Disclaimer: I don't own Tolkien's works, but they seem to own me.
Author's Note: At first, this chapter may seem like a feminist rallying-point. I can assure you that this is a far cry from the theme imparted in Mona Lisa Smile. All will be revealed, and revealed to be more complex.
Chapter Seven: A Thistle-Seed Regiment
Imladris, 3441, Second Age
Background Music: 'Bloodlust' from Xena: Warrior Princess, Vol. 1, Track 28.
In the aftermath of such revelations about each other, the women and the bess lapsed into silence as they continued their tasks.
From her slumped shoulders and downcast eyes, Caffrawen could tell that Romera was still embarrassed about revealing her status as a camp-follower to a person she'd barely met. Caffrawen had attempted to reassure her on that score, but she could still sense the woman's discomfort. Awkwardness would have to be awkwardness for the time being.
Naimi and Seatra were still watching her out of the corner of their eyes. Not out of distrust, Caffrawen knew, but out of wonderment for her ignorance of their culture. That in turn reduced Caffrawen to embarrassment and awkwardness, at not catching Romera's many hints about her profession, and making her define a practice that she was obviously not proud of performing.
To fill the crushing silence as they spread the many articles of clothing to dry on the sweet grasses of the riverbank, Caffrawen found herself desperately searching for some acceptable topic of conversation, determined not to lose her new friends to cultural misunderstanding.
"What do you plan on doing after the Alliance leaves Imladris?" she spoke to the air, hoping that one of the women would catch the thread of speech and spin a conversation with it.
Naimi looked up in mild interest. "Go back home and rebuild, I suppose. Should be close to harvest time by the time we're back, and we'll help out with that."
Seatra fiddled with a few stalks of clover, idly knotting them in a chain. "Same for me." Caffrawen noticed that she made no mention of her betrothed, Tirick.
They did not expect to see their men ever again.
Romera broke in, interrupting her train of thought. "I will retrieve my son from the family he stays with, and then we will go together to West Harbour," she said wistfully, no doubt thinking of her son.
"West Harbour?" Caffrawen questioned, thinking of Mithlond.
"A little village where my grandfather was born, fairly well hidden in a sheltered cove. Few know of its existence."
The meaning behind Romera's words hit Caffrawen with a sickening thud. She was looking for a place to hide if the Alliance was defeated and Sauron overran Middle-Earth. It seemed to Caffrawen that her extremities were being numbed and iced in the wake of the undercurrent of despair that she was encountering.
Hope had fled the Second-born.
"Will you be going overseas, then?" Naimi asked, her head tilted in a birdlike fashion. There was no condemnation in her features, only curiosity.
No harm in giving her the flat truth, right? Romera was honest enough.
"No. That path is forbidden to me." Curiously, there was no emotion in her voice, only an acceptance of a fact that was near impossible for her to change.
"Forbidden?" Romera was intrigued. "Is it related to what you spoke of earlier?"
Caffrawen felt a perverse glee that she had finally gained the woman's trust to the point where Romera felt comfortable being a bit nosy.
"It is. You see, my grandfather, Feanor, was a Prince of Elves. His greatest works, the Silmarils, were stolen, and his father, King Finwe, slain by the Dark One-*"
"Sauron?" Seatra broke in with an incredulous whisper, quite forgetting the trousers she was supposed to be turning over to dry equally.
"Nay. Sauron's master...I cannot speak his name - it is the manner of Noldorian Elves to hate him so much that we cannot even speak his name." She faltered a moment, and then continued.
"So my Grandfather became King - but he wanted to go after the Dark One, to retrieve his Silmarils and to revenge his father's death. So when the Valar stood in his way, he committed the terrible and unforgivable crime of slaying another Elf...actually, he slew many, but the fact of the matter was that he was the first Elf ever to Kinslay. The Valar exiled him to Middle-Earth with all his followers."
"Did you...Kinslay?" This in a whisper from Naimi, brown eyes wide, unconsciously twisting her roughened hands in her lap.
"No!" She recalled her manners. "I...am sorry, I am accused of such quite often, but Feanor died before I was born, and the last Kinslaying occurred when I had not yet come of age. My grandfather and his sons killed many, many Elves in a bid to retrieve the Silmarils, and they are all dead. My cousin and I caught the brunt of the hatred that most Elves bear towards our family. The exile still holds."
She debated with herself for half a moment to reveal more, then continued, acutely aware that she was talking about herself quite a bit, and feeling more than a little ashamed.
"Then, to make things worse, Sauron tricked my cousin into helping him into power. My cousin was so eager to make things right again, to remove the Evil from Middle-Earth, and Sauron knew it. Played him like a fiddle," she spat bitterly, "and me left to wreck my vengeance on Sauron."
Hate is a terrible, powerful force. Only love may stand against it, and Caffrawen knew this. She also knew the length and breadth of the hate within her for Sauron. It was like a black hole, lined with slime-covered rock, stinking with festered anger and resentment. It had started with love, the need to prove her love to those who had fallen in the struggle against Sauron. She was aware that if she fell into that dank pit, there was no coming out.
So she sat nearby, not daring herself to get too close. All she needed was a brief image of her father to remember how hate could so quickly spur a person into doing unthinkable acts. Yet she also kept an image of Ost-in-Edhil close to her heart, lest her fear of becoming too hateful led to apathy. Hate did have its uses.
"You would wreck vengeance on Sauron?" Romera said in a slightly sardonic tone. "I don't mean to impugn the abilities of the Elves, or the nobility of your bloodline, but none can stand against him."
"None can stand against him alone. That is why the Alliance was formed, was it not? I've been turned out of Imladris, so I'm going down to fight with the Alliance." The words came out of her mouth with surprising ease.
"They let she-el-bess fight?" cried Seatra in an incredulous voice. All the women shifted noticeably closer to her, leaning in with interest.
"Not exactly. Still, I don't see how they could really stop me. They couldn't hold me here, and they need every available soldier."
Naimi and Seatra exchanged a quick glance. "Have you ever fought Orcs before?" they said, almost in unison.
"Yes. Have you?" Caffrawen questioned, increasingly desperate to switch the topic of conversation away from her own doings.
"No. So you're just going to walk off and fight down in Mordor?" Naimi asked, much to Caffrawen's discomfiture.
"Something like that. A few bess might come with me, or not, as they choose." She hoped by stating it blankly enough, they would lose interest.
She was wrong.
"Could I come with you?" Naimi blurted the sentence out before even she realized its meaning. Yet she did not retract it.
"And I?" Seatra piped up.
Caffrawen blinked. "What?"
Seatra glanced at Naimi for a moment before answering for the both of them. "Same reason as you. I'd like to pay back those Orcs for what they did to my village. For what they would do to my family if we did not stand against them."
"I'd say there are a lot of women in the camp that might find this prospect appealing," Romera put in, "Even the camp-followers...we know that when our men leave us, even if they win, not all will survive. For us there would be that interminable space of time between knowing who survived and who perished, or even if anyone would come at all, save an invading Orc army. At that point there would be little that we could do."
If Caffrawen's soul had been a harp, Romera would have just plucked one of the lower strings, causing a deep vibration to pass through her entire world. Build a regiment...of women and bess?
"I think waiting is the worst thing in life," Naimi said, in a voice that was hardly her own, "When you can do nothing, knowing that your life is being decided as you wait, and having no ability to affect or even know about it."
"It is," Caffrawen replied absently. "So, about how many would you say would be interested in such a venture?" The words spilled from her mouth before she could even think of stopping them.
"I don't know, but I could find out!" said Seatra brightly. She exchanged an excited glance with her cousin.
Out of the corner of her eye, Caffrawen watched Romera. The woman had looked excited and enlivened for a few moments, before seeming to remember something, the light in her eyes dying away, returning to the tranquility of their former state, masking whatever she felt inside.
"Will you fight, Romera?" Naimi asked in a quiet voice. Apparently Caffrawen wasn't the only one keeping an eye on the play of emotion across Romera's face.
The woman sighed, closing her eyes. "I would, I would love to...but I cannot. I'm all Romeron has. I cannot bear to think of him with that family all his life...Eru knows what they have already told him about me..." She cleared her throat for a moment. "I would, but my ties hold me here. I cannot abandon him."
"But would you learn to fight?" Caffrawen pressed. "Not to fight in the Alliance, but to defend yourself and Romeron. I've noticed, in the years I've spent on this world, that there are few talents that go to waste, or are never needed. Defending oneself is a skill that, sadly, is almost never untried. Surely you'd want to give yourself and Romeron a fighting chance?"
"Perhaps," Romera said coolly, "But the one thing I can aid you in is recruitment. If ever there were a group of women eager to do a day's work and hold their head up high afterward, it would be the other women of my trade. I will talk with them when we return."
"It's settled, then!" crowed Seatra, exchanging an excited glance with Naimi. Caffrawen noted this and frowned, fear beginning to clutch her heart in an icy grip.
"Seatra...Naimi...our chances of coming back alive are minimal. It is likely that we never will return. And the Orcs aren't kind to their injured foes." To say the least, she thought to herself.
Now it was Naimi that faced her, as cool and dignified as Romera.
"There was once a cow back home that had wandered loose from my father's herd," she began. "The silly thing slipped into a muddy bog and was stranded there for at least an afternoon. We searched for it, and finally Father found it, and it had collapsed from exhaustion and from trying to struggle out of the bog."
"Father tried to lead the cow out of the mud, but she was too exhausted and too scared to move. So he and Uncle took a rope, tying it around her back legs and body in a harness. He called everyone, me, Seatra, our mothers, Aunt Gitty, my brothers, Seatra's sisters...everybody he could to help pull the cow out. The cow budged a little bit, but she was stuck fast."
"So then, who should arrive but Grandmother, irritated as a broody hen about why everyone seemed to have up and left her alone by the house without a word. She picked up the end of the rope and started pulling. Father and Uncle told her to get back in the house, saying that she'd slip and hurt herself, but she wouldn't have it! So we all pulled together, Grandmother too, and out came the cow!"
"Whether we live or die holds no significance, Caffrawen. It is whether we shall make the slightest difference that is of real importance."
And they account my race as wisest! Reassured, she offered her human friends a smile.
"You are right, Naimi," she said, "Whatever aid we can offer the Alliance helps. Before we can offer that help, however, we must organize ourselves and train, prepare for the months ahead. We're going to need trainers from the soldiers, ones that we can trust, who won't reveal to the leaders, or anyone else, of our plans. We need supplies for the journey and for the days of fighting, weapons, armor, and time to gather the supplies and practice with our trainers in secrecy. We need to recruit, make our regiment as sizeable as we can, and convince women, bess, and trainers from both of our races to join us." She might have gone further, but halted her babble in respect of the thoughts of the others.
Astonishingly, they were unperturbed. "We'll start recruiting as soon as we get back," Seatra intoned calmly.
"Get back? Oh, dear, look at the sun! We should be back to help with dinner preparations!" Romera's alarm set them to more agitation than Caffrawen's list of tasks to complete had. Already they had jumped up from the grass and begun to fling still-damp trousers and shirts into their wicker baskets, lifting them and finally placing them atop their heads in a peculiar fashion that Caffrawen had never seen before. From a distance, they resembled angular columns, as they kept both hands up to steady and balance the baskets. A more immediate question, however, had presented itself to her.
"When will I see you again?" The question, although now possessing a certain practical value, was still the plaintive cry of a lonely soul longing for companionship.
Romera paused and turned, the others following her example. "You will need to know how many we will have recruited by tomorrow. Will you have leave to work down here tomorrow?"
Caffrawen shook her head. "I'm scheduled to work the gardens till noon tomorrow. I could do laundry in the afternoon."
Seatra shook her head. "Naimi and I have washing again tomorrow morning, like the rest of this week, but we'll be mending in the afternoon, no doubt. Romera?"
"I will be…working all day tomorrow," the camp-follower stated delicately.
"I've an idea. Come with me, it's on your way back." The women duly followed the bess to the boulder that Romera had sat on to sand the clothing. They now noticed that the dark rock was shot through with deep veins of quartz. On the side of the boulder that rested on shore, a vein had crumbled, allowing the luminescent rock to either crumble to dust or break off in large chunks.
Grabbing one of the larger chunks, Caffrawen displayed it to them.
"When you're here in the morning, Seatra, Naimi, find this vein of quartz. If the number of interested women is low, then just leave one piece of quartz beside this tree," she instructed, pointing to an ash.
"If the number is somewhat greater, two quartz pieces. If the number is very substantial, then three. That should give me some idea. I've also got laundry to wash in the morning the day after tomorrow. We can compare notes then. I'll be working on the bess."
And then, there was nothing for the women to do but agree, wave goodbye, and charge back to the camp. There was nothing left for Caffrawen to do but wave goodbye, and retrieve her own laundry and bear it back to Imladris proper.
* * *
As she toted her basket up the many stairs leading from the Bruinen to the buildings of Imladris, Caffrawen found herself in an overly pensive state of mind.
Her objective: to convince Elrond, the High King Gil-galad, King Elendil, his son Isildur, and every officiate heads of the Alliance between Men and Elves to allow the women of the armies and a goodly amount of the bess of Imladris to accompany the armies down to Mordor and participate in the fighting.
Her obstacles: Most assuredly, the objections of nearly all said officiate heads. Elrond would suspect her immediately, trusting her as much as she did him. She would have to concentrate her efforts on winning over the High King, who was known for his fairness and practicality. King Elendil was known for his loyalty and just decisions, perhaps he could help? Another important obstacle she would need to navigate would be winning the women and bess over to her cause. Their loyalties were not in question, but the risks they were willing to take were. How many women would be willing to walk into almost certain death? A more personal obstacle - could she live with herself if they did die?
To be certain, if they were allowed in the armies, most, if not all would die. Many now thought of the Last Alliance as the final, desperate gesture of the Free Peoples.
Nevertheless, if they did not give it their all in confronting Sauron's legions, they would all certainly die. A less than pleasant notion, but undeniably true.
Philosophy and other considerations aside, she needed to devise a course of action, and soon, if she wanted any chance at getting down to Mordor.
First course of action - recruit willing women and bess to the cause. She did not foresee this being a great problem in the case of the women - from the examples that Naimi, Seatra, and Romera had set, the feminine side of the race of men were easily adaptable to new forms of living. After all, they had such short lives already, and no chance of rebirth, so changing the entire focus of their nature to ensure their survival was not an uncommon or unheard of thing. With the bess, however, such a change would be much more difficult. Their very nature was difficult to change, and such a radical move from the preservation of life to the destruction of life was generally only made at a moment's notice, when no other alternative was available.
It was often said that bess were fierce fighters, terrible to cross when in battle. So few, though, had ever fought, that it was generally held as a phenomenon only witnessed and performed at the last need. A last-ditch effort, one might say.
In Caffrawen's experience, most last-ditch efforts failed.
So her task was now to whisper the words of encouragement, to stir within others a fervor that would inspire them to actually train for such an event, to make their blood race in heated anticipation of an untried challenge. She could think of several bess that she was friendly with that who might thrill at such a venture, and could (just as importantly) convince those she was not as friendly with.
Recruitment among the camp women she would leave to Romera, assisted by Seatra and Naimi. If those three were any example of what human women were like, she did not anticipate much resistance to the idea of fighting from that group.
The task after that would be gathering everyone together and training. She herself was skilled with the quarterstaff, and such training was lending much to her progression with swordplay, as she intended to prove to Elimani tonight. Yet Elimani was not so skilled himself. Who could she find to teach them further? Perhaps she could find someone through Elimani, or perhaps one of the women knew a well-practiced warrior…
They had the summer before them to train, in the moments that they were not working. From now on, every moment counted as time that could be spent training and preparing. Extra supplies for the march down to Mordor would have to be found.
Then, of course, there were the heads of the army to convince…but that could be arranged with a few glib words…
Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted as the laundry basket balanced on her hip crashed into a stone that jutted out from the rocky hillside, upon which the path. She grimaced at yet another of life's irritations that could so easily draw her off of her track.
Caffrawen made to resettle the basket on her hip, when an image came to her of the women leaving the Bruinen, baskets perched atop their heads, making three angular columns that gradually disappeared into the trees.
Inquisitively, she shifted the basket atop her head, securing it with both hands, so that the shadow she cast vaguely resembled a tall two-handled drinking jug. Why, this was much easier! Her center of balance was once more focused within herself and not shifted to accommodate the burden in her arms. Caffrawen bounded up the stairs, making plans, and blessing once more the cleverness of Mankind.
* * *
Background Music: 'Xena's Web - Goodbye' from Xena: Warrior Princess, Vol. 1, Tracks 14-15
"I am no fighter, Caffra!" An exasperated Tarbereth rounded back on Caffrawen, who maintained her expression of patient persuasiveness. It had taken a good deal of maneuvering to get Tarbereth away from the other bess who were hunting medicinal roots in the valley. As close as they were to Elendil's camp, none of the bess wanted to separate from each other. Safety in numbers, they called it. Even Tarbereth, one of the most level-headed people Caffrawen knew, had been highly reluctant to bound ahead with the Feanorian to examine a small bog for marsh mallow*.
Not that Caffrawen was all that eager to stand knee-deep in mud to better reach the thicker groves of pale pink flowers to strip them of their leaves and roots.* It was, however, necessary for her to bring Tarbereth over to her side if she wished to convince any others to fight. There was no one else whose influence was so widespread and who made certain that everyone heard her opinion at least once. There was no one else whom she could come to among the bess of Imladris that would prove more beneficial to furthering her aims.
There were also few other bess that would prove harder to convince than Tarbereth.
"How do you know that for certain, Tarbereth? I've seen you back down Risielwen more than once! Only Elrond can do the same, and that's more out of her respect for his rank than anything else!"
"There is more to being a warrior than attitude, Caffra, and you know it!" With rather more force than was necessary, she pulled a mallow plant from the sodden earth, splattering them both with bits of soil. With a muttered apology, she began stripping it of its roots and leaves, tossing them into the cloth sack slung around her shoulder.
Caffrawen glanced around to be certain that no one had heard Tarbereth's last cry. The other bess nearby were chattering as they peeled bark from willow trees that preferred to edge the marsh rather than grow in the middle of it. Tall clumps of sedge lined the places where soft ground meshed with formless muck, and slender shafts of sunlight pierced the marshy grove, adding to the steamy heat. Few enough of the bess were nearby for her to relax her guard somewhat.
"There is skill involved, to be certain. Skill with weaponry can be learned, but if you don't have the stomach for battle, skill is useless. And you do have the stomach for battle, Tarbereth. It's a matter of bringing out the skill, a matter of training," Caffrawen said bracingly.
"Even if I did have the stomach and skills to fight, who says that I want to?" Tarbereth trudged through the mud, away from Caffrawen, and towards a more promising clump of marsh mallow. "I am a healer by nature - what is inherent cannot be changed."
"How do you know that?" her friend continued, following her through the mud, pressing the issue. "How are you certain that your spirit would not sing to protect those you loved?"
"I enjoy healing." Tarbereth flipped her long ebony hair over a shoulder, giving Caffrawen a long measuring stare. Caffrawen did not flinch.
"Tarbereth, when do you heal? So few of our warriors - anyone in Imladris, for that matter - need healing of any kind." Caffrawen spoke softly, infusing her words with gentleness and tranquility, realizing that she was about to step into sensitive territory.
"We are picking medicinal herbs right now," retorted the bess in a tone that began to betray some irritation. She brushed more flyaway strands of hair from her cheek, leaving a muddy streak across her fair skin.
"We may know which herbs to pick, which roots to boil," Caffrawen said slowly, picking her words with extreme delicacy, "but there is more to healing than that, and there are few who possess the knowledge of, or even have such abilities to help those more in need, like the Secondborn."
"I could work with the Secondborn!" Tarbereth said, but the resolution was draining from her features.
"My idea is that we could work with the Secondborn women - as warriors." The sentence, flatly stated, was out before she could word it differently. "Just as there is more to being a healer than knowing what herb goes where, there is more to being a warrior than swinging a sword or plucking a bow."
"You are mad, Caffra! Work with women - as warriors?"
"I think you will come to prefer the term 'comrades-in-arms' for this venture. We will train and fight side by side with the women of Elendil's camp." Caffrawen was done with referring to the future as something possible and now referred to it as the definite.
"Why?" Tarbereth had halted her harvesting, arms limp at her sides, and looked searchingly at Caffrawen.
"We must fight. Every able-bodied person on legs is needed in this upcoming battle! We will do more good down in Mordor, clumsily swinging a sword, than staying here in Imladris with our herbs. I do not mean offense, Tarbereth," she said, endearing the bess to her with courtesy, "You may very well be inclined to healing, and I cannot force such a decision on you. I do, however, want you to try the training."
Tarbereth rose to the challenge, steel clashing against steel. "And has King Gil-galad authorized this? Or King Elendil? This is folly, Caffrawen, and you know it!" Caffrawen would have cut her off, but Tarbereth continued, "What of the extra supplies needed for such a force? Are they being conveniently stowed away? We would fail even before we staggered down to Mordor!" For the moment, the marsh mallow had been forgotten.
Caffrawen drew a breath. If she could not overcome these most justifiable objections, there was no hope of her gaining Tarbereth's support, or anyone else's.
"As for the supplies, what do you think we are gathering, Tarbereth? We do owe a good portion of that which we gather to Lord Elrond, but not all of it! It's only ever been convenient to give over all of our harvests to the Lord, because we had no further use for it. Now that we will be traveling and fighting, that form of normalcy changes. Depending on how many join this force, each can help gather supplies for the group." She paused for emphasis. "As for Gil-galad and Elendil, what can they do about a regiment that is intent on following them to Mordor. They'd not kill us, nor would they have any way of keeping us here. If they think that they can outpace us, they forget the size of their combined armies. In short, Tarbereth, there is nothing they can do that can stop us from following and fighting at their side, and I want you and the other bess and women to be among them."
By some miracle, she had kept her voice even.
The silence between them stretched interminably. The chattering of the bess around them continued, as did the roaring of the Bruinen, and the distant sounds associated with military camps. Caffrawen found that Tarbereth's challenging stare had a certain heat to it, as if she was attempting to stare blankly into the Feanorian's fea and examine her ideas.
"When?" The word hung between them, charged with potential. Caffrawen blinked, seeing the colors around her become suddenly vibrant, her senses suddenly sharpened at the realization that the first part of her tentative plans was falling into place. She swallowed quickly to mask the sudden dryness in her throat.
"I'll let you know. Soon, within the next few days, I'd say. Would you do me a favor and spread the word discreetly among the unmarried or childless bess?" She bit the inside of her cheek, hoping that Tarbereth would not suspect her of using her as a recruiter.
"I could do that," Tarbereth said slowly, regarding her own recruiter through slitted eyes, "but I do have one question that only you can answer."
Caffrawen inclined her head, feeling more confident by the moment. "Fire away."
"What do you think our chances of survival are?"
The strange pressure in her head was now identifiable as the blood pounding in her ears. The beat continued, pounding the unmistakable rhythm of fear and shame.
She stalled for time. "Do you mean among the fighting females or the Last Alliance as a whole?"
"Either. Both."
The beat in her ears abruptly stopped, but the drop she felt in her stomach kept up the pace of the rhythm until her heart resumed its pace. Much would depend on this response.
"I admit that I do not have intelligence on the strength or abilities of Mordor. At this point, my guess is the same as everyone else's - that since we are sending out our full strength, that Sauron's armies must be close to or exceed our own forces in number."
"A nice answer that tells me very little." Caffrawen flushed, her cheeks burning so hot that she wondered if half the blood in her extremities hadn't rushed to her face. "I could tell for myself that this is our last chance to hold claim to Middle-Earth."
"Whether we survive or not is immaterial, Tarbereth. We can fight Orc - I've done so…"
"You fought at the last need. As bess normally do."
"I am tired of being the last line of defense!" Caffrawen surprised herself with the force of her exclamation, but continued in the same torrent. "D'you know what it's like to sit in wait for death? To know that there is no point in running - they'll catch up with you! To see them come over the horizon and know that all that stands between yourself and them is a single wall of stone? To watch family and friends die in agony while Death himself leers at you? Nay, in this case we are left in the hardest position - the position in which there is no hope!"
The backlash of her speech momentarily shocked the both of them into silence. Thankfully, the other bess had moved on, out of general hearing distance.
If either of them had cared to remember history at that moment, they would have realized that Caffrawen was emulating a past ancestor - Feanor, the one ancestor she and Celebrimbor had wanted nothing to do with.
When his Silmarils had been stolen by Morgoth, who carted them away to Middle-Earth, the Noldorian Elves had given the jewels up for lost, convinced that defeating Morgoth and his forces were too much for Elves that had no true combat experience. Yet Feanor had been undeterred, stirring the crowds of Noldor into righteous indignation at the wrongs they had suffered, moving them with such force of will, he had even managed to convince them to do the unthinkable act of Kinslaying to those Elves who had stood in their path to Middle-Earth. Even the wise and far-seeing Galadriel had been beguiled by Feanor's words.
In his oration, the Noldor had felt the stirrings of something grand, something enormous, beyond themselves. He touched their pride as the Firstborn, with a responsibility towards their younger kin, appealed to their sense of justice, in which both he and they had been severely wronged. He quickened the blood of those who had been longing for adventure, reminding them of their need to explore and experience new things, without the Valar's perpetual involvement, interference, and inaction. Feanor woke within the Elves the desire to cast off what they previously deemed enjoyable, to see if the new lands of Middle-Earth might prove more to their liking.
What had happened to the Noldor was similar to what was happening to Tarbereth now. Her heartbeat increased, she thought of friends that had been lost in raids, Elves stumbling into Imladris, their homes razed, the Elves themselves only wrecks and ruins of the characters they had once been, and she felt a tingling anger pulse through her at the faceless Enemy that had so torn at the fabric of Elvish society.
In the deepest places within her heart and mind, she pictured herself in the circumstances that Caffrawen had illustrated. In her horrified mind's eye, Imladris was being sacked by dribbling, graceless Orcs that swarmed up the steps into the main houses of Imladris, the Bruinen providing an easy guide straight to the beautiful Elven home. She heard the screams of her friends, the grinding and groanings of torture, the Elflings…
Imladris was set afire, its inhabitants dead, the Bruinen poisoned, and not all the scrubbing in the world could clean its pristine white marble now. Middle-Earth, the beautifully wild land that her kin had died to protect, was ruined and smoking, the land subjugated under the dominion of Evil, merely the stepping-stone of Sauron before he assaulted blissful Valinor. The images stopped as her nerve endings registered pain, and dimly, Tarbereth recognized the pain of her own nails digging into the flesh of her palms.
Then, of course, there came a certain irritation with the benn, at their wish that the bess not accompany them into battle. Why, there was every reason for a childless bess to examine the path of the warrior! Not all were suited to practice the arts of destruction rather than renewal or construction, but they should try, at least once.
"Caffra?" Her voice was a bit shaky to her own ears, and she looked up to meet the stormy grey eyes of the Feanorian.
"Aye?"
"You have yourself a novice warrior. I will give it a try."
Caffrawen grinned as she pried her legs from the grasping mud, and then extended a hand to help Tarbereth out.
"That's all that I ask. Come on, let's wash up." And so they strode to the Bruinen, looking as if each had decided to wear long brown stockings to make up for the fact that their skirts were knotted about their waists.
* * *
Background Music: 'Beautiful Mehindi' from Xena: Warrior Princess, Vol. 4, Track 17
When the time is ripe for a dried thistle casing to break apart, it is rarely only a single action that causes it to break apart, rather, a host of different factors are responsible for making it burst, spreading the seeds of potential across the plain.
First, a breeze nudges it with teasing gentleness. It is soon followed by a stronger breeze that rattles the contents within the husk. An animal brushes past it, bending and cracking delicate casing fibers. Rain weights it down, straining the once tough thistle pod to the limits of its fragility. A final buffet from the wind, and the thistle pod can stand it no longer.
It bursts open, yielding to exterior forces, and liberates a million downy white seeds.
In such a manner was the matter of a secret legion of women and bess handled in Imladris. Faithful to her word, Tarbereth began to whisper the summons as soon as she returned to the Imladris kitchens. Using the arguments that had been crafted to bring her own self over to Caffrawen's way of thinking, she spoke first to the bess stirring the stew, to the one sorting stacks of rye flour, to the two that were weeding the carrot patch. She was met first with disbelief, then indignation, intense scrutiny, a grudging silence, then left with a promise to attend at least the first meeting.
It started small, with a whisper in the kitchens. From the kitchens, it spread to the storage rooms, to the gardens, to the chambers within. It could be found in a back hallway, lurking in the herb gardens, crouching in a corner of the stables, taking its leisure on a balcony. It frequented the maidens' chambers, the groups that gathered herbal remedies in the woods, and places in the kitchens where the normal clatter of crockery drowned out its sound.
As this was happening in Imladris, something very similar was breezing its way through the pavilions and tents of Elendil's camp. Benefited by having three to start it off instead of one, it spread easily throughout the tents, gaining support by the hour.
It rippled in the women's section, worrying the canvas tenting. It passed between the soldiers' tents, carried by camp-followers in perfumed hands as they spoke among themselves during brief respites in the cool night air. By dinner-hour, it had taken up permanent residence among the cooking-fires and washing-tubs, crouched beside the smoky heat or bent over the scrubbing boards. Insinuating its way through the camp with greater speed than a galloping horse, the seeds of hope had been spread.
Naimi couldn't wait to tell Caffrawen.
* * *
Background Music: ' Hail Xena' from Xena: Warrior Princess, Vol. 1, Track 25.
The wooden blades clashed once more in the waning sunlight, the only point of contact between the two combatants that eyed each other cautiously as they moved in a dance of skill and survival. They had been practicing for nearly two hours, and the gentle sliding of the sun below the horizon had escaped their notice.
Within Caffrawen's mind, there was no conscious thought, no inner voice that addressed her in any spoken language. There was only instinct. The flimsy wooden sword in her hand became an extension of her arms, moving out from her body in sure, confident strokes, while Elimani's skill and tactics were being assessed.
Elimani gritted his teeth, attempting to maintain the ideal warrior's blank visage. He was coming at her in long chopping motions, mimicking the skills of most Orcs, who enjoyed sneaking in cuts to the side, attempting to impale their prey with their hooked blades. She toyed with him a bit, defending herself from his attacks in a timid display, throwing him off his guard as she maneuvered him gently so that his back was to a long stony outcropping. Pebbles skittered around their feet as the combatants stepped gracefully in this dance, one believing that he was leading, the other leading and manipulating.
Elimani was more confident now, attempting to gain ground and discomfit her by forcing her backwards. Caffrawen, however, was ready and waiting, parrying each of his moves with powerful cuts, moving much faster than their established rate, discomfiting Elimani and forcing him to give ground. His eyes widened, aware now of why she had changed from a timid opponent to an aggressive attacker.
Back, back she pushed him, till he was trapped between her and the stony outcropping. His attacks were tinged with a hint of desperation as he attempted to hack his way out of this vulnerable position. Caffrawen broke from her cold and passionless frame of mind long enough to feel a flash of triumph as she saw the opening she had been looking for. She reached for it, striking him lightly on the chest with her sword to indicate a hit, then, making certain that his main sword hand was firmly guarded beneath her own, and jumped on him, tackling him to the ground, raising a cloud of dust about the both of them. Moving with lightning speed, she knocked the sword from his hand and held her own blade against his throat.
"Caffra! What in the name of Mandos and his Halls do you think you are doing!?" Elimani's roar broke through the stillness of the evening air.
"Winning." It took all her restraint not to laugh at the expression, which, as it always did when he was cross, resembled a vexed eagle.
"Caffra, do you plan to wrestle every orc you come across to the ground like this?" he growled up at her from where she straddled him.
She couldn't resist. "Only the ones that are vaguely handsome."
"Caffra!"
"Only teasing," she said lightly, levering herself to her feet before extending a hand to help Elimani up. He took it, squeezing more tightly than she though necessary, but released her hand once he had gained his feet.
"When you fight orc, take them out as quickly as possible. There were at least two openings where you could have done massive damage, but you didn't." He looked stern enough to be her father.
"I didn't because I was looking for the opening to knock you over," she admitted candidly.
Elimani now took the time to give her a second full perusal of his eyes. Her eyes were sparkling with energy, her body in frayed leggings and tunic was fairly quivering with unspent vigor.
"What's happened? Some new benn catch your eye?" His voice was unexpectedly sharp, and Caffrawen only then realized how much the good news from Tarbereth had affected her mood. From all reports, and from the expectant looks she received when passing other bess in Imladris proper, the atmosphere of suppressed excitement was all-pervading. She had been a bit worried, earlier, when she had seen these same bess speaking with the benn. They had all been warned to keep it a secret, but she worried about the ebullience of some of the more enthusiastic recruits.
Now confronted with someone whom she wanted to be proud of her, she had sudden sympathy for the recruited bess as she found herself in the same position. The difference in her situation, however, was that she needed to tell Elimani and win his support (and his influential connections.)
"May I talk frankly with you about something? I need your help." She held her arms loosely to her sides, a disarming gesture when combined with a wide-eyed look of innocence and vulnerability. He swallowed, and then sat down heavily, Caffrawen following to sit beside him.
To her surprise, he heaved a sigh. "If you want me to send a message to him, I need his name."
Caffrawen knitted her brow, giving his angular face a long perusal, looking for what remained hidden. "I think you misunderstand me. No, I don't have eyes for another benn and want you to take a message."
"Oh."
"The truth is…well…I'm leading a secret regiment of women and bess down to Mordor to fight with the Alliance, and I need you to find some more soldiers willing to train us."
"What!"
"I'm leading a-"
"I heard what you said. I just can't believe it." Elimani's face had gone rather pale, and he swallowed, once, twice, waiting for some denial. When he was met by silence and Caffrawen's averted gaze, he sighed heavily.
"Caffrawen, I don't care how you're going to accomplish this. I don't care about Gil-galad or Elendil's permission, I don't care about how you're going to make Mandos knows how many unskilled women and bess work together, let alone train them."
Caffrawen kept her gaze on a pebble that made a dark spot in the sandy clearing. Elimani only ever used her full name when he was being serious.
"What do you care about, then?" she ventured timidly, feeling less and less confident with each passing moment.
"I care about why."
She was silent for a moment longer, considering, and then began again.
"Elimani, do you remember that final night nearly a millennia ago? When all hope had fled, and the knowledge that help would not arrive, and that it wouldn't be able to drive the enemy away? Do you remember being the last line of defense, hardly knowing how to use a sword?" Inwardly, she hated herself for rehashing what was terribly painful for them both.
"Aye." In his statement, she could hear his anguish, his regrets, old fears that presented themselves anew, all the trauma that they had suffered through in those terrible final days.
"We were the last line of defense back then. Now, how do you think you would feel if all the armies were being called out, that the fate of our world rests on campaigns yet to be waged, and you are left behind to deal with the outcome? Imagine knowing that death is imminent, that nothing you can attempt will avert it, that all those who left are dead, and that your entire world will fall to Shadow. Go overseas? The Second-born don't have that option, and neither do I. Even if some of the remaining bess make it to Valinor, it is only a temporary haven. Shadow will spread over all the world."
He was silent, so she continued, "Do you see, Elimani? Even if the numbers we contribute don't make much of a difference, we will at least be spared that terrible wait, spared that anguish and fear! Death will not come stealthily in the night, we will face it out in the open! Elimani," she said, and her voice was low, pleading for his approval, "Elimani, I don't want to sit idly in Imladris, waiting for either Gil-galad's armies or Sauron's. Neither do the women. Neither do the bess. I don't want to know that you are in trouble and not be able to do anything about it."
She had poured her heart into a glass, it was now up to him whether or not to taste it.
He looked up at her, and there was a shadow of the familiar merry grin that used to always perch on his lips.
"How many trainers do you need?"
Her heart exploded, and not with the same satisfaction of accomplishment as there had been with convincing Tarbereth. She could not name the warmth that enervated her limbs at his acceptance of her plans, and gave him a small grin of gratitude that she hoped conveyed all her sentiments to him adequately. He responded in kind.
"Won't know till morning. Numbers are still coming in from the women. Do you really think there are benn willing to train bess and women?"
"There are a few discreet and skilled personalities in the ranks that I've become acquainted with in recent times. I'll talk them up tomorrow, see about their dispositions. Wine?"
"Was I whining…oh, I see your meaning." Elimani had pulled out a leather flask from beneath his rucksack and was pouring the ruby liquid into two small glasses.
"I had originally brought them out to celebrate the fact that you were now at the same skill level as I in sword-fighting, but I think a better toast would be to your new regiment, Commander," he said playfully as he handed her a glass. Caffrawen was silently amazed at his easy acceptance of such a momentous event, but then, given their history, momentous was eaten with breakfast every day. Then she realized the full import of what he was saying.
"Elimani, what are you saying? First of all, you're leagues ahead of me in practice, and second, I am not this regiment's Commander."
He gave her a steadying glance, then pointed at the basket beside her leg. Reluctantly she opened it and fished out thinly sliced rye bread, chicken, and hard-won mountain cheese. The silence stretched on interminably while she distributed these items, watching as he took the chicken and cheese, folding them into the bread, waiting for his answer.
Elimani chewed thoughtfully in the pregnant silence. "Caffrawen, there's no need for flattery. I am very well aware of my skill level in swordplay. And if you're worried that my sentiments are hurt or my elfhood* impugned, you should well remember that I was always better than you at Smithing. Now that that skill's gone, if we survive this, I may take up farming…but enough of that. I'd actually enjoy seeing you improve in skill level, if it would get you out of my hair," he said, softening the last comment with a disarming smile.
"Remember, you are a Feanorian. Not everything that you inherited from your family spells trouble." He took another long bite, writing the words he would speak in the pages of his mind.
"And Caffra, how can you not think that this regiment will look to you for guidance? You started it, after all, and have done a fairly good job of organizing it. If the Alliance lets you in, the regiment's not going to enjoy taking orders from those that didn't want them there in the first place. You're organizing this little venture, so you can't bow out now, not when you've raised the hopes of so many."
All of the sudden, at Elimani's words, Caffrawen could see the long struggle before her. She had anticipated such, yes, but now as she ground into the details that would hamper her, she realized that there was no way out now. She was going to Mordor, to fight. Strangely enough, this did not frighten her, but made the situation a bit surreal, the colors of the landscape swimming a moment before settling to new positions in light of this discovery. She nodded, a bit chastised.
"How about that toast, Elimani?"
He raised his glass. "To the new regiment!"
Caffrawen raised her own glass. "To the death of Sauron!"
The glasses chimed musically against the roaring of the Bruinen in the background.
* * *
Late that night, Caffrawen woke to an odd noise coming from the balcony she shared with several other bess. Slipping from the sheets, she padded on noiseless feet to the balcony opening.
Peering out from the arch, she could see a bess engaged in some odd dance…no…not a dance, but the practice of swordplay, rather clumsily, but dangerous nonetheless. This was no child acting out motions gathered from casual observation of soldiers, but the practice of an art whose artist knows that they will rise or fall on this performance.
The bess whirled around once, long golden curls swirling as she parried her invisible foe. Giliath.
She was wielding a broom handle, jabbing here and there, movements unpracticed, but her intensity evident.
Caffrawen smiled and withdrew, her heart lightened and encouraged, the responsibility she had so casually assumed lessening a bit of its heavy weight on her shoulders.
The next morning, she strolled down to the Bruinen after the cooking of the morning meal had been cleaned away, and she could excuse herself with a load of wash down to the Bruinen.
She looked for the ash tree, and finding, had to look again to believe her eyes.
There were four pieces of quartz.
* * *
Canon Explainations:
*Caffrawen could not speak Morgoth's name because she was a Noldor Elf, one of those that hated Morgoth with such intensity that they could not speak his name.
*Marsh mallow is a pink-flowering herb that grows in boggy areas, and is used to make an ointment that soothes irritated skin.
*Why can Elves walk on snow and not on mud? Snow in its molecular state is a solid, but mud in a gooey viscosity is more liquid than solid. Since Elves cannot walk on water, I would assume that they would have to trudge through the muck like everyone else.
* Elfhood in the sense of 'manliness', 'masculine behavior', or 'male pride'. Not what you were thinking!
Canon Deviations:
- There is no mention or hint in Tolkien's works of a female regiment getting its start in Imladris.
