January 15, Fo.A. 3

It began as a trickle that grew to a flood, the exodus of Gondor. Thuringwethil wasted no time in establishing her reign of terror, and the people fled. Ardith saw more people pass by her small glen in a week than in all the three years since she herself left the city — merchants with carts weighed down, soldiers on foot and horseback, families. She knew from the tales they brought with them out of the city that she would have to move on soon as well. A ruler that thirsted for power and blood would not be content to remain being the great wall of Minas Tirith for long.

Wait. Be strong and let your heart take courage. Wait.

But the voice. The one the traveler Údar referred to as Eru Ilúvatar. He kept saying to wait, so she waited. They had settled into something like a truce, Ardith and the voice in her head that could both whisper sweetly and resound fiercely. Months passed, the flow of refugees had all but stopped. And still she waited.

April 20, Fo.A. 3

He startled her, the man striding from the shadows of the forest. Ardith watched him warily from her doorway, where she had stepped out to dump the wash water. The day was chill and wet for April, and the man wore a thick cloak that drooped down over his eyes, hiding his face.

"Can you offer me food and shelter for the night?" he called to her in a rough voice.

He is a wielder of the sword. An expert in war to guard against the terrors of the night. A watchman of my house. Surely this is the day for which you waited.

So this was it then. Ardith nodded stiffly to the man and turned back into the house. She set the pot of stew on the table with a loaf of bread as the man came to the open door and pushed back the hood of the cloak. "Sit," she said, waving him toward the table as she took in his short, dark hair and long scar that cut in above his left eye. He was a grim figure, and no mistake.

He hesitated before removing his cloak and draping over the back of his chair, dumping a small pack on the floor. "Thank you," he said softly, taking a seat at the table.

"My name is Ardith," she said without preamble. "Have you come from the city?"

"Yes," he answered around a mouthful of stew.

"And where are you heading?"

"Not really any of your business is it?" he said, glaring down at his plate.

Ardith leaned her hip against the small cupboard where she stored her dishes and crossed her arms over her chest, staring at him until the uncomfortable silence forced him to look up at her. Meeting her eyes he grunted what might have been an apology.

"I need to head north," she said, taking the seat across from him. "If you haven't any other plans I would like to hire you to accompany me. I've never traveled through the wilds and I will need an accomplished guide."

"How far north?" he asked, looking grudgingly interested.

"I will know when I arrive," she said simply. "But I suspect the region of Arnor."

"That's not an easy journey," he said in a slightly scolding tone. "If you're strong and willing, it may take two months. But you should plan on three or more."

Ardith nodded. "I have been laying aside provisions. We can leave at first light."

He was clearly shocked by this statement. "What is so urgent that you are willing to travel with the first stranger that approaches your door?"

"You are hardly the first. And that story will unfold as we travel. Now what is your name?"

"Aharron," he replied, tearing into a piece of bread.

It was certainly the quietest journey through the wilds that Aharron had ever experienced, almost unnatural the way they never encountered any problems. He'd been unsure about traveling with a woman, particularly one who had never in her life traveled further than the two days journey from Minas Tirith. But Ardith had surprised him. She was quiet and undemanding, and if they went slower than he would have liked, it was only because she was took so much time at their campsites. After each meal some of their water ration was boiled and poured over a pinch of tea leaves that she carried in a small pouch. That pouch amused him for some reason, looking very much like a pouch of pipeweed. And the few times he'd deemed it too dangerous to risk a fire she had grumbled at him, missing her ritual of the tea. Then each evening before the fire she pulled a tightly rolled fabric from her pack, squinting in the firelight as she embroidered an intricate pattern of yellow flowers. When he asked her what it was for, she merely shrugged and said when the right person needed it she would know.

It was a pleasant journey. The few instances her natural temperament made an appearance, Ardith spoke reverently of her husband and lively sons, but the upper classes among whom she had worked were often on the receiving end of a tart remark. She told several stories of the young lords Boromir and Faramir causing all kinds of mayhem when they were being fitted for court attire. And she eventually shared why she had withdrawn to the woods. Well, he could understand that, hadn't he behaved much the same? Some wounds were too deep to be seen, and no amount of time would erase them.

It took longer for her to share the not-so-minor detail that she was taking her instruction from a voice in her head. The ludicrous idea should have made him drop her off in the nearest village and move on. But instead he found himself feeling a little protective of her. Aharron wasn't sure what exactly she was looking for, indeed Ardith herself didn't seem to know, but he thought perhaps helping her might be a step towards atoning for his own sins.

August 10, Fo.A. 3

They arrived at the city of Annúminas, and were amazed at the number of their people that had made it to this northern realm of the Dúnedain. Though ruined structures stood all around, reconstruction of the city was well underway. As they entered the city gates, Aharron stopped a merchant. "Who is the lord of these lands?" he asked gruffly.

The merchant scratched his head squinting at the strange pair. "I expect you'll be wanting to talk with the steward then, Lord Boromir."

Ardith raised her eyebrows. "Lord Boromir? Yes, I expect we do."

They worked their way to the city center and almost stumbled into the very man they sought. He was making his way around market stalls with a young woman, her long brown hair pulled back in a simple braid.

"I do not see anything that is as you describe," Boromir complained, throwing his hands in the air. "I think you are perhaps being too fastidious."

"But Uncle, it is my wedding," the girl responded, smiling at him pertly. "Surely a woman is allowed to be a little fastidious about her wedding clothes."

"That mossy green is a terrible color on you," Ardith said loudly.

Boromir turned in surprise at being addressed so. "I beg your pardon?"

Ardith's mouth titled up with just the hint of a smile. "I've always said it made you look sallow. The reds suit your coloring much better."

A confused look etched itself across Boromir's face as he studied her. "Do I know you?"

"You once did, my lord. I was a seamstress in the citadel at Minas Tirith. Your squire tied my braids to a reel of flax."

His eyes widened and he huffed a surprised laugh. "I remember that. Your hair was just the same color as the thread. Ardith, yes?"

She nodded and dug around in her pack, pulling out the roll of linen. "I wonder if this might suit the young lady?"

The girl came forward and took the fabric, partially unrolling it. Her dainty fingers examined the tight, even stitches of the yellow flowers, and she looked back at Ardith, beaming. "This is lovely! Will you sell it to me?"

"I think a better question might be would you take over the entire task of sewing Ninel's dress?" said Boromir. "You should have plenty of time. The event is months away."

"I will," replied Ardith decisively. "We are only just arrived in the city. Would you know of a place my friend and I could stay?"

Boromir looked at her curiously, and then at the man beside her. "I think," he said slowly. "You can stay with us."

Ardith nodded. "Very good, my lord. Because I bring a message for you, from Eru Ilúvatar."