Chapter 8

It was a bitterly cold spring morning.

Arathorn, wrapped warmly in his grey clock, surveyed the peaks surrounding the pass that led to Lothlorien. Snow heaped high still, but the heavy weight of melting snow glistened in the early sunlight. It would not be long until the pass would be navigable to him and his people. Eru bless that she was still alive when they reached her.

She had been alive, he was sure of it, when the first report of the attack had reached him. She was cared for by many experienced guards and men at arms. When his own eyes beheld the field of attack, he quietly despaired. The only survivor they had found was her maiden Hylin. The girl was barely alive when they recovered her, scarred and mute with fear. Gods knew what horrors she had endured. She only lived a week.

But Gilraen—they had not found her body or any trace of her.

He closed his eyes and rubbed the exhaustion away with a rough hand. He was ready to notify her family of her death when an elegant letter had arrived in the hands of an elvish guard. It explained in perfect Edain language that a missing young woman had been recovered. She had given her name as Hylin and carried an item that belonged to him.

It had to be her. To have her wits about her enough to lie about her identity and protect herself had been intelligent. Arathorn felt a grim mirth in his chest thinking of it. What a woman she must be.

"Sire, the reports are back in. It will be 3-4 weeks and we should be able to breach the pass," Arathorn turned to his captain. Ygerna nearly stood as tall as him, but her dark eyes flashed sharp and hard.

He stood to his full height and tightened his vambraces as he nodded, "As I expected. We need to be ready to move the moment allows. I don't want any of our neighbors to be aware of our departure if it can be helped."

"Yes sire," she inclined her head and asked cautiously, "Do you think they will hand her over without issue?"

"They have no reason to detain her," he answered, "But elves often say one thing and mean another. And it has been many a year since they had dealings with men."

"Surely the missive they sent is a sign of good faith?"

Arathorn tipped his head to one side in consideration of this, "Or a sign that they wish to draw us out. We are surrounded on all sides by those who would see our kind vanish from Middle Earth."

Ygerna moved to speak and thought better of it. Arathorn knew what hovered at the tip of her tongue. Who would dare to assault the hire of Gondor? The truth was, anyone who did not wish to see the West become strong once more. Anyone who wished to take the place of the Kings of Numenor. Arathorn had not been allowed to move anywhere without a stout guard until he had attained adulthood and proven himself capable of defending himself and his kin.

"They dare not keep her," Ygerna said slowly, "Would they?"

That was the one thing Arathorn feared. It was well known the lure of the beautiful people; the magic of the elves had enchanted more than one of the Edain to their ways. And Gilraen was beautiful. His mind flashed to their first meeting, the betrothal, the day had been a blur up to the moment he had seen her.

Gilraen stood, half in the shadows, her maids on either side, clad in a deep green gown, her hair tucked modestly into a white snood and bound with a thin golden circlet. She was white as a winter rose; her eyes full of stormy emotion. He remembered her glance on him, scornful for a moment before cast demurely down. One of was May blue and the other November grey—he couldn't recall which was which. He had wanted her to look at him again.

A priest had bound their hands with the betrothal cord, her fingers slim and cold in his. He caressed the back of her hand with his thumb to reassure her somehow and she looked up then. He saw the tears standing in her eyes then, welling on the brim, but never spilling over to her cheeks. They exchanged the vows of promise, as everyone there to witness leaned in to hear the solemnly spoken phrases. Scarcely had the final word left her lips when congratulations and shouts rang from one end of the hall to the other.

For a moment they were left somewhat alone as the celebration turned to food and drink. Their hands were still fastened together.

He raised a hand to release her, "My lady."

"My lord," she choked. A cough broke through her words and she turned away as it over took her, "Forgive me."

"Are you unwell?" he was suddenly concerned and stepped closer. It was cold in the great hall.

"No, just a little chill is all," she managed. Her hand free from his, she stepped away but not before he removed his great cloak and wrapped it around her, "Thank you."

"Think nothing of it." He answered, "I have something for you."

"Oh?"

"In my father's time, it was customary to give a bride gift at the betrothal, to stand for our vows until the wedding. I have little else than this that is so precious to me," he slid the ring of Barahir from his tunic and placed it in her hand, "It is a symbol for my house-our house. We must bear it proudly."

She examined it, turning it in her fingers, feeling the weight of it.

"I am afraid it is too big to wear, my Lord."

"I thought of that," he agreed, "I had this made for you."

He revealed a matching chain of fine links and threading the ring onto it, he placed it around her neck. Standing close to her was intoxicating. She smelled of summer flowers and something else that might have just been her natural scent. Gilraen looked up at him then, her lips parted and somewhere a call came across the hall.

"Kiss her!"

"Yes, kiss your betrothed!"

"Seal the vows with a kiss!"

"Lady I," he began, but then she pulled herself up on her toes tips and kissed him.

It was only a demure kiss, but Gods the taste of her lips was so sweet.

She dropped away with a fierce blush in her face to the cheers of the spectators. He released her to be engulfed by her maidens and turned to the slaps on the back and words of congratulations from the others. But he had wanted to speak to her again, hold her hand again and kiss her once more. Properly.

But the chance had never come. News came in the early morning hours of an attack on him home by a warring neighbor and he and his men had been pulled away to the fighting. He had not seen her again before he departed, but left word that he would send for her as soon as it was safe for her to travel to him for the wedding. He would never have left her had he known what would happen.

"No, they dare not keep her. They know who I am." Arathorn spoke with sudden authority, "And they must have some idea who she may be to me. I want our best in our band, we must travel as lightly as may be. We must prepare to slip into the wood undetected."

"Yes Sire," Ygerna crossed her fist over her chest in salute and left him alone on the bluff.

A month more. One more month and they could go after her. All the long winter months of inaction that had plagued him were over. Arathorn prayed the winter had not been too long away from her. He prayed the magic of the elves had not enchanted her heart.

Gilraen was his promised bride, and he would rescue her.