Hey y'all. Sorry I haven't updated in so long! I up and joined the military, and have found my schedule precludes a lot of writing. Well, more like I've had the time but I'm so tired all I want to do is read and go to sleep, tbh. But I now have a bit more time in my schedule, so I'll (hopefully) be able to update more consistently; I'm going to try for at least once a month.
My plan is to rewrite the earlier Thedas chapters - there's a lot there that really doesn't need to be. I'll still try to write more Arda chapters as well. If anyone wants to be my beta, I'm open to it! You'll get to see my thought process, probably a lot of snippets that will be cut from the published work, and deal with my anxiety over being perfect.
Without further ado, here's the first part of the next chapter to tide you over until I can really get the gears turning again!
After the fall of Arnor and then Arthedain, some of the northern Dúnedain became the Rangers of the North in Evendim. The surviving Dúnedain population of Arnor retreated to the Angle south of Rivendell. In the meantime the southern Dúnedain intermarried more and more with so-called Middle Men, except in some regions (such as Dol Amroth)." - LOTR Wiki: Dúnedain
Summer, TA 2850, the House of Elrond:
Time passed. She took her recovery slowly, not wanting to overwork herself and fall back into that feverish state. She spent her mornings in the training yards with noble Glorfindel, earnest Calaeron, or his proud sister Daedroghiel, and her afternoons in the library with patient Erestor, who painstakingly taught her to read and write Sindarin. She spent her evenings in the Hall of Fire, listening to the tender voices of the elves, or wandering the grounds, becoming intimately familiar with the gardens and developing a friendship with Ryswen, whose beauty and mischief never failed to make her blush.
Elladan and Elrohir oft disappeared on adventures, coming back for mere days before leaving again for weeks. When they rested in Rivendell, they told her stories of wargs and orcs and mountain men; of days long past when elves, dwarves, and men joined against the Enemy; of mighty battles and of the goings-on in the current Kingdoms of Men. She regained her strength and skill-at-arms, though never did she manage to defeat Glorfindel, who had become a close friend. As time passed, her thirst for adventure and exploration strengthened, and she eagerly awaited the day when Elrond would pronounce her fit to go with his sons on an orc-hunt.
One evening, towards midsummer, she gathered her courage, stepped up to the fore, and sang of the City of Stone: days and nights in the dark, Stone beneath and Stone above, the creeping flow of magma, the ring of sparks and steel, and the Prince who loved it all and who loved her. She sang of their days in the Deep and in the land above, their last battle, his magnificent hero's death—and then she could sing no longer, her heart wrung out, her grief at last spending itself. As she healed in body, so she did in mind, heart, and soul; listening to the soaring melodies in the Hall of Fire, she remembered Duran Aeducan and felt only a quiet gladness.
A thunder of hooves announced the arrival of visitors to Imladris. Brosca had been enjoying the pre-dawn air and trying out the half-remembered knife-throwing exercises that Darrian Tabris had showed her many months past; she stopped and went over to the edge of the courtyard, looking down to the bridge below. There rode two dark-cloaked figures atop stout, rough-coated horses, quite unlike the fair elven mounts; their flanks were lathered and heaving, their noses billowing huge, steaming breaths, their mouths foaming. The riders hardly looked in better condition. They came quickly to a halt once across the bridge, dismounting rapidly and staggering for a few steps before approaching the elves gathered to greet them.
Two of the guardians of Rivendell, those elves charged with watching the Hidden Valley's borders, dropped out of the trees and darted across the bridge to join them. This day, it was Elrohir and Elladan, nimble as birds, their feet hardly touching the ground.
The strangers' hoods fell back as they ran, and thus it was that Natia Brosca got her first glimpse of the Men of the Dúnedain. For these were no ordinary Men; they were welcomed without suspicion. She could not hear the words they exchanged, but their grim faces, lined with dirt and blood, spoke of ill tidings.
One of the elves separated from the others to care for the blown horses, leading them to the stable; the rest of them entered the House. Desperately curious, Brosca went back inside, making for Elrond's office. Lindir waylaid her.
"Ai, Brosca. We have visitors today: two Rangers of the Dúnedain. I do not know their business here, but Lord Elrond must not be disturbed as he speaks with them." Lindir held no apology in face or voice as he forbade her entry.
"I saw them arrive," said Brosca, not very bothered. Elrond's sons were within; if it were not a matter of great secrecy, they would surely tell her everything. "They are Men? I have not learned very much of the Men in this land."
"Yes; they are men of the West, the Dúnedain. They once dwelt in the great kingdom of Arnor, in the days of yore; they now range across the West, protecting the borders from Orcs and other foul servants of the Enemy, for they are few in number. The heirs of Isildur lead them, such as they are." Lindir looked briefly mournful as he recalled the many generations of Dúnedain. "How far have you progressed in your studies of Arda?"
"I am able to read mostly on my own now," she said, quite proud of herself—and rightly so. "I have just begun reading of Fëanor, with Erestor's help on some of the words. He has me reading aloud, and corrects me when I misspeak."
"Erestor is ambitious indeed, to begin you on such a tale," said Lindor. "Fëanor: the mightiest of us, in body and mind, yet not so his heart."
"I have not gotten very far in his tale," she said, rueful. "My reading is not quite so advanced. I have read two pages so far: his parents, his father's other children, and I had just begun reading a long description of his earliest craftmanship—a warrior, and also a gem-smith and a scholar? A many-talented elf—when Erestor was called away. I did not feel confident enough to continue reading without his help."
"To have progressed this far is a mighty feat for one who could not even speak our language mere months ago," he said, his eyes crinkling in gentle reproof. "You should not disparage yourself so, Brosca. The tale of Fëanor is not an easy one. Tales such as these we know by heart, through song and speech; we merely record them for posterity. Few care to read through them. Perhaps, if you wish to pursue further scholarship—"
Further words were cut off as the door to Lord Elrond's office opened. Erestor emerged, followed by the two Rangers, speaking in low, gruff murmurs. Neither Elrond nor his two sons appeared, though Brosca could hear them speaking rapidly within, too quietly to make out the words.
The two men halted when they saw Brosca, clearly surprised; they had not the elven skill for keeping Wicked Grace faces. They examined her with interest, and she returned the favour. They had coarse facial hair that had not been cared for in weeks, and their hair was dark and tangled, with hints of grey; their faces were lined and weathered, showing their age in a way the elves never did. She could see traces of elvish heritage in the arching lines of their cheekbones and brows, but they were clearly Men. Unlike the fair elves, they wore plain garb, rustic green and brown, with dark grey cloaks, all mud-spattered from their frantic ride.
"I did not expect to meet a Dwarf in the House of Elrond," said the taller of the two, speaking plainly in the common tongue. "I am Faelon, a Ranger of the Dúnedain."
"Lathrion," said the other with a courteous tilt of the head. "Well met, Master Dwarf."
"Mae g'ovannen, Faelon, Lathrion. I am Brosca, of the Grey Wardens." She returned their brief bows.
"I have not heard of your Wardens," said Faelon, "but I confess, I do not know overmuch of your people. Do you hail from the Grey Mountains?"
"I can say the same," answered Brosca. "Lord Elrond's sons have told me much of the kingdoms of Men, Rohan and Gondor, but I have not seen one of your people before today. No, not the Grey Mountains—much farther to the East."
"Well met, all the same, Brosca of the Grey Wardens," said Lathrion, a courteous tilt. "I hope we represent the race of Man well."
"It remains to be seen," said Brosca with a grin. Good humor twinkled in the eyes of these Men; they were able to take a joke at their own expense, then, and were not among those who met Dwarves with disdain. She bowed to them dramatically, turning it into a half-curtsey. "I hope to represent the Wardens equally well."
"It remains to be seen," rejoined Faelon, now grinning.
"I see you are making friends, Master Rangers!" said Elladan, emerging from his father's office with his brother on his heels. "You have chosen wisely. Brosca is a mighty warrior, who has fought days on end to receive the highest of honours: accompanying the two of us on an orc-hunt. You have won it, my friend. We depart on the morrow, and you shall go with us."