To all who are reading this, thank you for being so incredibly patient.
Writing events in two different realms is a lot harder than I expected. As I was planning this story arc, I couldn't decide what to include, what to gloss over. Who did what and when, and how to make it all fit within a certain timeline. I wrote scenes, only to turn around and discard them. Then I realised that I knew a lot more about Elves and Lórien than I did about Rohan. To remedy the problem, much studying ensued.
But anyway, I pushed forth, and now here is chapter 66. When I wrote my last "update note", I mentioned that I was almost finished with a chapter. But because I write in a weird non-linear way, those scenes will now be in chapters 67 and 68. The scene you will read here is actually a last-minute addition that I felt needed to be there.
I'm not entirely sure how long it'll take me to finish the next few chapters, but at least I have a detailed timeline and actual drafts to work with this time. If all goes well, it should speed up my process to a more acceptable pace.
As always, thanks go out to all my readers, and those who have favorited or are following this story.
To all who left reviews on chapter 65: Starrat, AshleyLeigh, durinsdaughter2469btw, leward1992, AviorHyrax, Raider-K, Ruiniel, MidnightReader1, leelee202, fantasticferret, Camelotgirl17, JasminEclipse, mystarlight, princessnerra, Doria Nell, Rogue's Queen, Auriene, Cricklewood16, Blue1258, Ponytail Goddess (thanks for the multiple reviews!), Dolf, mitsukidom, Tora3, ladyville, and Nienna Helyanwe 3. Thank you!
Whenever I got discouraged, re-reading your comments energized me and kept me going.
Last but not least, I want to thank Japrican for compiling that awesome playlist on Tumblr. That was really cool of you!
Now on to the chapter! It's not a long one, but hopefully, it reads okay. *fingers crossed*
CHAPTER LXVI
A DECISION
The funeral dirge was poignant in its intensity, the rolling words bouncing against the rafters in the otherwise silent hall.
From what Ninael understood of Rohirric customs, when one of their own fell in battle, the honour of singing usually went to surviving kin. But for reasons that were entirely her own, Annalyn had gone against tradition by asking a family friend to sing in her stead. The woman in question was the wife of a man named Edmund, a close friend of Feran. Hildred was her name, and strong was her voice.
Farewell they bade to their hearth and home,
To the green places by the mountains
Forth they rode, north and onward,
Through West Emnet and the Wold and the Vales of Rhovanion
Standing in the shadow of a wooden pillar, directly across from where Annalyn was standing, Ninael observed the room without moving.
Tonight, the mead hall was filled to capacity, and the smell of horses and leather hung heavy in the air. Between the long wooden tables, solemn-faced men and women stared into nothingness, their features lit by the many braziers set about the hall. As Hildred's singing voice carried to all four corners of the room, no one spoke, no one moved. All had a cup of mead in their hands.
Healing purpose drove them on. Alas darkness took them,
Horse and horsemen; hoofbeats afar
Sank into silence. One buried. One lost.
At these words, Ninael found herself staring at Annalyn, whose eyes were now hidden beneath her lowered lids, her throat bobbing in an attempt to swallow her pain. When her lashes finally lifted, her gaze went to one of the tables, and there it stayed. From this, Ninael sensed that the spot held special meaning; perhaps it had once been favoured by her kin.
Indeed, it was a way of life here in the Riddermark, these gatherings in the mead hall. Though nowhere near as grand as the great hall in Edoras, this hall was clearly a well-loved place of warmth, safety, and community. Day or night, villagers would gather beneath its roof, to share food and drink, news and songs.
Tonight, the mood was much more sombre, however. For the loss of Feran and Aldin had been keenly felt by those who dwelt in and around the village.
The lament's final note echoed over their heads. Then all was silent. Taking the lead on the ceremony, a man with ruddy skin and golden hair stepped forward. Grimbold was his name.
From what Ninael had learned, he was a lesser Marshal of the Mark, a man of forty or so years who dwelt in nearby Grimslade, an ancestral home nestled on a hillside just a short ride from here.
According to Annalyn, the man had traded with Feran on a number of occasions. And while the two had been acquaintances rather than close friends, there had been much respect between them. For that reason, Grimbold and a few of his men had made the journey from Grimslade, and now here they stood.
With all eyes on him, the man raised his goblet, and beheld the villagers. In a strong voice, he said, "Hail the glorious dead!"
Mirroring his movement, the Elf did like all the others and uplifted her goblet. But when their answering voices sounded, repeating Grimbold's words, Ninael remained silent, for her focus had snagged on her friend.
Annalyn's unseeing gaze betokened a great weariness. Greater than aught she had ever sensed in her before. But who could blame her? All throughout the day, Annalyn had suffered an almost never-ending train of visitors, people who had wished to extend their condolences or help around the house. As well-intentioned as they were, Ninael could see the toll their intrusiveness had taken on her friend, how all Annalyn wanted to do was go home and shut herself in, at least for the night.
As it was, Annalyn was now gathering whatever strength remained to her. With a feigned and tired smile, she acknowledged those who nodded at her. Though the villagers spoke not, the pity in their eyes could not be missed. Still, Annalyn remained stoic through it all, even when a succession of heavy hands landed on her shoulder, in a manner that conveyed the one message she would hate to hear.
"You poor girl."
Thus the ceremony was concluded. But while many left the hall in search of their beds—women and children largely, including Hildred and her two children—most of the men lingered. As conversations arose all around, Ninael headed toward her friend, her cloak swaying as she passed by a growing line of thirsty people whose empty cups awaited a second round of mead.
"Is it just me, or does it feel like a smithy in here," Annalyn said and blew out a breath. Her cheeks were flushed, Ninael noted, and a gathering sheen of sweat could be seen upon her brow.
Concerned that her friend might crumble in a heap, Ninael indicated the double doors at the far end of the hall. "It might be wise to get some air."
But Annalyn shook her head. "No. It's alright. This gathering is for my kin. It would be wrong of me to leave so soon." Another breath, then she steeled herself by nodding. "Although, I would not mind resting my feet. Would you join me?"
"Lead the way, mellon nîn."
Because the floor was made of beaten earth, their bootheels made no sound as they carried their cups toward a less crowded section of the hall. Taking a seat at the end of a long rectangular table, the women sat facing each other. Two silent figures in a noisy crowd.
As the villagers talked and mingled, occasional laughter arose. Most were engaged in conversation, but a good number of them—including Grimbold—kept stealing glances at Ninael, eyeing her weapons with scarcely veiled curiosity on their bearded faces.
"There must be a shortage of men in the elven lands," one man said to another, his secretive tone reaching her ears from clear across the hall. Unbeknownst to him and the others, little escaped her notice, even in a crowded place such as this. Her eyes and ears were much too keen for that.
Nodding in agreement, another man replied. "At least here we ward our women. Can you imagine? Sending a maid to a foreign land to act as someone's bodyguard."
Though some might have bristled at their puzzlement, Ninael remained impassive. Men and Elves differed in many ways; it had always been so and forever would be. While Rohan was the land of ceremonial shieldmaidens, war was very much the province of men. By and large, the women stayed home, and the men protected them. Such had been their ways even in the days of the Éothéod.
Regardless of what these men thought, Ninael knew who she was. She had been a soldier for millenia, had learned to wield a sword long before Eorl the Young had settled in the Riddermark. These men—including those with grey hair—were children to her eyes.
If they doubted her skill, so be it. It was not her place to change their views, nor was it needful to gain their approval. Nay, if she was here tonight, it was to support her friend. Ere she departed, Ninael would make certain that Annalyn was settling in. And should her friend change her mind… Should Annalyn wish to leave her village, and return to Haldir in Lothlórien, Ninael would be there, riding faithfully by her side.
Indeed, it seemed to her that her friend was waging a silent battle, one she was trying to conceal, even now. But Ninael could see it clearly; Annalyn was struggling with something. She seemed…
Ninael searched for the word. Different? Changed?
Perhaps if Annalyn had been an Elf, Ninael would have been able to discern the exact nature of the change she saw within her. A change that seemed to have taken root on the night they had made camp with Théodred's muster. For prior to that night, Annalyn's determination to go home had seemed stronger than her sadness—and her sadness had been great. But now, it seemed her friend was wavering.
Unaware of Ninael's musings, Annalyn said, "You have been drawing wary stares all night. I am sorry that my people are not more welcoming."
Resigned to the reality of things, Ninael replied, "I am a stranger in their midst, in a time when the enemy is gathering all around. I do not begrudge their vigilance." Turning her glass in a slow, stationary circle, she pursed her lips, and stared down at her drink. "Besides, the fault lies with my people also." Wryly, she said, "How long has it been since an Elf has visited the Golden Hall of Meduseld?"
Three hundred years?
"How long since your people have beheld an Elf?" she continued, her fingernail grazing a small chip on the side of her goblet. "The truth is all around me, in the whispers and the stares that are thrown in my direction. Ere I rode into this village, none of these people had ever laid eyes on one of my kind."
In fact, had it not been for a courier—one of Théodred's men, who had been sent to deliver several messages to Grimbold—Ninael might have been asked to leave the village altogether. For much like the Elves of Lórien, the people of Rohan were generally wary of outsiders. Fortunately, Théodred had given her leave to accompany Annalyn to her village. And so now, here she was.
"Gytha and Galan seem rather fond of you." Annalyn changed the subject on a smile.
Indeed, the children had trailed after Ninael for the better part of the day. First when she had been tending to her horse, then again when she had walked in here tonight.
"I think the boy was mostly fascinated by my bow."
"And Gytha?"
"She was rather intrigued by these." Amused, Ninael indicated her ears. "Truth be told, it was rather endearing."
The side of her face limned with firelight, Annalyn seemed to sink into a fond memory. "You know, Ithriel once told me a similar tale. About two mortal children that she met many centuries ago. They, too, had been greatly fascinated by her ears." Her laughter yielded to a wistful expression. "Ah, Ithriel."
"You miss her."
A beat went by before she answered, "I miss all of them."
"Haldir most of all." It was not really a question; Ninael knew it to be true.
In lieu of answering, however, Annalyn drained her mead to the dregs. Scarcely had she lowered her goblet than something caught her eye. With a nod and a subdued expression, she acknowledged someone over Ninael's shoulder.
Turning, the soldier saw the man in question. It was Edmund, father of Galan and Gytha. As far as she could tell, he and his family were perhaps the closest thing to kin Annalyn had left. While it was hard for an Elf to gauge such things, he seemed to be slightly younger than Grimbold. In his mid-thirties perhaps.
According to Annalyn, he raised horses here in the village. By the slight limp in his gait, and the scar that bisected his cheek, Ninael surmised that he might have been a soldier once.
As the man resumed his discussion with a slightly older fellow—one of Grimbold's men by the looks of it—Ninael watched him for a moment longer. She was about to face the table again when her eyes settled on a maid who was sitting across the room. Seemingly younger than Annalyn, she had a brown head of hair and clear blue eyes. At present, her gaze was fixed on Annalyn.
"The woman who is staring at you. Who is she?"
When Annalyn followed Ninael's gaze, a look of understanding seemed to pass between the two women.
"Her name is Ethelind," Annalyn stated at length. Seeing the unspoken question in Ninael's eyes, she went on. "Remember the conversation you overheard between myself and another soldier? One who rode with Théodred?"
"The one named Wilmaer?"
Annalyn inclined her head in affirmation. "The other maid he kissed? Well..."
"I see." Raising her goblet to her lips, Ninael contemplated the maid who was now conversing with a smitten-looking man. "It seems like she has found another suitor."
"From what I hear, they will wed ere springtime. A better match than Wilmaer, that I can assure you. For though the man claims to love, his devotion is fickle. He is not loyal enough to make a good husband. She is better to be rid of him. I know I am."
"You hold no anger towards her?"
"Why should I?" Her chest swelled on a drawn-out sigh. "I remember that day like it was yesterday. The shock I felt when I walked into that stable and saw them together. When Wilmaer pulled away from her and said my name… From the look on her face, I do not believe she knew. I imagine she must have been as hurt as I was to learn that he had another woman in his life, and that she apparently fell to second place in his eyes."
A moment of silence ensued. Then, "No, none of this was her fault. Nor was it mine. The blame lies with Wilmaer, and no one else." Though Annalyn clearly meant every word, her conviction could not fully erase the shadow of weariness that now lingered in her eyes.
So passed their evening.
Later that night, long after the two had left the mead hall, Ninael was wandering the fields when she cast herself on a grassy slope, not far from Annalyn's home. Alone with her thoughts, she stared at the starry sky for a time, and weighed her options. Given the looming war, and her duty with the Galadhrim, Ninael could not linger in the village overlong. And yet, the thought of leaving so soon did not sit well with her.
Would Annalyn be alright? Was she at peace with her decision to stay in the village? One might call it a gut feeling, but from what the soldier could tell, it didn't really seem that way.
What would you have me do, Haldir?
Having served with him for so long, Ninael had come to know him very well, as a Marchwarden and a friend. When he had first approached her all those months ago, to ask if she could ward Annalyn during her travels, Ninael had known right then and there that this mortal woman meant a great deal to him. And no matter how things had ended between him and Annalyn, Ninael knew that he loved her still.
There could be no doubt; Annalyn's well being would be a priority in his eyes.
Her thoughts turning toward her eventual arrival in Lothlórien, Ninael could easily envision Haldir's concern. "How was she?" he would ask. "When last you saw her, did she seem well?"
The answer to that last question was evident. Annalyn did not seem well at all.
A muffled thud interrupted the soldier's musings just then, and she looked to see that the shutters had been thrown open. For the second night in a row, Annalyn was standing at her bedroom window, taking in gulping lungfuls of air.
The moment stretched on. With her brow resting upon her forearm, the grieving woman managed to calm her breathing somewhat. Then, thinking no one would hear, she began to whisper. "I am Annalyn. Daughter of Éadmód. Niece to Feran. Cousin to Aldin. I am from Rohan, the Westfold. This is where I belong. On the green fields beside the White Mountains. In the village of my youth. And should my feet wander the world again someday, to explore for a while or simply be, here is where I shall return at journey's end, when I am too old to go on."
For a moment, it seemed like Annalyn was going to push away from the windowsill and seek her bed. Instead, she opened her mouth once more, repeating those same words all over again. "I am Annalyn. Daughter of Éadmód. Niece to Feran. Cousin to Aldin…"
Cloaked and hooded on that hillside, Ninael heaved a quiet sigh, and came to a decision.
As a captain of the Galadhrim, she could not stay forever, but lingering for a few days more… that I can and will do.
Progress update (September 13th): Hey, everyone. Just to let you know that I'm making good progress with chapter 67. I have a full scene written, and two additional scenes drafted. I'm hoping to write a lot today, and in the coming days. Hoping to update real soon.
Progress update (November 20th): Hey, everyone! I just thought I'd write to let you know I'm still alive lol. Apologies for my slow updates. I started a new career with longer hours. That being said, I'm still writing, but at a slower pace. This being my day off, I'm hoping to make some headway with my writing. I hope you're all doing well. Until next time, I wish you peace, health, love, and happiness.
CygnusRift xox
