Time slipped off her midnight blue gown to robe herself in the bright colors of day, and as she changed, the world glimpsed at the dusky pink and gently lavender of her undergarments. Some days, she chose to put on shades of grey. To her, it did not matter what color she wore, but to others, it was everything.
She felt what she thought Time felt like, tired of same motions with very few variations in the flow of life. And even when Time put on bright gowns and sparkling blue, all she felt was dark grey and gloomy black. She never saw the beauty and hope in the dawn and peace and rest in the twilight. Most nights, she barely slept enough to stay alive. All it took was a little bit of powder and paint to cover the dark circles under her eyes and the dullness of her cheeks. Every morning revealed dark-blue grey spot against the yellow brown of her skin. These, she covered with long sleeves and high colors. Every week or so, the brushstroke of a whip was added to the canvas of her back. When the pain in body and mind was the greatest, she uncovered the memories that she told only herself.
You are not to be seen or heard, she was told growing up. But it did not stop two young men who still dwelt in the halls of the seventh circle in the White City from noticing the ghost of the girl in their home. They became to her like brothers she never thought she had. One taught her to never give up and fight every day for the next day (and some days now, she cursed him for his lesson, for he never suffered what she did.) The other, a gentle soul, told that her silenced voice did not mean a dull mind. He taught her what the ancient, grey wanderer taught him before she ever came to the cold stone city. He taught her to read and to apply her readings. (This, she would find more useful in later days.) And with for him, she felt a bond deeper than that of his brother. Maybe it was because he, like her, was primarily ignored and forgotten as a child. And as she aged, she sometimes saw him fighting in forests when she closed her eyes and focused.
She was told that she was to never leave the seventh circle. As a child, she did not mind for there were books a plenty and her brother-figures to keep her occupied. But when they left with banners flying and steel flashing on impatient steeds of war, she forgot every rule drilled into her. She followed them a few paces outside the gate of the seventh circle, shouting her farewells. She never heard the whispers of the people who saw her that day. She never learned that maybe she was not what she thought she was. (She did not know really who she was if she was honest with herself.) But was that night she learned that brothers' father was one to be greatly feared, even though he was barely present in her youth. It was that night she received the first red welt on her back and blue-black badge on her arms. At first it was infrequent. Then it grew more frequent. All it took was for one word, one misstep to add to her pain.
And then on another grey day, she forgets which one, they brought news of one of her brothers. Across the empty fields beyond the walls, she spotted a cloud of dust from a lone rider. Turning away from the window of her lofty tower, she made her way to the great hall. Silent steps, silent breaths. Invisible to eye of both the one who sat in the chair beneath the high throne and the rider, she saw the cloven horn. Her heart sank. She should have been more mournful that her laughing friend would laugh no more, but she was more focused on the long, painful night ahead of her.
Then on another bleak day not long after, she felt a deep pain in her chest. She hoped it meant that it was her time to go. Yet, she continued to survive. And then she saw why. Her dearest friend, her brother in spirit, came to seventh circle, pale and wan like a dying man. An arrow, she heard. A breath of the Dark.
She barely left her room in the tower in the following days, lest she accidently trespass her brother's father and incur his wrath. Only hunger and thirst drove her to pass like a ghost down the servants' corridors to scavenge for morsel in the kitchen.
Then that day came. After a night of constant drumming and shaking ground gave her no rest, she had no hope for the day to come. She thought she might be able to leave this hard world of hers peacefully, but it seemed it would be a grisly ending as the servants whispered. Well, technically, she could just step outside her high window if her long departed brother's words let her go. Whatever happens, he once told her, never give up. There will be a day when you will be a free bird. There will be a day where you will be seen and heard. She had to give him a chance for his words to be proved right.
As Time changed from the dark grey of night into pale rose and lavender, something new bloomed within her. Wrapping her shawl around herself, she padded to her north-facing window. A horn, bright and hopeful like the rising day, sounded through the still, morning air. Then spears of gold rained on the darkness surrounding the city. She closed her eyes, and she saw someone different. In his hand was a spear with his flag upon it. A running white horse on a field of green. All the other flags boasted a border of gold, but his had silver. He rode of war horse of dapple grey. It pawed the ground impatiently. At last, she allowed herself to focus on the rider. She could not tell his face beneath his helmet, but she noticed the silver mixed with the white in the flowing horsetail from his helmet. For the first time, she felt joy in being alive. For the first time, she believed that she had a chance to be free to be seen and heard.
Many hours later, a servant told her that her dearest friend was moved to the Houses of Healing on the sixth level and that the man of her nightmares (not that the servant knew) was dead. Managing a quiet thanks, she somehow made her way to the courtyard. The cause of her suffering was gone, but that did not mean she still carried scars and memories. And her soul's comfort, she had to see him. This thought carried her forward. A deep breath and one step, and she was outside the gate of the seventh girl. No shouts followed her as she sought the Houses of Healing, eventually following men bearing a stretcher.
Unnoticed, she slipped through the gate and passed the mass of healers and wounded men. She did not know how long she wandered the halls in the Houses of Healing, but eventually, she found him. She sat next to him, clasping her hand and allowing herself to…be. Her thoughts wandered her early days, her earlier memories of them. The scent of parchment and ink with a hint of mint accompanied her journey down memory lane. She knew she would be alright one day, and she felt that her dearest friend would be as well.
He stood on the now barren plain, breathing heavily. The so-called Captains of the West had won. He could hardly believe it. It was over. No longer did he have to fight for his life, for his freedom. Now how could properly grieve for all the men lost to fighting for Rohan. Now he could properly remember every man. When he settled in the fields of Cormallen, he sensed the mood shift from sorrow to a sudden joyousness. Men who suffered for months laughed too loudly. It grated his ear. While his men were slower to laugh and smile, they were more willing than he was to shrug off the somberness of wartime for the joy of victory.
How could he laugh when he still felt the suffering and sorrow he grew up in? He still felt the grief from his father's gruesome death and his mother's passing. His missed them every day since because they would have been able to do things he was could not. He could not share in the joy when he still saw his cousin's body lying in the mud, surrounded by the trampled bodies of his èored. The millstone that rolled around his neck weighed even heavier now, for he was not trained to be a king. Away from peering eyes, he allowed himself to remember all the times his cousin was more his brother. He let himself recall his uncle's twinkling eyes and deep, calming voice before he became a glassy-eyed, frail old man. He thought of his sister, who was once happier than a spring foal before becoming warier than the hunted rabbit. His brave, strong sister who should not be so driven to despair to seek death on the battlefield. He cursed the twisted creature that rose from the shadows to terrorize his sister and control his uncle, bringing the darkness to their land.
By the time his brother-in-arms, one he admired for his patience, endurance, and skill, came unto his own – to his long-awaited status, he was done. He needed a break. Everyone around him seemed to forget the men who sacrificed their lives so that the rest might live. He finished congratulation the new king of Gondor and performed the visiting, uncrowned king. He waited until the unmarried ladies had declared him a good catch, but exceedingly dull and brutish for their liking. He waited until the simpering lords who had hidden during the war (who knew that Gondor could have many a brave soul fall, only to have a weak daisy spring forth?) were drunk enough to not notice him. Only then was he able to slip away from the festivities to roam quieter hallways with only the echo of his footsteps to keep him company. Absorbed by his thoughts and his grief, he hardly noticed where he went. When he did, he found himself standing at the entrance of a courtyard with a view of the city below and the fields beyond. The merry music from the celebrations was quieter and more subdued. It did not take much for him to block out the sounds and focus on the scene before him.
One step further into the courtyard, and he spotted a lady leaning against the wall. Her face was as somber as the simple, dark dress she wore. Entranced, he drew nearer until she lifted her eyes to meet his. A spark of surprise lit her face, and for a moment, he thought her knew her. He remembered seeing a lady in a shawl the day he fought the Battle of Pelennor Fields, but he dismissed the sight as a trick of the eyes. Maybe, he was wrong. A second later, the brightness in her diamond eyes was veiled and closely guarded.
She straightened her posture to stand like the many ladies he already met that night. He waited for her to speak, introducing herself while waxing poetry of her many talents. Yet, she said nothing.
At last, he broke the silence. Slowly, with each question, he learned something about her, and she of him. He spoke of his past and his past friendships. She hesitantly retold stories of her brothers, the stories she kept for herself on her darker days.
"They were brothers to me," she said upon concluding one memory. "I did not know they were my cousins by blood."
To say he was confused would have been a slight understatement, yet he waited for her to continue.
"I met my father and my mother a few weeks ago. It was strange, for it was clear that loved me even though they did not know me. They told me that I went missing when in was a mere baby. They did not know what happened to me."
He caught the bitterness in her voice at the end of her sentence. Beneath it all, he heard the voice of a caged, misused bird. It was the voice of one who suffered in ways he could not even imagine. It reminded him of his sister, who refused to accept any comfort he might give outside of handholding.
Cautiously, he touched her shoulder. She winced at first, holding herself rigid. Keeping his movements slow, he embraced her. Ever so slowly, he tightened his hold to a comforting pressure until she relaxed and responded in turn. Why he did this, he did not know. But his soul did.
No one understood why the young King of Rohan would ask for the recently found daughter of the Swan Prince as his queen. How and when did they meet? How did they know the other existed? Nor could they believe that the lady in question agreed to the match. No one saw the understanding gaze passed between them or heard the quiet whispers of love and assurance in the nights. In the privacy of their rooms, they held each other tightly when flashes of darkness tried to force them apart. It was in the dark that a heart found a reason to beat again and a heart to continue to beat. It was in the dark that they felt that they found the first step to healing. And when death came knocking, they were ready to accept the darkness of the grave, for the dawn that brought them together would reunite them.
Author's Note: So, in posting stories from her to my Ao3 account, I'm rereading the stories, and "In the Dark" one-shot felt like it need more. So, here's the result.