She waited, arms wrapped tightly about herself in the solitary stillness of the sparse office. She wondered if her brother was alright. Though they had been brought to the Inquistor's office together, neither of them had spoken and he had been taken away from her by a blank faced Shadowhunter when they had arrived. Perhaps he felt the same swell of unspoken fear and grief that she did although she was too young to fully understand what was happening—
The door slid aside and the Inquistor's hushed footfalls announced her presence, thought she had sensed the woman's presence long before. Her voice was calm and even, not a shred of empathy in its crispness, "You will go to Paris."
The Inquistor did not treat her like a small child. She could never be a child again. In the eyes of the Clave she was now no longer a child.
"What name," inquired the Inquistor, all business,"will you go by? Darklighter? Or your fathers? Tradition says it should be your father's name—"
She didn't need to think. She knew without a second's hesitation that she would go by the name she had heard her mother called respectfully by the people dressed in black.
"Darklighter." Her childish voice sounded very small in the echoing office, fragile and weak but determined.
Later she would realize why the name had always appealed to her even then, as a tiny child. The two sides, the light and dark, no middle ground or in-between.
And later still, as she trained to become a field operative, she would think about the name…what it meant to choose a name, to carry it. About the history of the name, the people who had carried it before her. How much it could mean and how meaningless it was in the end to.
Downworlder. Shadowhunter. Darklighter.
They were but words that could be twisted into any shape. Words that, in the final analysis, mean nothing. Nothing more than labels that were given to make it easier to erect barriers, justify the actions taken. They never captured the totality of what they tried to describe. Words trailing their streamers of judgment but unable to capture the mutable nature, fluid with fear and desire, ideals and angles, changeable as water. The complexity and shadows of existence.
A name, she came to understand, doesn't make something so. A name is just a word. Action was what gave it meaning.
The hall they entered was long and wide and filled with shadows and half lights; pillars held the high roof up. Bright sunbeams fell here and there in shafts from eastern windows. The pillars were carved, gleaming dully with gold and colours, many woven cloths hung upon the walls and over their wide spaces. Many woven cloths were hung upon the walls, and over their wide spaces marched figures of ancient legend, some dim with years, some darkling in the shade. But upon one form the sunlight fell: a young man upon a white horse. He was blowing a great horn, and his yellow hair was flying in the wind. The horse's head was lifted, and its nostrils were wide and red as it neighed, smelling battle afar. Foaming water, green and white, rushed and curled about its knees.
At the end of the hall, beyond the hearth and facing north towards the doors, was a dais with a great gilded chair. Upon it sat the King of Rohan, bent with age and behind his chair stood a woman in white with golden hair who looked a great deal like Eomer. At his feet was a man, with a pale greasy face and heavy-lidded eyes.
Gandalf spoke. "Hail, Théoden son of Thengel! I have returned. For behold! the storm comes, and now all friends should gather together, lest each singly be destroyed."
Slowly the old man rose to his feet, leaning heavily upon a short black staff with a handle of white bone; and now the strangers saw that, bent though he was, he was still tall and must in youth have been high and proud indeed. "I greet you," he said in a voice that shook slightly, "and maybe you look for welcome. But truth to tell your welcome is doubtful here, Master Gandalf."
"You speak justly, lord," said the pale man sitting upon the steps of the dais. "It is not yet five days since the bitter tidings came that Theodred your son was slain upon the West Marches. Why indeed should we welcome you, Master Stormcrow? Lathspell I name you, Ill-news; and ill news is an ill guest they say." He laughed grimly, as he lifted his heavy lids for a moment. When his gaze passed over her it lingered a tad too long on her figure. Aiedale knew his type, knew what he was, and she felt the gorge rise in her throat.
He would be the first she dealt with should this situation descend into violence.
Which it did a moment later as the wizard decided show his true self and the slimy minion of the traitorous wizard ordered the men who stalked the shadows of the great hall to subdue them. It was oddly satisfying to fight hand to hand against a slow mundane whose punches lacked any refinement. It had been too long, she mused, since she had last gotten in a good, straightforward bar fight.
Aiedale spun, light footed, as she drove her elbow into the man's nose as he tried to grab her about the waist. He crumbled to the ground, blinded by the pain and the sudden gush of blood. She gave him one solid kick to the chest just to emphasize her point.
Disappointedly, however, it was over just as quickly as it had begun.
The King of Rohan, freed from whatever spells had aged and muted him, was gaining colour and strength. His once dulled eyes now sparking with questions that the wizard was quick to answer. One of those questions came with a unexpected sharpness: "What is a woman doing here?"
Aiedale bit the inside of her cheek, holding back an acid retort.
"Aiedale Darklighter," said Gandalf pointedly, "has come from a distant land. She has lent her considerable services to us in this hour of need."
The King looked hard at her, aware of the men being dragged off, one of them bloody smears on the stone from a badly broken nose. She looked calmly right back, schooling her expression into an almost bored look. The man seemed to decide that it was unwise to belabour the point that the person Gandalf was introducing was a she. He dismissed her then, choosing to focus on the wizard and her companions, particularly Aragorn who had stepped forward to speak.
Aiedale let herself be forgotten, standing in the shadow of Legolas who had subtly moved in front of her. It was safer that way, always had been for her kind.
And then all the words about planning for war and the risk of orcs marching under Saruman fell silent as the King was informed by the woman in white, her pale, lovely face clenched with grief, that his son and heir was to be buried.
The funeral of the King's son was a solemn, agonizing affair held outside the rough walls of the city.
There was no law that Heaven must be fair, thought the Shadowhunter. And perhaps that was the greater grief, to be left on earth when another was gone. A father should not mourn his son, she thought. But fate cared little for what should be. It did what it wanted and the parents buried their children. The dawns were bitter and the sunsets haunting. Behind every laugh was the shadow of tears just held back.
But who remembered pain, once it was gone? Who remembered the suffering and the pain…
When a Shadowhunter suffered, they survived.
It was the suffering that brought them together. It was not love or friendship. Shadowhunters were far too competitive with each other, too jaded by hardships experienced early on. It was pain and it was anger…it was suffering which bound them beyond choice. It made them brothers and sisters. In pain, which each Shadowhunter suffered alone, in grief, in the silent funerals of fallen comrades and family members, that they came to know the ties that bound them. They knew it then, because they had to learn it. They knew that there would be no help but from one another, that no answering blade would be there if one did not pledge one's own blades to the fight and accept that the fight would bring loss and pain. Knew that the answering knife, the answering stele, answering flash of a devil-may-care smile, was as desperate as your own.
All that one had was what one gave. The only life that was certain was the one that was lived right at that exact moment.
Standing away from the mourners, almost too far away to hear the words that were being spoken in the honour of the fallen Prince, the Shadowhunter felt somewhat lost. Beside her, his face solemn, stood the Ranger.
"I wonder what they are going to do," said Aiedale quietly.
"It is hard to say," said the Ranger. "But war is coming."
"Will they acknowledge that before the orcs come knocking on their front doors?"
The man glanced around at the faces of the Rohirrim come to mourn their fallen crown prince. "They are afraid," he told her sternly as if warning her not to mock them.
"Fear will be the death of them," said the Shadowhunter, running a hand across her grimy face.
"Be patient with them," said the man. "They have had their faith in their king shaken and lost their prince. They have every right to be afraid."
She studied a single blossom from the bush beside her; it shone in her dirty hand. "How very mundane of them," she said, trying to sound like the flippant, arrogant Shadowhunter but her voice had an emotional edge to it.
"Perhaps," said the Ranger. His voice deepened a little, louder and clearer than it had been. "But when the battles between you and your adversaries are done, in the end the fate of all the world will depend on those people, and how many of them are good or bad, stupid or wise."
She glanced at him, wished that she could feel more hopeful for the future and that his words would do what they might have to another: inspire, gesture at a greater calling. But that was not her nature, she thought. She heard his words and flinched away from them. She did not trust them, not even when spoken by someone who had yet to misuse her or betray her in any way.
And so she watched, hanging back, as two children from a burned village rode into view. She watched how they were pulled from the back of an exhausted horse and guided into the welcoming arms of the golden haired Princess of Rohan who nodded at the orders of her King to see to the children. As they were ushered towards what had to be the kitchens, Aiedale caught sight of their faces: white with misery. The sight of them, pale, thin little wraiths made the Shadowhunter wince. There was no Shadowhunter rune to soften the trauma of loss, she thought. There were runes for mourning, but they did not ease the pain. You couldn't make someone forget the pain with a rune.
There was no rune to fix a broken heart or bring back lost innocence, thought Aiedale. Not even Clarissa Morgenstern had come up with one in the days after that miserable fight in Alicante when the world caught on fire.
"Now what?" she asked the elf.
"Now they must decide," said Legolas softly, "to fight or to hide. They will die either way."
She thought it funny in a dark kind of way that her assessment of the situation aligned with that of the elf.
The sun was only just beginning to sink down toward the horizon when Aiedale was finally shown to a guest room. There was no window, but thick tapestries of hunting scenes hung on the walls and there was a thick red and green rug spread before a large fireplace. After a quick inspection, old habits to assess a room for potential threats dying hard, she slowly stripped herself of weapons and Gear until she stood in the thin blue elf-made shirt and underwear. The giant bed with its carved bed frame and thick wool blankets looked terribly inviting to her right then.
Just a moment, she thought. Just a quick little nap to refresh herself before what was sure to be an endless dinner of dodging glances and pointed questions.
Dreams took her tired body, her mind soaring free.
She stood on a wide flat circle, paved with great flags of white stone, and surrounded with a crumbling battlement; and in the middle, set upon four carven pillars, was a high seat, reached by a stair of many steps. Her entire being was clenched, a mix of terror and grief holding her absolutely still. She had been here before. The summit of Amon Hen.
A whisper of sound from behind her made her whip around, battle ready instincts breaking through the haze that held her. There was nothing behind her, save the high seat above her. She walked towards it, treading with care as she climbed the steps and sat down upon it.
The dream flickered about her and suddenly she saw bright, living images. All of them were of war. Orcs and wolves and men. All of the power of Sauron was in motion.
And suddenly a dark chill stole over her, a feeling she had only when the whispered warnings of war from her Downworlder spies had come true and demons had poured into the Glass City. The stench of demons and death filling her nostrils and sending her instincts to fight into overdrive. It was not the white glass towers of her people's safe haven, however, but the white-walled, many-towered Minas Tirith…
She jerked awake at the sound of a firm knock.
Heart beating far too fast, adrenalin singing in her veins, Aiedale rolled out of the bed and to her feet.
"Come in," she said quickly.
A maid entered, holding clean towels over an arm and two steaming buckets of clean water. She clearly didn't speak a language Aiedale was capable of understanding and, after a curious glance, deposited her burden beside a wide basin in a corner of the room and departed.
Forcing herself to breathe, slow her still pounding heart rate, the Shadowhunter did her best to wash off the sweat, blood, and accumulated grime of the past weeks. The water quickly turned murky, but the feeling of being relatively clean was almost enough to calm her. Using the last of the clean water to rinse her hair, Aiedale wrapped her hair in a towel and drew out a clean elven tunic and leggings from her small pack.
Dressed, she turned back to study herself in the small, blurry mirror. The reflection was distorted, her features softened and rounded in the handmade glass. She looked younger than she normally did. She supposed she was still young, she thought. Very young but each night had felt like a lifetime.
How many times had she gone back to the Institute after a long night of hunting, taking the long way so that she might walk along with dawn beginning to wink through the leaves of trees beside the dark river, passing unnoticed in her gear by the early morning Parisian commuters? How many times had she stripped off her gear one piece at a time with methodical slowness and then found herself staring into a mirror… marvelling that her heart was still beating, that she had made it another night, another hunt and that she still looked the same…the outer not reflecting the inner chaos.
And then, just as she would now, she had always looked away from the mirror, getting back to work. Working with her mind sharp and her eyes focused and if any thoughts of worries or hate or anger or sadness threatened to creep their way in she would shake them off like a runner in the night. A discipline of thought and body that numbed her to the horror of what it was she was asked to do, to the sheer immensity of the task. She had never allowed herself to slow down too often, afraid of what truths might catch up with her if she did.
Was that all she was in the end? A girl running…a girl moving through her life at an alarming speed just to keep ahead of what she left behind?
Another knock at the door jolted Aiedale.
"Come in," said Aiedale, turning to face the door. Her weight subconsciously settled on the balls of her feet, one hand resting on the table behind her while the other drifted close to the knife at her right hip.
The door opened and in stepped the Rohirrim princess that Aiedale had heard called the Lady Eowyn and the White Lady.
She was beautiful, thought Aiedale, with her thick golden hair and tall, slim figure. But that was just the first impression, the outer exterior not the inner truth.
Look again, thought Aiedale. Look again, like a Shadowhunter would. Beneath the smooth, familiar face of things was another that waits to tear the world in two. Beneath the glamours created by a Shadowhunter stele, beneath the beautiful faces of the vampires who stalked the nights, beneath the glittering jewels of the faeries…
Many things were like that, Aiedale thought. The smooth exterior hiding dark, dangerous shadows, burning anger or ugly truths and bloody lies.
Eowyn was beautiful.
But Eowyn was angry. The anger was a hard, sharp thing. It bit at her, made her quick to judge and slower to forgive. Could not the men around her see it? Was it not obvious that the woman was on the verge of loosing all her icy self control in the face of mounting pressure from all sides to hold together this fractured home, this crumbling nation?
No, thought Aiedale cooly, they could not. They did not see what she did day to day; did not see the exhausting game she played — how she had evaded the Wormtongue even as she played to his weaknesses all in a desperate attempt to keep some of the people she loved alive. They were blind to her role in ensuring that this crumbling edifice of a kingdom stayed somewhat intact while her cousin and brother rode out to war and death. They did not see the little things or how desperately she worked tirelessly to plug the holes on this sinking ship of state…
Aiedale felt a small bubble of pity grow within her but she quickly quashed it. Eowyn would not want pity from her. Pity was insulting, thought Aiedale. You wanted recognition for your strength, for your sacrifice and courage. Without having to explain, to make yourself vulnerable to judgement, you wanted others to understand the pain and the strength, the fear and the courage which fuelled you. They should understand, they should respect it and they should fear it.
"I hope you have found everything," said Eowyn, eyes sweeping the room, hands neatly clasped before her as a perfect hostess.
"Yes," said Aiedale, "thank you. After many days of travel the comforts of your Hall are most appreciated."
"This Hall has seen brighter days," said Eowyn, "but I am glad you have found it comfortable."
Aiedale nearly grimaced, shifting restlessly. She was uncomfortably reminded of the dysfunctional dynamics she had seen one too many times play out in Shadowhunter Institutes and families. Even the best of intentions, the deepest and most basic ties of love and family, could be twisted and tainted.
"Lady Eowyn," said Aiedale, "let me express my condolences for the loss of Prince Theodred"
"Thank you."
Aiedale inwardly winced at the desolate note in the woman's voice. One felt empathy when one had been there; sympathy when one had not. It was empathy that stirred the Shadowhunter.
She purposefully stepped in front of the golden haired woman before she could slip past her. "Sebastian," she said slowly, "was a friend. He was too kind, too gentle for a warrior's life. He spent most of his time researching and coordinating Clave activities." She paused, drawing in a breath, not caring that Eowyn wouldn't understand what she was saying. "He was killed by someone very cruel.…very evil. The details are complex…but I take some measure of blame."
Eowyn was staring at her so intensely that she nearly, not quite, wanted to look away. Another steadying breath, "I thought Sebastian was staying with old friends. But he had been killed long before that and Valentine's son — an enemy — had taken his identity. I was so distracted by preparations for war, so wrapped up in the petty games of the Clave that I did not realize one of my oldest friends was missing and that an imposter had taken his place. That he had been replaced by a monster. A monster who destroyed my city's defences and left our people to be massacred." Her voice had risen steadily, not in pitch but in intensity. She was gripping her hands so tightly her knuckles had gone white. It was coming back in a rush, anger and pain mixed with that familiar feeling of self-loathing.
Eowyn broke the tense silence, "What did you do?"
"I went to battle," she said at last, when she was able to speak past the lump of emotion that had clogged her throat. "And when the battle was done I mourned for him." For a long moment she said nothing. There was a shared tie of loss, of shared hopeless rage that needed no explanation.
"You would know this feeling," said Aiedale at last. "That feeling of being constantly surrounded and yet totally alone."
"Yes," said the White Lady. "But why would you feel that way? You and your companions seem very close. They care greatly for you."
"Perhaps," said Aiedale.
The White Lady didn't say anything for a long moment, "What's it like? Being out there…being a warrior?"
"It is complicated." said Aiedale. "It isn't easy. It isn't clear and it shouldn't be."
And it never had been black and white. But she had always wanted it to be. She had always wanted it to be simple or at least try and keep it easier - either you back someone, or by definition you're their enemy kind of simple. It would have made her life easier.
But the runes that traced across her weren't simple. Power of that kind was never simple, was so easy to misuse and misunderstand because it was complicated. The runes were layered with meanings and intent — a story behind each graceful line. Each line part of an intricate narrative comprised of the many Shadowhunters that had come before her…her own story becoming a part of something much larger. It was in that larger unity that they became powerful, the many made into one. And that was never simple and it was never easy.
"I feel so trapped," said Eowyn.
"I know," whispered Aiedale. "I know what you mean. It feels like the more you try to escape…the more you end up trapped. It's like being entangled in a net…the harder you fight the more twisted and tangled you become until you can't tell up from down." The Shadowhunter shivered.
"How do you get out?" The woman suddenly looked incredibly lost, her brilliant armour temporarily discarded to reveal the inner turmoil, the unhappiness that threatened to choke her, "Did you… I mean have you gotten out?"
Aiedale was silent for a long time, "I began to find a way out." She looked away from the intense sky blue eyes, "You have to keep some of yourself back. You need to hold on to some part of yourself. And you have to accept that sometimes you are not enough. You will fail. You will have to try again."
"I stay here," said Eowyn, "and keep a house that is more akin to a prison…I watch as everyone else rides out and then doesn't come back or comes back and dies in my arms. I am helpless." She snapped out the last word, a deep spark of pain and anger flashing in her eyes.
"No," said Aiedale, "you aren't helpless. You fight battles everyday. Some small and some big." She met Eowyn's gaze; steady and even. "And some you win and others you must fight again tomorrow. And by fighting the little battles each day you edge closer to the final battle…to the final victory."
The woman dipped her head very slightly.
And Aiedale thought that Eowyn might have made a good Shadowhunter. She knew about the words unsaid and the vows you made with yourself, and all the spaces between one's heart and others. The space and the silence that wrapped around your soul and made everything numb. That loneliness that, even if one was surrounded by loved ones trying to help, remained so deeply entwined with your inner self.
"Let me help you," said Eowyn, "with your hair."
And she understood about pushing that tangle of emotion and silence and darkness to the side as if it could be resolved at some later time, thought Aiedale. Understood that nothing was ever truly resolved, some fractures running too deep and the only way to cope was to do something, to busy yourself with small tasks even if it was as simple and seemingly meaningless as fixing your hair. Little battles, thought the Shadowhunter, fought everyday.
"Thank you," said the Shadowhunter with genuine gratitude, "I've had to let it go since we left Lothlorien."
Allowing herself to be guided to the chair that was set close to the wash basin, Aiedale felt the other woman's deft fingers begin to gently untangle a knot, working with smooth efficiency. "What kind of clothes are those?" asked Eowyn after a minute of silence.
Aiedale glanced at the Gear thrown haphazardly on the large bed. The black leather and fabric was always worn with close fitting trousers and flat-soled shoes. It allowed for swift and free movement even as it protected the wearer from all sorts of potential dangers. Her bracers were lined with electrum and carefully decorated with runes of protection and strength along with the Darklighter family crest.
Her gear was covered in runes and references to her family, she mused. There were runes for protection and there were Marks that commemorated battles, the names of angels…it was made for Aiedale Darklighter and no one else. The Iron Sisters had made it especially for her and the needs of a field operative. She had been involved in the selection of those runes, chosen each one with care and received the gear with a grateful and heartfelt expression of thanks. Not all Shadowhunters were fortunate enough to wear Gear which had been so careful prepared according to their specifications, but Aiedale's position both in the hierarchy of the Clave's fighting force and as a Darklighter had afforded her some rare privileges.
"Not always," said Aiedale. She smiled, "I miss my jewelry."
She especially missed her gold cuff bracelets — etched on the inside with runes — and a pair of delicately fairy made jewelled earnings that she had been gifted by her brother. They were practical, pretty and personal.
"What do you do? At home?"
"I am a solider."
Among other things, she mentally added. She'd cycled through disguises and side interests. Perhaps that was why she loved Paris so much. The city had the capability to at any moment shift. It was old but it was young. It could absorb anyone. There were poets and landscape painters and wanders who came by chance and never left. There were refugees who came with nothing and tourists that came with too much. There were politicians who came to prattle empty words at world summits and celebrities who preened in front of fountains with selfie sticks.
The Paris she knew was shaded white and gray, a city of zinc roofs and pale stone facades with iron balconies and crosshatched with whitewashed shutters. Its parks were laced with gravel paths that left her high heels with their silence runes neatly carved into their red lacquer bottoms coated in a fine chalky film. In the blue hour of middle evening, just after sun set, the roofs would glow blue, sometimes so intensely that the blank walls below pick up the colour and reflected it, giving the city a submerged quality, as if it had sunk quietly to the ocean floor. Aside from that phosphorescent flush, the work of intrepid graffitists, and the ghoulish green light projected by the electric crosses marking the entrances to a few stores, most of the buildings were blank, the colour of white bones left to bleach.
She was jolted back to the present by the princess of Rohan's next question. "They allow women to be soldiers where you come from?"
"Yes," said Aiedale rousing herself once more from her revere.
Eowyn's hands were gentle as she carefully combed through a snarl before moving on to another one. "Who is the best?"
"What do you mean?"
"The best of your people," said Eowyn as if it were obvious. "Who stands apart and above for their skill and valour?"
Aiedale hesitated and then said, very carefully, "That depends who you ask." She studied her hands for a moment, "I suppose some might say that the best of my generation is Jace Wayland. Others might say that Valentine Morgenstern was the strongest, but he betrayed the Oaths and was cast out of the Order for killing his own people." She shrugged, "And others might say the best, the strongest of our kind, are the ones you rarely hear about."
"What do you mean?" asked the woman in confusion, her hands stilling for a moment as they untangled another knot.
"The strongest," said Aiedale, "are not those who show strength in front of the world. They stop the threat before it becomes a threat. They end the fight before it becomes a war. They find solutions for things which are not yet problems." She took a steadying breath, "To protect and serve. It requires no audience, no accolades. It is done every night in service of those who live unaware of the fight. Our war is in the shadows, it is done in silence and darkness…it is done to preserve and protect."
Eowyn was silent for a long moment, carefully combing out Aiedale's dark auburn locks and pulling them into a tight Rohiric braid. "That is odd."
"It is our way," said Aiedale quietly. " Our mandate goes beyond all attachments, any accolades that could be granted by a mortal hand. It is a mandate we hold to in the shadows." She rose as Eowyn's hands fell away from her still damp, but detangled and braided hair. "Thank you," she said earnestly.
"Of course," said Eowyn, a thoughtful look her to her painfully lovely face. "Your companions are waiting for you."
It had been a textbook operation, well planned but with flexibility, contingencies in place; this had all gone according to plan. So much so that in the actual event, all Aiedale had to go was walk in and give out orders. But she was left…unsatisfied.
Her mood did not go unnoticed by the visiting officer from Idris. He was an older warrior, his arms heavily scarred from years of stele use and he handled his knives as easily and naturally as if he were breathing.
"Any recommendations?" she had finally asked him as they filed through the door of the Paris Institute, tired of his considering stares and silences.
"Just remember who you are…The world will try to change you into someone else. Don't let that happen. That's the best advice anyone can give you."