Chapter XIII: The Mustering of the Venyarohirrim

The morale of the Dunedain increased dramatically once they were clear of the shores of Anduin and the enemies that had pursued them. Conversations between riders were started up, and everybody seemed far more relaxed. The group rode through the rest of the day and through the night, until at last, the trees became larger and greener, and a light could be seen coming from the center of the forest. Lorien.

Hundreds of leagues away, through the gap of Rohan, in a large village called Meares; the fate of the Venyarohirrim was about to be decided.

As dawn broke over the city, a mass of bedraggled men and women burst from a hidden outcropping in the rocks on a nearby hill. Their approach was slow at first, but as they caught sight of the city, the terrified journeyers broke into a run. A girl with flaming red hair led them, and in her hands the flew the standard of the king. Much excitement filled the city at the sight of the flag, but as the group entered the gates, there was no rejoicing to be found.

No trumpet called out the arrival of the king. No great shouts of victory were heard. Instead, the guards solemnly opened the gates, and group of travelers, many of them injured, all weary and beaten looking, entered in silence. From this closer vantage point, it could be seen that the girl bore the standard upside down; the king had fallen. Grief spread throughout the assembled peoples, and mourning sprang up, drowning the city in sorrow.

Frèalàf, the governor of the city, Meares, which was the largest in all of Isen Meares, walked slowly into the town square, where all the people of the city had amassed and were speaking in hushed tones.

He took a deep breath, then called out to the gathered assembly, "My people! My brothers. This is a dark day for us! Our king was slain in the night by the arrow of a fell creature. The city of New Edoras has fallen! We are broken, leaderless, and without hope!"

A young girl burst from the new arrivals. Her red hair was streaked with dirt, but the fire in her eyes was the same as it had been when she had been battling the Remnant at New Edoras' gates.

"And what would you," Athfaë cried, "O bringer of good news, have us do?"

"And what would you," spat Frèalàf, "A peasant girl, tell the people of a ruined country to do? What would you, a girl of little years, and obviously little intelligence, have us do?"

Athfaë strode angrily to meet Frèalàf in the center of the square. Though she was much smaller than him, the way she carried herself and the way her dark eyes flashed made her seem at least his equal.

"You," she growled, "You would have us curl up and wait for the Fellowship to crush us, wouldn't you?"

She turned to the assembly, "Our battle is not against the Fellowship alone, but it is now against orc and Drow! What say you to that? This is no longer just a civil war, but a fight for survival!"

Frèalàf smirked and tapped the side of his head, indicating that he thought Athfaë was crazy.

"I say we stand firm!" she cried, ignoring him. "Remember Pelinor Fields? Helm's Deep? Our people have battled odds far worse and overcome them before! Can we not do the same now?"

A murmur ran through the masses.

Athfaë continued, "And why should we fear the Drow? We have elves of our own we can turn to!"

Frèalàf laughed bitterly. "The elves have abandoned us and left for Valinor."

"I do not speak of those cowards!" Athfaë replied angrily, "I speak of the Udunaedos! They are not just legend! Who, if not them, liberated the south?"

"The south is overrun by the Fellowship," Frèalàf chided as if speaking to a child.

"But it was first overrun by the Drow, who were utterly defeated and driven away!"

Someone in the crowd who had come from New Edoras called out, "They fell along with our city! Nothing will save us now!"

"But who saw them fall?" another cried. "We abandoned them before they were dead!"

The assembly burst into arguments amongst themselves at this news. The din lasted several minutes, until finally, Athfaë drew her sword, a gleaming, gold handled relic of the Third Age.

"Enough arguing! Choose you now! Do you follow this man," she pointed at Frèalàf with her blade, "To your miserable doom? Or do you follow me to..."

"Glorious death?" Frèalàf interrupted. Again, he laughed bitterly. "This girl is delusional! She speaks as though she lives still in the glory days of old. Her counsel is ill advised and foolhardy."

There was a clang as Athfaë hurled her sword into a barrel beside Frèalàf. She strode ominously close to him and spoke with such intensity that the whole city grew quiet.

"So. We are doomed to repeat history. As Theoden would not ride out to meet Saruman, we will retreat back and wait for our enemies to strangle us."

"We were victorious at Helm's Deep, as you asked us to recall," Frèalàf answered in a bored tone.

"We were victorious because of Erkenbrand's reinforcement attack, not because of the defense! Besides, where would you have us flee? Helm's Deep is destroyed!"

She bent and plucked her sword from the barrel.

Turning to the crowd, she spoke. "I ride for Lorien at mid-day. Whether I ride alone or with an army is your choice."

With that, she walked with her head held high from the square, leaving the people to break out into conversation and talk of war, drowning out Frèalàf's protests.

Elfwine, Athfaë's father, hurried through the streets of Meares toward his home. He was fuming with anger, barely even conscious of the people who continued to try to get his attention. The man cursed his luck that his daughter had inherited her mother's impulsiveness.

He finally reached his door and flung it open with a bang. His daughter knelt in the middle of the entry room, her long red hair fastened in a high ponytail, and her chain mail under her white tunic and pants.

She stood, lifted her saddlebags, and smiled to her father. "You always told me I should follow my heart. My heart says that I must at least try to lead our people to victory."

Elfwine sighed and hugged his daughter closely, "You are so much like your mother. But must you leave so soon? You have just arrived, and I have not seen you for so long."

When she did not answer, he pulled back and held her at arms length. "You have become skilled with the sword, and you have proved yourself an excellent leader. The soldiers will follow you, whether to victory I know not."

Athfaë smiled reassuringly, "I know my limitations. Our soldiers alone cannot assault Belgor, but with our kinsmen to the north and south, and our allies in Lorien, we may be able to attack Minas Tirith."

Elfwine raised his eyebrows. "Minas Tirith? No matter how many soldiers you have, it is madness to attempt to take the White City."

"I have...contacts...on the inside," Athfaë said slowly, with a far-off look in her eye.

Elfwine smiled warmly, "Dacil?"

She nodded.

Dacil had been a childhood friend with whom Athfaë had begun a much more intimate relationship with, until he had been drafted into the Fellowship before Isen Meares had been invaded. In the last letter that Dacil had sent her, he had said that he had been moved to a position of great rank in the Fellowship and would no longer be so free to communicate, but that he would do his best to continue contact. That had been nearly a year ago, and there had been no sign of him.

Elfwine sighed as he looked at his daughter's face. Her features, a unique blend of the rugged Rohirrim and the delicate looking elves, were grim with determination.

"We will stop them, Father," she said with quiet intensity. "The Fellowship will fall."

Elfwine groaned, seeing that there would be no stopping his daughter from leaving. "Then, I will ride with you, if there is no hope of you staying." He prayed to the heavens that she would recant at the thought of risking his life.

"Then you would do best to hurry; we ride soon," she replied with a half smile, guessing his intentions.

With a shake of his head, Elfwine turned and headed back toward his room to prepare for the journey.

As the sun reached the center of the sky, Athfaë and her father rode slowly from their stable, dressed in full battle array. Athfaë held her head high, not daring to look anywhere but straight ahead.

As the pair reached the center of the main street, fully equipped riders began materializing from all sides, growing until their ranks entered into the thousands, and still more came. The procession moved slowly onward until at last, they reached the gate of the city, where Frèalàf waited, mounted on his own horse.

"You fools!" he called out to the riders that were in his line of sight, "Do you really think that so few can assault the gates of Belgor and Mordor?"

Athfaë did not even look at him as she spoke three words, "See, and wonder."

She drew her sword and cried out, her voice ringing throughout the city. "Forth, children of the Rohirrim! Ride swiftly, for time waits for none!"

She reached out with her sword and plucked the king's horn from Frèalàf's saddle where he had placed it after taking it from her. Casting off its black coverings, she raised it to her lips and blew a triumphant call, causing the thousands behind her to let out a mighty shout.

"Noralim1," she said to her horse in her mother's tongue. With a snort, he rose onto his hind legs, kicked open the gates of the city, and began galloping into the Riddermark.

As the mighty army issued from the city behind her, Athfaë could not help but turn and blow a kiss to the baffled Frèalàf, causing the soldiers who accompanied her to laugh heartily. She let out a very undignified war whoop, which was echoed by her riders.

As their cry rang in her ears, the girl narrowed her eyes, smiling brightly.

"Bring it on, Eldarion."

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