Very short, I know, but this is my last post, guys. It's all over!
Chapter Eleven – A Time to Keep
The warm of the dawn shone gently on her face as she raised her eyes to the rising sun, finding hope within the golden rays as they illuminated the rising of the household around her. Time was running out; she could feel it slipping away as she waited for the summons. Today the Council would meet … today the fate of Middle-earth would be decided. And her part in this future would be all but ended. She had every intention of being there when they reached Lothlórien, and of standing with the Men of Rohan at Helm's Deep. She longed for the anonymity of battle, where she might once again be just a soldier, and not be blamed should she fall beneath an enemy blade. Her promise to her beloved Aldamar would not be broken should such a fate await her, and she would join him in the heavens with a light heart.
Laurè looked down at her hands, ignoring the stab of pain from her thigh, where the Morgul blade had struck so very long ago. She could still feel the taint upon her hands from tending another such wound, in the shoulder of a lad who should have succumbed to the power of the shadow world, and yet had the fortitude to survive until Elven hands could heal him. She had not the heart to tell him of the burden his wound had set upon him, not when the gratitude in his eyes had burned so brightly as she sat at his side in Gandalf's place. The wizard had been here when Frodo arrived, and had sat by his bedside for four nights until the boy woke. She had then taken his place, sending the wizard instead to his own rest, for his trials had been hard for him to bear. The treachery of Saruman cut deep, though she had known it was coming. But the time for regret was past.
This night she had remembered herself, the meaning of her path as she walked the lonely road of duty, to everlasting death. How she longed for it. As Niamh, she had known nothing of life, and so could not do anything but fear death that would take it from her. As Laurèneial, she had known life and death, battle and peace, and the pain of loss muted by years, and yet she had still feared the final sleep. And as Laurè, the warrior maid, Mistress Fleetfoot, Windsinger, she had had her fill of life. The loss of friends and others weighed heavily on her heart; she had seen too much to sleep peacefully any longer. No matter how she loved this world she had made her own, it had hardened her, hurt her, given her little but grief. Her part in this was over, she knew, and her time would come swiftly. This night, the pages she had gathered together of her life would know no more ink. They would stand as a remembrance of the work generations had put in to bring them to this point. From here on in, it fell to someone else to record the happenings of this new world, and the people within it.
Footsteps behind her shook her from her memories, and she turned, smiling sadly to see Elrond in all his finery. He echoed the sorrowful smile, inclining his head to her.
'My lady,' he greeted her. 'It is time.'
Laurè nodded, rising from her seat on the stone balcony to join him as he made his way down the to where the Council waited. Her robe hung about her in stately folds, her hair shining in the morning sunlight. She looked more of a princess than a warrior this day, and with good reason. Her fight would soon be over, and she wished those who would to remember her peacefully, with dignity and pride. She moved with deliberation, greeting those she saw with a gentle smile as she took her seat at Elrond's right hand. The fate of Middle-earth now lay in the hands of those sat around her, and she knew they would not steer her beloved homeland wrong. The Great Council of Middle-earth had begun.