I wanted to write, but I didn't want to write one of my other fics, so... This is what you get. Enjoy.
Note: No, "Tanneth" is not an elvish name, nor is it based on any other of Tolkien's languages. More on that, and other things, if I ever bother to continue this thing.
Reluctant as I was to abandon the sea breeze under the swelter of mid-June heat, I was in no position to argue with the matron. In her misleadingly benevolent way, she had coaxed me out of my tranquil summer daze with talk of "duty" and "compassion". Never mind that my right leg was still unpredictably weak, the hamstring only partially healed, or that dear old Goldwine was in desperate need of having his teeth floated. No, it was my duty to lay that old bit over the poor gelding's fat tongue, swing a gimp leg over his stiff old back and make my way to the far North and West. That woman must have smelled the pipeweed on me upon my previous return home, choosing this task as punishment for my weakness. Varda help me, I'm an almost entirely unsexed woman – allow me one small vice, for Eru's sake!
Dear Goldwine was particularly stiff on that morning, only a day and a half's ride West of Dol Amroth – though indeed I had not come from the City of Princes, but the hills just westward. He skirted and bucked and made me appreciate his discomfort, and out of lethargy more than sympathy I let the poor beast turn with log-like motion, without a bit of bend in him. I could do little else, after all; the load was already light, and our path was relatively straight as it was. He would have to last until I could have his saddle reflocked in Linhir.
Presently the little city sparkled into view across the grasslands, the rivers Gilrain and Serni set as glittering veins of silver against the summer green. I asked Goldwine for a faster trot; he glued his ears back against his neck, twisted and bucked once, angrily, by way of a "No, thank you." I sighed and didn't press the matter – we'd get there eventually, after all, and the slow pace meant I could smoke a bit as we went.
We covered the distance at a steady pace, and halfway to the city walls I spotted a flotilla of small ships docked just south of the fords, apparently under repair. The swan emblems emblazoned across their standards shone golden-white in the sunlight, and I realized in that moment how far the reach of the corsairs must have extended up the coast of the bay.
"The Prince sends his fleets far from home," I said to Goldwine, who responded simply by attempting to snatch a mouthful of grass from between his shuffling feet.
The coast wasn't the only place where security had been tightened, I noted momentarily, approaching the walls. The gates of the city, in my experience, were usually left wide open during the daytime, casually guarded by one or two youths with nothing better to do than nap the hours away and await promotion. Now, however, I was faced with two scarred and severe men who blocked the entrance, their armour gleaming and their gazes humourless.
"Hello, there lads," I said carefully, easing Goldwine to a stumbling halt.
"What's your business?" one asked, approaching my mount's shoulder and catching me in his steely gaze.
"Just passing through," I assured him, gesturing in the direction of the fords. "Oh – and perhaps having my horse shod, if I can find a man to do it." I patted Goldwine's shoulder.
The men glanced at the poor old beast, eyebrows raised.
"Oh, leave him be, he's an old man," I said. "All he needs are some new shoes and a properly-fitted saddle, and perhaps for some kind soul to take a rasp to his teeth, bless him."
"Turn out your bags," the guard ordered, glaring.
"Alright, alright..." I muttered, and unbuckled the saddlebags. I handed their contents down to him – dried fruit and flatbread, a hoof pick, an extra undershirt, and pouch after pouch of medicinal herbs. The guard inspected the final items suspiciously.
"No chance these are poison, eh?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "There're some I don't recognize."
I snorted. "Believe you me, friend, I haven't the wits to poison anyone, much less the desire." I paused for a moment. "And who is there in Linhir worth poisoning, anyhow?"
"Never you mind," he growled, and handed me back my things, which I carefully repacked. "Now you be getting on your way, and don't –"
The other guard coughed and pointed to my left leg, where the scabbard of my sword hung down, the tip just visible under my frayed grey traveling cloak.
"What's this, now?" the first guard demanded, pulling back my cloak.
"Easy, there!" I protested, as Goldwine startled at the sudden assault. "Doesn't a traveler have the right to protect herself? It's nigh useless anyhow, rusty old thing."
"Let's see it," the guard said, holding out his hand. I sighed and drew the blade, handing it to him, hilt-first. He tossed it from hand to hand and snorted in what I assumed was disgust.
"Chipped, bent, badly balanced... and no edge on it to speak of," he muttered, testing the blade with his thumb. "I doubt you get much use out of it. I you practiced with it at all, you'd know it was scrap metal and nothing better." He handed it back to me, shaking his head.
"I'll keep that in mind," I said, sheathing the instrument. "May I pass?"
"Yes, go ahead," the guard sighed, and the two of them drew back from my path. I urged Goldwine forward, and after a two or three good kicks and a few rather colourful exclamations, I had him moving through the gates. I heard the guards snorting in laughter behind me, and sighed wistfully – if I was returning rather than departing, I might have spent the day laughing with them. As it was, I had a schedule to keep.
It is harder to find a farrier in the southern fiefs of Gondor than one might think. The people don't tend to own horses, preferring to travel by foot or ox-drawn cart. The animals are used in the cavalry, and little else – and what use did Linhir have of a cavalry? That's the great thing about traveling in Rohan, I thought to myself, as yet another blacksmith explained that he couldn't help me. Every metalworker in the country is a farrier, first and foremost. There's a people that has its priorities straight.
It was a good two hours before I spotted my man, wandering through the crowd of merchants that worked the street markets. His flaxen hair gave him away, as did his manner of wearing it braided down his back – here was a plainsman of Rohan. He would be able to help me if anyone would.
"You there, sir!" I called down to him, and he turned toward me. His eyes took in Goldwine first, seemed to appraise him, and then looked up at me.
"Can I help you?" he asked, squinting. He was a rather wizened old man, but strong in the arm, and spoke Westron with the floating accent of the Rohirrim.
"I'm looking for a farrier," I explained, dismounting. "Do you know where I might find one?"
"Well, no," he said slowly. "But if your horse needs shoeing, I can do it."
"Why, thank you," I said, and smiled. "I'm very much obliged – as is Goldwine," I added, patting the gelding's neck.
The man's eyes lit up. "Goldwine! After the sixth Lord of the Mark?" he exclaimed, and approached in order to examine my horse more closely. "Hmm... What an ungainly head, and a such short neck – the beast must be ridiculously unbalanced," he murmured, but the gentle way he caressed Goldwine's cheek suggested that this was no crime.
"And he's stiff in the back, and he goes lame every other week," I sighed, gazing fondly at my old friend.
The man looked me over, apparently taking in the straw-like bundle of yellowish hair that I wore tied behind my head. "You're of the Rohirrim too, I've no doubt," he observed.
"Yes – well, sort of," I admitted. "I was born in the Westfold, but I grew up in Minas Tirith."
"Oh?" He tilted his head. "That's unusual."
"I suppose," I conceded. "I'm afraid I'm not very Rohirric at all. Totally assimilated by the Gondorian culture! Such a pity." I threw back my head dramatically, and he laughed.
"Yes, yes, a pity indeed," he agreed. "You're how old – sixteen? Seventeen?"
I silently cursed my stick-like, boyish body. "Thirty-four, actually," I corrected him.
"Really!" He bit his lip, apparently resisting the urge to guffaw. "You know, I took you for a boy at first. You aren't much of a woman."
"You're too kind."
"What's your name, then?" he asked, taking Goldwine's reins and beginning to walk along the street.
"Béruthiel," I lied, voicing the first name that came to mind, and then added, "After the mad queen," for authenticity's sake.
He laughed. "How appropriate."
"Hmph," I said sourly, skipping about baskets of fruit in my attempt to stay beside him. "And you?"
"Haldad," he told me.
"Well, I thank you, Haldad, for offering to provide my dear friend Goldwine with new shoes."
"Think nothing of it."
"I wonder," I said carefully, "if you'd be able to flock his saddle for me, as well? The panels have gone all flat and lumpy, and he's got a sore back as it is. I'll pay you, of course," I added quickly.
"I can do it if you've got the extra wool," Haldad said, and I assured him that I did indeed.
I spent a pleasant, quiet day in Haldad's company. He worked in a shed behind his little house, and Goldwine appreciated his strong, self-assured touch – I, on the other hand, appreciated the fact that the room was too smoky for the man to be bothered by the fumes from my pipe. The gelding fell asleep repeatedly during the shoeing process, and then dozed off entirely as Haldad reassembled his tack. I thought wistfully of the money I would soon be dispensing on the horse's behalf – it was the remainder of the little bit with which Father had provided me the previous autumn, when last I'd visited him.
"Where're you off to?" Haldad asked me at one point during his work.
"Minas Tirith," I told him. It wasn't really a lie – I would in fact be stopping there.
"You have family in the city?"
"Yes – my father," I said. Haldad stared at me intently for a moment, as though trying to read my thoughts.
"No husband?" he said, after the pause. "No children?"
I laughed. "No, none, never. I'm an old maid," I said.
"Pity," he said.
"Not really – I doubt any man would want to wake up to this every morning," I said, and gestured to my aggressively angular face.
"Oh, you're not so hideous," Haldad assured me. "You're no beauty, either, and you know it, but you're charming when you smile."
"Why, thank you," I purred, pretending to blush, and we both laughed.
It's men like Haldad who make me want to break my vows and speak openly about who I am. Oh, the things I might have said...! "My father named me Urwen, but I hate that name – I like to be called Tanneth, the tag the old matron gave me," or perhaps, "My father isn't my real father, by the way – he found me abandoned in the wild as a babe. He's a knight of the White City, and I adore the old man to pieces." I might even have said, "Just as a matter of interest, I ought to tell you that I belong to a secret sisterhood of caretakers and protectors of travelers. I'm under a vow of secrecy, chastity, poverty and non-violence, and no matter what I do, you may never, ever write my name in any book, or put me in song, or make any effort to remember me at all." ...But one cannot say these things to just anyone.
Thanks to the skill and kindness of Haldad, Goldwine forded the river with new shoes and a properly-fitted saddle (and I, with significantly emptier pockets). The guards at the west gate made no fuss at all over my departure – their role was to keep foreigners out rather than in. I left Linhir behind, and with one final glance at the resplendent mast-top standards of the ships of Dol Amroth, we trotted north and west, through Lebennin and toward Losarnach, the White Mountains, and the great, ancient city that stood at their western extremity.