the forest, as one would miss the familiarity of a scar which has faded with time. But I do not fear never seeing it again. It is my past, my old life, and I eagerly await my new start.

From the hills of Edoras, still far away, comes a pair of riders and one riderless horse, dutifully following the others. I know the men do not yet see them, for my eyes are keen to such detail. But as they near, the men around me begin to smile, perhaps hoping that they are messengers from the King, sent to greet us. No, they are not messengers, they are servants, and have come for me, in response to the message Éoden sent carried by his fastest messenger, as soon as we entered the city's limits.

To the chagrin of the men, I am greeted by the servants who are aghast at my rumpled and dirty clothing. They try to hide their upset, but are poor at it, which amuses me to no end. They lead me to the riderless horse which I mount and sit comfortably upon, though it is the first time I have ever sat astride such an animal. I wave a quick goodbye to the men, knowing I will see them in a few hours, and turn my horse toward Edoras. The servants ride tranquilly, but I want none of this. I want to whisper "noro lim" to the horse, knowing that those words will compel him forward. But, I can not, for even though speaking to an animal is different than speaking to a person, I am not yet ready to take this step. Instead, I gently nudge the horse's flanks with the heels of my boots, urging him on. I do not need to kick him; He is well trained.

The servants shout their disapproval as I let my horse loose across the plains, my hair whipping free of its ties and flowing behind me in the wind. I rejoice in the heavy breeze, which smells of freedom and sings empty spaces. It envelopes me and holds me, even as I tear through it, toward the gates of Edoras. These loom over me, daring me to enter the heart of Rohan. I am forced to stop; Their challenge sways me. I will wait for the welcome of the servants, who have long since been left behind.

I do not mind waiting for them to approach, for the gates and the city and the horse under me all capture my interest.

The gates are heavy iron and wind-weathered wood, darkened by rain and the task of keeping Edoras safe from attack. Intricate carvings crawl over their surface, flecked with gold and rust-red pigments, long since worn off by the ever present winds. From the watchtowers fly green and gold banners, a white horse rearing on the fabric. They snap crisply in the same wind which batters me as I sit calmly on my mount.

The city beyond is startlingly open, as if it is nonchalantly placed on the hill, as a decoration, the abandoned playthings of a child giant. Winding stone paths decorate the hill, weaving their way through it on serpentine routes, situated between dark houses, nestled into the soft depressions on the hill. My notion of the city as a march of beetles again strikes me as appropriate, for the houses perch on the hill in stark contrast to the grass and seem tiny in the expanse of the plains. All, that is, save for the Golden Hall.

Meduseld is like the throne of the king, his waiting courtiers, the houses, groveling before him on their knees. It shines amongst the homes, brilliant with color unfaded with time. It is polished stone and bright wood. It is resplendent, effulgent. It is my journey's end.

My horse snorts impatiently and tosses its mane, chewing uncomfortably on the bit. I lean forward and stroke his proud neck, then quickly unbuckle the ornate bridle which tortures him. I slip it over his ears and off his muzzle, stroking him as I do so. Eagerly he relinquishes the bit, whinnying softly with delight. He is a beautiful animal, and it pleases me that he is pleased.

The sun shines heavily down on him, its bright rays making his chestnut-colored flanks glisten like gold. His mane and tail are black, lustrous and dark like my own locks. It gives me joy to share this likeness with the horse.

I wish I knew his name. How hard it is to know someone without knowing their name. I love this horse already, his speed, his gentleness, his grace, his beauty. But I can not know him for I do not know his name. It is a simple concept, this knowledge through namesake, but I can not ask anyone for this tiny bit of information. It is depressing, and dampens my peace as effectively as a spray of water on a newly lit flame.

I have no time to dwell on this moment of sadness as the sound of pounding hooves rapidly approaches. I wince, but am inwardly amused, at the scolding looks on the servants' faces. This look escalates as they see the bridle in my hand and not on the horse. I allow them to pass ahead of me on their own horses and follow into the city.

I hear soft, hushed voices as I am noticed. I try to sit proudly, and be calm, but I am excited and want to see everything. I turn in the saddle, peering at anything and everything, only to realize that the soft voices I heard are accompanied by inquisitive, curious eyes. I hear the word "Elf" whispered more than once, and it gives me such a sense of shame that I nod my head forward so that my hair covers the subtle pointing tips of my ears. I meet their stares, then, and try to think of these people as my future friends. But no matter how hard I try, I can not imagine them understanding me as the men of Éoden's scouting party understand me. All I can do is be fearless, and that has never been hard for me.

Indeed, I feel no fear as I leave the horse in the hands of a stable boy, who smiles at him and then at me, reaching for the bridle in my hand. His eyes are wide and innocent, his hands dirty, fingernails filled with grime. He is altogether unkempt and smells of horses, but I like his genuine, innocent smile. And when he pats the muzzle of the horse, and calls him Sila, I want to cry. The horse's name is a simple Elvish word, meaning shines. Yes, he shines, and I am happy to have known such a proud animal.

The servants usher me onto the steps up to Meduseld and walk quickly up them. But I want to savor these first few steps. At the crest of the stairs, I look around, evaluating the view. Thick, round columns extend out to a stone foundationg, which juts out to form platforms of cobbled rock. Green and gold ribboned banners wave in the almost-tempestuous wind, held high on what look like old spears, once used in combat. I know, already, that I will spend much time on these platforms.

A hand on my arm rips from this evaluation, and pulls me into the Hall. The golden throne at the head of the room is empty, and yet still glows, the only bright light in the room. It is set on a raised dais of stone, high carved arches inlaid with gold above it. Behind the throne are banners in red and blue, the same rearing white horse decorating them. These banners hang also from the arches leading to the throne, formed by massive columns, intricately carved and topped by sculpted horse heads. The floor is a pattern of hollow circles and diamonds, in blue and red, also stone, interrupted by an open firepit. Bands of gold carvings cover everything, intermittently, and, aside from the throne, they are the only things which sparkle. The hall is altogether dark and worn, as if with sorrow and old mistakes.

I take this all in with the swiftness of a breath, and continue on, almost running to catch up with the servants. They lead me under one of the arches, into a long hallway and through a doorway, from which steam leaks out in flowing, wispy puffs. The air around it is hot, and as I step into the room, I am assaulted by a wave of humidity. In the center of the room is a large, marble bath, filled to the brim with steaming water and frothy bubbles. Hands grab my soiled clothing from all sides and soon I am all but tossed into the scalding, sweet-smelling water. I surface with a sputter, wiping soap from my face, but strong hands push my head back under, and begin to lather my hair. The whole situation is utterly ridiculous.

I am at last allowed to take a breath and peer at the woman who is so intent at making me clean. I want to tell her taht only my clothing is dirty, that the Elven part of me keeps the filth from my skin. Still, the other part of me, the human part, is eternally unclean.

"My name is Fréoda," she says, a determined smile breaking out on her face, as she lifts my arm from the water and scrubs it.

Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, thick, dark forearms protruding from them. Her face is soft and round, wisps of hair sticking to her forehead from under a kerchief she has tied about it to hold it back. Her face speaks of hard work and a productive life.

"You're just about the same size as the Lady Éowyn," she continues. "She's gone now, married to Faramir of Gondor, but some of her dresses still hang in her old rooms." She speaks of Éowyn with fondness, a gentle nostalgic lilt in her voice. "You'll be meeting her brother, the King, as soon as I've got you washed and dressed. He's a good man, King Éomer, and his wife is as sweet and kind as any lady you'll ever meet." She pauses to splash a bucket of clean water, with no soap, over my head. "Alright," she leans back and puts her hands on her hips, "You're clean, let's get you dressed."

She pulls a thick robe from a basket of clean clothes at her side and holds it open for me. She is motherly and kind, and I feel secure in her presence as I step from the bath and put my arms into the sleeves of the robe and wrap it tight around me. I tower over her diminuitive, stout frame, but she exudes strength. She is stronger than I can ever hope to be. True, I have no fear, but my emotions are as fragile as a newly-spun spiderweb.

She leads me though a curved doorway at the back of the room and says, "This will be your room."

My eyes scan it slowly. At its center is a large bed set on a carpet of furs. The walls are free of any tapestry or decoration, a fault I hope to amend. The room lacks personality and is dark. I hope I can improve it.

Fréoda leads me to a low stool and asks me to sit. She picks up a bottle of sweet-smelling oil from a table next to her, and rubs a small amount into her hands before stepping behind me. From here, she picks up the wet, tangled mass of my hair and begins to smooth the oil into it. When she is done, it shines like it is lit from within, but is still tangled. This she fixes by picking up a comb carved with the design of horses and pulls it through my hair until it is free of knots. The silence must be uncomfortable for her, because she begins to speak.

"Éoden said you would not speak. 'Watch her eyes' he said. 'They speak volumes.' He knows you well, eh?" she asks, but of course she knows I will not answer. "Of course he does. How long were you with them? Five weeks?" I nod an affirmative, and she continues, "Five weeks is plenty long enough to learn a person. He said to take care of you for him."

This does not surprise me. He is unceasingly protective. Still, it gives me a secret thrill to be so obviously wanted. It is the first time I have ever felt such care.

Fréoda is softly chuckling, and I do not know why.

"He was right about your eyes. You were thinking of him, weren't you?" she says, merriment tainting her words.

Why should I lie to her? I nod.

"Don't worry, you'll see him soon. He's gone to his home, as have the other soldiers. But they'll be back in an hour or two to meet the King. You'll be ready by then."

This said, she pulls a small section of hair away from the left side of my head, at my forehead. She ties a ribbon the color of moonlight to a few strands of hair and then braids it in with the rest. She does the same to a section on the right side of my head. Once done, she loops the two braids together to form a spiral down from the back of my head to my waist. The ribbons she tied in are longer than my hair, so she uses the loose ends to tie the spiral together and lets the rest hang below it. She lifts a small box from the table and selects a handful of tiny, tear-drop shaped beads from it. They have little hooks on their ends, and these she uses to attack them to the ribbon in the braids. She attaches them only to the point where the braids meet, so that they dangle around my head.

After this, she steps away from me and pulls a gown from the bed. She must have laid it out before, but strangely enough, I did not notice it. She helps me out of the robe, into a shift, and then into the dress. Undoubtedly, it is the most beautiful gown I have ever worn.

It is a soft gray, the color of my eyes. The sleeves are right to the elbow, then split open so that the length of them falls almost to the floor, but leaves my forearm uncovered. Just above my elbow, a braided cord loops around my upper arm and falls with the sleeves. It is the same color as the ribbons in my hair. The collar is square cut, dipping low, and leaving a good portion of my shoulders bare. Starting at the swell of my chest and ending at my waist is a criss-crossing of wide ribbons the same color as the cording on my arms. They form an almost-corset across my torso, and hug me perfectly. The gown is beautiful, and I feel beautiful in it.

"Almost ready," Fréoda says, hands on her hips.

She picks up the box that held the beads which decorate my hair and rummages through it. Smiling, she pulls a necklace from it and places it around my neck. It is a simple, silver chain upon which hangs a five-pointed silver star. The center of the star is an opal, shining as if it is filled with hundreds of fragments of sparkling ribbons. Four points of the star are decorated with tiny, dangling, tear drop-shaped opals, which rest in the hollow of my throat.

"Now, you're ready," she says, a smile of satisfaction and accomplishment breaking out across her face.

I try to tell her how grateful I am, how happy, and she seems to understand, for she smiles and nods. She extends an arm ahead of her, indicating taht I should walk forward, and then takes her place beside me as I follow her direction.

Down a long hallway, we walk, an odd pair if ever there was one. I am not nervous, only inquisitive as to the King and Queen, as to my place in the Kingdom of Rohan. Perhaps the King will tell me that I am unwanted, and will send me back to the forest. This idea does not frighten me. It is not as though this has never happened before. At least then it would be something I am used to. Still, the thought of never seeing faces which have become familiar, again, makes me somewhat sad. I have always lived with sadness, though, and do not fear its presence.

The end of the hallway is bright and I can see the columns of the great hall as we near it. We pass under the same banners that flew over me not long ago, but this time we turn towards the throne, not away from it. Though I did not notice it before, there is a second throne, a smaller one, to the King's left, and upon it sits his wife, the Queen.

I approach calmly and sink to my knees before the King, my head bowed. The soft silks of the gown pool around me and my hands rest upon them. If I were truly of the Elven world, I would not stoop so low. I would extend one arm out from my chest in a gesture of respect. But I am not. I am of a world all my own.

"My lady, you need not kneel in my presence," the King says, so I stand and look into his eyes.

His face is stern, and yet kind, wizened by lines etched in by time. His hair is blonde, like Éoden's, only it is marked by strands of silvery-gray. He is simply dressed, not at all kingly, save for the golden crown set upon his brow. He looks uncomfortable, as if he would rather be on horseback, fighting for his kingdom.

"so, you are the lady, Éoden is so enamored with,"he says, a smile in his voice. It is not a question and I blush at its obvious intimacy. I have never before thought of Éoden as anything more than a protector. Apparently, I was misguided.

"He will be here soon," he continues, "So I will tell you my decision as to your stay here when he arrives. Until then, let me introduce you to my wife, the Lady Lothiriel." He puts a gentle hand over hers and smiles at her. The love between them is obvious and refreshing.

I turn toward her and curtsy slowly and then meet her eyes. They are a light brown, a strange combination with her light blonde hair, but still beautiful. Indeed, her entire person seems to glow with inner radiance. In examining her gown, I realize why; She is pregnant.

She smiles widely at me, and nods at my display of respect.

"I am pleased to meet you," she says, and her voice is musical. "Éoden has chosen well, it seems." She is candid and frank in her examination of me, and again I blush, realizing more and more of my importance to my guardian, Éoden.

Thankfully, it seems they both know that I will not speak to answer questions, and simply sit in silence. It is a comfortable silence, broken only by the gravelly voice of a herald who says that Éoden and his men arrive. The King, Éomer, gestures towards me to stand at his side.

"He will want to see you, dresses as you are," he says, his voice stern, but almost-mischievous.

I nod and walk forward to stand at his right, the silk of my gown whispering against my skin like a soft, cool breeze. I clasp my hands in front of me just as Éoden strides into the room.

His face is so welcome, I almost smile, but he has not yet seen me. He looks first at the King, then to the Queen, but his eyes race to mine when he sees me standing so near. His clear blue eyes widen and his mouth almost drops open. It is terribly flattering to be so admired, but he looks well himself. His blonde hair has been pulled back at the crown of his head, and shines with having been newly washed. He is wearing a clean, new tunic, which fits him well and shows no tears or use. Backlit by the setting sun, he looks very handsome, and I am shocked to admit it.

He remembers himself and falls to one knee before the King, the men behind me doing the same. I recognize Haled, Thengel, and Éomen, and watch with pleasure as their eyes seek mine and smile. At least, the latter two smile. Haled's ugly face never has a smile for me. He is constantly brooding, his thick brows pulled down low over his eyes in a scowl. Though I do not fear him, being in his presence is enough to make me the closest to nervous I have ever been.

I ignore him, as the King addresses Éoden, rising from his throne to open his arms in a brotherly embrace. The two smile, clapping each other on the back as only close friends do.

"So, my friend," the King says, resuming his seat on the throne, "What brings you back so early? As if I could not guess." He makes a point of glancing in my direction.

"Your assumption is correct, my Lord. I had no wish to drag the lady about the forest with us. Forgive me if I assumed incorrectly that you would not mind my cutting the scouting party short."

"You know my mind, Éoden, of that I have no doubt. You chose wisely bringing the lady here." He stops and brings one hand to his chin, stroking the short hairs there.

In this short silence, Éoden's eyes seek mine, but for once they are serious, even sad.

"Forgive me, my Lord, but what is to be done with the lady?" Éoden asks, his eyes not leaving mine until the last word.

"Well, I have given it much thought, my friend, and the Queen and I have decided that the lady is welcome to live here in Rohan, here in Meduseld, in fact, if she wishes." At this he turns to me, as does Éoden, and his eyes are expectant. How can I refuse? I nod. I try to ignore Éoden's sigh of satisfaction.

"Alright, that is settled then. The lady may have my sister's old rooms. And in celebration of our new guest, who I hope will become a permanent resident, the Queen and I shall have a feast and perhaps dancing. You," he gestures to Éoden and his men, "are all invited. Go home now, and rest. You men deserve a rest. Tomorrow night, I shall try to make up to you the months of walking."

At this, he stands and crosses to Éoden's side, hugs him again, and sends the men on their way. I watch as they, one by one, turn their backs to me and leave. It is Éoden who turns last, his eyes fixed upon me. He nods slowly, without smiling, and at last pivots and walks away.

When he is out of sigh, I feel a hand on my arm and look into the Queen's radiant face. She is smiling, a mischievous smile of satisfaction. "Perhaps he merely thought the dress was beautiful?" she says, and laughs a clear, ringing laugh like crystal bells.

The King joins her and seems to sense my embarassment, for he says, "My lady," addressing me, not the Queen, "it occurs to me that you must have some sort of occupation if you are to stay here in Meduseld. I do not mean that I will only allow you to stay if you serve here, but you will need something to keep you busy. It is easy to become bored inside the walls of this Hall."

I nod my agreement and follow him as he leads me out of the great hall and down a long hallway. "Here," he says, pushing open a heavy door which creaks as if angry when he does so.

He motions for me to step inside and I do, my eyes widening.

It is a library, filled with scrolls and dusty parchment. The air is thick with the musty smell of old leather and paper, but I do not notice.

The King follows me and walks to a far corner of the room. He gestures to a pair of bookshelves and many wooden boxes, piled high with documents. As I peer closely at them, I notice that they are not dusty and smell of fallen leaves, of autumn. He pulls a scroll from one of the boxes and unrolls it, to reveal flowing script in runes that are familiar to me. I gasp. They are written in Elvish.

"By your expression, my lady, I must assume that this language is familiar to you," he says softly, handing the scroll to me.

I hold it gently in my hands, running my fingers over the silver letters. I nod emphatically. Yes, I understand these.

"Then," he sighs, "this is to be your assignment. These documents were found in an Elven city, long abandoned. I am ashamed to admit that our rough Rohirric eyes can not decipher their meaning. Will you translate them for us? Can you write in Cirth?" he asks.

I nod an affirmative to both questions, my eyes still tracing lovingly over the language I have not seen in so long.

He smiles with understanding, and pats my shoulder, leaving me to my contemplation. The sound of the door closing tells me he's left, and I sink to a chair, gratefully. I lower the scroll and scan the boxes and shelves of their history, realizing that this assignment could take me years. But, I do not care.

I stand from the chair and put the scroll down on it. There is a small table in the center of the room which I pull over into my corner and then lay the scroll on its scratched surface. There is ink, a quill pen, and blank sheets of parchment stacked on a shelf in another corner which I pile on my table before sitting down. I pick up the pen and dip it in the inkwell and scratch the first words of this scroll onto the parchment, in the harsh lines of Cirth runes and the language of Rohan. It is a scroll I know I will love, for its first words I have read many times before. "Of the Valar."

'Yes, thanks to the Valar for allowing me such happiness,' I pray silently, leaning back in my chair and sighing.

I stay like this for a moment, or an eternity, and then open my eyes and pick up the pen. I will write for hours upon hours. I will write a history that I can never hope to accept as my own, but whose beauty will give me peace.

Satisfactory? Tell me. I live for reviews.