A/N: I apologize for the delay updating. Central NY waylaid my posting plans with a storm, complete with gale force winds, snow, and the accompanying power outages. Then finding the heroine's name was a bit challenging.

I spent the 1st hour scouring websites full of Norse names. By the time I had gotten to the 5th name beginning with "A" they were all beginning to turn into a hurricane of Alphabits cereal whirling madly to the tune of "Dance Macabre". I began to yearn for a bottle of gently aged Glen Livet scotch.

I spent the 2nd hour reviewing websites full of Anglo-Saxon names. I found a name I really liked – Esme (or Esma), meaning kind defender. Unfortunately it didn't conform to the standard of "- a" suffixes being male. BLAST! The dull paring knife in the kitchen was beginning to have its own secret appeal. (If you can stand watching a chick-flick check out Orlando Bloom/Kirsten Dunst in "Elizabethtown". The scene with the exercise bike & the Ginsu chef's knife - that's me after attempting research)

Eventually in the 3rd hour my perseverance paid off. On a website of Celtic names I found one that was consistent with "the rules" and that I actually like. The name I've chosen for my heroine is Cierdwyn (pronounced ker-ID-wen), which means beloved + shining/holy. If this is wrong, please be merciful and just don't tell me.

Blessings of Valar – Chapter 3

Feeling out of place, Cierdwyn climbed the steps that led to the top of the Deeping Wall. A young woman of diminutive stature, she wore a coarse green calf length tunic covered by a long dark blue homespun dress. Jumper style with straps over each shoulder the dress laced up the sides from waist to armpit with a length of leather thong. The long sleeves of her tunic were rolled up to the elbow. Her wavy chestnut brown hair had been hurriedly plaited into a loose braid. Thong tied carelessly, wisps were escaping to blow lightly across her pale face.

Blood, both black and red, stained darkly under her torn fingernails. Smeared heavily up her forearms it was a mute testament to her mission. Along with some of the other women she had spent the better part of the morning picking her way carefully amongst the heaps of shattered bodies, hoping against all odds she might find some remaining life to nurture.

The hours after dawn had dragged on endlessly. She had pushed herself to the edge of exhaustion. The muscles of her arms ached from the strain of pulling on armor-clad bodies. Thus far the effort was ill rewarded. After straining and struggling in the mud they had found very few survivors. Mostly the effort ended only to stare into lifeless eyes, the soul having fled leaving an empty husk.

If possible sometimes it was worse – the person found was a husband, a brother, a neighbor, or a friend. Although the battle was already over Cierdwyn felt that the women had just embarked on their own war. One by one she watched her closest companions being lost, ending in hysterical sobbing after recognizing a fallen loved one. Which was the greater evil, the weeping or the dull look of numbness that settled afterwards? Sometimes she wondered - was it harder to war or to wait? Silently she thanked the Valar that thus far she'd been spared the pain of finding her brother Dunhere among the dead.

Not surprisingly seeing the elves amongst the fallen had been one of the most heartbreaking things. It represented the death of one of her fondest dreams. Ever since she was a child Cierdwyn had wished to be a great healer. The knowledge and the healing powers of the elves were legendary. She had always wished to see the great cities of Rivendell or Caras Galadhon with her own eyes.

Her Uncle had always warned her against this hope being foolish. The elves were mysterious and enigmatic, like trying to clutch a wisp of smoke in your hand he'd said. Until now they'd taken little interest in the world of Men. The dream was probably even more far fetched now. Their interest in Men, expressed through this alliance, had ended in the sacrifice of their army. Besides, rumor held that the elves were passing out of Middle Earth entirely, journeying to a distant land.

The hours of discouragement were beginning to take their toll. As she climbed another stair her legs began to feel shaky and threatened to buckle. She lowered herself gracelessly to the sharp edge of a step. Lifting a grimy hand to shade her tawny brown eyes from the glare of the mid-morning sun, Cierdwyn gazed out at the carnage. Corpses everywhere. Men, elves and Urukai. They were scattered haphazardly where they fell like so much chaff being separated from wheat by a swift breeze.

In the distance she could see Erkenbrand, her beloved Uncle. The embossed leather of his ornate armor splashed with gore he stood with the Lord Aragorn and some of his soldiers in front of a cowering group of men from Dunland. He was an imposing warrior. Tall, barrel-chested and resolute as a mountain. Long reddish blonde hair hanging down his back, his helm tucked under one arm he looked like the granite statue of the ancient king Helm Hammerhand come to life.

Poor hillmen, she mused. Ragged and defeated several had prostrated themselves and looked to be begging for mercy. She knew a secret they didn't. Despite being fierce and a shrewd strategist her uncle was also fair. And he hated this waste of life. Although she was too far away to hear his voice she knew if they swore an oath never to invade or raise arms against Rohan again he would let the wild men go free. Back to their land, their women, their families. Their crimes in this war were more of ignorance than true malice.

Whatever judgement he and Lord Aragorn passed had been decreed. The prisoners looked stunned, mouths agape and staring at eachother. Shaking his head Erkenbrand began to split their group into halves. He would probably have them help bury the dead, and gather the carcasses of the fallen Urukai to burn. Ever practical, thought Cierdwyn. Soon the crows would begin to arrive, the vultures not long after.

Bracing her hands firmly against her knees she forced herself to stand, muscles and joints protesting at the overuse. She started up the stairs again with forced purpose. She would not give up now. This could not be for nothing. She would help someone, even if it was only to ease the passing of their last breath or console them in their time of grief. She would make sure none were buried alive, even if it meant checking every person remaining on the field.

Coming to the top of the stairs, she stepped carefully between the dark forms of fallen Uruks. As many as she'd seen today she'd never grow accustomed to how savage they looked. Even dead they were terrifying. Preoccupied by their ferocious faces, she was less than careful with the placement of her feet. Through the leather bottom of her moccasin she felt that she had trod on something soft.

Turning her gaze Cierdwyn realized she was standing on the outflung edge of a luxurious elven cloak. Dark red, the shade of vintage claret, the cloak was unlike any she'd seen on the other elves. For that matter the air of the individual lying before her was somehow different. She stopped, puzzled.

This elf had fallen on his back, one arm landing slightly away from his side, the other tucked in closer to his waist as though he'd been trying to protect it. The killing blows must have fallen on his back as there were no visible disturbances to the front of his armor.

In repose the silvery white hair, the pale glowing skin and the noble mien were similar. His eyes were closed, but she supposed they had been the same clear strident blue. If what she'd seen was any indication, handsomeness and beauty seemed almost a genetic right among the elves. Yet the cloak and armor whispered of something more.

The armor shape was familiar. Unlike the armor of Men, elven armor was both beautiful and protective. Cierdwyn had observed that the pieces fit together in graceful rounded sections almost like the segments of a butterfly wing. But here the coloring seemed different. The armor she'd seen on the other elves tended to be more bronze in hue with a green patina. Rather like a leaf shedding the last of its summer green for a golden yellow in autumn. This armor was more silvery in color.

The chain mail tunic that showed at the neck underneath the armor was different as well. It was certainly far superior to anything Rohan produced. Rohirrim chain mail was bulky, heavy, and a dull grey color. This mail seemed to be light in appearance, rather like the famed mithril. It appeared to be woven gracefully together, falling flat and flush, shining like the scales on the side of a fish. She hadn't seen this on the other elves either.

It would seem to be a marking of rank. Perhaps she'd stumbled upon their leader? Taking in a deep breath Cierdwyn released it in a long sigh. She'd experienced many things today, most tragic. And yet for some reason this seemed one of the saddest.

She stepped off the edge of the cloak, and bending down she gathered it closer to his side. Careless of her knees through her thin dress, she knelt down and was about to grasp the cloak on each side and cover him with it when something caught her eye. A tiny glint of sunlight reflected off the chain mail around his throat.

Sighing again Cierdwyn rubbed her eyes and the bridge of her nose hard with the fingers of one grubby hand. This could not be. Wishing would not make it so. Opening her eyes and squinting in concentration she saw it again. A tiny spark of light from movement underneath the chain mail.

Reaching over she laid her hand on the chest plate of his armor, waiting to feel some slight movement. A few seconds ticked by and still she was unsure. Throwing her braid over her shoulder she knelt down next to his face and put her ear directly over his nose and mouth. She felt the loose tendrils of hair around her ear move with the slightest exhaled breath.

Scrambling to her feet she skittered over the tangled mass of bodies and weaponry almost falling several times on her way to the edge of the wall. Shielding her eyes with her hand she searched the field for her uncle, Lord Aragorn, Theoden King, one of the other women. Anyone. Finally she spotted her uncle and Lord Aragorn a few yards out on the field standing next to one of the women and her fallen husband.

Taking a massive breath she cupped her hands around her mouth shouting "Uncle!" at the top of her voice. Erkenbrand seemed not to hear, but Lord Aragorn and the woman turned in her direction. Undignified and uncaring she began jumping wildly and waving her arms. Lord Aragorn, seeing something wrong, had begun picking his way across the field in her direction. Cupping her hands to her mouth she shouted again. "He's alive!"