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~ The Little Princess ~

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On a quiet morning well before dawn the Princess on a small grey ship emerged from the mists, reaching the docks at the Gray Havens by boat as she was bid to do like the others had before her. There Lord Cirdan himself greeted her, knowing alone in Middle-earth who she was and from whence she came. She offered the wand to him for safekeeping, as had been urged to her by Ulmo. The Shipwright took it, foreseeing that on her journey they would meet again, when he would return it to her.

The captain of the little ship turned about straight away, setting off on the return journey, disappearing on the horizon by the time the sun broke behind him, as the fair twin cities were just waking up. Off she had already gone, too, and unclad she wandered off southward - also as Ulmo had suggested. Ere long she found what she was looking for: in the western foothills along the northernmost spur of the White Mountains she came across a marriage ceremony, deep into the night with just one witness, the minister, under the bright light of a late winter moon. She then knew to join them, as their forthcoming child, and all memory of the past was buried deep beyond reckoning.

As it was the young man was a lieutenant of Southern Gondor called Marasir of Pelargir, and was part of the coastal watches against Umbar. During this time young Marasir took a grievous injury and became separated from his comrades after his scouting company had been ambushed and routed, and he was hidden by a sympathetic family in the contested territory of South Ithilien near the coast. The maiden Marwen was their daughter and only child, and the two formed an attachment under the circumstances. Her family clan claimed as ancestors a lord of South Gondor and his court who'd had governorship over the territory during the days of Hyarmendacil and had removed to Ithilien when the people of Castamir took over the region. This lore of ancestry they passed down with pride, carefully recorded in scrolls of family trees for they were not unlearned. But the blood of the Lebennin folk had also touched the line, for over the years the families of the clan had drifted back and forth across the River amid the long years of war. So they had a glimmer of high Gondor in face but often grew to a shorter stature than the more direct descendants of Numenor. Her parents had some status and wisdom among the folk of the region, and were accepting of the match, but requested the young man bear their daughter to safer territory. They departed, and fled up the coast, much of which was hard beset by Corsairs, and came at last to Rohan where they married in secret.

Young Marasir was descended from King Ondoher by way of a daughter, Miriel, youngest of Ondoher's children. As Princess Miriel was too young to marry at the time she took up residence with kin in Pelargir after Earnil II assumed rule, and later married a descendant of the youngest child of Earnil I. The Dunedain tied to that family assumed the defense of the region, ever losing and regaining South Gondor and South Ithilien, including the city itself. But at the time they held governance over the city and all of South Ithilien and much of Lebennin. She and her husband could have attempted to assert a claim to the throne after the passing of King Earnur, having the strongest claim of any left in Gondor. More than a few among their kin and peers even encouraged them to do so. But they decided against it, fearing it too perilous for the kingdom was so ever wrought by strife over the right to rule.

Now the long sword of Anarion lay buried with that first ruler in the House of Kings, but there was a short sword also, and this was passed down the line as an heirloom. Before she left for the south King Earnil II gave the short sword to Miriel, and charged her with its safekeeping within the last line of the Royal House, fearing to entrust it to Earnur (and hoping to arrange a marriage at some point so it could then pass to his son's eventual heir). Earnur however consistently rejected the idea of marriage, and died childless, so in this way the sword remained in Pelargir and passed down to Marasir. By way of regional infighting his family had previously lost control over the governance of the region, after which point they long kept the sword secret. Being the last in his family's line he feared to leave it unattended and took the habit of bearing both the short sword and a long sword to the field.

Young Prince Marasir soon had to return to Gondor, and left the lady Marwen, now with child, and the sword in the care of an old family friend called Artamir who had once been an ambassador from Gondor to Rohan, and it was he who had ministered the wedding. Descended from the Steward family of Mardil, Artamir was a learned man who possessed some wisdom. He had once served with some rank in the army with Marasir's father, but was chosen for the role of ambassador before the practice ceased with the succeeding Steward. He had married there, though lost his Eorling wife and child very young. He then retired to running a small stream mill at a remote homestead in the foothills of the White Mountains, at the far reaches of the western marches near the Gap of Rohan, to which nearby wheat farmers would bring their harvest. He had sent word to Minas Tirith requesting his replacement, but no response ever came.

Marasir told Artamir that he would return for his family as soon as he could. But the lady died shortly after from childbirth fever, and the young soldier never returned, felled by a Southron's arrow in battle. It was long before news of this made it to western Rohan, where none knew of the prince's heir, for he had revealed to his comrades only that he had wandered far up the coast and there left his most precious possessions. The babe then became the ward of the old ambassador.

The old widower lifting the babe felt a pure and wholesome air about her, the strength of which seemed to lift noticeably his grieved and weary heart. And if ever he dozed while holding the child he'd remember vivid dreams of the majesty of ancient Andor and the mighty ships of its mariners upon the sea when he woke. He knew his friend was indeed a prince of the royal line, descended from the daughter of King Ondoher, even if knowledge of it in Gondor might have been forgotten. The ambassador soon became so convinced that in the child the glory of Westernesse of old had returned that he gave her the name Elraen, after the first ruler of Numenor, and dedicated what remained of his life to protecting and preparing her, either for rule or marrying into rule, with far-fetched hopes of restoring the Kingdoms in Exile.

The widower was close, a kind but melancholy man who said little, slept less, and rarely kept company, keeping few servants and few horses. He took it upon himself to raise the child, teaching her letters and the histories of the kingdoms, and the tongues of Gondor, Rohan, Common Speech, Sindarin, and even a little Quenya, as well as he knew it. While he was still hale in his aging he taught her also of arms and combat, riding, marching, and bivouacking, at times asking passing Riders for additional training. Being in Rohan they would oblige, not thinking this strange, for the training of women was custom there. But they were a grim pair living there quietly in the remote foothills of the mountains, and he took her never to the cities of the horse-lords, ever worried and pondering how and when to reveal the secret of her lineage. Every now and then he'd think of getting ready to return to Gondor, but something in his heart always stayed him.

The child grew to a shorter stature which was from her mother, with the dark hair and grey eyes of her father and his people. As she grew, young Elraen began to notice oddities about herself, in particular with connection to the weather. It seemed to shift with her moods: winds would quickly push together dark clouds under clear skies and cast thunder and lightning when she was angry or fearful, soft rains when she was grieved, and when she was mirthful overcast skies would break ever so suddenly and the clouds would scatter to catch and cast the sunlight. The strange connection to the elements began to grow stronger and it frightened her, even more so did the thought of revealing this mystery to anyone.

Now the old man Lord Artamir had planned at long last to return to Gondor and to bring her with him, knowing she would need someone known there to speak for her. But around midsummer suddenly the old man felt age catch up to him, and he took ill. During those last weeks as he lay abed, he had many strange dreams. In some were visions of Arnor of old, in others he simply heard whispers tell in riddling rhymes of the elf kingdoms in the north.

He pondered these dreams, and as they persisted he took them as an omen and called his ward to him. They were alone there at the home, the only remaining servants had been sent with their only horses to deliver shipments of flour to the larger towns and military centers in the region. He bade her open a compartment door in the floor where there was hid a long box. She retrieved it, amazed and confused, and inside was the short sword, a beautiful weapon with an exquisitely carved scabbard. He explained again the loss of the line of kings in both kingdoms, and that this, the heirloom sword of the southern Kings, was now her inheritance. He continued, "if no heir of Isildur the Elder appears from the North, then you by the laws of old Numenor are the heir to the throne of Gondor. I do not know if that will be your lot, for both kingdoms always observed inheritance of rule through sons only. Still I chose to do my best to prepare you. Elraen, you are my daughter also, would that I could remain longer to aid you! But I have tarried overlong in deciding when to return with you. I soon depart this world."

The young girl grew distressed. "Sir," she said, "please you must calm such talk; this cannot be good for you."

He ignored the protest and continued. "Without one known in Gondor to vouch for you I fear for you to go there alone, so I would counsel you rather to journey northward for guidance from the Wise among Elves who have lived long in this world. They have great knowledge and wisdom and may be able to help you. And perhaps we still have reliable kin remaining in the north that they know of. The Master of the Grey Havens will be the easiest to find, so I recommend making for the harbor in the Gulf of Luhn. That road, I'm afraid, is one you must take alone. Perhaps that is how it must be. But, this is a finer and stronger blade than was ever wrought in this age, even in Gondor, and with it you should be able to defend yourself well enough at need."

Elraen had long dreamt of wandering the wild lands alone, but faced with the reality she suddenly felt nervous. "But, sir," she said, "the servants. I could wait -"

"There is not time to wait for them to return before the season wanes and the cold arrives. And they are aged for such a journey, besides. Fear not! I have trained you well enough."

He was right. Their only remaining servants were an old married couple who would not be fit for such a journey. She missed old Hild, who he had originally hired as her wet nurse and had been of much help as she grew to womanhood.

"The winds of war are stirring," he continued. "Gondor is grown beset; that much I know at least of news there. My heart forebodes that here, upon the quiet mountainsides and gentle plains, even the Rohirrim will not be spared the tide of dark and bitter days that will soon ride out from the East. You must leave now, under the fair warmth of this summer sun, to get to the North before it is too late. Alas that is also why I bid you go northward: for though the journey is perilous I fear it may be safer than what will soon become of the South.

"But we have a good store already prepared to take with you, at least," he continued. "Take care to pass by Dunland with great secrecy, but beyond that the land should be empty of people. Then it should be safe enough to keep to the road by day. Remember not to attempt a crossing at Tharbad unless the river is low. But bring as many provisions as you can stand to carry, for the journey is long and the land is barren."

He coughed, and his voice slowed and shrank to a near whisper. "My child, raising you has brought purpose and joy to a lost and grieving old man. Now I can but hope to find again those I lost long ago."

His labored breathing quieted as he fell asleep. Elraen fell silent, too, and took his hand and sat by him through the night. By the morning he was gone, his spirit departed to where none but the One have ever known.

Choosing a spot right at the corner of their vegetable rows where digging would be fastest, she prepared the grave herself, shoveling as the rain drizzled down. She discarded the new stalks without care, for somewhere deep in her heart she knew would never return.

She knelt by the grave a long time in silence with the short sword across her lap and her head held low. The afternoon sun began to wane, and finally she went into the house and quickly packed as light as she could for a very long journey.

The news he had left her with sat heavy on her mind. Her whole life had been a hidden little existence on the remote reaches of the high plains, and now she, in many ways still a child and not quite come of age, may be thrust upon the throne of a country she had never seen before.

The scabbard had a baldric strap for bearing diagonally across the back, with a hook to carry a shield though it had not come with one. With her black hair hanging in a thick braid and in garments women in that country may wear for riding afield: a long dark green tunic robe, hemmed low along the calves, over riding breeches with dark brown boots, Elraen prepared to leave. She hung the sword from her shoulder, for she had strapped to her back a great pack heavy with goods for the journey. All then was concealed by a dull green hooded cloak which would serve well to blend in with the pale green and golden brush grasses waving over the rolling hills of the Enedwaith. Lastly she fastened her foster father's large hunting knife to the side of her belt.

The young orphan set out after sunset, passing through woods that started behind the home and heading northwest along the foothills of the White Mountains. She was obliged to cross at the Fords of Isen a few hours before dawn. Fortunately it was a new moon and very dark, and at that time the horsemen of Rohan were not yet watching the Wizard's Vale very closely. Elraen veered south after crossing, deciding to follow the road on the left so as to avoid Dunland as much as possible, for she knew the people of that country dwelt mostly east of the road. She found a thin patch of woods in which to rest, she climbed into the wide saddle of a large low tree just before dawn.

Elraen woke up sometime in the early afternoon, and gazed out through the trees at the sun upon the low rolling hills that lay ahead. Now that she was on the move part of her actually welcomed the turn of events. For she had long felt rather out of place in her little life tucked away in the wooded hills overlooking the plains, like she was just lying hid waiting for something to happen, and had in any case longed to venture the wilds in solitude. She wondered how much Lord Artamir cared for such a quiet life or if he rather truly just fretted over much about when to return to the grand kingdom of his home.

Daring not to continue yet she sat, nibbling on some rations and watching the sun cross the sky. Focusing on the scattered clouds, she tried to gather them to her will but control was frustratingly out of reach. She pulled out the sword and looked at it. Still dazzlingly beautiful, it did not look as ancient as it was; the brilliant steel of its wide blade gleamed with a white radiance she'd never seen in the swords of the Rohirrim, nor even Lord Artamir's own sword from Gondor. It was very light, much lighter than any sword she'd held before, yet seemed perfectly weighted and balanced. She wondered if it was still sharp. Elraen spotted a stray shoot of a good size sticking out from the main tree branch that looked in need of pruning. Very lightly she flicked the sword at it, and the little branch lopped off with a clean cut. She felt better about the journey ahead. She also felt reluctant to use such a beautiful thing in combat but was glad it was a short sword, for she had always found the long swords unwieldy at her height. Tucking it away she leaned back in the saddle of the tree to watch the sun go down.

For several nights the little princess pushed onward with as fast a pace as she could manage, gazing often at the moon as she went, trying unsuccessfully to remember something she thought she'd once learned about it. She strayed far around encampments of tent villages with evening fires burning, and was thankful to often find groups of boulders, or small caves, thickets of bushes, or more short-trunked fat trees, in which to rest hidden. After a week it seemed she had passed sight of Dunland country and was now venturing into the barren hills of the Enedwaith. There was an unseasonal chill in the air, and it began to rain again. Since the weather would make for poor rest, she decided to return to a normal waking schedule. She continued on into the day as long as she could stand, taking in the expanse of lonely brown hills rolling off as far as she could see in every direction, and the snowy peaks of the Misty Mountains not far off on her right. Late into the afternoon at last weariness overcame her, and she was grateful at least to find a flat patch of gravel shouldering the road on which to set her little tent shelter. After pushing so far and long through the cold rain she lay down inside shivering in chill and grief and exhaustion, and had a bit of a weep, and fell asleep. Outside a hazy drizzle continued through most of the night.

It was still dark when Elraen stirred again, awoken by the chill that the hour before dawn wrought on her clothes, still damp from the rain. Wearily she pushed herself up, and packed to resume the march. Lamenting the pitiful state of things she trudged onward in the cool morning, thinking of a hearth fire under her old roof, wishing she had packed warmer blankets to sleep in, but that of course would have been heavy and taken too much room away from the food. At least it had finally stopped raining. Shortly after sunrise the air at last started to warm up nicely and it began to feel like late summer again. She took off her cloak to give her clothes a better chance to dry.

Around midday she reached a small tributary of the River Greyflood that ran almost due West from the mountains to where it joined the Greyflood near its mouth. It was very swollen from the heavy rains and too dangerous to cross. There were the remains of a little old bridge, crumbling and broken, but what was left of it was yet overwhelmed by the flooding. She wondered if the bridge at Tharbad might be in the same state or worse. Elraen stopped for a break, building a little fire with dead grass to boil up some river water to fill her skins. Then she followed its southern bank leading east, walking quietly through the drying mud and grass, and keeping alert for settlements of Dunlendings or wild hillmen. But all she heard through the day was the rush of the overflowing stream, the breeze rustling the occasional bush or lonely stunted little tree, and the sound of her boots on the mud and gravel. She continued on in this way another several days as brief spurts of heavy rains came on and off again. Elraen went along, gazing at the shapes of the mountains and various landmarks, most especially a tall waterfall in the distance nearly just before her, marching and sleeping in her little tent, stopping by the river to wash up herself and her things and her hair and fill her skins again, as the fleeting bright sun and crisp wind singing whispers of autumn from the ever nearer mountains tried futilely to dry her things.

The little river was still a bit swollen, so she continued eastward. Then she came across a curious thing: a row boat ashore complete with oars and all. It looked very old and seemed abandoned, but shoving it into the water to her surprise it was still intact and did not sink. Elraen hopped in, happy to relieve the burden of her pack and sit for a while. She could have simply rowed across, but remembering what she could of maps of this part of the world, she knew the Greyflood a few days' march northward would present an even greater challenge if its bridge were in similar disrepair. And so she rowed upstream the rest of the day, feeling a bit more lighthearted for a change as she listened happily to the singing and whispering of the little river, thinking perhaps to later head northward by the foothills to meet the Greyflood where it would also be easier to cross.

By sunset the little river became too shallow, so Elraen pulled it back ashore again, this time on the north bank. She found herself sad to leave the water, with a curious desire to instead follow it westward, but pushed onward in a northwestern direction. As she had lost much time going so far out of the way Elraen decided to keep walking into the evening.