Fanfic Legacy Prequel - The Ranger & The Shieldmaiden

[Alqualisse]

No sooner had they reached the tent set up for the wounded were they intercepted by a High Guard of the Citadel. He was helmless with a bandage around his head and his arm, and yet he was on duty at the gate.

He shook his head at them and said in a loud voice, ”Nay to the tent! It is full! Come to the Houses of Healing in honour!”

He passed his duty to another guard as he strode out to meet them. With a grim glance at the cart and those who had accompanied it, he walked ahead of Vorda through the crowded streets of the city and took up the call.

”Make way for the Shieldmaidens of Rohan!” his voice rang out, echoing over the stone and cobbled streets.

And so it was with great honour that the three shieldmaidens came in to the city of Minas Tirith, and once they came to the doors of the Houses of Healing, they were tended with great care. Vorda stayed with her master and her friend, both hovering near death. As far as she knew, she was the only living shieldmaiden here. And she was unscathed!

Watching on in grim silence from the door were Darhias and Berendil. Berendil could not tear his eyes from Freja as they frantically cut her battered armour away. Darhias, meanwhile, studied Vorda hover like a hawk. How she was still on her feet was a marvel. As for the healers, their grim expressions said of much.

This terrible scene was interrupted by a familiar voice when Hanasian arrived, ”There you are! You are needed at our camp.”

Darhias scarcely turned from Vorda to challenge, ”And who put you in charge?”

“Aragorn. He is busy here with the wounded, but wants all our brethren gathered by days end.”

Berendil bestirred himself to ask, ”Where’s Mecarnil?”

“Not sure. Now I’ve found you two, he’s the only one unaccounted for. Let’s go.”

Both Darhias and Berendil looked again back into the room. They could do nothing here and were not permitted in, so they turned and followed Hanasian away. They hoped to have a chance to return before too long.

When the three arrived at the Dunedain camp, Mecarnil had arrived. Less Gareth in the care of healers, and Halbarad who was slain, their numbers were now complete. Both Berendil and Darhias lay down on the ground and surrendered to their long fatigue.

 

[Alqualisse]

3019, III – March 18 – Houses of Healing

Berendil walked at a swift clip that made his harness jingle as he sped through the halls. The Houses of Healing was a crowded place still, swirling with those who tended the wounded from the recent battle. The press slowed him down and revealed just how thin his patience was after two near sleepless nights. Jaw clenched, he persisted, and traced a path through the throngs until he reached the door he sought. Without hesitation he strode into the room to discover none other than Rohan’s new king standing at the foot of Freja’s bed.

Éomer looked careworn and weary. The loss of Théoden had settled kingship upon his shoulders at a bleak, dark time. There was little way any could prepare for that. His sister’s injury, too, had clearly taken a toll upon him and yet he was clad for battle just as Berendil was. His helm dangled from one hand, the other upon the foot of Freja’s bed.

She lay upon the bed very still. Her hair had been combed out and loosely braided. It coiled, a stream of woven fire, beside her shoulder. Battle had been washed from her and her eight torcs had been set upon a nearby table. Her skin was white as marble and slick with sweat. Her flesh was afire with the Witch-King’s malice.

”Naiore Dannan could not slay her,” Éomer murmured, shaking his head. He broke off his study of Freja’s forlorn repose to consider Berendil, ”I am told you found her and brought her here.”

“Not just I, Sire,” Berendil replied, ”Others lent aid too once we knew she was there and alive.”

Éomer searched his face, ”Vorda tells me that you sought her even in battle. In my experience, Vorda rarely misspeaks.”

Berendil felt compelled to explain, ”I gave Freja my word that I would look for her.”

The King’s brows rose, ”When did she begin befriending Rangers?”

Berendil sighed, ”We did not part as friends, Sire.”

Éomer offered him a small and rueful smile, ”You wouldn’t be the first to attract Freja’s ire. Let us hope that you are not the last.”

The King turned his attention back to Freja, ”So few of her number remain in the South. If it goes as badly in the north…”

Éomer shook his head again and turned away for the table. He moved the torcs about for a while, ”She was a wilful scamp as a child…always into that which she should not be. We were often at odds, then. I did not know then that she would come to be as dear to me as my own sister.”

When Éomer brought his head up again to meet Berendil’s eyes, the Ranger was struck by the warmth he saw, ”You have my thanks, Ranger of the North. What is your name?”

“It is Berendil, Sire.”

“You have the look of a man about to ride to the Black Gate, Berendil. Whatever may greet us in that cursed land, know that I nor Rohan will not soon forget your kindness to Freja.”

Berendil had no idea what to say to that but Éomer did not tarry for a reply. With a final nod for Berendil, he strode from the room. Alone again, Berendil looked back to Freja and was struck again by how frail she appeared.

If she did not wake soon, they said she might not wake at all. Snowmane had all but crushed her yet Aragorn had said that only her hip would likely linger. She was strong, vital, not easily bowed by man or beast. Yet her life still swung in the balance and that had nothing to do with Snowmane. Rather, it was the virulent poison that coursed through her veins. The longer she fought it, the weaker she became.

He recalled her struggle upon the broken field. Such determination, such spirit he had beheld despite her terrible injuries. But since then she had not stirred since and that was two days ago. Now her chest barely rose. Gandalf feared that the cursed Elf had done some evil to Freja’s mind, sending it spinning into a darkness that none possessed the power to call her back from. Not even Aragorn.

Tears prickled as he reached out to take her hand between his own. He lifted it to his lips and breathed in the scent of her skin. Only the faintest hint of heather was discernable now. It was as if she was fading away, taking everything that made her who she was with her.

Not so much a flutter of an eyelid from the woman that had turned his life on its ear. What he would not give to watch a smile flicker across her face, in genuine amusement or arch mockery. To see those eyes flash, be it with laughter or anger. To watch her stalk across the field with fierce mayhem flickering in her smile. A familiar gait sounded in the hall beyond and Berendil closed his eyes as Vorda strode into the room.

 

[Alqualisse]

”No change, then,” the shieldmaiden said, her voice flat with fatigue.

So great had the casualties been amongst her number that there were few able bodied to be found. Vorda was a member of an even smaller group who had somehow survived relatively unscathed. Separated from Théoden, they had been spared the Witch King of Angmar’s final onslaught. Yet more had been lost defending the his body from desecration upon the field – loyal to their king beyond even in death.

Vorda had been his constant companion over the vigil of the last two days, despite her growing list of duties, but not his only companion. Other Shieldmaidens, knights of Rohan, Aragorn, Gandalf had all been here at times. Darhias too, usually seeking Vorda, and Hanasian, who was usually seeking Darhias and himself. Not to mention a seemingly endless stream of healers and lore-masters had shuttled through that door.

He opened his eyes to study Vorda and she returned his frank scrutiny with a question, ”You are to ride with the Host?”

Berendil nodded, ”And you?”

“My sisters ride with Éomer King. I will remain.”

“Freja will not be alone,” Berendil said, relieved.

”A noble service even if it is not battle,” Vorda said somewhat stiffly, but then her eyes fell to Freja and her tone softened, ”And she was ever kind to me.”

Berendil set Freja’s hand gently down. Tendrils of deep red hair were slicked to her temple again and these he stroked back. Pushing out a deep sigh, Berendil leaned over to press a kiss to her brow. Her skin burned against his lips. She fought on and he had to believe that she would prevail. The weight of Vorda’s scrutiny grew as Berendil straightened. Vorda had been watching him intently for the past two days. Weighing him up.

”She murmured your name in her sleep,” Vorda finally said.

”Today?”

“We rode to war,” the Shieldmaiden answered, ”And yet Freja dreamed of you, Ranger.”

All he could do was stare at Vorda, startled by this revelation. So cold had Freja’s final words been that he had believed her heart had hardened against him. She had told him that she did not care. Vorda narrowed her eyes at him.

”She was different after you left. I thought she was affected by Éowyn’s distress. But I when I heard your name I knew otherwise. You turned her gaze, Ranger.”

“We parted on bitter terms.”

“And yet you sought her out and remained at her side,” Vorda replied, tilting her head.

Berendil opened his mouth to reply but hesitated as Mecarnil appeared in the door, ”We’re moving out.”

Berendil nodded, swallowing his words, and turned to study Freja one final time. Like as not he was riding to his death. Like as not, the Witch-King and Naiore Dannan would claim Freja. He shook himself from his thoughts and strode around the bed for the door. Vorda’s study continued in all this time and when he came to stand before her, her expression was impossible to read. Was she dismayed? Upset? Angry? He did not know. Perhaps she understood given the bond that had sprung up between her and Darhias. Still, he reached into his jerkin and withdrew a folded square of parchment.

This he pressed into Vorda’s hand, his eyes locked on her own, ”If she wakes…when she wakes…give her this.”

Vorda’s fingers slightly curled around it but he saw hesitancy in her eyes, ”Please, Vorda. Freja must know the truth.”

At his solemn words Vorda’s hand closed around the letter to accept it from him, ”In return, you will watch for Darhias.”

“Of course,” Berendil replied and she gave him a nod, as if a bargain had been struck.

A short while later, as they strode out of the House of Healing, Mecarnil asked him, ”Do you think she will give Freja your letter?”

At the question, Berendil glanced up to where he knew Freja’s room to be, ”Honour… it is a Shieldmaiden’s life blood. I do not think Vorda will betray her words.”

“She seems to hold little regard for you, Berendil.”

Berendil was not sure about that for Shieldmaidens were proving difficult to read. Rather than debate the matter with Mecarnil, Berendil answered, ”She loves Freja. Of that there is little doubt.”

There was companionable silence between the two Rangers as they set off. It gave Berendil time to reflect upon what they were embarking upon. A desperate gambit, likely doomed, before the Black Gate of Mordor. The road here had been a dark one and would get darker yet. Was he foolish to hope that there might yet be something brighter at its end? That he might survive this war, Freja as well, and together discover a world freed of Shadow?

His thoughts returned to the day he had set out, dispatched for the Grey Company. The daughter of his liege lord, renown for her beauty, she was already betrothed to the Hidden Prince – a dour, resentful man that Mecarnil had the dubious pleasure to serve. There was no love between the Lady Verawyn and Lord Berith. Theirs would be a match borne of necessity – politics. And yet, Lady Verawyn had not wilted under the weight of her looming duty. Beneath her delicate appearance lay a steely strength few saw.

The gift of foresight was Lady Verawyn’s. Powerful, too, of a like not seen for some time amongst their number. Perhaps the influence of the sprites and spirits that had offered them sanctuary for so many generations. No one knew, aside from the fact that it was unwise to set her counsel aside. She had come to him that morning and offered him a strange smile that was both sweet and pained.

”Fire is dangerous. It kills, it destroys, it ruins. But also does it save, protect and nurture. It can drive us from or guide us to our homes,” the Lady had told him. Strange words at the time, unable to be understood…until now. For was not Freja the fire Lady Verawyn had foreseen?

As Berendil mounted his horse to set out with the Host of the West for the Black Gate, he did so with the hope that should Freja prevail she would come to know the truth. He could rest easier in his grave with that. And should he somehow survive this desperate gambit, then perhaps he would discover the full truth of Lady Verawyn’s words.

 

[Alqualisse]

3019, III – March 18 to March 25 – The Road to Mordor

The ride from Minas Tirith was at first filled with talk but this dwindled as they neared the causeway. When they arrived at Osgiliath they discovered that it was, for the most part, a smouldering ruin. Many soldiers of Gondor who pursued the retreating armies from the Pelennor were now busy repairing the bridges and works that Mordor had hastily set in place during their attack.

Berendil looked upon the ruins, ”Oh, to have been able to see this city in its days of glory!”

Hanasian ,who rode close by, nodded, ”It would have been grand, just as Annuminas and Fornost of Arnor were in their day.”

Silence again fell as they passed to the east and Berendil was drawn into thought of Cardolan once again. He said no more while the day lasted.

Darhias rode apart from the others. He drifted from near the front toward the rear of the Host, talking to and encouraging the men on foot as he went. For someone with such a pained past, he seemed almost cheerful. The only thing Hanasian could get out of him was he may have seen Vorda almost look like she might smile at him. If there was more he did not know.

The foot soldiers made camp as the sun westered but the Dunedain pressed on with the other horsemen and they set camp at the Crossroads. Their watch was vigilant, and the proclamation of Aragorn that the lands were again held by the realm of Gondor had many emboldened yet wary. They had not seen any sign of living enemy. A corpse here, a shield there, and a well-trodden road from their retreat. Scouts returned from north and south road with the same reports. The enemy had left only their dead behind.

Hanasian, Berendil, and Darhias were sent east toward Minas Morgul. With them went several stealthy Rangers of Ithilien, and they moved slowly up the road, with men off the road on their flanks. Once they pushed on over a mile, they set their watch. If an attack was to come, most considered this the likely direction.

Aragorn and the wizard Gandalf came up as well, and though the gloomy air was heavy with fear, no life could be seen. Not even Naiore Dannan watched from the shadows.

When the order was given to burn the bridge, Berendil stepped forth, ”I will do it.”

Hanasian and Darhias stood and they too would go. Berendil went forth, torch lit. As he set fire to the aged timbers, he cried out, ”For Freja! For the Shieldmaidens!”

Hanasian and Darhias, watching the flanks, added, ”For Gondor, Rohan, and Arnor!”

Berendil threw his torch to the far end of the bridge and the three Ranger quickly retreated. Gandalf lifted his staff and the bridge exploded in flame. Greath wreaths of thick smoke rose and the dry dead grasses of the vale started to burn here and there. With a nod Aragorn turned away and they withdrew west to their secure watch and encamped.

This display of defiant strength lifted their spirits for time but the grim air of Mordor soon closed in again. sWhen they set out the next day, Berendil volunteered to take the point and scout ahead, and again, Hanasian and Darhias followed some ways behind. Along each side, the Ithilien Rangers moved through the brambles on foot, all keeping a wary eye.

The next day the scouts from Henneth Annûn warned of an ambush. The stealthy Dunedain horsemen accompanied by several riders of Rohan that rode out away west and came around by hard paths to spring the trap on their would-be assailants when they moved against the vanguard of foot soldiers coming up along the road. The fight was as intense as it was short. The enemy fled in utter defeat, with only two men of the West suffering any injury.

Darhias gained a slash on his leg from a broken branch shard. He joked while Berendil dressed the wound, suggesting that he needed to return to the Houses of Healing. Darhias’ thoughts were clearly centred on Vorda and yet his humour was lost on Berendil. He grimly finished and turned to tend to others as his thoughts circled Freja. For neither man was there time to dwell overlong on those in Minas Tirith. Any heartening from this victory again quickly faded. Each mile north they went, the harder the hand of doom pressed upon them. Heavier and heavier it grew as they passed into the desolate brown lands. Too similiar, the Wizard amongst them muttered, to the handiwork of the cursed Elf that had been absent at Minas Morgul.

Darhias fell silent, his efforts to maintain some cheer all but spent. Many of the young soldiers who he had spoken with to on the road to this hostile place now looked to him and the Dunedain for strength. Berendil found himself gazing back at Darhias in silence and he wondered if their minds turned now in the same direction: what of the Shieldmaidens that had riden with their King to this place? Even though Berendil knew she lay broken and fading, he caught himself thinking that somehow Freja would be here leading them even now. Standing tall, unflinching and unbowed and with Éomer King.

The notion helped him straighten as Aragorn called to him those whose will had withered and gave to them a new duty. If this was Naiore Dannan’s work, then she had been successful, whittling down their numbers through her pogrom of fear. And yet, there were many young faces that remained. They stared hard at Darhias and Berendil, at Hanasian and Mecarnil, and took heart in their grim duty and chose to carry on.

For the Dunedain, they each of them followed their chieftain and King without question. There there was no other duty, no other course. They had followed him through the Paths of the Dead and they would follow him into the throat of Mordor. For all of that, it had been a week now since they had departed Minas Tirith. If Freja had not stirred in that time, she would never stir again. She might already have perished and idea filled Berendil with embittered determination.

He pulled to him his recollection of their first encounter upon the field in Dunharrow. The moment he had first seen her, laughing uproariously across the field. The affection and warmth between her and the women she led. His sense of astonishment, both at what he was doing and why. If Freja was dead then he would seek her in death. It would not be long now before their approach would be met, and the silent determination on each man’s face told of the desperation of this march.

Berendil did not have any patience for the parley. He instead kept watch to the north and east expecting this to be a means to turn attention away from an attack from outside the gates. With their numbers, the battle would likely be a defensive one, and if every man gave fivefold, it still would not turn the tide. At the news of the fate of the halflings, Berendil’s grip upon the hilt of his sword tightened. If Sauron had the Ring, they were all of them doomed. He looked across to Hanasian and Darhias and found in their faces the same grim determination he felt within himself. They were resigned to this hour and their final fate was about to break over them.

 

[Alqualisse]

3019, III – March 25 – The Black Gates

The rush from the Black Gates was stunning but even here in this wasteland the terrain proved to be their ally. The orcs bogged down in the muddy quagmire that lay before the hills they had formed their defence upon. Still, this it only delayed the inevitable. Huge trolls waded forth through the sludge, and the multitudes of orcs soon spread around and began to encircle their position. Berendil also saw the Easterlings issue forth from outside the gates and sweep around to hit their left flank. The ring of steel was now at hand and the fight quickly turned into mayhem.

Resigned to the fact that he would die this day, Berendil yelled as he slew a charging orc, ”I guess it was all just a dream…”

At his back, Darhias shouted, ”For the Shieldmaidens!”

Berendil roared again as they battled but slowly they were waning. The trolls took their toll on the front of their stronghold and soon all order had been lost. It was nothing more than chaos, a melee and yet somehow a lull found Darhias and Berendil and allowed them to regain their footing.

Berendil said to him, ”Let’s attack!”

Darhias drew a breath and the two set forth into a line of Easterlings that was fast approaching. As some of the other men nearby joined them the fight’s intensity waxed. Darhias suddenly fell back, hit with a spear, Berendil was now alone. He stood by his fallen friend and fought hard until something blunt hit his head. Then the sky lit up red and orange as the very earth violently trembled. Unfooted, Berendil fell to his knees wondering what he could have been hit with to cause all of this. Distantly, he heard someone shout about Eagled. Then the hot stench of burning rock overcame him.

Why he wasn’t dead Berendil didn’t know. The enemy all seemed to hesitate before many began to flee. Not all, though, for an Easterling ran towards him with his axe lifted high. He weakly lifted his sword to attempt to fend off the coming blow but it did not fall. Instead, the Easterling looked into his eyes and pulled up. At this Berendil raised his sword over his head and the Easterling stepped back in amazement, turned and then ran.

”Running will not save you from Freja and the Shieldmaidens!” Berendil called after him and the Easterling paused, as if the name were familiar to him, and looked back.

It was then that Berendil realised he had seen this man before. A week ago on the Pelennor Fields! He was sure of it, and then he wasn’t as his head swam. The Easterling finally turned away and, with another, ran into the rising dust and gloom. Berendil momentarily considered giving chase as he had before but the ground shook so hard beneath his boots that he fell forward, utterly spent and sure that he was dead and soon to see Freja.

 

[Alqualisse]

Instead, when his vision cleared he found that the light hurt his head. Berendil found himself laying upon his back amid green grass. He reached for his head to discover it well bandaged. Still, it throbbed abominably.

”You’re fortunate! All you got is a big welt on that hard skull of yours.”

Berendil looked up at this and found Darhias standing there, leaning upon a crooked branch.

”You live? I saw you fall!”

“Yes, I did. A spear took my leg just before you got it in the head. Don’t know what happened to my foot though. I think a troll stepped on it.” Darhias replied with a laconic shrug of his shoulders.

Berendil slowly climbed to his feet and then had to hold onto the Darhias to keep from falling to the ground again. He peered about in bewilderment.

”What happened? Where is everyone?”

Darhias looked around before he answered, ”Depends on who you refer to. Hanasian took a mixed company of men into Mordor to ferret out any remaining strongholds and ensure the destruction of the Dark Tower was complete. Mecarnil took a mixed company up through the Morgul Vale.

“We were brought south to the healing tents here in the Field of Cormallen. But the tents could only house the severely wounded. There are many of those. And so we are here, resting by the soothing song of the river."

Darhias paused momentarily before he continued, "There was talk among our brethren that the Captains are looking for something or someone. They are being quiet about it though. As for many of us, the ‘lightly wounded’ as we have been called, our duty is to keep watch here over these prisoners after they cleaned up the mess they made.”

“Prisoners?” Berendil asked as he looked out at some of the men moving the dead.

Darhias answered, ”Yes… they lost their stomach to fight once their master was broken. A commander brought in what was left of his company, and a few others followed. Most though either fought to the death or fled.”

Berendil was silent as he considered Darhias’ words. He could guess at who they might be searching for but if the command was holding their silence on that then so would he. He stretched his limbs to address the lingering stiffness of his arms and legs. Aside from his head, he was surprised to found he was other whole and for now, he could live with a headache.

He asked, "Where is Aragorn?”

“You mean our King? He is in the healing tents, tending to those in need,” Darhias answered.

As Berendil started to walk that way, Darhias added, ”You aren’t hurt that bad!”

“I just need to speak to him.”

At that, Darhias limped after him and so both Rangers sought Aragorn out. Upon finding him, Berendil did not have to ask what he wished for Aragorn came to them as soon as he saw them.

”It is well you are up. Our victory is at hand, thanks to the haflings Frodo and Sam, yet there is much to do. Can you ride?”

“Yes, m’lord,” Berendil replied.

Aragorn nodded and said, ”Good, I have need to get messages to Minas Tirith, and I believe you have reason to not tarry here but to return?

“Yes.. I…” Berendil stammered, suddenly at a loss for words.

Aragorn briefly touched Berendil’s shoulder, ”Take the fastest horse and go. Have them send any who has skill in healing if they have mastered the wounded from Pelennor.”

“Aye m’Lord!”

Berendil turned and ran off, ignoring the dizziness that returned as he readied his own horse in preparation to ride.

By the time Darhias limped up, he was steadying himself by hanging onto his saddle.

”I wish I was going with you, but I can’t ride,” Darhias lamented, ”Give my regards to Vorda if you see her.”

“I will. Fare thee well till we meet again, my friend!” Berendil returned as he climbed into his saddle.

With a nod to Darhias, he set out upon a ferry to Cair Andros and then pushed on to the west. Once there he rode hard south as far as he could ere the sun set.

 

[Alqualisse]

3019, III – March 25 – House of Healing


Freja’s weakness galled her. It appalled and humiliated her. Even the simplest tasks were beyond her. She could not tend her hair, nor eat or drink, without assistance. Assistance that Vorda gladly rendered, unflinching and uncomplaining. But, even so, Freja’s spirits remained low despite the fact that she had prevailed against the Witch King of Angmar’s malice. Despite the fact that it seemed that Sauron himself had fallen.

Outside, in the streets below, she could hear the amazed relief of the people of Minas Tirith continue on through the night. The sun had shone brighter that afternoon. The air was cleaner too, somehow. As though the darkness and doubts that had chewed upon their innermost thoughts had withered and fallen away.

Freja sat abed, prisoner still, and stared at the letter she had been reading by candle light. It would not be long before someone would be along to douse it. Not before they assisted her to lie down. She could not even do that on her own! Rest was something they were adamant about in this place. Sure enough, Freja heard footsteps approach in the hall beyond her room. Vorda walked at her customary rapid clip and soon was through the door.

”Reading that again?” she asked with a soft, playful smile. Freja nodded. She knew each word Berendil had set down by heart now. Each swoop and line of his hand.

”It will not be long now before he returns,” Vorda said as she drew near and settled onto the side of Freja’s bed, ”He was loathe to be parted from you despite the call of his duty.”

“If he still draws breath,” Freja said, briefly lifting her gaze from his letter to Vorda in time to catch the other woman’s eyes flare in surprise.

”What’s this? Of course he does! He and Darhias both,” Vorda replied, her tone holding concern but not reproach.

Freja felt her scrutiny as she folded the letter and set it aside, ”Ignore my foolishness.”

She felt Vorda’s hand fall upon her own, ”’Tis not foolish to fear for those we love.”

Her words made Freja blink rapidly and then she looked away to her window and the night beyond. She had come to loathe the nights more than anything else now.

”Come…you must be tired,” Vorda said patiently and what else could Freja do but acquiesce. For she was weary. Weariness was one of her constant companions of late, amongst others. It was not long before she found herself alone again, staring at the shadows that gathered on the roof in the darkness.

She fought. Every night she fought and yet her weariness was an opponent against which she could hold no sway. And once her eyes closed, She was waiting. Always waiting. Sometimes Freja could sense Her presence during the day.

Without delay it rolled over her as it had every night since Freja had first stirred only hours after Berendil’s departure for the Black Gate. Tonight, though, it was different. She was not shown Berendil’s twisted body lying upon that desolate ground, an Easterling holding his gory axe aloft in ghoulish glee. Instead she was taken elsewhere. Freja recognised the forests of Dale almost immediately. The dead were everywhere, the carnage appalling. Too many were faces she knew. Still more she could not recognise save by their armour. Each of them Shieldmaidens. Her sisters. Her friends. They lay still amidst the dark trees. Some on their backs. Others on their bellies and sides. All dead. Never to ride, to sing, to laugh again.

And then there was one man who she had not seen since her banishment had been lifted years ago. Videgavia lifted his face to the sky, his expression one of unmitigated grief as he sat upon the bloodied ground. In his arms was another and this…this woman’s face was beloved. The grief Freja felt was raw as it was brutal as she stared at Eriwyn’s empty, blank eyes. Her captain, her mentor was dead.

But it was not done. Faint, feminine laughter floated at the edge of Freja’s hearing as she was pulled away and this…this was familiar. Théoden fell, time and again, crushed anew by Snowmane whilst she lay useless. Bitter failure and shame flooded Freja’s senses, for what purpose did a Shieldmaiden serve if not to shield the King. She saw their ragged lines upon the Pelennor. She heard him screaming at her to do her job and fulfil her duty. Something he should never have had to do. And then she heard the sickening crunch as Snowmane crushed him. After that, she watched the Shieldmaidens under her command fall, one after the other, in the slaughter she had abandoned them to.

Yet still Naiore Dannan was not done with her for finally She showed Freja Berendil’s face. He was happy, as he always was at first. Love stood in his eyes as he looked back at her. Her heart sang and yet, as time flowed on, that love grew cold. It withered away and he became distant. Remote. There was anger. Confusion. Pain. Until, when he looked at her, there was nothing. Not even the bones of what once they had. Emptiness…and still he did not leave her. For he would remain true, even when he should not. Could not. And so she knew what she had to do if indeed he returned.

 

[Alqualisse]

Come the following morn, Vorda was already up when she heard a ruckus unfold nearby. Troubled though she was by Freja’s state, the Shieldmaiden rushed towards the unrest to discover it was none other than Berendil. The Healers had gathered around him in a bid to silence him and yet Berendil would not be quiet. Bandaged as he was, this caused the healers to speculate about just how addled he may be.

”If you would serve your King well, attend this Ranger’s words first,” Vorda declared, her voice the strident tone well suited to carrying through the din of battle.

”His words are the least of our concern,” a healer answered and cast Vorda the sort of look she’d been wearing all week.

Vorda answered cooly, ”This man has ridden from the field of battle itself to bear you tidings from your King. Even a Shieldmaiden of Rohan can appreciate the importance of that.”

Weary, still marked by the road he had taken in haste to Minas Tirith and the battle before that, Berendil’s grey eyes locked almost immediately onto Vorda’s face. He swiftly imparted Aragorn’s message, still pushing aside hands that sought to examine the bandage wrapped about his head.

”If you can spare any, make haste. Good men are dying there,” Berendil finished, eyes still on Vorda.

Suddenly, she was struck by the very fear that had beset Freja only last night. Was Darhias amongst those Berendil spoke of now? Yet as she wondered she saw Berendil slightly shake his head at her, as if he could guess at the direction of her thoughts. Vorda’s relief was immediate. Finally the healers fell away, leaving them facing each other.

Berendil drew closer, ”Darhias sends his regards.”

“Regards?” Vorda returned, lifting a brow, ”He’ll need to do better than that!”

Berendil’s smile was wan and brief, ”I expect he will be along soon. Took a spear to his leg and he thinks a troll may have stepped on his foot.”

“I should never have let him go alone,” she dryly replied but then she was struck by an uncomfortable feeling as she recalled what had transpired earlier this morning. To be relieved, even cheerful at such a time with what she had to tell Berendil felt somehow wrong.

As her expression became grave, colour washed from Berendil’s face and she had to reach for him as his knees buckled.

”Dead?” he whispered, agonised, and Vorda realised that he had mistaken her grim expression for something else.

She shook her head at him, ”Freja woke the day you set out.”

Joyful relief, raw and unfettered, flooded across his face at this. It broke Vorda’s heart to watch it all.

”Can I see her?” Berendil asked, ”I must see her!”

Vorda hesitated, her courage almost failing her, ”She can’t, Berendil. I’m sorry, she can’t see you.”

She watched his dark brows draw together in a confusion she shared, ”Why? Did you give her the letter?”

Vorda nodded and he asked, ”Did she read it?”

She nodded again, ”More than once.”

“Is she still wroth? Does she not understand?”

“I’m not sure that she’s entirely…lucid yet. The Shadow may have fallen from the land, but I do not think it has yet released Freja.”

Berendil drew back from her as he tried to make sense of this. She could tell that he had ridden hard to return. And she knew what would happen if he pressed on for Freja’s door. Nothing good could come of it today.

”I…I need to see her. Perhaps it might help.”

“I know…and I would gladly take you if I thought it would serve you or Freja well. Give her time, Berendil. Rest yourself. You look exhausted.”

“How much time?” he asked quietly, clearly upset, ”Tonight? Tomorrow?”

“I cannot say how long,” Vorda replied, sorrowful, ”None here can. She has…windows where she is herself but no more than that. This morning…seeing her now would distress you both.”

Though it was a bitter blow, Berendil nodded and rubbed at his face, ”You will tell her that I came for her?”

Vorda nodded emphatically, ”Of course I will. I have told her of everything you have done for her.”

“Then I will return on the morrow,” he said, lifting his gaze from the ground to Vorda, ”Make sure she knows that. I meant every word I wrote.”

He searched her face as she nodded, heart breaking for him as he gave her a weary, grateful smile. Berendil reached for her hand to squeeze it, ”Never will I forget all that you do for Freja.”

And with that he strode away, head bowed and battle stained cloak flapping at his heels. True to his word, he returned each day and each day Vorda turned him away. After a week, he took to writing to Freja. Letter after letter he sent and letter after letter came back, unopened. Freja’s silence was a wall upon which he could gain no purchase.

 

[Alqualisse]

3019, III – April 10 – Cormallen Fields


Searching the depths of Mordor was a feat few men were capable of, Dunedain of the North or no. Hansian had no idea how it was that he found himself amidst the broken foundations of Barad Dûr. Yet here he was, searching and observing for himself the inescapable truth of Sauron’s departure. And, moreover, the lingering evidence of his malice.

He found many trapped in the depths of the fallen tower, held in bondage still until he freed them. He could not guess at what their broken minds might make at this sudden change in circumstances. Yet that was not his primary concern. Whilst Sauron’s prisoners were abundant and the Dark Lord’s defeat obvious, there were other signs he was in search of and these were vague at best.

With the prisoners freed, there was little more Hanasian could accomplish by lingering in this dread place. He gave the order for all to gather for the night. They passed another uneasy night in the fumes of Mordor before they started their long road back toward Gondor at daybreak.

They arrived at the encampment upon Cormallen fields weary of mind and body both. Indeed, Hanasian sought out his Dunedain brethren with thought only for sleep. Yet, no sooner had he closed his eyes did a summons arrive. A summons from Chieftain Aragorn was one he could not set aside. He dragged himself upright, nodding at the one who had brought it to him. Mecarnil, nearby, watched on in silence until the messenger had drawn away.

”I am glad, now, to have only had to venture into the Morgul Vale and Minas Mogul. I see that it spared me from the greater unpleasantness of your task. You have just come in. I would have thought our ‘Chieftain’ would grant you at least a small measure of respite.”

Mecarnil’s implicit rebuke was as plain to Hanasian as it was surprising. He did not know this Ranger of Cardolan in the same way Berendil did, but even so, Mecarnil’s statement was bold to say the least. Still, Hanasian did his best to conceal his surprise. He stretched his limbs in a bid to push stiffness and fatigue from his joints and kept his reply offhanded.

”Likely he wants a report on what we found in Mordor. I would want the same if I stood in his boots.”

Mecarnil chuckled quietly, the sound distinctly cynical, ”Our Chieftain is referred to as our King by most now. It’s likely a formality, but he remains our Chieftain until such time as he declares himself King at Minas Tirith…and is received as such by the Steward..Prince Imhrahil or, should he live, Lord Faramir.”

Hanasian frowned, too weary to guess at what Mecarnil meant by his reprise of such lofty matters. He knew the man to be a stickler for formality, but even so, Mecarnil’s statement seemed odd. That did not change when Mecarnil added a final observation.

” I don’t think he has used the title of Chieftain officially amongst us since he declared himself to the Dead.

Hanasian shrugged, his preparation to leave the tent completed, ”I pay little mind to such matters. Whether Aragorn summons me as Chieftain or King, as he is indeed both, I will answer. Even if I sleep as I walk.”

Mecarnil nodded at this and waved Hanasian on his way.

By the time Hanasian found Aragorn standing outside his tent, Mecarnil’s odd words had faded as he had turned his mind to the task ahead. He found Aragorn stood alone, wrapped in his own considerations. As soon as he espied Hanasian’s arrival did Aragorn beckon him swiftly into his tent. Once there, Hanasian gave a detailed report on what they found in Mordor. Then he moved on to what he did not discover in that dark place. This particularly seemed to agitate Aragorn. But it did not seem that his Chieftain was started. They spoke at length, Aragorn questioning him on this and that, until he grew silent. Still, Hanasian was not dismissed.

After some time, Aragorn bestirred himself. When he spoke, his voice was quiet.

”My friend, I rue that we did not serve together in the north since you joined our ranks proper. Yet, for all of that, Halbarad only had praise for you. Indeed, for all our young Dunedain.”

“Halbarad is sorely missed, m’lord. I learned much from him, and from my first commander Elendur.” Hanasian answered.

Aragorn nodded sadly, ”With the war ended, I have given each of my Dunedain brethren the choice to return home and seek a life that has not been seen in the north since the days of Arnor. But I must ask you, Hanasian, what are your plans?”

Hanasian swallowed and took a moment to consider before he replied, ”I have not given over much thought to it. Perhaps I will go see my mother and sister for a while. Aside from that, I have no other plans at present."

Well, aside from sleep that was. He craved it. Aragorn looked long and hard for a long while before he asked, ”Would you consider continuing to serve your Chieftain?”

Hanasian closed his eyes at the question. Then he cleared his throat as he returned Aragorn’s intense scrutiny. He read the man’s expression and then slowly answered, ”Whatever the need, I am at my Chieftain’s service.”

Aragorn expelled a long breath and then rubbed a hand over his jaw, “Yes. You perceive my intentions clearly.”


He turned away from Hanasian at that and pushed out another sigh before he quietly continued, ”A Reunited Kingdom will have many needs. Not all of them can be met by her King. Our long battle again the Dark Lord has ended victoriously but this does not mean all evil is gone from our land.”

Aragorn turned back to Hanasian, ”For the main, I believe there will be peace. In other lands, dissent will arise from Mordor’s ashes.”

“Rhûn, Harad and Khand,” Hanasian ventured and Aragorn nodded.

”And one of Sauron’s most potent servants remains at large.”

“Naiore Dannan,” Hanasian intoned, his voice and expression revealing his distaste.

Aragorn's expression grew grim, ”We do not know where she is now that her master has fallen, or to what end. Still, it is all but certain that she will find a way to visit yet more ill upon us.”

There was silence for some time as this was one of the bitter pills amidst their victory. Naiore Dannan, traitor to her people and all those opposed to Sauron, had been hunted by Elf and Man alike since the Last Alliance of the Second Age. Gil-Galad himself had placed a doom, even a bounty, upon this traitor of his own court. That this anathema, cunning as she was malicious, remained at large was no small source of disappointment and dismay both.

Aragorn finished, ”We will know peace, and the Reunited Kingdom will be rebuilt. Our vigilance must continue.”

"I think I understand," Hanasian replied, and then, "M'lord, did you know my father?"

Aragorn looked away at the question but not before Hanasian glimpsed his pained expression. He nodded, and so Hanasian asked one more question.

"Is he why you ask this of me?"

 

[Alqualisse]

Aragorn paced about a short while before he answered, ”Were he here now your father would most gladly take this up. Yet, I could not trust such a task to him. His restraint was, at times, lacking. You served under Elendur…I think you know this.”

Aragorn paused to study Hanasian’s response before he continued, ”I ask this of you because I trust your judgement and your skill, Hanasian. I believe you have the restraint your father lacked…and you will be a good leader of men.

Hanasian watched Aragorn still his pacing and consider him squarely, ”I ask this of you as your Chieftain. Yet as your friend, I ask whether you are willing. If not, I will ask another.”

“As I said, I will do what you ask of me, whether you ask as friend, Chieftain, or King. I will do this willingly,” Hanasian answered, squaring his weary shoulders and standing his full height. Even as his reply was given was his mind churning away with how he might accomplish such a feat.

”I am relieved to hear that, for I can think of none better for this task. We will speak further on this before we set out for Minas Tirith,” Aragorn said and drew closer to set a hand on Hanasian’s shoulder, ”Seek you now some rest, Hanasian.”

Hanasian nodded at the dismissal and stepped out of the tent and back into the sun. His mind was still whirling as he returned to his bedroll. Mecarnil was not there when he set himself down upon it and slowly slipped into sleep.

Over the next several days Hanasian kept mainly to himself. In this time he wrote extensively in his journal and considered how best to fulfill the task Aragorn had charged him with. Once that was done, he set about speaking with most of his brethren in a bid to discover what plans they might have now. Most had little thought other than to enjoy their days away from war and battle. Still, there were those who had a certain look to their. A glint in their eyes that suggested they would not easily retire from the only life they had known.

He marked them well and turned his consideration next to other veterans of the war. There would be those from Gondor, Rohan, and Dale. Hanasian knew he would not have to actively seek them out. They would cross his path of their own accord. The key was to ensure he kept his eyes open for them when they came. The Company he was forming was one that would benefit from a diversity of skills and experience. It could not and would not be a Company entirely comprised of Rangers. Still, for all of that, he knew he would have to be very careful in who he took up along the way.

Hanasian had determined his framework by the time Aragorn made for Minas Tirith. Aragorn had entrusted him with a free hand in the main and he intended to make full use of it, even if it raised some eyebrows. He already had a cadre of soldiers in mind, the backbone of the Company, when he took the road to Minas Tirith with Aragorn and his brethren. On their way to the White City, he spoke with many of the Gondorians in their number. The Ithilien Rangers and the hardy men from the southern provinces. He had seen them when the Grey Company had ridden forth with the Dead at their backs. These, he thought, would be most likely to consider what he had to say. Hanasian believed they would join him, even if they did not know it yet.

The men of Minas Tirith, though, were less certain a prospect to Hanasian’s mind. Whilst a good number had that glint to their eyes, the draw of royal service in the city they so dearly loved was likely to see them bind themselves to Aragorn. All along the way, he marked each he though a possible addition in his journal. He noted down what he thought they could add to his Company and why they might join his number. No more than that, though, for this was a time of joy and celebration. He made his notes, his hunt for Naiore Dannan already underway, and joined in the jubilation and merriment as best he could

 

[Alqualisse]

Darhias found himself as nervous as he was excited upon arriving at the White City. Would he find Vorda well and hale? What of Berendil? Would he be tending Freja as she healed or mourning her? As for himself…well he thought that just might be able to walk without aid. Indeed, he was already well on his way to that end though he thought it unlikely he would escape a persistent limp. What would Vorda make of him now that he was a man with a faltering step that would endure for the rest of his days? Would he ever walk freely in the rugged forests of Rhuadur again? He did not know and whenever Hanasian asked him of his plans, this was all he could tell him.

As for the city itself, the excitement of Aragorn’s arrival was truly stupendous. For so long the people of Gondor had lived under the threat of war. Generations had lived under that lingering shadow and disquiet. The prospect of peace and renewal caused joy to spill onto the city’s battle scarred streets. Already the citizens had begun to rebuild and repair. Yet, amidst the rubble that yet remained, where so many had fallen, the bards sang and the minstrels played. There was laughter as the people danced and cheered. Ale and wine flowed and those that were admitted into the city that day were greeted as returned, victorious heroes. It was a heady time, and Darhias found himself a place in the crowded White Swan Inn. There he and others were treated to the finest ales and buttered bread they had tasted. Siege stock though it was, they were glad to have it.

Still, for all of the hubbub and merriment, Darhias soon found himself wondering where Vorda and Berendil was. Like as not, he thought, both would be found at the Houses of Healing. That was where he had last seen them, each bound in their own way to Freja. Such were her injuries, she would likely still be within the care of the city’s healers. He downed his ale, took his leave of his brethren and started on the long walk up to the Houses of Healing.

 

[Alqualisse]

3019, III – April, Houses of Healing

Darhias found Berendil on his way to the Houses of Healing and soon discovered the man was somehow different. His greeting, whilst fair and courteous, held a measure of solemnity and sorrow that had not been present before.

”I thought I’d find you there already,” Darhias exclaimed, thumping Berendil’s back in a companionable fashion. Berendil, for his part, diverted his attention away to the crowded way ahead. Distracted, he seemed, and uneasy.

”Well, no matter,” Darhias told him, perturbed, and then asked, ”Is Vorda there?”

“I expect so,” Berendil replied and turned his attention back to Darhias for a moment.

Darhias frowned, ”Is something amiss?”

At that Berendil sighed and he raked a hand through his raven hair as he muttered, ”Would that I knew.”

Berendil heaved another sigh and then considered Darhias anew, ”I take it you’re on your way there now?”

Darhia nodded, ”I’ll walk with you, if you can bear the slow pace.”

At that Berendil nodded and they fell into step. The silence between them grew with each halting, faltering step.

”I’m not as slow as I used to be. Getting faster day by day. I expect I’ll be free of this wretched cane before too long,” Darhias found himself chattering to break the tension and to that he added, ”I dare say Freja is progressing too?”

Berendil’s expression tightened, ”So I am told.”

Darhias frowned at his response. So he is told. So he expects... he asked, ”Anyone would think you’ve not been to the Houses of Healing, Berendil, and I know that can’t be true.”

“Every day. Sometimes twice,” Berendil muttered and then pressed his lips together in a thin line as if to seal any further response away.

”Have you seen Vorda?” Darhias inquired.

Berendil nodded, ”Every day. Sometimes twice.”

His words held a desolate bitterness that was unmistakeable as it was incomprehensible to Darhias and so the two men said little else as they ventured up through the city to the Houses of Healing. Upon arrival, Berendil sighed heavily again. It was almost as if he dreaded crossing the threshold. When he strode across it, he did so as man set on doing battle.

”Not this time, Vorda. No, not this time,” Darhias heard Berendil mutter to himself as they entered the Houses of Healing.

Compared to when last he was here, Darhias thought t not as crowded, people racing frenetically about as they had in the immediate aftermath of the Pelennor. Still, for all of that, the Houses of Healing remained a busy place for now the injured of the Pelennor were added by those brought back from the Black Gate and Mordor. Diminished though the press was in the wide atrium of the Houses of Healing, it was difficult to see Vorda at first.

”Perhaps she is not here,” Darhias remarked as he looked about.

”She’ll be here,” Berendil grimly replied.

Darhias looked to him askance but then heard his name hailed from across the way. He turned towards it and soon enough he set eyes on Vorda pushing her way with her usual forcefulness through the press. Her expression was one of open relief and pleasure for him, but her eyes kept flickering uneasily to Berendil at his shoulder. Upon her arrival she slapped his shoulder hard before she threw her arms around him.

”Stepped on by a troll…that’s the last time I let you out of my sight, Ranger,” she murmured into his ear, tightening her embrace into something fiercer before she drew back again. Darhias’ head was spinning so fast he scarcely knew what to make of her words. He stared at her, somewhat addled, before he realised she was not alone.

Darhias’ eyes widened as he discovered the identity of Vorda’s companion. The White Lady of Rohan herself stood there, looking on. Her arm was still wrapped in soft linen and yet vigour had returned to her. She nodded welcome to Darhias and turned to where Berendil stood, towering and silent, beside him.

”Berendil of Cardolan, Éowyn greeted him and the Ranger remembered himself to offered her his courtesies.

”My Lady Éowyn,” he replied as recovered himself, ”I had not expected to cross your path.”

This, at least, sounded like the Berendil Darhias knew. He eyed Vorda and found she was holding her breath. Excitement or trepidation he could not tell. Éowyn cast a glance to the crowded ante-chamber. She offered Berendil a kind smile and then beckoned him to follow her to somewhere quieter, more private.

”What is that all about?” Darhias asked as the two drew off.

Vorda came closer to stand at his elbow and shook her head at the question, ”I think it best we leave the matter with them.”

There was an undercurrent to Vorda’s voice that made Darhias peer at her closely. She watched Berendil and Éowyn a while longer before she turned her attention to him. At that she slapped at his arm anew.

”Regards? You send your regards!” she queried and, before he could ask what was going on, seized his elbow and pulled him after her to who knew where.

Éowyn led Berendil to one of the gardens within the Houses of Healings, a place of solitude and privacy. She had spent some time here herself, as had Freja. Though, to be fair, when Freja was there the gardens were rarely quiet. Freja used to area to learn how to walk again and the process was as difficult as it was painful. The former Shieldmaiden’s curses had frequently bounced off the walls that encompassed the garden. At present, however, she was nowhere in sight. A fact that Berendil swiftly ascertained for himself as he turned about, scrutinising the gardens for some glimpse. She watched his shoulders deflate as he realised they were alone.

“I understand Vorda meets with you,” Éowyn said as he turned back to her, “Each time she tells you that Freja cannot see you and still you return. Steadfast. Loyal. True.”

“Do you seek to forbid it, my Lady?”

Éowyn shook her head, ”I am not so foolish as to try.”

Berendil frowned at her, confused. This only deepened when Éowyn held something out to him. He took it up from the palm of her hand and turned it over in his fingers. It was much heavier than he had anticipated.

He looked back to Éowyn, ”Does she not need all eight torcs?”

Éowyn’s smile was pained, ”Whatever Freja’s path now, it leads into battle no more.”

He looked back to the torc he held, ”I don’t understand.”

Éowyn well knew what this meant. So did Freja though she might claim otherwise, that this was somehow different. Still, her dearest friend had implored her assistance. Do not tell him, Freja had begged her, tears standing in her eyes. Please, whatever you do, do not tell him. Never had Freja begged for anything before. Not of her. Not of anyone.

Éowyn gently folded his fingers over the torc and repeated the words Freja had given her, ”It is a token, in remembrance of what was.”

“And that was?”

“I think you know she loves you.”

“And how would I know that?” he asked, bitterness creeping into his voice.

Éowyn considered him at moment, choosing her response with care. She had given Freja her word that she would not say or do anything to cause this man false hope. Still, Éowyn found it incomprehensible that Freja would push the man she loves away considering how deeply he loved her in return. It was stamped upon his face even now, after weeks of denial.

”Not lightly does a Shieldmaiden surrender her torcs,” Éowyn softly replied, ”Not to her King, nor to any man. If you remember anything in the years ahead, remember that.”

And with that she drew away, leaving Berendil with Freja’s torc and all his unanswered questions. Without delay she sought out Freja and found the woman leaning heavily against the sill of her window, staring at the mountains beyond. She was inclined, of late, to get herself out of bed despite the counsel of her healers. It was clear from the cant of her shoulders that her defiance came at a cost. And still, there she stood all the same. Such was Freja Fireborn. That, at least, had not changed. Éowyn watched Freja turned her head to regard her over her shoulder before she returned her attention to the mountains.

”He does not understand,” Éowyn said from the doorway and then pressed forward to stand beside Freja at the window.

Freja nodded, voice robbed of all colour, ”I know.”

“I too am baffled.”

Freja fell to silence again. Her easy banter had vanished, seemingly at Dunharrow. She did not smile, nor laugh. She did not bluster nor roar. She was withdrawn, darker, angrier…and above all else terribly, crushingly sad. As if the fire that had always burnt within her spirit now guttered, struggling for life. The Shadow had been lifted and yet it seemed to press ever harder upon the woman at her side. Éowyn heard her draw a shivering breath and saw that Freja blinked away tears.

”Why do you do this?” Éowyn asked as she placed an arm around her shoulders, ”What drives this madness of yours?”

“He deserves better,” Freja whispered.

”He wants you, dear heart. And you him. It is not too late, even now, to undo this.”

Éowyn could feel the sorrow ripple through Freja’s frame and yet the woman shook her head, ”I can only bring him pain.”

 

[Alqualisse]

3019, III – May, Minas Tirith

Hanasian had spent so much time in the far corner of the White Swan Inn that it had become his unofficial office. To it he summoned the men he had noted during their return to Minas Tirith at the end of the war and discovered more about each and willingness to serve. By the close of a week he had a dozen prospective recruits and a further handful of alternatives should any decline to join. All of this wove through the many and varied high functions of the citadel, the approaching coronation of Aragorn as King and the ongoing victory celebrations.

He received a message upon the eve of the coronation to meet ‘the Chieftain’ at a small inn shop on the first level of the city. Hanasian arrived and saw a fair young woman working around fallen stone work awaiting repair to tend the few patrons within. A shadowed figure sat in the depths of the common room, wrapped in a grey cloak and hood drawn low. His legs stretched out before him and he drew deeply from his pipe in a slow, languorous fashion. The smoke clouded the air around him. At this, Hanasian momentarily thought he had somehow wondered into the old Forsaken Inn, far to the north. He shook this from his head, picked his way around the detritus of the inn’s common room and took a seat across the broken table from the Ranger.

”What do you have for me?” the Ranger asked, his voice soft and his eyes lit in the glow of his pipe as he drew another breath through it.

Hanasian extracted rolled parchments from his tunic and set them upon the table. The Ranger collected them up swiftly and slid them beneath his cloak without hesitation. Then, Hanasian drew his pipe and tapped out the spent ash, nodding to the woman for a flagon of ale. She soon fetched it to him, collecting an empty flagon and drawing away without hesitation or comment.

Hanasian lifted his ale, ”Here’s to the Return of the King.”

The Ranger nodded and sipped at his own ale, ”I will miss this…”

The Ranger’s free hand waved at the simple flagon of ale and then swept out to the inn. He leaned forward, and Hanasian leaned in.

”I’m afraid this will be it. It was hard to slip out unattended this night. On the morrow it will be all but impossible,” Aragorn said.

Hanasian glanced about before returning his gaze to Aragorn to discover his chieftain was lost in his thoughts.

A quiet smile played on Aragorn’s face for a moment, fading as he sighed and returned his attention to Hanasian, ”These are my days and all that we have strived for has come. A glorious time, yet there is much to be set right.”

Aragorn stood as he drained his flagon and set it upon the table, ”I will look over what you given me. You should expect a summons after the coronation…fare thee well, my friend.”

"… and you as well my ……" Hanasian paused as Aragorn gestured at him in the manner of Rangers, ”…friend…”

Aragorn furled his cloak about him and made for the door, swiftly slipping by another who was entering the inn.

Berendil looked back at the swift man that slipped out before closing the door but he was gone before he could get a clear look at him. He returned his attention to the common room and sighted Hanasian, back to the door, and made towards him. Hanasian turned as he drew near, and sat aside to lean against the inn’s wall and flag down another two ales. Berendil took the seat Aragorn had just vacated, arriving barely before the flagons did.

”Haven’t seen much of you my friend,” Hanasian said, observing Berendil’s deeply troubled expression.

Berendil nodded, eyes fixed on the scarred table, ”Haven’t seen much of you either. None of us have.”

“We can discuss that later,” Hanasian said and sipped at his ale before observing, ”You have the look of confusion that runs deep. Have you been to the House of Healing today?”

Berendil nodded but didn’t answer immediately. He sampled his ale, as if he were debating what to say. Hanasian waited him out patiently.

”I’ve been there every day since I returned but Freja refuses to see me and Vorda cannot or will not tell me why. Today the White Lady of Rohan met me…she told me that Freja loves me, as did Vorda, and she gave me this,” Berendil passed the bright silver torc to Hanasian, ”I know it means a great deal, but what kind of love is it when she refuses to see me or speak with me?”

Hanasian studied the torc closely before he returned it Berendil, ”This is quite the gift Berendil. You would be wise to heed to the Lady Eowyn.”

Berendil sighed at that, ”Yes, but what kind of love denies me even the sight of her? I cannot bear it. I just want to see her! To look into her eyes or clasp her hand in mine... yet she denies me this, and she denies herself of this.”

He shook his head sorrowfully as he tucked the torc beneath his jerkin, ”I will stay away for a time… for now.”

“What of the coronation? I know you will go. Freja may be there as well,” Hanasian asked, worried.

Berendil stared into his flagon before taking a drink, ”I’ll just be glad to see her, even if we say naught to each other.”

 

[Alqualisse]

The grand ceremony that surrounded Aragorn’s crowning was an event that would not ever be forgotten! All the Dunedain in the city stood to the side of the throne dressed in their fine clean garb. The mysterious Rangers of the North looked quite different to those gathered there from Gondor. Beside him, Hanasian heard Berendil’s sharp intake of breath before the ceremony commenced. He followed his friend’s gaze to where Freja stood. In the press she was quite some distance away but for all of that the sunlight set her vibrant hair afire. Berendil quivered at the sight of her and Hanasian worried that his friend might break ranks now. The danger passed when the ceremony began and when Hanasian looked for the Shieldmaiden again he could not find her in the crowd. Nor could Berendil. Elusive as smoke.

A few days after the coronation, Hanasian found himself in his unofficial office with Darhias and Berendil. A young guard from the Citadel arrived, his insignia and formal garb clear to see. He pulled off his helm, peered about the common room and upon sighting the three Rangers set out for them.

”Ranger Hanasian, the King requests your presence,” the guard announced, presenting Hanasian with a scroll.

Hanasian broke the seal to read what was a brief note: ‘The Chieftain has news. Moonrise ~ Winter Garden’

He let the scroll roll up of its own accord and stowed it in his vest before he took a long drink from his flagon to drain it.

”It is time. You have been rather subdued of late and you said that you would tell us of your doings,” Berendil told him, ” The look on your face as you read the King’s summons said more than you may have wished.”

Darhias added, ”You get some high office in the King’s ministry?”

“You could say that. All will be known tomorrow,” Hanasian replied to his friends, waving away the serving girl for he had work to do.

Darhias and Berendil knew better than to pry. The two men exchanged a glance and fell to talking quietly between themselves. Hanasian caught the names of the only two shieldmaidens left in the city and shook his head inwardly. If Freja discovered that Berendil had set Darhias to watch over her in his stead, it would not go well. Then again, Darhias was one of their stealthiest Rangers and the Rhuadarian had his own reason for frequently the Houses of Healing: Vorda.

He turned his attention to his own work, commencing with a review of his earlier notes. Two men he had thought would join were now off the list and it was clear that he had a great deal of work to do.

Hanasian met Aragorn as the moon lifted up over the Mountains of Shadow. It was near morning as the moon was a waning crescent. Aragorn kept his silence at first as they stood in the cool air.

When he finally spoke, there was a note of foreboding in the King’s voice, ”It has been too long since a clear moon rose above these mountains. Yet out there…. She lurks.”

Aragorn handed Hanasian several parchments, ”Read and keep these safe. We meet here again in two days time to watch the sliver moon rise before dawn.”

Hanasian reached into his vest to draw out parchment of his own. He passed them to Aragorn, trading documents.

”This will save time. Tell me you approve when we next meet.”

Aragorn nodded and walked away. Hanasian followed more slowly and when he found somewhere appropriate, he discovered that he had quite some reading to do. A long day and a late night awaited Hanasian.

 

[Alqualisse]

Hanasian shut himself in his tent and did not emerge until the morning of the next day. When he did so, it was with the understanding that Aragorn had granted him autonomous authority to create his company before the King had read his proposal. The degree of trust this illustrated was not lost on him but now the hard yards had begun.

He set out first to approach those he had spoken with, his selection of recruits. It was time to sign them on but by now the thought of war waned and he found most no longer had the stomach for it. By day’s end he had three men signed on. There was Gian, a skilled bowman from the Lebannin highlands whom he first met at Pelargir. Firadil who had been enslaved and was a rower on a Corsair ship, and Darikas, a brooding tortured former soldier. That one would bear watching, he knew, for his skills as a soldier may well prove a liability if his spirit could not be shored up.

When the early dawn arrived again, Hanasian found himself again standing beside Aragorn. Any hope of learning the King’s thoughts on his proposed plan was frustrated and all Hanasian learned was what Aragorn had written. Weary, and in need of sleep, Hanasian returned to his tent unedified.

And so the days passed. After a week Hanasian had found seven good men he could trust and after two weeks he had eighteen. The company was slowly taking shape. Aside from two Ithilien Rangers two of his Dunedain brethren, and two Rohirrim, the rest were their friends. He concluded that he was going to have to look a bit farther afield if he wanted to expand the ranks, but for now they would make a good core to build on.

As the moon waxed toward full, Hanasian received another summons from the King. This time he was called to the high chamber within the Citadel and greeted by Lord Faramir, no Prince Faramir now of Ithilien, at the wide, imposing doors.

”Hanasian, come inside. Matters of deep importance lie before us and must be discussed.that needs to be discussed.”

He followed Fararmir through the doors and then into a chamber that lay to the side of the High Throne. Within he discovered Aragorn, clad in his kingly manner. Gandalf the Wizard, clad all in white, sat to one side and Lord Celeborn of Lorien sat to the other. Next to Celeborn was Prince Imrahil and there was an empty chair beside the wizard.

Faramir left Hanasian and walked around to behind Aragorn to one side. He motioned Hanasian to the empty chair beside Gandalf and Hanasian swallowed at that. The manner of those assembled made him uncertain and nervous.

”Our thanks for your prompt attendance, Captain Hanasian,” Aragorn began, ”. The matter before is is an urgent one, pertaining to the Elf, Naiore Dannan.”

Hanasian nodded his understanding as his thoughts shifted to his fledgling company and Aragorn continued.

”The Sons of Elrond spoke to me last as they prepared to meet their father. Both were concerned about Dannan’s influence. As we did not find her in her fallen master’s keeping, all we know is that she was last seen beyond the walls of this city during the Battle of Pelennor Fields. Accounts are vague, as to be expected from a battle such as that…and now Lord Celeborn has come with tidings most urgent.”

Celeborn’s voice was resonant, rich and considered as he took up the mantle from Aragorn, ”Throughout the Ages of this world, the Eldar have been known to walk a path that leads them into Shadow. Most do not survive this dreadful path, perishing or relenting in the fringes…but Naiore Dannan is unlike any of our number. She has allowed her path to take her where it will, from Gil-Galad’s court and into utter darkness.

“The destruction of the Rings of Power has ushered in the Age of Men. The Eldar will fade. Already it has begun, as it should. As it must. Naiore Dannan will not be immune to this waning…but I fear it may make her more dangerous as she seeks to stop it. Already, we know she has touched some within these very walls and we expect that she will attempt to do so again before her powers wane too sharply. There is little more perilous than a cornered foe such as Naiore Dannan. The Gladden Fields bear testament to that.”

Faramir started to walk around the table as he now spoke, ”When I was in the Houses of Healing, I learned of a Shieldmaiden injured grievously upon the field. Freja she is named and the Lady Éowyn counted her dear indeed. She spoke to me of her mounting concern for Freja. Terrible dreams, dark terrors and a lingering shadow that only grew heavier as it lifted from the lands. It is said Freja crossed paths with Naiore Dannan on the field of battle and I believe she suffers for it even now. If this is so, we must proceed with care.”

Hanasian looked about the room, ”There are none from the Rohirrim here. Should they hear that which concerns their own – particularly Freja Fireborn?”

Aragorn put his hand up and said, ”Sorely do I wish Éomer King were here, or Lady Éowyn, to aid us. Both have returned to Rohan bearing news of Théoden’s fate and to order their realm. They will return soon for King Théoden, for his resting place will be amongst his own kin but we cannot wait for that…I am not aware any other from Rohan remains in the city.”

There is one other,” Hanasian said, ”Shieldmaiden Vorda, who served under Freja’s command, will by all accounts hardly leave Freja’s side. She may know more of this.”

Aragorn nodded, relieved, ”“Yes, yes…. You are to speak to her about this. Perhaps, with her aid, you may be able to speak with Freja concerning events on the Pelennor. You share, through your mother’s kin, no small connection to Rohan that may serve you well.”

It was not anything that he desired to do and yet Hanasian could see that he simply had to proceed. Berendil was out of the question for Freja had steadfastly refused to see him and more than like would be presently drowning his sorrows at the inn again. Vorda, though, would not be an easy ally either. She as doggedly loyal to her commander and would be ill inclined to assist with anything that might prove perilous. This would be a challenge, he knew, but there was no other way no matter how unappealing the prospect was of interrogating Freja. He hoped it did not have to come to that but could not know. Her behavior had been so altered, so strange, according even to those that likely knew her best: the Lady Éowyn.

It was well into the afternoon when Hanasian emerged again from the Citadel, armed with questions he needed answers for and wracking his weary mind for as much as he knew of Freja Fireborn. He was as acquainted with her as any of the Rohirrim which was to say not very well acquainted at all beyond a rough sketch of a larger than life character. He made for his tent with the hopes of rest before he sought out Vorda but he discovered that he wasn’t going to get the chance. Vorda was already there waiting for him, expression unreadable and eyes decided wary. She had not come in her armour but still she was every inch the formidable Shieldmaiden Freja had molded her into. Not to be crossed lightly, in other words.

”Shieldmaiden Vorda, I had hoped to seek you out ere the evening but now is as good a time as any,” Hanasian said, resigned to his fate, ”I have need to talk to you.”

“And I you, Captain,” Vorda swiftly replied, determined.

Hanasian nodded, ”Shall we walk to where Freja fell?”

Vorda’s jaw clenched but she nodded and they started off towards where the Nazgul had fallen with Théoden King and his mighty steed Snowmane.

 

[Alqualisse]

3019, III – May, Minas Tirith

Vorda walked through the Houses of Healing at a fast clip, her pace a reflection of the speed of her thoughts about what lay ahead. She had a number of misgivings about what was to unfold and her discussion with Captain Hanasian had not resolved them. The fact that Berendil had shown up in the midst of it was just one problem. He’d shown up just in time to hear that Freja was likely being tormented and influenced by Naiore Dannan even now. That, predictably, had caused no small degree of dismay fuelled by no small amount of ale. The man had been beside himself and that fear had transformed into anger. Hanasian had managed to contain his friend’s distress but Vorda was not confident that he’d remain away today.

It wasn’t that she didn’t understand and empathise with Berendil. He was a good man with a good heart, loyal and true, and genuinely feared and mourned for the woman he loved. He did not wish her ill nor harm. Vorda’s concern rather centred on Freja. She was unreliable, vulnerable and fragile and this… well this would hard enough as it was. The man loping silently along at her side despite her speed noticed her glance about, looking for Berendil.

”He won’t be here,” Darhias assured her, ”He’s calmed down and seen reason.”

Vorda shook her head, the two torcs she bore now on her braids rattling, ”If you were he, would you see reason? Would you stay away?”

Darhias grunted at that and amended, ”You focus on Freja and leave Berendil to me. If he shows up, I’ll deal with him.”

That was about as good as it was going to get. Vorda knew this. She was a pragmatic, practical woman. Still, her stomach was knotted tighter than a hangman’s noose by the time they reached Freja’s room. Without word, Darhias hung back. Not once had he set foot within Freja’s room and today was no exception. The door was open and Vorda could hear discussion, or rather an argument was under way. She scowled as she recognised the man’s voice on her way through the door.

Sure enough, there was Videgavia of Dale and he was brandishing one of his long knives at Freja. In turn, Freja had her arms crossed against her chest and a scowl fixed firmly in place.

”I said no, Vid, and I meant it.”

“You wouldn’t walk about Meduseld unarmed and you know it.”

“This is not Meduseld!” Freja returned, something of her old fire lurking in her voice.

The Daleman crouched then and a small scuffle ensued. Despite the fact that he earned more than one swift strike of Freja’s cane for his efforts, he rose to his feet without his sheathed long knife looking pleased with himself.

Videgavia turned about to consider Vorda watching on. Her scowl made no dint on the Daleman either.

”All is in hand, Shieldmaiden?” he inquired, eyes as dark and cold as the night raking over her as if they stood in the forests of Dale and she was an Easterling raider.

Vorda bit back an oath and turned her attention to Freja. Her commander was smoothing out the wide, emerald skirts of her kirtle, flustered and irritated but Vorda had never reported to this man and never would.

”Are you ready, Captain?” Vorda inquired and Freja scowled as she lifted her eyes to Vorda.

”I am not your Captain,” she returned.

Vorda sniffed at that, ”You’ll always be my Captain, Freja. Are you ready?”

“Look at me! Do I look ready to you? And ready for what? How can I be ready when I don’t know what I am to ready for?”

Agitated already and the questioning had not even begun, Vorda thought as Freja scowled down at the wide skirts of her kirtle. Truth be told, by appearances alone Freja looked very well indeed. The tight bodice and golden girdle slung at her hips combined with the long thick waves of her now unbound hair transformed her from warrior to lady. A comely one at that.

”What’s this meeting about?” Videgavia asked suspiciously, ”And just who is this Hanasian? I’ve never heard of him.”

Not for the first did Vorda wish Videgavia had never arrived at Minas Tirith. Oh, he carried tidings that needed to be heard but by his own account he had already delivered those to Éomer along with Eriwyn’s torcs. What purpose to bring the dreadful fate of their sisters to Dale to Freja? And why was he still here? Freja might account him a friend, might trust him, but he didn’t seem the sort of man that understood what friendship was.

”He’s a Ranger of the North, and newly promoted by the King,” Vorda answered through her teeth, ”You can quiz the King on Hansian’s qualifications if you like.”

Videgavia eyed her hard and then turned to Freja, ”I don’t like how this smells, Freja. I’m coming with you.”

It was everything Vorda could do to not tear her braids out but fortunately Freja was still displeased with the Daleman.

”You’ve already foisted your knife on me,” she said irritably.

”Freja-“ Videgavia said, set to argue but Freja drew herself up, blue eyes cold.

”I wouldn’t walk Meduseld with a nursemaid either, Daleman.”

Vorda watched them trade glares and for a moment she thought Videgavia would press the issue. He seemed inclined to as far as she could see but instead he shook his head at her.

”Fine,” he grumbled, ”Not like I nothing else to do while I’m here.”

And with that the Daleman took his leave, fuming in silence on his way out of the door. Vorda washed a hand over her face and considered Freja. She looked uncertain now, indecisive.

”Why is he here, Vorda?” she asked quietly, staring after Videgavia.

Vorda shook her head, ”I don’t know.”

 

[Alqualisse]

Freja nodded at this and turned away to the window. She spent a lot of time staring out that window. She could stand there for hours at a time if Vorda didn’t find some way to draw her off. Standing there now, Vorda could see the bouts of shivering wash through Freja. Her commander had little liking for pity and yet how could she not pity this woman. If everything she had learned was true, Freja had battled a terrible foe alone since the Pelennor. As all around her had celebrated victory, Freja’s war had continued. And it was more than likely that she had pushed Berendil away to protect him. That was exactly the sort of thing Freja would do.

Ensuring that her expression was schooled, she approached her commander and stood silently by her side. Perhaps it was better if this didn’t proceed today. Freja’s eyes were glassy and dilated, terrified and peering out at the world from a very dark place indeed.

”Perhaps Captain Hanasian can wait a little longer,” Vorda softly said and Freja’s eyes narrowed.

”It was important, you said.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean-“

“Will Berendil be there? Is that what this is about? Am I to be called to account for my cruelty?”

“It is no ruse...nor censure,” Vorda said, although it was entirely possible that Berendil might pop up. Likely, even.

Freja pushed out a heartfelt sign and shook herself, ”Listen to me, whining and snivelling like a green recruit. How quickly we forget our mettle, Vorda. Eriwyn would be disgusted were she here to see this.”

Vorda hadn’t know Eriwyn as Freja had but she imagined the steely Captain of the Shieldmaidens would feel compassion before contempt now.

”You mean to proceed,” she asked Freja and saw the other woman nod, almost as if convincing herself, and tighten her grip on her cane.

When they reached her door, Darhias had already absented himself. Likely he was scanning the way ahead from the Houses of Healing to the Citadel proper. Though it was but a short walk, it would be a gruelling and painful one for Freja. And yet, they could hardly do this in the Houses of Healing. Freja bore her pain in silence, grimly tapping her cane ahead with a fixed, dogged expression. By the time they reached the place of the meeting, her breath came in short, pained bursts and she was white as a sheet. Still she did not complain.

With no sight of Darhias or Berendil in the hall, Vorda remained behind as Freja advanced into the study to close the door behind her. She leant against it with a sigh and then her head jerked up as she heard movement. Sure enough, there was Darhias and he was not alone.

The study was a warm, comfortable place with wide windows admitting the morning sun and a small fire on the hearth to throw back any chill that might yet linger in the citadel’s stones. Waiting within was not Berendil but Hanasian. Freja released the breath she had not realised she had held as her stomach knotted tighter. Relief, for she doubted she could hold to her course if she set eyes on Berendil again, and disappointment for she longed to see him again, sense his presence. Emotion bounced jarringly within her and she knew it all to be utterly absurd. Why would he be here? She had given Berendil ample cause to despise her. Her jaw clenched as she advanced into the study.

Thick carpets lined the floors, muffling the echo of her cane, and reassuringly stout chairs anchored them. Hanasian leant against a wide desk, legs stretched in front of him. He took no effort to conceal the fact that he studied her. What he made of her Freja could not guess and further she was not sure that she wanted to. Nothing good, certainly. Not now.

Hanasian peeled himself off the desk and quickly strode to close the door as Freja selected a chair and discovered that she’d forgotten about her skirts yet again. They bunched uncomfortably around her and was forced to wrestle them back into place in a manner as undignified as it was all too common for her of late. It was at that moment that her cane slid rebelliously to the floor. Flustered, Freja growled a heated Rohirric curse and bent to retrieve it but Hanasian was already in motion as he returned from door. He swooped on his way past to collect it and set it back within her reach.

He made for the desk again to collect a book, ink and quill before selecting a chair for himself.

”Thank you for meeting me” he said as he sat and set his possessions upon a nearby side table.

Freja lifted a shoulder to him, ”I was told this is important.”

He nodded and then seemed to hesitate, eyes flicking to the door as if he expected someone to come through it imminently. She turned about herself, twisting in her chair as much as her bodice permitted. What if it was Berendil? Could she hear voices from the hall?

As she stared at the door, Hanasian asked ”How do you fare?”

Her brow lifted, surprised that this was in any way important, and she straightened again to looked to the windows, ”I live. It’s more than I can for too many others.”

Her tone sounded bleak and bitter, as though she wished otherwise, even to her own hearing. A swift glance to Hanasian confirmed that he had heard it too.

”I was sorry to hear about Captain Eriwyn,” he said.

If Théoden had been as a father to her, Eriwyn had been as a mother. A fierce, demanding, iron fisted mother, but one who had steadied her path as she had come to understand the dangerous life she had been drawn to. Eriwyn had, for some reason, taken a liking to the scrappy, irascible, gangling even then, boisterous, illegitimate byblow of a girl she’d been given to train. That liking had developed into a fondness over the years and a deep regard had flourished. Eriwyn’s loss in Dale had been a deep blow, another grief set atop so many others. So many faces gone now…so many voices fallen silent.

The war had proved to be the death knell for the Shieldmaidens of Rohan as best Freja could discern. The northern contingent obliterated in Dale, the southern contingent reduced to a fraction of their number. Videgavia…he had wept when he told her of his grim task on that bloody day. He had stripped Eriwyn’s torcs from her body and returned to Edoras where they belonged.

Their captain dead and she unfit to serve. It would take generations to restore the damage done and Freja could not see how Éomer could do it. A tradition that had stood since the days of Eorl the Young had shrivelled away. The thunder of their hooves that rode, singing through her dreams now, was that of the dead. Still, Eriwyn would not approve of her brooding. No one could carry the dead, she would say.

Freja clenched a hand in her lap and steadied her voice, ”As was I.”

Hanasian leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles, ”Has the fate of the Shieldmaidens been determined yet?”

“If so, I am unaware of it,” Freja replied and tucked her hair behind her ears to emphasise the fact that she was no longer counted one of their number. Her hair spread in thick, loose waves to the small of her back now. Untorced. Unbraided. Whatever Éomer’s decision, she had no part in it now.

Hanasian nodded, ”And your role once you return Edoras?”

He’d noticed, then, that she wore Éomer’s colours. Berendil’s friend was a perceptive man who knew more of Rohan than first appearances might suggest but she had no way to answer that question either. Éomer had not been obliged to offer her anything aside from a cell. She expected no small degree of censure for her role in placing his sister upon that battlefield. Her failure to stem the savage losses to their ranks was egregious. He had every right to throw in her in chains. Instead, he had offered her a place in his service.

In what capacity she did not know. Such details, he had told her, could be established out once she was back at Meduseld. Perhaps those details included an intimate familiarity with the interior of one of Meduseld’s cells. Dark, fetid places they were. Wouldn’t that warm Wormtongue’s shrivelled black heart…though not as much as, say, a gibbet.

Freja frowned at herself as she realised her haphazard thoughts again careened. This happened to her all too often now. It was like she was falling, picking up speed, without any way of knowing where the bottom was. Perhaps there wasn’t one.

”That too remains to be seen,” she admitted and then lifted a shoulder in half a shrug, ”Chief harridan, perhaps.”

She caught what she thought was a small, wry smile and decided it was time to determine just what this meeting was truly about, ”Why is any of this of import? You surely can’t be in any way concerned overly much. Not after all I have done to…”

Freja trailed off as Hanasian's gaze sharpened on her. She did not say Berendil’s name but he heard it all the same. If he had assumed she would return to Edoras, then he had to know at least something of what had passed between she and Berendil.

”I bear you no ill will,” he answered, his expression and voice earnest, sincere.

Freja studied the Ranger’s face for a moment and then she shook her head at herself, ”I still fail to see why any of this is of import.”

 

[Alqualisse]

Hanasian uncrossed his ankles and leant towards her, elbows on his knees. His eyes, a hint of blue mixed amongst the grey, glittered keenly.

”I’m to hunt Naiore Dannan.”

Freja’s reaction was as visceral as it was immediate. She recoiled sharply as the Elf’s name sent painful barbs jangling through her body. Her skin crawled. To her her horror, she realised that she was shaking. A name! Just a name and she was reduced to water, craven! Confusion and humiliation bloated within her, rushing in on the heels of her fear to fill the space it left behind.

She found herself leaning forward, hands pressed to her face and breathing hard through her nose. At least she had not fallen off her chair, she told herself, the thick curtain of her hair sealing the study off from her sight. A touch on her shoulder, light and brief but still enough to make her flinch, and then a horn mug filled with water appeared. Hanasian held it so that she could see it. Fear had scoured her throat. Shame coursed through her anew.

”It will help,” Hanasian softly said.

Humiliated, she wrapped her hands around the proffered water. The mug shook visibly but she didn’t drop it. She didn’t witlessly spill water. She brought it to her mouth and discovered that it was flavoured. The taste was unfamiliar, herbs though she was not sure which, but not unpleasant. Then Freja lowered the mug to her lap and considered her knees for a long moment. Her chest still heaved as though she was fresh off the tourney field. She could feel cold sweat trickling down her spine.

Pushing out a shivering breath, she murmured to herself in Rohirric, ”You must think me mad fool.”

”You clearly have no idea what I think,” Hanasian’s voice was a quiet rumble, ”Keep drinking. It really will help.”

Freja peered up at him and found that he had retaken his seat. His expression was seemed to be one of concern rather than contempt. Then Freja realised that he had spoken to her in her mother tongue. He nodded at her, eyes pointedly falling to the mug she held in her lap. Puzzled, she lifted it to drink. Hanasian watched a moment longer to be satisfied that she heeded his counsel and then reached for his book.

She watched him unstopper the ink well and add his quill to it. He picked up his book and again he paused to return her scrutiny. Freja recalled that she was supposed to be drinking. She resumed and with a small shake of his head, Hanasian flipped open his book and commenced writing. She had no idea what no matter how she tried to watch the motion of his quill. Not Westron, she deduced, nor Rohirric but something else entirely.

Each time Hanasian looked up at her she ensured she compliantly drank. He was right; it did help. Each time he looked down she tried to guess at what he wrote. And so some time passed like this, cat and mouse back and forth, until she had drunk all the water and Hanasian had finished writing. He folded the book shut again and considered her solemnly.

”You’re the last to have seen the Elf and the only one known to have survived her,” he told her, picking his words carefully to avoid invoking her name, ”What you know may be of assistance to me…but if it is too much, I can wait.”

Freja narrowed her eyes at that. She could not bear yet more pity. She was choking on the stuff. It came at her from all directions in this place, suffocating, squeezing her until she felt she could hardly breathe. She shook her head and then jerked her gaze away. There were larger concerns at play than her savaged, battered pride to consider.

She had stood in Hanasian’s boots more than once before. Were their positions changed, she’d want whatever information she could obtain as soon as she could get it. Hanasian’s offer to wait might just be a kind one but she could not accept it. Not if she claimed to still be in service to Éomer. Rohan was Gondor’s ally. That she was unfit to serve as a shieldmaiden did not expunge her duty to assist the realm and its allies.

”It may never get easier…you cannot wait indefinitely,” she answered.

Hanasian gave her a dubious frown, ”You are certain?”

”If it is necessary, have at it Ranger.”

Hanasian’s jaw bunched beneath his closely trimmed beard, ”What can you recall of the encounter?”

 

[Alqualisse]

Frega swallowed thickly and let her eyes fall to the desk. She studied it for a long moment as she tried to assemble her thoughts into something coherent. Then she violently shuddered and discovered her hands had tightened, white-knuckled on the horn mug. She forced them to unknit but when she made to answer, her throat contracted in open rebellion against her.

This had happened before, on that very day. The Elf had stolen her limbs from her before. Her thoughts, her mind, her soul too it seemed. Hanasian’s chair creaked as Freja fought for control. As before she won it back and she forced her reply past her choking fear.

”She found me unhorsed…compelled me to combat.”

Hanasian was silent for he’d opened his book in the time she had needed to regain mastery of herself and was now writing. His quill lightly scratched over the page. She focused on that sound, anchoring herself in this room. In this place and this time. Now. Still, the study faded away anyway and she was returned to that dreadful field with its charnel stench of terror and death redolent on each and every breath she drew.

Thick, acrid smoke roiled across her, oily and black, stinging her eyes. She’d forgotten about that awful smoke until now, it’s sickly sweet smell revealing yet another horror. She’d encountered it too many times in the East Fold, homes and villages burnt to the ground with their inhabitants still in them, for it even to be remarkable to her now. That, in itself, galled her.

In the midst of that horrendous carnage was the most beautiful and terrifying sight she had ever beheld. Tall, fair beyond all description, hair of fine gold and those eyes. Malevolent. Anathema. Full of horrors to come. Fell words floating on gossamer from perfect lips. The Elf drew closer through the ruin of the field, whispering, taunting, tormenting. Now, as then, Freja moaned. It was a deep, raw sound from the depths of her soul and she shuddered with naked revulsion as the Elf ruthlessly violated her mind, marauding through her very soul…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

His head bowed and quill flying over the page, Hanasian was both astonished and appalled by the clarity and detail of Freja’s recall. Her account was one of utter terror and he knew that had their roles been reversed his voice would shudder too. There was no shame or cowardice in that. Despite her monolithic fear, though, Freja stood fast. Resisting the Elf, steadfast in her duty.

Hanasian expelled a quivering breath and then frowned as he saw it freeze despite the warmth of the room. Freja’s voice changed, became flat and lifeless and it made him look up. A great force bore down on Hanasian, pinning him as if he were no more than a tiny insect caught in a web far greater than he could conceive. His quill fell from his fingers and his book slid from his knees. All he could think of, all he could feel was a creeping horror, ancient and malevolent.

As he was pinned, Freja slid forward out of her chair to kneel upon the carpets. Still her account continued. He could hear her rip the words free, snarling with the effort it took. The wrath within the room swelled, throbbing, and then Freja fell to the floor outright. Her body arched as though her very bones unravelled. Agony soaked through her voice but still she spoke on.

Distantly he could hear people bellowing at the door, crashing into it. Time withered as the horror took hold and he knew a despair of the like he had not imagined. Hollow. Vast. Ravenous.

Freja was crawling now across the floor, snatching at the legs of the chairs she dragged herself past. She was panicking and he did not understand why until she hauled herself up again by the window ledge. Still she growled out her tale, but now it was broken by horrified sobs as two windows were pushed open. With dawning comprehension at what was unfolding right before his very eyes, Hanasian tried to heave himself out of his chair.

Still he could not move and now Freja was in the window. Tears streamed down her face as she stared beyond to her death. He could see her try to reach for the windowframe and haul herself back but the malice and fury of the power that permeated the room was too much.

Freja was begging now, pleading with herself but Naiore Dannan would not, could not be swayed. The Shieldmaiden was being dragged through the window before his horrified eyes. She knew she was going to die. He could see it in her face. Already her legs were through and by some wild surge of desperate will to survive, Freja clung to the interior of the window. And then…and then she began to sing.

Terrible it was, fell words of battle and death. A Shieldmaiden’s ancient battlesong.

“Then as now, witch,” Freja snarled between the verses, savage defiance a fierce if lonely light in her piercing blue eyes, ”I will not go quietly.”

She was slipping as she sang but she refused silence and surrender both. Dreadful rage filled the room and Hanasian found himself propelled from his chair towards Freja. He knew immediately what Naiore was trying to do and there was nothing he could do to stop her. He was as helpless as Freja was.

Hanasian was halfway across the study, set to collide with Freja and cause her to hurtle to her death, when then study door splintered. He fell to his knees, lathered in a chill sweat and shaking like a child as someone hurtled to the window with an anguished howl, and pitched forward into darkness.

 

[Alqualisse]

When Hanasian woke again, someone had rolled him onto his back and he stared up at the thick rafters of the ceiling. His head throbbed viciously as Darhias’ face appeared into view, floating between where he lay the the ceiling he studied. He offered Hanasian a brief grin and then stepped back. Hanasian rolled himself to his side and pushed himself up to sitting. Freja lay with her head in Vorda’s lap as Gandalf tended to her. Standing, watching on with his fists curling and uncurling, was Berendil.

Hanasian washed a hand over his face and wondered whether he was as ashen faced as Berendil was. The man was panting, as if he had only just gotten here but Hanasian was certain it had been Berendil that had raced for the window and that felt like it had happened hours ago. Hanasian looked to the study door and found it was in ruins. Darhias crouched beside him and passed him his flask.

”You look like you could use it,” Darhias quietly observed and Hanasian didn’t argue.

”What happened?” Darhias asked as Hanasian took a mouthful and passed it back.

He shook his head, unable to find any words to describe the horrifying, eerie scene he had beheld. Berendil could not tear his eyes from Freja. She was still now, quiet. Someone, likely Vorda, had sliced open the lacing of her kirtle so that she could breathe and the wizard’s hand rested on her brow. Hanasian looked to the hearth to find the small fire had been utterly extinguished, right down to its coals, such had been the savage intensity of the chill. His bones held a residual ache from it and there were patches of ice still fading from the window panes.

”Naiore Dannan,” Gandalf replied, eyes opening beneath a bristling brow, ”It is a marvel her heart did not burst.”

Vorda flinched, ”Does that mean she’s here in the city?”

”As best I can tell, this was accomplished from somewhere in Harad. She’s made an error, revealing her hand so boldly. A rare gift for us that almost came at too terrible a price.”

Hanasian swallowed as the various implications unfolded. He had at first thought that he had learned nothing of import to his task from Freja but now he knew he needed to make for Harad. And then, there was the matter of Freja. If she had been under Naiore Dannan’s influence all this time, that might well explain her strange conduct towards Berendil.

”Not easily are the Shieldmaidens of Rohan vanquished,” Berendil softly murmured, as if to himself.

Hanasian slowly climbed to his feet, steadied by Darhias, as Gandalf removed his hand from Freja’s brow. No sooner was the wizard on his feet did Berendil sink to his knees by Freja. She looked to be at peace now, her striking features free of the torment and anguish that had beset her only moments ago. Berendil gently smoothed away her hair and ran the back of his fingers down her cheek, a gesture as tender as it was heartbreaking.

”Aragorn will want to know of this,” the wizard said, fixing Hanasian with a steely gaze for the moment and then turning for the ruined door. Already men gathered in the hall to peer in. At this rate, the King would learn of this well before Hanasian could duly report.

”I’ll wait with her until the healers arrive. They won’t be long,” Vorda said to Berendil but the Ranger’s attention had shifted to Gandalf.

“Could it happen again?” Berendil asked, peering up at the wizard as he returned from the door.

”Not in a hurry. I’ve given that Elf a thing or two to think about,” Gandalf paused though, considering Freja, ”Though who can say? She’s shown more than a passing interest in the Shieldmaiden and she will be most wroth.”

This was not what Berendil wanted to hear and it showed. The man was shaken, fearful and desperate for a solution.

Gandalf seated himself and extracted his pipe as Berendil lingered, stroking Freja’s hand, ”Go on now. You’ll only be in their way when they get here and she’s safe enough with me.”

Hanasian nodded respectfully to Gandalf and Darhias crossed to squeeze Berendil’s shoulder. Reluctantly, the man stood, frowning down at Freja upon the floor, but allowed Darhias to draw him off. The three Rangers left the study with more than one backwards glance.

”What am I to do?” Berendil asked, plaintive, once they were out in the hall.

As far as Hanasian knew, the only thing that could be done was find Naiore Dannan.

”She’s strong,” Hanasian replied, ”Just look at what she has endured.”

“And she is safe here, in the keeping of the King and the wizard,” Darhias added.

“For how long?” Berendil replied for they all knew Freja would not linger in Minas Tirith indefinitely.

He looked back to find the Wizard busy with his pipe, chatting amicably with the insensate Shieldmaiden as if she might wake at any moment and respond. He doubted that would be the case. Vorda looked too rattled to take any of this in.

Hanasian looked back to his friend, ”What are you going to do?”

Berendil shook his head, brooding, ”I don’t know. Something’s got to be done, though.”

He realised, then, that Berendil turned Freja’s torc over in his hand, ”She pushed you out of this fight, Berendil, perhaps to protect you.”

“Freja Fireborn chooses her own battles…as do I,” Berendil replied, gaze directed through the study door.

His hand closed around the torc as Berendil looked back to him. He nodded at Hanasian, turned on his heel and strode away. The grim determination in his face worried Hanasian but he could not go after him now. The wizard was right. Aragorn needed to be informed immediately. With a shake of his head, Hanasian made off in the opposite direction.