Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11718444.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      The_Lord_of_the_Rings_-_J._R._R._Tolkien
  Character:
      Aragorn_|_Estel, Éomer, Éowyn, Gandalf_|_Mithrandir, Faramir_(Son_of
      Denethor_II), Celeborn_(Tolkien), Théoden, Gríma_Wormtongue, Hanasian,
      Videgavia, Frea, Folca_-_Character, Foldine
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-08-06 Chapters: 32/32 Words: 110132
****** The Ranger & the Shieldmaiden ******
by Alqualisse
Summary
     Loosely, a prequel in the Cardolan Legacy series that references the
     beginnings of the Black Company of Arnor.
***** Chapter 1 *****
3019, III – March 7, Harrowdale


The menhirs marched into the very mountains themselves, marking out the dread
Dimholt Road that the Rohirrim so feared. And rightly so, for a darkness dwelt
in the heart of Dunharrow that was palpable to man and beast. Still, that was
to be their road. No matter how dark, none of their number would forsake him
now. Hanasian, Mecarnil and Berendil gathered around one of the stones and
peered down the cursed road.

The plain below the plateau bristled with spears and tents and horses but it
would not be enough. Not against the combined might Mordor would spew out to
lay waste to the White City. Brave these Eorlingas were. Fierce of spirit,
steady of eye and hand. No one spoke of the reality they faced. A long ride, a
final charge and then oblivion. Assuming Sauron permitted them to reach Minas
Tirith.

Berendil pushed out a heartfelt sigh, ”Loathe as I am to say it, I can see no
other course.”

Mecarnil grunted agreement at that and the trio stood in silent reflection of
the fact that come the dawn, this would be their path.

”Come,” Hanasian said after a long moment, ”I saw Shieldmaidens as we rode in.”


The clear anticipation in Hanasian’s voice prompted Berendil to inquire, ”Why
is that of significance?”

Hanasian swept overlong dark hair from his face and answered as if it were
obvious, ”Shieldmaidens!”

Berendil, the only one who could claim a strong friendship with both Hanasian
and Mecarnil both, shrugged. Mecarnil scratched at his jaw indifferently.

Hanasian shook his head at them, ”You don’t want to miss this.”

Mecarnil shifted his weight, the eldest of the trio by a good margin, and
gestured at the Dimholt Road, ”We don’t have time to gawk.”

His response was not unexpected as far as Hanasian was concerned. Mecarnil was
a steady, solid Ranger of average height and stature. Damnably good with a
weapon, and single minded. A stickler for duty. Berendil, though, had only a
few years on Hanasian. He looked upon the world as a new and interesting place
still. With his curious nature, Hanasian was certain Berendil “the Fair” would
want to see what he knew to be unfolding on the plain below right now.

Remarkably, though, the tall Ranger shook his head at Hanasian, ”Mecarnil’s
right, Han. The more prepared we are for this, the bet-“

Hanasian waved them both aside and turned away for the plain below. If they
wanted to miss this, fine by him. He moved through the tents at some speed,
dodging ropes and tent pegs with an ease born of youth and skill, and soon
reached the switchback trail to the lower encampment. As another fell into step
beside him, Hanasian shot a collegial grin at Berendil.

”How did you even notice them?” Berendil asked as they made their way down the
trail.

”Their armour is different,” Hanasian explained and gestured to his abdomen,
”Reticulated, for better agility. I make it my business to take note such
details.”

”Odd,” Berendil remarked, ”Why would they be in full kit now?”

Hanasian’s grin returned, ”That’s why I want to get down there.”

He accelerated into a jog and Berendil found himself following suit if only to
pick through his friend’s newly discovered cache of information, ”What are they
like?”

Speaking quietly in Sindarin, the pair had little concern that any of the
Rohirrim about would comprehend.

”Insular,” Hanasian replied as they gained the lower plain. As he had
suspected, he could hear the testing underway even now.

He made his way towards the press, as he explained further, ”Established by
Eorl the Young, I think, to serve as the King’s shield. They’ve been gone from
Meduseld for years now, banished to the East Fold by Wormtongue. I am not sure
what function they serve now.”

Berendil nodded as he took in those around them, ”I think we can safely
conclude it’s not a decorative one...”

Hanasian’s brows quirked at that but he said nothing further until they found a
way to the inner edge to view what was unfolding. There were several sets of
Shieldmaidens, all in full kit, battling each other with various weapons.

”What is this about?” Berendil asked, having to raise his voice to be heard
over the din around them. The crowd was shouting and cheering, the noise as
thick as the people around.

”Rank,” Hanasian shouted back.

A sharp whistle cut through the field and the combat ceased. Most were pairs
but in two instances, one Shieldmaiden had faced three or more opponents at
once. The women on the field pulled their helms free and braids came tumbling
out. All different kinds and lengths and colours ranging from a warm brown to a
fair gold in the firelight.

”Two braids denote novices. Three to five are initiates. Six and seven are
Maidens. Eight are Masters,” Hanasian explained, pointing out various women now
retiring from the field.

”And the torcs? What do they mean?” Berendil inquired and nodded to a woman
that stood with her back to them across the field.

Hanasian’s eyes widened as he took in the eight torcs woven into her braids.
Her hair was entirely braided. One thick braid fell to her waist from the
centre of her head. Smaller braids swung, flanking it. The colour of her hair,
a rich red like that of a deep wine, glowed under the torchlight as she tipped
her head back to laugh. She turned, her helm held under one arm by her hip, to
call something out to one of the women returning from the field. A brief
exchange ensued and the women met to embrace briefly, the woman with the torcs
clearly proud of the woman she embraced.

He glanced sideways to where Berendil stood and saw the man was transfixed,
unable to tear his eyes away. A typical reaction given the woman he and a good
many others were staring at.

”That is Freja Fireborn, second in command of the Shieldmaidens of Rohan.
Youngest to attain full mastery and gain all eight torcs.”

“You know her?” Berendil asked, still watching the tall woman across the field.


Hanasian shook his head, ”I know of her by reputation. All the Rohirrim do. The
Shieldmaidens are revered. The people follow their doings closely. Or, at
least, they did before they fell out of favour at Meduseld. As for Freja, she
grew up as in Meduseld - Théoden King's fosterling.”

”Hence her rapid ascension,” Berendil speculated but Hanasian shook his head.

”She is uncommonly gifted in war craft and she has worked hard. Make no
mistake, he countered, ”Rohan has not seen her like in many a generation.”

Berendil broke off his scrutiny of the Shieldmaiden to consider Hanasian a
moment, ”You seem… almost enamoured.”

Hanasian sighed at that, ”A woman who can steal a tribute of horses from under
Mordor’s nose? That’s…impressive.”

Berendil’s brows shot up at that, ”Dangerous, you mean. Horse theft in Rohan?”

“That woman does not shy away from anything, Berendil. But be warned.
Shieldmaidens are wedded to their spears. They do not abandon them lightly.”

Berendil nodded thoughtfully and another tranche of Shieldmaidens took to the
field.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

”Again, Vorda,” Freja called and watched the initiate struggle to stop herself
from groaning as she started for the field a second time.

Vorda had five braids now in her sandy hair. Rightfully, though, she could
probably claim a sixth. Freja had only fifty or so Masters amid the one hundred
and thirty spears she had brought with her, but the remaining novices and
initiates had experience and skills far beyond their official ranks. Such had
been their service along the Eastern fences, beset by Rhûn and Orthânc alike.
So hard pressed that there was not enough time to test for advancement, much
less recruit and train. But that would not continue. Could not continue.

Her sisters would ride to this battle with their full due, their full honour
and rank. And if they should fall, they will greet their sisters in the halls
of the dead with their heads held proudly aloft. She owed them that mucg, at
least. All of this flickering through Freja’s weary mind prompted her sip at
the ale Éowyn had found. It was nothing remarkable, aside from the fact it
wasn’t wine. Wine was for pouring on wounds…or pickling things, if that is what
you liked. Freja didn’t.

”The spear this time,” Freja added and saw the Vorda’s weariness punctuated by
a grin.

Yes, Vorda loved her spears like her. A bright future lay ahead for her
provided Freja could bring them through what waited for them in Gondor. Sge
continued to watch Vorda spar with one of her sisters for a moment before she
turned back to Éowyn.

”I have missed this,” Éowyn sighed wistfully and transferred her attention to
Freja, ”And you. Particularly you.”

Freja nodded at her words and rolled her shoulders beneath the weight of her
kit out of habit. She had forgotten what it was like to be without the weight
now.

”Come back to us, then,” Freja said, ”We’d have you in a heartbeat. You might
have to start at five braids or six but I know you, Éowyn. We'd soon have that
sunny hair of yours bound up entirely.”

“I can’t,” Éowyn replied, surprising Freja.

”After the War you could. Théoden has recovered his strength now that
Wormtongue is put out,” Freja turned to spit the foul taste of his name from
her mouth and drank a mouthful of ale down, ”You are free to decide your own
fate once more.”

Éowyn shook her head at this but her expression was not one of regret. Rather,
a strange smile set her entire face alight. Her eyes, a beautiful blue far more
restrained than Freja’s, practically glowed. The Shieldmaiden frowned slightly
at her.

”I know how you chafe at being kept back, Éowyn. I was the one you trusted with
your heart’s desires and whispered words. And now you have a chance, a real
chance, at it! What has gotten into you? Who are you? Where is the Éo that I
love so well?”

Éowyn’s smile blossomed as Freja used the childhood name and she leant forward
to whisper in Freja’s ear, ”I am remade!”

Freja did not miss the note of exhilaration in Éowyn’s voice but she caught
something out of the corner of her eye that drew her attention back to Vorda.
Freja growled quietly as she took in that Vorda no longer faced one of her
sisters but rather a man. No Rohirrim would dare to intrude like this and
indeed none had, though more than a few watched on in patent fascination. Even
the other Shieldmaidens stared in open disbelief. Vorda was flummoxed and she
looked back to Freja. At that moment, the man swiftly disarmed her.

Incensed, Freja threw down her ale and started forward as a dismayed gasp
rippled through the onlookers. She was shocked anew when Éowyn caught her arm
to restrain her. Freja came to a halt, anger radiating from her tall, lean
frame.

”Vorda, hold your position,” she ordered and then threw her bristling attention
to where Éowyn all but hung off her left arm, ”What in seven hells does he
think he is doing?!”

Before Éowyn could reply, and it would take quite an explanation indeed,
another man ventured onto the field. There were two of them now! He did not
have the same a height as the man facing Vorda and his hair was not raven
black, but he shared his grey eyes. These were not Rohirrim. That much was
evident.

”My apologies,” he said in a rush, his manner respectful, ”Berendil is
unfamiliar with your customs. He means no offence.”

Freja’s eyes narrowed but before she could demand him his name or an
explanation of just why this particular stranger presumed to know a
Shieldmaiden's customs, the one named Berendil spoke up.

”If you are to fight men, you must test against them,” he said.
Who was he to gainsay the practices of the Shieldmaidens tried and tested over
generations? Who was he to intimate that they were somehow inadquate when it
came to fighting men? Had he been in the East Mark?! HAD HE! Frega growled at
the towering arrogance and ignorance of the man's declaration.

Her response was enough to prompt Éowyn to warn her, ”These Rangers are our
allies.”

”Desperate times indeed, then,” Freja threw back managed to relaxed her stance
so that Éowyn released her.

She hooked her thumbs through her sword belt and considered Berendil for a long
moment. Her eyes raked over him, face to boots and back to his face again. He
had the sort of pleasant features that appealed to women. Clear eyes, even and
strong features and so very tall. Of course she noticed all of that. She was
not blind, but right now her attention was on other details. At his height, he
had a reach which would make that long sword of his longer again.

”Vorda,” Freja called and beckoned her over, ”You – Berendil – you will stay
precisely where you are.”

The man that had spoken on his behalf groaned as Vorda came hurrying over.
Freja drew her away, followed by a worried Éowyn.

Freja murmured, ”Think of his sword and arm as one long weapon and do what you
can with your spear. Harry his feet, foul his legs. Whatever you can.”

She glanced up to see that while Berendil had not moved, his friend had pulled
in closer and the two men stood intently studying them. Freja offered them both
a ferocious grin that grew when Berendil’s face revealed the first traces of
consternation. Oh, he had no idea what was coming at him.

She turned back to Vorda, ”No blood, mind, unless he draws first.”

At that Vorda’s eyes lit up, ”And if he does?”

“Then you cede him over to me.”

Vorda nodded gleefully, reinvigorated. Nothing like the prospect of a proper
fight to get a Shieldmaid’s blood flowing. Freja shooed the initiate away and
followed in her tracks as Vorda sped back to position. The two men seemed to be
discussing something of great import as Vorda arrived. Meanwhile, Éowyn was
pulling at her left elbow insistently but the die was cast. The matter was now
out of her hands. Vorda regained the field and approached her starting mark but
the two men continued their discussion. Two against one? Was that what they
wanted? She rolled her eyes at that. How quaint! She could do much better than
two against one.

Freja rocked back on her heels and addressed them loudly, ”I’m more than happy
to dispense with a duel and move straight to the melee proper if that is your
desire.”

At that the crowd of Rohirrim watching on cheered with outright jubilation and
why not! Everyone loved a melee.

”Freja!” Éowyn objected with no small amount of chagrin that was matched when
Berendil’s companion hissed at him, ”See?!”

Berendil acknowledged him with a nod, ”Hanasian has pointed out my error. I
seek your pardon and will retire, with your permission.”

Freja’s brows shot up at that and she crossed her arms against her cuirass,
”None of my business if this is all it takes to send Rangers scurrying from the
field, tails between their legs.”

At that laughter rippled through the crowd. Freja allowed herself to smile
along with them. This was, after all, mildly amusing.
Berendil threw his arms up and glared at Hanasian who threw back a glare of his
own, ”I told you that would happen.”

“Coming down here was your idea!”

“Pity you didn’t attend me as closely on the other details,” Hanasian rejoined
and then turned to Freja, ”Just to first blood?”

Freja inclined a brow but nodded all the same, ”So precious few of you rode in
tonight, so I suppose we’ll just have to content ourselves with that.”

Hanasian’s jaw clenched at her words, and of course Freja had no idea at how
callous they might sound for she had as much understanding of Arnor as Berendil
had of Rohan. Using their genocide as a taunt was unforgiveable but Freja did
not even know it was genocide in the first place. When he looked to Berendil,
though, he found the man was still as a statue and seething. Quietly furious.
No stopping this now, he realised and with a nod, Hanasain strode off to clear
the field. The other Shieldmaidens filed away also until only Berendil and
Vorda remained. As soon as Hanasian was out of the way, Vorda began moving. She
wove about as Berendil swiftly drew his long sword, mouth pressed into a thin
line of displeasure.

”Freja, it was a simple accident,” Éowyn chastised as the bout began, ”No
dishonor was intended.”

”And yet it was done all the same,” Freja retorted, ”That Ranger disrupted an
initiate's testing on the eve of battle. Despite, it would seem, the advice of
his companion. There was nothing accidental about it.”

Freja broke off to catch sight of Hanasian again. How, she wondered, could he
know enough to caution Berendil. He was from the North. What could he know of
Rohan.

”Still, this only makes it worse than it needs must be. Vorda can be retested
tomorrow. There’s time yet. And these Rangers are our allies. You risk
imperilling that,” Éowyn returned and Freja gave off her search.

”I risk nothing of the sort. You well know that I am, in fact, holding my hand
in no small degree of forebearance for what has been done. For these…allies,”
she snarled the last word, ”Such as they are.”

“Thirty Dúnedain Rangers are more advantageous than you can admit. I know well
what you think of them,” Éowyn replied, ”But the simple truth is that you are
wrong.”
"We shall see,"Freja answered quietly, her attention on the unfolding match
now.
 As she had hoped, and perhaps Berendil had not understood, Vorda could hold
her own with her spear. No shortage of fighting men, particularly Easterlings,
on the eastern borders of Rohan. And it was for good reason that a swordsman
feared encountered a proficient spear on the field.

”They skulk in their forests, flitting from tree to tree. On the open field,
what use are these allies? And such arrogance! To presume a Shieldmaiden does
not know how to fight a man!” Freja’s voice was low and she looked away from
the contest to glare directly at Éowyn, ”But most galling of all, is that you
defend them over your own Spearsisters!”

Éowyn swallowed for there was no easy way to say this now, Freja's quick temper
already roused. Nor could she keep it from her. Not this woman, who had grown
up with her shoulder to shoulder and loved her like the sister she had never
had.

”There is one amongst their number, their leader,” Éowyn began and Freja's
scowl deepened.

”Even Rangers must have leaders, I suppose,” she said, dismissive.

“He’s the heir of Elendil,” Éowyn pointed out and Freja shrugged a shoulder. As
best she could tell, Eldendil was overrated. Not that she'd ever bothered to
spend much time looking into the matter. She had more pressing concerns to busy
herself with than the fanciful tales of a people who thought themselves very
much superior to everyone else. Elves were only more insufferable on that
score.

Éowyn drew close, almost in an embrace, to whisper, ”He took from me a cup of
mead.”

Freja’s jaw dropped but Éowyn cleverly gave her no chance to recover, “At
Meduseld, before the King and Éomer and all gathered there. There was a great
celebration,”

While Berendil and Vorda pushed on, Freja tried to make sense of what Éowyn had
just told her.

It meant Éowyn would no longer be free to race the sun, wind in her hair and
the boundless plains of Rohan stretching around her. Instead, she would be
trapped, penned in the stone houses of these Men and their ceaseless,
suffocating politics. And would they ever accept her? Did they not fight civil
wars amongst themselves over lineage? Gondor had, of that she was certain. How
could even Éowyn, bright and fair and fierce Daughter of the Mark though she
was, ever match the lofty bloodlines of these Dunédain?

Her dismay must have been evident in her expression for Éowyn said, ”He is a
good man. My heart is full. He has brought me such hope, such light, when there
has been only sorrow and shadow.”

Freja closed her eyes and washed a hand over her face. She feared for Éowyn.
Little good could come of this and yet, such hope and joy did indeed dwell in
Éowyn’s eyes. And who was to know what lay ahead? This very likely would be her
last happiness. She had not it in her to quash that and so Freja embraced
Éowyn.

”I can see that you are happy,” Freja murmured, ”And that is all I have ever
wanted for you."

“Thank you, Freja,” Éowyn answered, heartfelt relief in her face and voice.

Freja nodded and managed a smile for Éowyn even though it seemed to her that
the world had descended into madness. That was when Vorda gasped, more in
surprise than pain, and the crowd murmured. Freja found her initiate on her
knees, staring at the back of her hand. A scratch had just begun to bleed.
Vorda looked up, past Berendil, to Freja with wide eyes and managed not to grin
at her.

”I yield, Freja Fireborn,” Vorda said and at that Freja nodded, grimly
satisfied.

”Please don’t,” Éowyn asked her.

”I’ll be gentle,” Freja replied as she strode for the field and the tall man
upon it. He was going to receive a lesson on Shieldmaidens he'd not soon
forget. That much she could manage in the chaos they had all fallen into.
As Vorda withdrew and her commander neared, Berendil threw Hanasian a worried
look. His earlier anger had cooled and he truly had no desire to make things
worse than they already were. He could not afford to lose against this woman
but if he defeated her, the anger would be swift and dangerous indeed. The
Shieldmaiden had paused to divest herself of her sword belt. That surprised
him. She shed her armour swiftly too and rolled out of her mail. She was tall,
easily able to look into his eyes, and he could see that she was both lean and
strong. That much was evident now that she was clad in little more than a short
serviceable tunic and breeches stuffed into her tall, battle worn boots. Though
she had set aside both her weapons and her armour, she was no less perilous. He
could see that very clearly too. She had the rolling fluid gait of a warrior.

He said to Freja, ”I have no desire to continue this.”
She smiled knowingly at his statement. "Ah, I see how it is now. You’re happy
to test yourself against an initiate but when it comes to a master…”

Berendil sighed unhappily this and then grimaced over to where Hanasian was
standing. The two men flickered hand signals at each other, communicating
something. As they did this, Freja took up a spear haft that was unpointed,
hefted it a few times and then nodded her satisfaction. To that she added a
shield. Heavy it was, round, wood with a dull metal hub. She carried it easily,
as if she had been born with it on her arm. No sharp edges on this one. Éowyn
would be very unhappy if she cut off his hand, she supposed.

”I have neither shield nor buckler,” Berendil pointed out as Vorda hurried off,
clutching her hand and still trying very hard not to grin in anticipation of
what was to come.

”And I do not have an edged weapon,” Freja replied, unperturbed, and glanced
back to where Éowyn was fretting, ”I have given my word that I will be gentle
with you, Ranger. But if that will not suffice then I offer you this: I shall
not dint that pretty face of yours.”

Again there was laughter from those watching, particularly the Shieldmaidens
and Berendil scowled, ”I suppose it will have to, won’t it.”

“Now we understand each other,” Freja purred and fell into an opening stance
that she preferred for this scenario. At that she heard those watching murmur
appreciatively. Anticipation was electric as it eddied through her. A heady
thrill. She gave the Ranger a smile over the edge of her shield. He shook his
head at her and raised his longsword.

How hard could it be, he wondered. She’d been drinking ale. And she was
fighting his two handed long sword with a shield and a long pole. More than
like, she was all bark and no bite right at the moment. He feinted but she did
not take the bait. Well now, perhaps she was as good as Hanasian said she was
and perhaps she wasn't.

Berendil pressed in with a rapid flurry of attacks. To her credit, she yielded
ground as required, unhurried and unconcerned. That infuriating smile of hers
didn't slip once as she adjusted and he ended up doing little aside from
battering on her shield. It came as no surprise to him that a master
Shieldmaiden would be accomplished with a shield. Still defence was but half
the battle and he'd make sure that she'd have to do more against him.

No sooner did he think that did her unfinished spear set to work. Freja was
wickedly fast with it and while he kept it from cracking him over his ears,
arms and body, she managed to trip his feet. Berendil tumbled and rolled,
coming to his feet and expecting to find her there ready to break his arm with
her spear shaft. Instead, she had drawn back to wait. That surprised him. She’d
struck him as impetuous. Hasty, even reckless. Something of a brute in female
form. Those watching cooed and then clapped and Berendil reset himself. At
that, so did she and they were off again.
In time, her smile faded away. He saw she had started to sweat though she was
not winded, her breathing still well controlled. He’d gotten a few good whacks
on her shield that he knew had to jar her arm. That can be anything from
unpleasant to painful. Certainly it would weaken her. For his part, he was
reasonably sure that he would painted in bruises by the time this was done.
That thought prompted him to speak the first words they had exchanged since
their spar commenced.

”To first blood, yes?” he asked, narrowly avoiding being clouted by a spear
shaft.
It whistled alarmingly close to his ear and shoulder. Apparently, her comment
about his face did not relate to other regions of his head.

They prowled about each other still but at her nod, he asked, ”How do you
intend to draw blood without a blade?”

The smile she answered him with was almost sensual.

”There are ways,” she promised, outrageously blue eyes glittering over her
shield.

Berendil blinked, surprised at the way in which he had responded to her
statement. She was a striking woman. Not classically pretty. She did not bat
her lashes or bite her lower lip or wind her hair around her fingers winsomely.
For all of that, her long clean lines were strong. Almond eyes, perched atop
imperiously high cheekbones, were the stunning blue of a mountain sky and yet
they had seen death, blood, gruesome, visceral combat. They were knowing and
right now they were trained on him...

Berendil stepped back. He cast his sword to the ground and held his arms out,
palms forward towards her.

”A draw,” he proposed, watching her frown at him from behind her shield. She
hesitated, smelling a trick or ploy. He stepped back again.

”We are evenly matched,” he told her as she straightened.

Her shield lowered to reveal her face. Cheekbones flared wide, a strong jaw
that narrowed to a well defined chin. Freja looked him up and down again, at
length. Her frustration all but seared wherever her eyes travelled. Then she
growled something in Rohirric, a curse by the sound of it, turned her back and
stalked away. He watched her throw the spear shaft down, drop the shield, and
then shoulder her way through the crowd. Still, Berendil waited, until the
crowd itself began to disband.

Once that happened, Mecarnil and Hanasian both approached.

”What was that?” Mecarnil demanded, unimpressed.

Berendil bent to retrieve his sword and sheathed it.

”Common sense,” Hanasian answered for him, ”There was no way she was going to
let Berendil off this field without at least one broken bone.”

“Nonsense! A little more persistence and the boot would have been on the other
foot,” Mecarnil replied.

”She was softening him up,” Hanasian argued, ”She knew what she was about. It’s
a special kind of ignorance that downplays the obvious experience of an
opponent!”

Berendil walked off on the debate, eyes raking the crowd. Mecarnil turned to
watch him leave, as did Hanasian.

”Where’s he off to now? Not more trouble, I hope,” Mecarnil grumbled, as if
that would prevent anything.

Finding Freja again proved more difficult than Berendil anticipated. He was
routinely stopped by curious Rohirrim and asked what he had been trying to
accomplish. Each time he was asked, Berendil found it difficult to answer. Yes,
Hanasian had warned him against interfering in whatever the Shieldmaidens were
doing. And yet it had seemed so straightforward the moment he had strode out
there. He had been trying to help and while he could admit to himself that
perhaps there were other intentions afoot as well but those he kept to himself.
In the end, he had only managed to make a mess of things. All he could do was
shrug and ask if they had seen her.

All these delays meant that it took Berendil some time before he tracked Freja
down. She was seated at a campfire with other Shieldmaidens. All laughed freely
with each other, Freja most uproariously of them all. All of them had their
hair completely braided, each according to their own preference, and Berendil
guessed that meant that they were all master Shieldmaidens.

Berendil found himself struck by the contrast between the woman that had
stalked off, seething with contempt, to the one that roared with lusty laughter
now. That wild, utterly free and absolutely improper smile he had seen earlier
was back. She was relaxed and the firelight made her hair glow. He shook
himself and wondered what he was going to say. Aside from knowing he needed to
speak with her, he hadn’t managed to think much further ahead than that.

Then he wondered why it was none of the Shieldmaidens had paid him any heed. He
was the only man standing in this part of the encampment and Shieldmaidens of
varying ranks had to divert their paths around him so they had to know he was
here. Why were they ignoring him? As he wondered that Freja unfurled her long
limbs and stood, still laughing and cheeks flushed with unabashed delight. Hers
was a throaty, fulsome laugh. The sort of laughter of someone making the most
of life in all its riot and glory. The perfect companion to her improper smile.


Still wiping tears of mirth from sparkling eyes, she stepped over the logs that
ringed the fire and headed in his direction. Her eyes were on the ground as she
walked, her movements relaxed. She had that loose limbed walk, unhurried in the
least. He almost thought she’d pass him by entirely, her attention diverted by
whatever the source of this hilarity was, but she brought her head up and
stopped in front of him right at the last moment. Off to one side, she crossed
her arms under her chest. No cloak over her shoulders, despite the fact that it
was March and the nights were decidedly crisp even this far south. She canted
her head to one side and raised a brow at him in silent question.

Before Berendil could answer it, one of her sisters called out from the fire,
”Back for more, eh? He just can't get enough of us!”

There was simmering laughter at that, as if they waited to see what he would do
or say next. Freja, though, did not chuckle with them. She merely studied him.
Berendil had the distinct sense, for the second time that evening, that no
matter what he did it would end up casting him as a fool. He was not an
ordinarily proud man but even humble men value their dignity.

”They’re goading you,” Freja quietly informed him.

”Why?”

She shrugged at that and he saw the hint of a smile, ”You amuse them.”

“Is that what I am? A jester to caper for the great Shieldmaidens of Rohan?”

Freja shrugged again, indifferent, and Berendil retorted, ”I’m not the only
fool serving the Shieldmaiden’s tonight.”

He spoke with no small degree of heat but for all of that, Freja’s smile was
wry and self-deprecatory.

”Like as not,” she agreed without hesitation, ”Particularly if you refer to me.
There was no good reason for sparing your face, no matter how pleasing it is.”

While Berendil was trying to work out what do with that, a call came from the
fire, ”I think you should bring this Ranger here so we can all play with him.
It's not fair that you keep him for yourself!”

”They’ll be at this all night unless we go elsewhere,” Freja advised and nodded
past Berendil’s shoulder.

He glared over at the fire as Freja walked past him and then turned to follow
her. As she led him through the encampment, the men she walked past called out
greetings of some sort or the other. This Freja took in her stride, a friendly
lift of the hand or inclination of her head. Sometimes there would be a
mystifying exchange that seemed to be insults that left both parties smiling
widely. Hanasian had said she was highly regarded but it also seemed she was
equally well liked. How a prideful, hot tempered individual had managed that
was a mystery.

She shifted her path sharply and a short while later he saw Ióen, one of the
senior officers trusted by Éomer, pass by. No greeting or acknowledgement
there. Clearly Freja had not befriended the entire encampment. The man swept a
cool gaze past Freja as if she was not there at all and settled it on him. Dark
blonde brows rose as he took stock of Berendil following along and then he
shook his head dismissively. Meanwhile, he thought he heard Freja mutter
something under her breath. What, Berendil wondered, was this  about? His own
black brows drew together in thought until he stumbled across a possible
answer. Following Freja of his own accord, particularly after what had unfolded
earlier, might be considered unwise.

The woman ahead dived around another tent. Her braids swayed across her back
and the torcs gleaming whenever firelight struck them. She was young, Hanasian
said, to have risen to all eight. Second in command. Ordering people about was
second nature to her. She didn’t think twice, or hesitate, or even wait to see
it those she had ordered had complied. Certainly the Shieldmaidens jumped at
her words. She expected others to as well, he guessed.

In all, it did not take very long at all for her to lead him to a quiet place
on the edge of camp. At their arrival, the few Rohirrim that had been there
bowed their heads to Freja and departed. He hadn’t even seen her make such a
request but she did not seem overly surprised by it. She kicked a faggot of
wood in their fire, rearranging it to her liking and nodded.

As she turned about to face him, he said, ”You’re accustomed to getting what
you want, aren’t you.”

Surprise showed on her face, ”I’m accustomed for working for what I want. And
succeeding.”

Again her arms crossed under her chest as she continued, ”And right now I am
working very hard to determine how you intend to fashion a proper apology from
that.”

Berendil was flummoxed. She expected him to apologise?! Him? Now? She had
already dismissed his earlier attempts. She narrowed her eyes at him and then
shook her head. Freja turned to face the fire.

”You didn’t come to apologise, did you Ranger?”

Frankly, he wasn’t sure why he had sought her out again but apology was
certainly the least likely reason.

”I’m not the only one who made a fool of themselves this evening,” he answered
and saw her eyes narrow.

”And so we're back to that...again,” she challenged and he stepped within the
glow of the fire.

”The difference between you and I, Freja Fireborn, is that I have come to learn
from my errors.”

Berendil watched her eyes flare at that and she gave a short, incredulous laugh
as she met his eyes, ”And you, I presume, are here to educate me?”

“Allies should understand each other.”

She swiftly sat, crossed one long leg over the other and clasped her knee with
both hands, ”I am ready to learn, Master Ranger.”

Berendil was certain she mocked him.

”You don’t think much of us, do you?” he asked.

Freja shrugged at that and so he continued, ”In fact, I’d go so far as to say
you think you’re better off without us.”

“Thirty of you can’t do too much harm,” she replied.

”Perhaps thirty of us is all you need.”

Her brows quirked at that and he saw a faint smile of approval, ”Your talk is
that of a Shieldmaiden.”

Berendil nodded and then said, ”Or maybe there is only thirty of us left.”

Her smile shifted at that and so he continued, ”What do you know of Arnor?”

“Big – north,” she shrugged, ”Not Rohan.”

So, next to nothing Berendil thought and tested that with another question,
”And Cardolan?”

Freja shrugged, ”Something you might eat. A spice, perhaps. Why?”

Berendil sat and pressed a hand to the centre of his chest, ”I am from
Cardolan.”

She lifted a brow at him but she did not smile. Her cocky assurance was banked
and she was perceptive enough to sense that he was going somewhere with this.
And so, he did. The telling took some time, even if he skipped over the
intricacies. By the time it was done, he finally looked at Freja. He’d avoided
that during the telling, lest he find her smirking and lose his restraint
again. She was not smirking though. Nor scowling. Nor glaring. He found himself
surprised, in fact, to find tears shone on her cheeks and she had pressed a
hand to her mouth.

”All of them,?” she whispered through her fingers and he nodded grimly.

”Man, woman and child. My home, Freja, is a little more than graves and
abandoned buildings now and that is but one part of Arnor. Sauron did not spare
the others, either. Rohan has not been the only one to suffer under the his
malice.”

Her eyes dropped to the fire again. It was in need of more wood and so, to fill
the gaping silence and answer his growing restlessness, Berendil fed it. He
leaned back on his heels and brushed his hands off only to find Freja had set a
gentle hand to his shoulder.

”I am sorry, Berendil,” she told him earnestly and he looked, startled by her
sudden honesty, into her face, ”I did not know.”

Berendil tensed as Freja drew her arms around him and embraced him.

”I do not desire your pity,” he told her.

For all of that, her warmth was undeniably pleasant. Vital she was, strong. She
tightened her embrace a moment and then pulled back so that her face hung
before his.

”It is not pity I offer,” she replied solemnly, the firelight flickering over
the panes of her face.

”What, then” Berendil asked her through a suddenly dry mouth. His eyes widened
as she lifted her fingers to trace the line of his jaw but he did not draw
back.

”Is it so surprising that a Shieldmaiden might be capable of compassion,” she
returned, voice barely more than a murmur.

She gazed at him, as if looking at him clearly for the first time. He could
feel the warmth of her through her tunic. She drew a deep breath into her chest
that she pushed out again. As if debating something. Then she stood and walked
away from him and the fire both, into the darkness beyond. Slowly, Berendil
stood, staring after her. He felt…regret. And the pressure of someone’s study.
He turned to see Hanasian standing there. His friend shook his head at him in
warning. Despite that, though, Berendil followed the Shieldmaiden’s steps into
the darkness.

She was not difficult to locate for she had not gone far and her teeth softly
chattered.

He asked, ”Are you cold?”

Freja shook her head, not sure why she denied what was obvious, and crossed her
arms against her tunic. Though she could barely make him out in the darkness,
she could sense his scrutiny. Did these Rangers see better in the dark? They
were said to be the pupils of Elves. She heard fabric rustle and then started
as Berendil settled his cloak around her shoulders. Freja held her breath as
his fingers gently secured it in place at the base of her throat, barely
grazing her skin.

Her mouth was strangely dry. Again. Not the first pretty face, she reminded
herself, and this one seemed to have no particular liking for her. Freja
allowed her fingers to explore the device Berendil had used to fasten the
cloak. It was a star, the metal cool to the touch.

”Seven points,” she murmured.

”An emblem of Elendil’s followers,” Berendil replied, ”For that is what we
are.”

“And Aragorn is his heir,” she said, puzzled by why it was these men were so
enamoured of a lord, washed up from the ruin of a drowned land.

“Our chieftain too.What do you think of him,” Berendil asked and immediately
Freja recalled her exchange with Éowyn. She felt reluctant to comment on
Rangers now.

”It hardly matters what I make of him,” Freja replied, neatly evading the
entire topic, ”My service is given to another.”

She made no effort to keep her pride from shining in her voice.

”Do you not fear what is to come, then?” Berendil asked.

She was struck, then, by a clear note of dismay that made no sense to her at
all. How was she to explain to this to her land, customs and their ways? And in
any case, it would not do for a Shieldmaiden to seek approval for such things.
Their customs were their own. Freja paused for what could she say that was not
already known.

Then she pulled Berendil’s cloak and pulled it tighter around her shoulders for
warmth, ”Battle is a Shieldmaiden’s lot and I knew this when I chose my path. I
will not turn away from it now.”

“Death is what you live for,” Berendil said and Freja shook her head
impatiently, irritated anew. How dare he?

”I live for the duty I swore to uphold. Much, I suspect, as do you,” Freja
added for good measure.

“Perhaps, then, we are more alike than you think,” Berendil replied quietly,
his words cutting across her chagrin. She had no answer for that. She had been
on such solid footing only a moment ago and now she was floundering in the
dark. Again.

”If we prevail in this war, Freja, have you given thought to what might follow
when it is done?”

Berendil’s question was both surprising and dangerous. She answered carefully
indeed, ”A Shieldmaiden’s life is brief, even by our measure. Little is served
by looking too far ahead.”

Berendil did not answer immediately and she was started by his hand. It cupped
her cheek gently and all of sudden he was very close. His fingers trailed along
her cheekbone to her hair and then followed one of her braids. He held it in
his hand, toying with torc he had discovered. He must have been able to feel
the etchings upon it.

”What is it for?” he asked, voice quiet in her ear.

”It is for the spear,” she answered and closed her eyes.

Breathe, Freja. Just breathe. Berendil released her braid but did not draw
away. Tension mounted and either she kissed him or she asked him a question.

Freja opted for the latter, ”The long years ahead belong to you and those of
your kind. What do you think will happen?”

His answer came easily, ”Gondor and Arnor will be united and we will know
peace. Such is our hope. There will be much to rebuild, in Arnor and Rohan
alike.”

“And Cardolan.”

“I do not think Cardolan will ever rise again,” he said.

Another question occurred to her, ”What is Arnor like, then?”

“You wish to know?”

Freja shrugged at his question, ”It is unlikely I will ever see it for myself.
What business would a Shieldmaiden have in Arnor, Berendil?”

He seemed to pause at that, as if he had ideas on that of his own, and then
went on to describe Arnor to her. She heard of Bree and of the best apples to
be had in all of Middle Earth. One thing was clearest of all.

”You love it,” she told him, ”I hear it in your voice.”

“I plan to return when this is done. And you?” he asked.

”Aside from battle, I do not know,” she replied.

“Is battle all you think of?”

“Not entirely,” Freja admitted, swallowing in a dry throat, for just at that
moment she was not thinking of battle or war at all. She felt her cheeks heat.
Damn the man for standing so closely. She almost leapt out of her skin as his
fingers returned to her face. He drew them along her jaw on either side and
then cupped her face between his hands. They stood like that for a long moment.
Then she heard Berendil whisper something in the strange Elvish tongue she had
heard in use around the camp. She almost sensed his lips drawing near but he
did not kiss her.

”I find the thought of you falling in battle unbearable,” he told her, as if
this puzzled him.

“You answered your King’s call. Why should I not answer mine?”

Berendil’s sigh was heavy and he drew his arms about her, ”I will look for you,
Freja, upon that field. What comes after we will face together. All of it.”

The notion was almost startling to her if he meant what she thought he meant.
To say such a thing… He lowered his head and buried his face where her neck met
her shoulders. Then he drew in a deep breath as he gathered her to him, as if
he would inhale her entirely.

Freja asked, ”A Ranger and a Shieldmaiden?”

Her question made Berendil lift his head, “If we may fight and die together,
why may we not live…together?”

Berendil pressed a kiss to her brow, her skin soft against his lips, and
reluctantly drew away. Now was not a time for undertakings beyond that. He was
to take the Paths of the Dead come the dawn and she was riding to battle soon
thereafter. He lifted her hand in his and kissed her palm. Then he strode back
to camp. It was some time before Freja followed and by the time she had
returned, there was no sight of the Ranger. He had vanished.

When Berendil gained the upper plateau, both Hanasian and Mecarnil had retired
for what little sleep they could gain. He could hear Mecarnil soundly snoring.
Something he should have done, would have done if only…Berendil slipped into
the tent he shared with the other two men as quietly as he could.

Despite his stealth, though, Hanasian was clearly awake for he asked, ”What are
you up to, Berendil?”

“Nothing,” Berendil answered even though he knew very well that wasn’t true.

As did Hanasian, apparently “Because I’ve told you Shieldmaidens do not abandon
their spears lightly.”

“So?”

Hanasian yawned, ”So you aren’t the sort for idle dalliances.”

“What makes you think I’m dallying?” Berendil challenged and at that Hanasian
fell silent.
 
Berendil wrapped himself up in his bedroll. As he tried to settle in to sleep
he found his mind racing and body thrumming. He closed his eyes and saw a pair
of almond shaped eyes gazing back at him, knowing. What was he doing? Had he
really said what he thought he had. He could still feel her in his arms. He
shifted again, aware of the bruises she had given him.

”I’m not dallying,” Berendil muttered to himself.

Hanasian sleepily murmured, ”Perish the thought.”

Berendil grunted and tried to find a comfortable position yet again. It was
going to be a difficult night finding rest.
***** Chapter 2 *****
3019, III – March 8, Harrowdale


Freja woke to the discovery she had slept in Berendil’s cloak. This startled
her, for had any of her sisters marked it she'd be hard pressed to answer the
inevitable questions that would follow. It would not do to have them wondering
whether their commander was considering setting aside her spears on the eve of
battle. And was she? Was she really considering that? This is what she asked
herself as she threw on her own green cloak and set off for the upper
encampment. Dawn had yet to creep over the eastern horizon and fog blanketed
the plain but the upper camp was clear and crisp. Few were about at this hour
and so she padded through the tents as stealthy as ever towards the Ranger's
small encampment.

Few of the Rangers moved about, each eerily silent in their long cloaks. If
they noticed her, they gave no sign of it. On she went until she found a tent
with a familiar face. It was Berendil’s friend and he was smoking a long pipe
whilst sleepily prodding at a fire. Hanasian cracked a wide yawn before he
realised she was standing there, staring at him. His pipe almost fell out of
his mouth but he recovered himself with admirable swiftness. Interesting, she
thought. He didn't look like he came from Rohan.

Freja wondered anew how it was he knew so much of a Shieldmaidens’ ways.
Hanasian slowly stood after a few moments of her scrutiny. At that, Freja
swiftly set Berendil’s cloak down on the other side of the fire. Hanasian’s
brows rose when he saw what she had left there but he kept his silence. Freja
drew up to her full height and considered him again. But before she could
depart, Berendil emerged from the tent, dark hair tousled by sleep and dragging
his pack with him.

Her eyes narrowed at that and Hanasian murmured a brief warning that brought
Berendil’s face sharply up to take in her presence.

”Going somewhere?” she inquired, keeping her tone cool with some effort.

As she asked she saw a Ranger lead a horse towards the menhirs. It was then she
noticed others had gathered there. They were leaving. All of them.

Berendil set down his pack and stepped forward, ”My path to the battle ahead is
different to yours, yet we will find each other again. Of that I am certain.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, ”Is that so?”

He reached for her but she was too fast. Freja set her hands to his broad chest
and pushed him back from her. As he rocked on his heels she began to circle
him.

”The Dimholt Road - are you mad?” she hissed as she prowled a wide circuit
around him.

“Do not presume to gainsay those wiser than you,” Berendil returned with equal
heat, ”My duty, my honour is no less than yours. Am I to be sundered from it
when you will not?”

She had returned to face him and bared her teeth, ”How long have you known, eh?
How long?”

At her question she saw Berendil hesitate and she knew, then, that he had known
all along. It was then and only then that she realised what he had been doing
doing all along. Her fists curled at her sides.

”Was it a joke, then? Something to chuckle over amongst yourselves?”

Her voice shook with fury and Hanasian murmured in alarm. Berendil, though,
clenched his jaw. She could see it bunch as he struggled for a calm she had
surrendered.

”Your silence is answer enough, Ranger,” she snarled.

”Every word! I meant every word, Freja!”

“Oh, it is so easy to throw out pretty, clever words when you know, you KNOW,
you will never be held to account for them! I see it now, Berendil, and make no
mistake. I see you too, clearly. Never again will you turn my gaze!”

“Is that what you think of me? Feckless and callow?” Berendil returned, stung.

Freja spat back at him, ”Do not look for me. Save your eyes, Ranger, for the
foolish road you are to take! I wish you the joy of it!”

Berendil quivered from head to foot as she turned her back on him and left him
standing there without so much as a second glance. He stood frozen, desperately
trying to understand what had just happened. As he did so, the humiliation he
had seen searing in her eyes returned to him. Betrayal. Pain. Helpless howling
anger. New hope bitterly crushed. He closed his eyes, and washed his hands over
his face as Hanasian and Mecarnil drew up.

”What did you say to her?” Hanasian asked urgently, setting a hand to his
shoulder.

Berendil shook his head and lowered his hands, ”I was careful. I thought I was-
“

“You turned her gaze, Berendil. Do you know what that means?” Hanasian pressed.


Both Berendil and Mecarnil shook their heads, baffled, and there was little
time to explain.

”When a Shieldmaiden’s gaze is turned, she lays her spears aside. It is rarely
done for a man.”

Berendil’s already washed out face turned ashen but Mecarnil clapped his back
in a bid to liven his spirits up, ”Valar willing, lad, there will be time to
set things to straights again if that is what you wish. Focus now must be on
the task at hand.”

“But what if…” Berendil swallowed his question before he finished it. What if
he could not find her again?

There was no way to know if they would survive the Paths of the Dead and reach
Erech, much less the battle beyond it. Same could be said of Freja. Riding in
Théoden’s vanguard, she would be at the heart of the Rohirrim’s battle when it
was joined. The future was uncertain for them both, well did he know that.
Still he felt no small degree of sorrow at the bitterness of their parting. He
had not intended to cast her aside. She had never been a game, a joke, to him.
And the fact she found it possible to believe otherwise was painful.

Halbarad gave the signal to pull out. All Berendil could do was hope, as
Mecarnil said, to find her again on the other side. He turned for his pack to
discover his cloak had been set there. He gathered it up and pressed it to his
face. Already the outer layers were cool but her warmth was still within the
inner folds. And heather. He had noticed she smelt of heather when he had set
this cloak around her shoulders. He drew that clean, earthy, honest scent in.
Faintly floral, but herbal – almost mossy. He slung it around his shoulders and
set to work breaking their brief camp.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chilled to the bone and shivering, Freja returned to her tent and sank onto the
scant bedding she had tossed aside in what seemed, now, to be a lifetime ago.
How could she be so foolish? So stupid? She felt sick to her stomach and bent
forward over her knees with a soft moan. No sooner had she done this did
another enter her tent. Humiliation still stamped upon her face, Freja looked
up to find Éowyn standing there. Sorrow, profound and solid as the mountain
that reared above them, was stamped upon her face. All the light, all the hope,
had been stripped from Éowyn’s eyes, replaced, now by despair.

”Ah,” Éowyn said as she took in Freja, ”You know too, then.”

“The Paths of the Dead,” Freja whispered, the urge to retch greasily sliding
about in her belly.

Éowyn sank onto Freja’s blankets beside her and for a long while they were
silent, united in grief. In time, though, it occurred to Éowyn to ask after why
Freja was so deeply affected. It was a question she could not answer and yet
the other woman caught her eyes in her own and then she sighed.

”You see, now, do you not?” Éowyn whispered and Freja nodded, eyes closing
before tears could betray her anew.

”Take me with you,” Éowyn said and Freja’s eyes opened to see there was a
feyness to Éowyn now. A wild reckless abandon, ”Take me with you to death and
destruction, Freja Fireborn.”

Freja stared at Éowyn. Did she have the same fell look too? If she did she
would have to put it from her lest her sisters discover her gaze had been
turned by one of these Rangers.

”We will call you Dernhelm,” she replied, her voice stark and quiet, and at
that Éowyn gave her a small, terrible, smile.
***** Chapter 3 *****
The air upon the Dimholt Road was thick and close. With the tall stones
beckoning, the dark firs, large and ancient, filled the air with a heavy piney
resin while their overreaching crowns let little light of the morning through.
The road at first was two horses wide, and while Aragorn and Halbarad rode
together at the front, Mecarnil and Berendil rode the fourth rank and were
mostly silent. Berendil‘s mind was held by the thought of Freja, and he held to
a slim hope they would meet again in victory. Behind them rode Hanasian and
Darhias, a young stealthy Ranger whose ancestry was said to have strains of the
Rhuadurian royal line. Darhias at first peppered Hanasian with questions about
the Shieldmaidens, and Hanasian answered with what he knew.
Hanasian, finally realizing Darhias seemed too interested, said, ”Not you too!
Who I wonder?”

Darhias was silent as Hanasian looked hard at him for a few paces as he thought
back at what Darhias was doing at camp. A few paces more, and Hanasian nodded
his head and said,

”Ah, sandy-haired one Berendil interrupted. I saw you watching her from the
shadows. Why is it the women of the Rohirrim women catch our eye? You and
Vorda, Berendil and Freja, my own parents...”

Hanasian drifted off in thought before Darhias interrupted them,“Vorda likely
doesn’t know who I am. To her, I’m just a Ranger. She's not spared me a second
glance or a single word.”

Hanasian only shook his head as a large pinecone fell from high above, bouncing
off a stone and hitting him in the boot. The chatter of a chipmunk could be
heard as if laughing… Laughing maybe at men moving toward the Path of the Dead?
Other than the gusts of wind far up in the crowns of the tall trees, it was the
last sound they heard other than their own. It had become eerily quiet.

From then on, the Grey Company was silent but for calming words to their
increasingly uneasy horses. It wasn’t until they came to the door that the
silence was broken…

'The way is shut. It was made by those who are Dead, and the Dead keep it,
until the time comes. The way is shut.'
The old man, if he was not already dead, died after saying them. The horses
were keen to bolt at the sound of those words, but the soothing words from
Legolas and the sons of Elrond calmed then. Halbarad then said he could foresee
his death beyond the door, but Berendil thought that they all would die beyond
this door. Dark thoughts filled them all. It was Aragorn, their chieftain and
heir of Isildur, who challenged the door, and as he calmed his horse, they
passed into its darkness without showing any waiver. So one by one the company
passed into the darkness.

Inside, it seemed the air closed in hard and still around them, and now the
Rangers longed for the thick piney air of the Dimholt Road. But they remained
true as Aragorn pushed forth down the narrow track with his torch held high
over his head. It appeared that even its light struggled against the very air
to light the way. Elladan followed behind at the end, trying to keep Gimli
moving and in sight. Surreal dark thoughts filled the minds of the men, and it
ate away at their strength. It took all they had to keep their horses from
breaking free from them.

When suddenly it seemed they had entered a chamber, noticed by an even
chillier, dry air, and Aragorn’s torch didn’t light up nearby walls. Aragorn
looked about and his torch lit up a long-dead man in finery, Hanasian whispered
to no one in particular, Baldor”.

Berendil stared at the flicker on the shiny armoured figure, and Freja’s face
in the helm flashed in his mind. He blinked and strained to look again, but she
was not there. Only the chalky dry skull of the man Hanasian mentioned. Aragorn
spoke a little about him before summoned the dead to the Stone of Erech. A
chill fell over them as if an icy hand of death sought to grab them. Halbarad
nodded knowingly as the torches went out. Their fate was all upon Aragorn and
his strength to hold the Dead to their oath. Almost by the sense of smell did
Aragorn lead them through. After some way, the sound of water dripping, and its
feel when some few drops fell upon them, did any sense of relief come to them.
For until then, there was only the feeling of the Dead riding their ghost
horses pressing in behind them.

To say it was more than a relief to come forth into the Morthond Vale. The
sound of the headwaters of the River Morthond splashing fiercely upon the
stones from high above, to pass them into a deep cut ravine near where their
track wandered. Emerging from the darkness to the fresh damp air filled the men
with relief. But the dead were close behind them, and Aragorn called them to
push on hard to the Stone of Erech. The Grey Company rode hard through the vale
with the icy breath of the dead upon their backs.

It was well into the night when they came to the stone and halted. Berendil had
finally managed to shake the ill vision of Freja lying dead in her
shieldmaiden’s armour somewhere on the fields of Eastfold. Hanasian and
Macarnil looked grim but said nothing, while Darhias and the other Rangers were
still deep in thought. They were quickly shaken to life by Aragorn’s words and
that of a far off voice that sounded as if it was straining to die. To have
them wanting to fulfil their oath had taken some of the lingering fear from
them and their horses, for it seemed the iciness had receded. They would stay
there for the rest of the night, but little sleep would they get. The thoughts
and visions they had experienced while taking the paths were too near and vivid
for them to push aside easily. Broken slumber was all they could manage before
a pale light started to appear in the east. Silently they arose to ready to
ride again. They also knew where they were headed to.

From the next morning, they pressed hard on their ride through the dark days
toward Pelargir. Their journey was swift for they stopped little for rest, and
by nightfall they had gained the Fords of Ciril and crossed the River Ringlo.
Rest would have been welcome but they pressed on hard, for the armies of Mordor
had already advanced into Lebannin. They had come just in time to battle them
at the Fords at Linhir. The enemy was routed and were pursued back toward
Pelargir.

As they approached Pelargir in the dim darkness, Aragorn could see the ships of
the Corsairs approaching. But Aragorn, the Grey Company, and the Army of the
Dead came fast unlooked for. After a quick fight, they had reached the quay
just in time. They had grappled the first ship and kept it from leaving the
dock, but the second one had set out upon the first sign of trouble. It soon
was far to the east bank of the river. The Company battled on the first ship
while archers on the second ship fired their arrows at the attacking Rangers.
Aragorn called to the King of the Dead to attack the remaining incoming ships,
but not to kill any man on the ships that were in chains. They abide d his
order, and soon claimed the trailing ships as they started to turn. Only one of
these ships ran aground while the others were brought in by the slaves.

There was only one ship left that was held by the Corsairs. It was trying to
make a run upriver, but a counter wind came up and they could not make much
headway. The three elves stood apart on the river’s edge, taking aim and
sending sure arrows away to the second ship. One by one the Corsair archers
fell.
 
Some hardy seamen of Lebannin, seeing that the shadowy dead had moved on with
Aragorn, came from hiding and rallied their strength. They now came forth and
joined in the battle of Pelargir. One brought pitch and flame, and the three
elves set their arrows alight and fired them into the back of the second ship
still making way upriver. After several arrows, the ship began to burn. It was
not long before its sails were alight and the oarsmen were crying out as the
men of Umbar jumped into the swift currents of the Anduin. Few survived this as
the river itself seemed to have turned its wrath onto them. The currents and
undertows pulled their mailed bodies under.

The fight was a victory for the West, and would prevent an ill turn to the
battle that would befall Minas Tirith and the fields of Anorien. The Dead had
fulfilled their oath, and received their release by Aragorn. A sound of relief
could be heard as their ghostly swords and shields fell away and they
dissipated in the rising wind. With their parting, the brown-grey have gave way
in the southerly gusts, and the light of the sun could be seen. But little rest
was taken, for wounds had to be treated, and the ships gathered. The seamen of
Pelargir now came forth and bowed to Aragorn, the master of the Dead, for the
fear had fallen a way, and they now worked tirelessly to ready the captured
Corsair ships, and some of their own. With favourable winds and the desire of
the former slaves to fight as free men, they with intensity and Aragorn hoped
to arrive at the Harlond in time for battle. t worst to find a city in ruins.
They would set out at dawn on the morning breeze, but this night, they needed
rest, and the armies of the southern fiefs need time to gather and embark.

There was little talk as they sat. Some honed their blades in repair and
preparation for their doom, others ate some food that had been brought to them
by some of the locals. Hanasian wrote some before putting his journal away.
Berendil and Darhias smoked the last of the pipeweed they had brought with
them. They talked low but nobody could hear what they were saying. Macarnil
suspected it had something to do with Shieldmaidens.
Halbarad came over and said to them, ”I fear there will be little time for
sleep in the days ahead. So you two finish your smoke and get some rest.”

He gave them a nod before lying back on the ground himself. Even Aragorn took
leave of the three elves by the riverbank and lay down with his eyes closed.
Legolas, with the sons of Elrond sat and talked through the night of the
undying lands and their desires to go there. The sons had been to the sea
before when they were in the Grey Havens, but Legolas of the Woodland Realm had
only now seen the wide seas to their south, and smelled the salt air. He would
sit there all night long.

Morning came too soon, for the desire to sleep was high without the breath of
the Dead near them. But the Company had readied themselves and the ships were
loaded with grim soldiers and provisioned by the men of Lebannin and were
ready.
One of the hardy seamen who first helped them in the battle looked at the signs
and said to Aragorn, The Vala work in your favour! A fair southerly was coming,
and the tide was coming in! We should get the sails high and ride the tidal
current as far as we can.”

 Aragorn nodded and with his hands, signalled to the company that they were to
leave immediately. They set off before any hazy light in the east could be
discerned. It would be a dark day once they sailed north. The steady southerly
wind filled the sails and pressed their ships hard and fast as the now free men
rowed with strength. The river was calm, but they were moving against the
mighty Anduin in Spring so the water was high and the current swift. Still,
with urgency they pressed forth.

***** Chapter 4 *****
3019, III – March 15, Pelennor


The plain had been swallowed by a dark, malevolent tide. The White City, proud
citadel of a proud people, shone no longer. It’s walls were scarred, blackened
and pocked. War machines clustered like flies upon them. Pits of fire belching
a foul thick smoke that billowed over city and plain alike. The gates hung
useless. Broken. Minas Tirith had been breached and the army below was gripped
with a vicious, palpable glee. Anticipation of the slaughter to come.

Freja stared at it, struck dumb by the sheer scale of what she saw. They had
pushed as hard as they could. They had defeated Sauron once already to reach
this place, trusting to the Wild Men and their King’s judgement. Just five days
it had taken them but they were too late.

She sucked in a shivering breath at a sudden image and the dread it unleashed.
A cursed road, dark, buried in the mountains she had left behind. Upon it he
lay, still, twisted. Dead. Abandoned there, unburied, unmarked, to rot away
over the years. Feminine laughter, mocking, floated at the very edges of her
hearing.

Reeling, she whispered a name before she could stop herself, ”Berendil.”

She had dreamed of him these past five days, despite the fact that she should
have lain in the exhausted slumber everyone else had. Despite the way in which
he had so cruelly used her. She woke with his name on her lips in the pre-dawn
murk. His grey eyes, deep set under a brooding brow, watched her in her sleep.
Despite the fact that he was probably dead now, needlessly and carelessly so.
Despite the fact that he duped her with whispered hints of a future he well
knew would never come to pass.

Staggering briefly, Freja hauled her feet under her with ruthless determination
and pushed it away. Already they were mounting up, weapons unlimbered, saddles
and hooves checked. A hasty meal, for those able to stomach it. Freja set her
helm in place and strode for her horse. As she went, she scanned for sight of
Dernhelm. She’d opposed, staunchly, the halfling’s presence. Doughty though
Master Merriadoc might be, what lay ahead them was no place for the likes of
him.

Dernhelm had been determined and nothing Freja had been able to say had swayed
her…him. Just as she sighted the halfling and Dernhelm both, Éomer intercepted
her. Freja pulled back to scrutinise him. He looked…worried. That was good. It
meant he had not yet discovered Dernhelm’s true identity. If he had, he'd be
furious. Incandescent. Their ruse, disguising her as a man, had worked and now
Éowyn would get that which she sought. They all would this day. Rack. Ruin.
Death.

”The vanguard, yes?” Éomer asked tersely and Freja nodded.

” The lines will struggle to hold once battle is joined,” Freja answered,
nodding to the mass that waited for them below, and Éomer grunted his agreement
at her assessment.

”We must do what we can, as we can. Above all else, you and your sisters must
defend the King,” Éomer answered.
Freja nodded matterofactly, "For no other purpose are we here, my lord."
Éomer's eyes had been roaming restlessly, gauging the readiness of those about
to go charging into oblivion, but now they swung to her. Then she was surprised
to see his hard expression soften.

”Ride well this day, Freja,” he said, briefly reaching to set his hand on her
pauldron. She nodded, startled by such unanticipated warmth.

”And you Éomer, Son of Éomund, Lord of the Mark,” she returned. He searched her
expression, that which her helm revealed, a moment longer and then was away
again.

Her future King, Freja thought as she marked his departure. But not this day.
Not if she had anything to say about it. If she and her sisters fell, then it
would be so that Théoden King did not. With a shake of her head, she mounted
up.

Their lines formed swiftly, the Shieldmaidens in and around Théoden himself.
Freja looked for Dernhelm one more time. Horses shifted, restless, smelling the
carnage ahead. Around her the horns pealed, a ringing glorious note that
shivered in the morning air. A harbinger of a red, bloody dawn. Again they rang
out and Freja felt her blood surge in a sudden savage joy. A third time and
they were away, thundering down the final approach to fall upon the northern
flank of the besiegers. Crashing like the tide, lances levelled and songs of
battle thick in their throats.

For a time she was able to keep Éowyn and Théoden both in her line of sight but
that changed once Mordor’s armies recovered from their initial shock. Never had
she seen so many gathered before against so few. Futile it was, but battle was
joined and she could not and would not turn aside. The war machines needed to
be dealt with, and the Southron horsemen, for these had not scattered like the
Orcs.

Their onslaught was savage, the battle bitter. In the fog of war, she lost
sight of Éowyn. All she saw was the Enemy, pressing in around her. Her spears
were all gone and she had been unhorsed, her beautiful gelding cut down
underneath her. She’d unhorsed a Southron in return and hewed death, singing
and snarling the battle songs of the Shieldmaidens as she delivered war upon
them.

Again her horse was injured, its foot caught in a depression. She was flung
from the saddle at speed, a combination of experience, her armour and dumb luck
resulted in her not being crushed. Instead she tumbled across the ground
without any means of stopping herself. When the tumbling stopped, Freja was
sprawled on her belly. Her senses reeled and her instincts, honed by years of
combat, screamed at her to get up. Move! Groggily, she rose to her knees only
to be knocked flat again by one of her countrymen as he battled an Easterling.
Still her instincts roared at her and so she rose once more, this time coming
to her feet. Swaying drunkenly, Freja stared about her. She had lost sight of
Théoden and Éowyn both as well as her sword. An inhuman snarl to her left, just
beyond the view permitted by her helm captured her attention.

The orc grinned at her, aware that she was without any weapon beyond her
knives. Freja stumbled back and almost fell when her heel caught a body lying
upon the ground. She crouched as the orc advanced, hefting its brutal falchion,
slavering with anticipation. By some chance, Freja’s hand closed on a shaft and
she seized it, bringing whatever it was with her as stood. She blinked at what
she saw.

It was a crude pike of the sort many of Sauron’s orcs had brought to this
battle. Disgust shivered through her momentarily but she was quick to push that
aside and level it at the orc that was now rushing at her. Such was its speed,
its lust for her blood, that she almost did not manage to bring the pike to
bear in time. Teeth bared, screaming, she thrust with all of her weight and
strength, driving the orcish pike into her foe’s belly. The orc snarled at her
as she ran him through and Freja feared that the haft would snap under the
weight as it bowed. The snarl, however, slide into a wet gurgle as the orc was
driven back. It slumped to the broken earth and then fell to one side.

Panting, terror skated far too close to her thoughts. It shivered along the
edges. She could sense it gathering, waiting. If it took her, it would be the
end of her. She had to keep it at bay somehow. She wheeled about, desperate for
a clean weapon. That would help. A proper, fitting hilt to close her fingers
about. Just as she thought this, a sword was kicked towards her. Not hers, that
was long gone now, but one of Rohan’s all the same. Freja blinked at where it
rested near the toes of her boots and then looked up in the direction it had
mysteriously appeared from. What she saw made her throat choke in visceral
fear.

The Elf that stood there was still, a statue amidst the battle raging about.
Clad all in black, her fair hair was bound in braids. Malevolence radiated from
her perfect face and her smile, when it came, was as cold as death itself.

”Pick it up, Shieldmaiden,” the-Elf said, her voice bloodsoaked velvet.

Never before had Freja felt such crippling fear. Never before had she wanted to
run, to turn heel and flee. But all of this mattered not for her body was
moving despite her horror. She found herself bending and reaching for the sword
and this only deepened her distress. Sobbing, she stood once more with it in
her hand.

The Elf canted her head, studying the way she trembled for a moment, ”Do you
know my name, mortal?”

Freja shook her head, unable to speak. She was so terrified that she did not
even know her own name at that point. All she knew was that her heart was about
to stop, frozen by fear.

”Naiore Dannan they call me,” the Elf supplied, ”Ravennor of Mordor.”

Naiore’s beautiful eyes narrowed as she stepped nearer, ”And you, snivelling
mortal, are Freja Fireborn.”

Around her Naiore walked, her movement that of inhuman and lethal grace. She
completed her circuit and her expression had shifted to one of boredom, ”I had
hoped you might offer a modest distraction from this tedium. A small morsel.”

At that the Elf flicked her sword, skewering an orc in danger of lumbering
between them without so much as a sideways glance. It was a beautiful weapon,
superbly crafted, and she used it with a skill honed over centuries. She freed
the blade and stepped closer still, gazing into Freja’s eyes like a snake might
watch the mouse it intended to eat for dinner.

”We will cross swords,” she said and smiled at freja’s urgent, desperate
shaking of her head. She did not wish to fight this Elf. She wished only to
flee.

”I can compel it, or you may choose it. Fight well enough, and freely…I may
even spare your life so that you might return to your King to die at his side,”
Naiore tilted her head, quizzical, ”Or perhaps you desire something else?”

Again she saw Berendil. His face, by the fire, as he spoke of his people. His
expression as she repudiated him. Such…such sorrow and anger and pain. His
voice vibrating through her as he spoke to her in the darkness. Horror flooded
through Freja as the Elf trawled through her mind, violating every
recollection, every sensation.

The Elf laughed at her, mocking;

Freja knew she was being manipulated. She knew she could not trust this Elf.
She knew that it was unlikely that she would survive whatever humiliation the
Elf had in mind. And she knew she could not let her fear, her terror, claim her
duty from her. She forced herself to think of her king and her duty. Only that
and Naiore’s smile was contemptuous.
"Pitious!"

What followed was marked by few such was the intensity of the battle unfolding
around them. Those that did saw only snatches, brief glimpses into the contest
between Naiore Dannan and the Shieldmaiden of Rohan. It started inauspiciously
but once Freja sank into her own body, it took on a new quality. She made less
errors. Her terror ebbed, drained away. Naiore’s smile diminished and then
vanished as she realised the Shieldmaiden was no longer responded to her
manipulations.

Back and forth they went, ranging across the field until Naiore found a way
through the Shieldmaiden’s defences. That much was inevitable. An Elf with
centuries to hone her swordplay and dread abilities was always going to best a
Mortal no matter how gifted she might be.

She shoved Freja back hard and pounced, ready to drive Celebrimbor’s sword
through her. Naiore unleashed a wave of terror that should have had her
gibbering. Instead, though, the mortal bared her teeth at her and she realised
that the woman was saying something. Her eyes narrowed.

”You sing?” she hissed down at the mortal, astonished, ”You go to your death
singing?”

The woman did not stop to answer her. Instead, her eyes were locked on the long
curved expanse of the sword Naiore had raised to deal the final blow. She
stared at it, unblinking, singing in the guttural tongue these brigands used,
teeth bared. Uncowed. The Shieldmaiden was unbroken. How was this possible in
such a weak, snivelling creature?

Intrigued, Naiore withdrew, rising to her feet and backing away. The
Shieldmaiden rolled to her feet. She stared at Naiore for a long moment and
then her attention shifted to something she saw behind Naiore. She took off at
a lope for whatever it was and Naiore turned to watch her. The Shieldmaiden had
espied her King, she discovered. The Ravennor of Mordor paused at that. She had
no intention of honouring her offer at the time it was made and yet it was
being fulfilled all the same. Of course, she could even now bring it undone.

The temptation to take the Shieldmaiden here and now, from this field, to
somewhere where she could truly study her was palpable. There would be
undeniable pleasure in properly breaking her. Such mortals were a rare treat.
And yet, as her interest sharpened into a darker lust, something else intruded.
Something far more powerful even than her. Naiore snarled openly at the
pleasure now denied to her and then turned away, stalking through the battle as
if it no longer mattered. To Naiore Dannan, at least, it did not. She had
another task to see to.

Freja’s progress towards Théoden was arduous. The combat around the King was
vicious and she was on foot and weary. So very tired. She had no chance to look
behind her to see if that Elvish horror hunted her. Her mind felt raw and
bloodied, as if it had been shattered and stuck back together all wrong. As she
fought her way towards her king and his glorious horse, she did so expecting to
feel Naiore’s sword slide through her. It did not come, though, and so she
gained Théoden alive.

Freja wheeled about to gauge the disposition of the forces around them. The
Rohirrim were scattered in thin wedges, the lines now utterly lost. A tight
knot of Shieldmaidens were with her still, Vorda amongst them. At a cry, Freja
turned and briefly glimpsed what she thought was Éowyn in the press. A sudden
searing sting at her left hip, however, drew Freja’s attention down.

”FORM THE LINES! FORM THE LINES! FREJA, FORM THE LINES!” Théoden bellowed at
her and yet all she could do was stare at what lay in her greaves.

Her vision swum, the wicked dart she had been peering at blurred, as Snowmane’s
rump buffeted her. Then came a terrible scream, like the world was cracking
open. It drove her to her knees, her own throat bloody as she screamed with it,
wrenching her helm free in agonised madness. Blood ran in thick rivulets from
her ears and her left hip had already locked, her flesh burning. A tremendous
weight slammed into her and she crumpled beneath it.
***** Chapter 5 *****
The battle upon the Pelennor had been raging through the day and the outcome
was at best uncertain. The arrival of the Rohirrim had raised hopes, but with
the fall of King Theoden and the heavy casualties suffered, the situation was
now in question. Eomer, new King of Rohan, in his grief at finding his sister
dead on the battlefield, blew loud a horn and cried out for death and ruin in a
cold voice as he turned about. Those who were nearby that still had, or could
master a horse to ride, came to him and cried out.
Vorda, who had gotten separated in battle, heard Eomer’s horn and saw his
standard-bearer holding the King’s banner high. She kicked her horse forth and
joined his host. Among them were some of her sister Shieldmaidens with fire in
their eyes. They wanted vengeance for what they had witnessed… the death of
their King, and Lady Eowyn, and Freja their commander and teacher crushed by
the King’s horse, and the death of many of their sisters.
 
They set off fast into a horde of orcs that were moving toward the city. Swift
was their destruction and they scattered in fear of the wild Rohirrim host as
they drove forth. But confusion and mayhem filled the fields in this hour, for
ill horns were sounded from afar, and a host of Easterlings came at a run from
the north issuing out of the ruins of Osgiliath. They were soon matched by the
fair sound of the horns of Dol Amroth. Eomer and his host had driven far and
had slew their number four fold, but they were now diminished. They had pushed
hard and were to the east of the city nearing the river. They had broken up a
host of Haradian foot soldiers and scattered them, but now they now rallied
around their fell mumakil beasts of war. Few had been felled, and they were
strength uncounted coming against the Rohirrim, and they took their toll.
A Shieldmaiden was trampled, and the standard-bearer of Eomer fell from arrows
coming from high upon a beast. Vorda was thrown when her horse reared up before
a beast and she fell hard. Her head swam as she tried to regain her breath. She
rolled away and kept hold of her horse, and picked up the King’s standard.
Dizzy and hurting she remounted and rode forth to stand by Eomer. It was the
infantry of Gondor that held the ground by the south wall of the city that came
forth to turn the tide again. They showed no fear of the mumakil and they had
long spears that they threw at the eyes of the beasts. When one was hit, they
would turn hard and stomp off mortally wounded away from the men of Gondor. But
this was a gain shortlived. For now the charging Easterlings were now joining
the battle, and the tide was again turning in favour of Mordor.
It was then a wavering cry went up from the city walls. The Corsairs of Umbar!
Hearts sank among the men of Gondor. It could only mean the southern part of
the realm had fallen and they now come to pick spoils from Minas Tirith. Eomer
squinted south and his keen eyes could see the black sails on mighty ships of
which the likes he had never seen before approaching fast. Instead of his
spirit failing, it filled him with a stronger, ever grimmer remorse.
”To Death and the ending of the world!” he cried and it rallied his remaining
riders. But the ships filled the armies of Mordor with joy, and the Easterlings
began a terrible war chant. They had pushed hard with no quarter, and had
pushed their way between the Eomer and the riders of Prince Imrahil. The Prince
had to hold fat and set defence and he slowly fell back toward the city.
Eomer and his diminished host were now alone and surrounded. He swore that if
there could be one last feat he would do, it would be to meet these Corsairs on
the quay and die fighting them. But his numbers had waned and the enemy numbers
swelled. Eomer dismounted and they formed a shield wall on a hillock. Vorda
planted the standard high and true, and they braced for the onslaught of
another Easterling horde coming from the north. With swords clashing and bows
twanging, his archers fought to their last arrow before taking up swords. And
as the last hope of Eomer King was beginning to fade, a cry of joy was raised
from the high walls of the city.
Eomer looked at the approaching ships, and he could see a fine standard in the
sunlight that followed the southerly wind. A silver crown with seven stars and
a white tree emblazoned on a deep blue banner fluttered in the wind. And he was
sure he could discern Aragorn standing on the prow of the lead ship with
Anduril drawn and held high! At the sight of the Corsair ships being manned by
the Grey Company, the enemy wavered and were dismayed. But they fought on with
ever more ferocity in their desperation in a renewed attempt to overrun Eomer’s
hillock stronghold.
At the quays, the ships started landing and the southern armies issued forth.
Aragorn with the Dunedain, the sons of Elrond, Gimli and Legolas, freed slaves,
and some hardy men from Lebannin led the attack and they charged into the
waiting southrons. They quickly overwhelmed the garrison at the docks, and
charged up the wall and out into the field. Aragorn shouted as he pointed to
Eomer and the standard of Rohan with his sword. "To the Rohirrim!”
A yell went up and they charged forth harder into the enemy. There was a mile
of Southron and Easterling footsoldiers between them, and the way was hard and
bloody. For having lost hope in the coming of the men of the west on the ships,
some broke and ran and were hewn as they rant. Still, some few fiercely stood
their ground and fought to the death. The fight was grim and many men fell.
Berendil was nearly hit in the head by a mace, but his skill in movement saved
himself from death. He did suffer a deep gash on his cheekbone that bled hard.
It was hard to keep order, but they slowly made their way toward Eomer.
Meanwhile, from the west, Imrahil again pressed forth toward Eomer, and as the
hours passed with battle unceasing, the Rohirrim on the hillock were relieved.
To see the three standards flying in the breeze on the hillock was a sight to
behold! The meeting of Aragorn and Eomer made hearts glad, and those that stood
cheered and had joy for a brief moment. Hanasian smiled even as he gasped for
breath as he looked upon the three leaders. Berendil joined him and looked
about. His eyes locked onto the eyes of Vorda, and suddenly his breath left
him. Where, he though, was Freja?
Vorda's face was covered in dirt and blood, and rents in her armour were deep
and fierce. He reached his finger out to brush away a clot of dirt stuck to her
check, and for a brief moment she was going to turn away. But instead she stood
in place, tall and proud, holding the banner of the King of Rohan. A slight
touch and the dirt fell to the ground. He was about to ask of Freja when
Aragorn swung his sword, deflecting an arrow that was meant for King Eomer.
Hanasian slapped Berendil on the shoulder and said, ”This fight is not over. We
still have work to do!”
That arrow was a reminder that the fight was still on and that the battle was
uncertain. More arrows rained down and the Rohirrim shields stopped most of
them. The Prince turned and set forth toward the enemy that had rallied and
returned to the fight. Aragorn and Eomer called forth any who were near and
they charged hard into the flank of the regrouping Easterlings. Swords were
broken and helms shattered, and the blood of men, friend and foe, spilled forth
through the air and poured onto the ground. All order was lost and men went
this way and that fighting one on one, two on three, and small groups in melee.
Berendil and Darhias were together as they charged into some Easterlings that
were battling some Rohirrim. Grievous was the blow that felled Halbarad even as
he slew four Easterlings. Macarnil was last seen driving against a large
southron with a spear. Gareth took an Easterling war club in the head while he
fought another and fell hard. Aragorn and Eomer were fierce and few would stand
before them. They joined in a fight some Dunedain and some Rohirrim were having
with a desperate and vicious band of Variags. They fought to the last man. Once
defeated, a chance to take a breath was had.
Berendil gasped for air as he broke off an arrow that had found him. He looked
over to see Darhias wrapping his arm with some torn leather when he was jumped
by a raving orc. He saw Darhias stand victorious. Berendil had no time to nod.
Southron fanatics were charging and he felled one of them before being knocked
back. His head swam as his vision got blurry and hearing muffled. He did not
fall, but staggered toward the Rohirrim standard. He shook his head as his
sword moved as if it had a mind if its own. He turned and twisted, and as his
head started to clear, he realised there was someone that had his back. With a
final blow an orc fell, and there was a lull. He turned to the one at his back
and saw it was Vorda. She had the standard in one hand and a sword in the other
and watched out intently.
He turned and stood at her back and looked out for the enemy, but said with a
wheeze, ”Do you know where Freja is? Have you seen her?”
His words seemed to stun her and her eyes fluttered. She had not seen her, not
since she was with King Theoden. She did not know. She looked around and saw
that only one other sister was still there with her. She did not know where any
of them were. She snapped out of it with the sound of shattering steel . She
turned and stepped swiftly and her sword ran through the Southron that charged
toward Eomer. She said in halting words as she turned to Berendil, ”I do not
know…”
But Berendil did not hear. He was fighting hand-to-hand with an Easterling that
seemed particularly frantic. A solid bash in his head with a rock got him to
fall away, and he stood and waved the few Easterlings alive to him. Berendil
regained his feet, but the Easterlings ran away. They headed for the river. He
pursued them and they ran harder even as the fight continued. It would continue
with varying intensity while the day lasted.
As the sun sank in the west, it threw deep red beams to the east under the
darkness of Mordor. The sky and the ground and the river all looked as if they
were giving up the blood that had been spilled this day. In the hour that night
fell upon the fields of battle, the victory was held by the men of the west!
Those of the enemy who had not been slain had fled, and those of the west who
still stood were exhausted beyond hope. But as the sound of steel fell away,
the sounds of the wounded and dying now filled the air. It would be a long
night before the light of day again came to the field. Only a brief rest was to
be had to regain enough strength to go and find the living among the dead.
Berendil was found sitting by the riverbank with several dead Easterlings
around him. Though he had a severe headache, and his cheek felt like fire, he
waived off attendance to his wound, directing them instead to those in true
need. He went into the night walking about, making the severely wounded men
comfortable in their passing and getting those who would live help to get them
back to the city. As he looked over the dead, he strained to find Freja.
In time he found a Shieldmaiden lying face down with a spear in her back. He
gently pulled the spear out of her, and little blood seeped out. He knelt down
and rolled her over, brushing the loose matted bloody braids from her face. It
was not Freja, but one who had taunted him when he went to see Freja. He could
see that the spear was not the cause of her death, but a blade had hewn her
neck. He lay her straight and folded her arms across her chest. Finding her
sword next to her, he placed the hilt in her hands and nodded as he brushed her
cheek. He then tore a red cloth from the brow of a dead Southron whom she had
slain and tied it to his sword before pushing it into the ground by her. She
would be given her full due in honour.
When the morning light came, Berendil found he had sat down by a dead mumakil
and fallen asleep. What awoke him was the sound of a crow. Then he heard many
crows calling out and talking and clicking and flying here and there. He stood
and looked about. There were several crows flying about over the fields. Here
and there, soldiers were moving the bodies of their dead. They were bringing in
the wounded and setting fire to the enemy dead.
Berendil started walking and searching again. He wondered where in all this
horror was Freja . Did she live? Will he find her dead? He had found five
Shieldmaidens of lesser rank before his grief and weariness overtook him. He
had cared for each in honour, and marked each where they lay as he did the
first, but he saw no sign of Freja. Berendil wandered far and wide across the
fields, searching through the day. As the sun stood high and crawled westward,
Berendil sat upon a patch of bloody grass. He had no more strength. All he
could do is watch over the fields before he lay upon his back and closed his
eyes. As the sun westered, men still searched. The wounded had either been
carried away to the city or have died. They were now searching the dead.
Berendil was shaken by a boot. He slowly opened his eyes and could see a face
he knew. It was Darhias!
”Berendil! We thought you were lost! I feared the worst when I saw you laying
here! Are you wounded?”
Berendil stood and looked around in grief. He answered in a whisper, ”How bad
is it?”
“Really bad. Our company lost Halbarad, and Gareth is in the healer’s tent. He
suffered a hard blow to the head," Darhias answered.
Berendil nodded in grief and they were silent for a time. Darhias then went on,
”Mecarnil is missing as well as you. But it was much worse for the men of
Gondor, for the fight started in Osgiliath. Lord Faramir and his men fell back,
but long did he hold the Rammath Echor. For two days! This was when we met the
enemy at Linhir abd drove them back through Lebennin. Lord Faramir was gravely
wounded the day we took the ships, Lord Denethor died in grief, and the city
was besieged. Their losses have yet to be numbered.”
“What of Rohan? The Shieldmaidens? I have found five dead on the field this
day. Have you seen Freja?”
The grim look on Darhias’s face broke as he said, ”Eomer is now King of Rohan.
The losses are still being counted. Only two of the Shieldmaidens were brought
to the healing tent. They were masters, neither were Freja. Of the others, I do
not know…The Rohhirim...they are inconsolable.”
Darhias was now himself ready to collapse, but Berendil in thought nodded and
said, ”Theoden… where did he fall?”
“There, maybe a mile in front of the city gate.” Berendil squinted into the
distance.
He then said, ”The Shieldmaidens who did not ride with Eomer would have stayed
there!”
Without further word, Berendil started walking that way. Darhias took a deep
breath and said, ”You will find that battlefield by the stench of the Morgul
beast. Even the crows will not feast on its flesh!”
Berendil nodded but did not look back. Grim tidings indeed that Théoden and the
Shieldmaiden with him had fallen to one of the Nazgûl. The Witch-King of Agmar
himself, he'd heard them whisper. He pointed to his left to draw Darhias’s
attention to someone nearby on their knees grieving. Darhias nodded and turned
and walked toward them. As he got closer, he could see it was a Shieldmaiden.
It was Vorda. She was grieving over another fallen Shieldmaiden. Though she did
not look up at Darhias' arrival, she must have sensed his presence all the
same.
Vorda wept as she caressed the cheek of her dead comrade, ”We knew each other
since we were young girls learning to ride. We challenged each other in
everything! We joined the Order together.”
Darhias knelt down beside her and looked at her friend. The wound was to her
side, a deep cut by a spear or sword jab. Looking at her face, she looked at
peace. But when Vorda waved away a fly that tried to land on her, Darhias
thought he saw her move. He blinked, unsure, but when her eyelid twitched, he
stood and called out to a couple soldiers with a cart nearby.
”Come! Bring this warrior to care! Hurry! She lives!” Vorda blinked as he
turned to her and said, ”She is not dead, but her wounds are grave. Let us get
her on this cart.”
The woman had bled much and gave a moan as she was moved. The  medic looked at
her wounds and was surprised she still lived as well. She was placed with care
on the cart with other gravely wounded, and the soldiers started to look for
others.
Vorda then said forcefully, ”No! Take her in! Now! She is not dead! I will take
her in. You go look for others!”
The soldiers looked at her, then to Darhias. He nodded and waved them on. It
was a fight they didn’t need or want. Vorda lifted the cart and started to
walk, but she was fatigued beyond her strength. Darhias was as well, but he
relieved Vorda of one of the rails, and they both walked the cart toward the
city. Berendil came to where the beast lay, and the grass was stained black
with its blood. The dead were being moved and the enemy dead were being stacked
by the beast. He looked at the corpses of the Rohirrim lying side by side,
seeing only a few more Shieldmaidens there. None were Freja. She remained one
of many of the missing. Berendil looked closely at the dead Shieldmaidens, and
recognised some of them from that day in Dunharrow.
He looked at each, determined to remember their faces even if he could not know
their names.
Suddenly he heard a man behind him ranting in anger as he stomped forth… ”Why
have these horses not been attended to!”
“They are dead, sir. We tend to the warriors ,” A Gondorian soldier said.
The man of Rohan gritted his teeth and said loudly, ”These horses are no less
warrior than you or I! We will tend to them now! This horse over here… it is
the King’s horse!”
Berendil looked over at the horse, lying crumpled but flat with another horse
next to it. It was then he noticed a boot just under it. He knew that boot.
Suddenly a vision he had in the Paths of the Dead filled his head and he feared
the worst.
He called out, ”There is a warrior under the horses! Let us move them!”
Two soldiers from Gondor and the man from Rohan quickly came over. The four
worked to move the grey horse and rolled it off the body. Berendil’s heart sank
into his boots. The bootleg and breeches he recognised! He lay down and tried
to look under Snowmane but could see little more than a second mangled bloody
leg. He reached under and felt the ankle. It was shattered, but it still
trickled fresh , warm blood!
He sat out and cried, ”They are alive!”
This was not now heard on the field, for it had been over a day. So the cry
drew several of the soldiers who heard.
The man from Rohan ordered, ”Let us move this honoured horse with care so we
may tend this valiant warrior if they indeed be alive!”
Snowmane was a heavy horse, and with the kingly raiment, weighed much. It
wasn’t until another rider of Rohan came with his horse that they could move
the horse. Berendil could now see the hair… the matted braids and torcs, and he
knew it was Freja! It took many men to lift Snowmane, and as the horse was
moved, she made an dreadful gurgling noise. Blood streamed from her mouth and
nose as she coughed, but she still somehow managed to shallowly breathe.
Berendil cried out, ”She lives! Freja Lives!”
He stood and waved for a cart, but there was none. But as the cry started going
up among the Rohirrim, repeating Berendil’s words, ”Freja Lives!”
The refrain spread across the field. The chant reached Vorda and Darhias as
they trudged toward the gates, and Vorda was filled with joy. Darhias too
smiled and they cheered!
”They need a cart! Come! Let us go!” Vorda cried, and Darhias could see that
they were the closest with a cart, so they wheeled around and started toward
where the men were gathering.
Freja stirred painfully and attempted to speak but could say nothing.
Berendil knelt down and whispered to her, ”We will get you to Aragorn! He is a
great healer!”
Freja’s eyes rolled beneath her eyelids and one opened slightly. She could see
only blurs, and all sounds were muffled in her ears. Someone was leaning over
her and the pain was beyond excruciating.
She forced the words past her lips, straining to make them clear, ”…Theoden…
Eowyn…”
“Shhh…. Say no more… Lady Eowyn is in the city. She lives,” Berendil whispered.
He wasn’t sure of that, but thought he heard someone say it was true.
He could not say what the fate of King Theoden was. Her eyes closed and she let
out a rattling breath as Vorda and Darhias came up. Vorda ran over to Freja and
knelt down to her. Her eyes opened and if there was a smile, she had one.
Freja's hand twitched before she fell senseless again. Likely a blessing given
the terrible state she was in.  Berendil looked over Freja’s broken body and
was not sure how she could be moved.
A Gondorian medic had arrived at the cart, and he said, ”Two here, if they
lived at the time, are now dead."
He signalled to have the dead placed with the line of corpses, and Vorda was
torn between staying with Freja and running to her old friend. Darhias looked
and saw that her friend still lived, and waved to Vorda. She turned back to
Freja, and Darhias helped removed the dead Gondorians. Berendil saw to it that
Freja was lifted with aiThe battle upon the Pelennor had been raging through
the day and the outcome was at best uncertain. The arrival of the Rohirrim had
raised hopes, but with the fall of King Theoden and the heavy casualties
suffered, the situation was now in question. Eomer, new King of Rohan, in his
grief at finding his sister dead on the battlefield, blew loud a horn and cried
out for death and ruin in a cold voice as he turned about. Those who were
nearby that still had, or could master a horse to ride, came to him and cried
out. Vorda, who had gotten separated in battle, heard Eomer’s horn and saw his
standardbearer holding the King’s banner high. She kicked her horse forth and
joined his host. Among them were some of her sister shieldmaidens with fire in
their eyes. They wanted vengeance for what they had witnessed… the death of
their King, and Lady Eowyn, and Freja their commander and teacher crushed by
the King’s horse, and the death of many of their sisters. They set off fast
into a horde of orcs that were moving toward the city.

Swift was their destruction and they scattered in fear of the wild Rohirrim
host as they drove forth. But confusion and mayhem filled the fields in this
hour, for ill horns were sounded from afar, and a host of Easterlings came at a
run from the north issuing out of the ruins of Osgiliath. They were soon
matched by the fair sound of the horns of Dol Amroth. Eomer and his host had
driven far and had slew their number four fold, but they were now diminished.
They had pushed hard and were to the east of the city nearing the river. They
had broken up a host of Haradian foot soldiers and scattered them, but now they
now rallied around their fell mumakil beasts of war. Few had been felled, and
they were strength uncounted coming against the Rohirrim, and they took their
toll. A shieldmaiden was trampled, and the standardbearer of Eomer fell from
arrows coming from high upon a beast. Vorda was thrown when her horse reared up
before a beast and she fell hard. Her head swam as she tried to regain her
breath. She rolled away and kept hold of her horse, and picked up the King’s
standard. Dizzy and hurting she remounted and rode forth to stand by Eomer.

It was the infantry of Gondor that held the ground by the south wall of the
city that came forth to turn the tide again. They showed no fear of the mumakil
and they had long spears that they threw at the eyes of the beasts. When one
was hit, they would turn hard and stomp off mortally wounded away from the men
of Gondor. But this was a gain shortlived. For now the charging Easterlings
were now joining the battle, and the tide was again turning in favour of
Mordor.

It was then a wavering cry went up from the city walls. The Corsairs of Umbar!
Hearts sank among the men of Gondor. It could only mean the southern part of
the realm had fallen and they now come to pick spoils from Minas Tirith. Eomer
squinted south and his keen eyes could see the black sails on mighty ships of
which the likes he had never seen before approaching fast. Instead of his
spirit failing, it filled him with a stronger, ever grimmer remorse.

”To Death and the ending of the world!”

he cried and it rallied his remaining riders. But the ships filled the armies
of Mordor with joy, and the Easterlings began a terrible war chant. They had
pushed hard with no quarter, and had pushed their way between the Eomer and the
riders of Prince Imrahil. The Prince had to hold fat and set defence and he
slowly fell back toward the city. Eomer and his diminished host were now alone
and surrounded. He swore that if there could be one last feat he would do, it
would be to meet these Corsairs on the quay and die fighting them. But his
numbers had waned and the enemy numbers swelled. Eomer dismounted and they
formed a shield wall on a hillock. Vorda planted the standard high and true,
and they braced for the onslaught of another Easterling horde coming from the
north.

With swords clashing and bows twanging, his archers fought to their last arrow
before taking up swords. And as the last hope of Eomer King was beginning to
fade, a cry of joy was raised from the high walls of the city. Eomer looked at
the approaching ships, and he could see a fine standard in the sunlight that
followed the southerly wind. A silver crown with seven stars and a white tree
emblazoned on a deep blue banner fluttered in the wind. And he was sure he
could discern Aragorn standing on the prow of the lead ship with Anduril drawn
and held high!

At the sight of the Corsair ships being manned by the Grey Company, the enemy
wavered and were dismayed. But they fought on with ever more ferocity in their
desperation in a renewed attempt to overrun Eomer’s hillock stronghold. At the
quays, the ships started landing and the southern armies issued forth. Aragorn
with the Dunedain, the sons of Elrond, Gimli and Legolas, freed slaves, and
some hardy men from Lebannin led the attack and they charged into the waiting
southrons. They quickly overwhelmed the garrison at the docks, and charged up
the wall and out into the field. Aragorn shouted as he pointed to Eomer and the
standard of Rohan with his sword.

’To the Rohirrim!”

A yell went up and they charged forth harder into the enemy. There was a mile
of Southron and Easterling footsoldiers between them, and the way was hard and
bloody. For having lost hope in the coming of the men of the west on the ships,
some broke and ran and were hewn as they rant. Still, some few fiercely stood
their ground and fought to the death. The fight was grim and many men fell.
Berendil was nearly hit in the head by a mace, but his skill in movement saved
himself from death. He did suffer a deep gash on his cheekbone that bled hard.
It was hard to keep order, but they slowly made their way toward Eomer.

Meanwhile, from the west, Imrahil again pressed forth toward Eomer, and as the
hours passed with battle unceasing, the Rohirrim on the hillock were relieved.
To see the three standards flying in the breeze on the hillock was a sight to
behold! The meeting of Aragorn and Eomer made hearts glad, and those that stood
cheered and had joy for a brief moment. Hanasian smiled even as he gasped for
breath as he looked upon the three leaders. Berendil joined him and looked
about. His eyes locked onto the eyes of Vorda, and suddenly his breath left
him.‘Where was Freja?’ he thought as he looked at Vorda. Her face was covered
in dirt and blood, and rents in her armour were deep and fierce. He reached his
finger out to brush away a clot of dirt stuck to her check, and for a brief
moment she was going to turn away. But instead she stood in place, tall and
proud, holding the banner of the King of Rohan. A slight touch and the dirt
fell to the ground. He was about to ask of Freja when Aragorn swung his sword,
deflecting an arrow that was meant for King Eomer. Hanasian slapped Berendil on
the shoulder and said,

”This fight is not over. We still have work to do!”

That arrow was a reminder that the fight was still on and that the battle was
uncertain. More arrows rained down and the Rohirrim shields stopped most of
them. The Prince turned and set forth toward the enemy that had rallied and
returned to the fight. Aragorn and Eomer called forth any who were near and
they charged hard into the flank of the regrouping Easterlings.

Swords were broken and helms shattered, and the blood of men, friend and foe,
spilled forth through the air and poured onto the ground. All order was lost
and men went this way and that fighting one on one, two on three, and small
groups in melee. Berendil and Darhias were together as they charged into some
Easterlings that were battling some Rohirrim. Grievous was the blow that felled
Halbarad even as he slew four Easterlings. Macarnil was last seen driving
against a large southron with a spear. Gareth took an Easterling war club in
the head while he fought another and fell hard. Aragorn and Eomer were fierce
and few would stand before them. They joined in a fight some Dunedain and some
Rohirrim were having with a desperate and vicious band of Variags. They fought
to the last man. Once defeated, a chance to take a breath was had. Berendil
gasped for air as he broke off an arrow that had found him. He looked over to
see Darhias wrapping his arm with some torn leather when he was jumped by a
raving orc. He saw Darhias stand victorious. Berendil had no time to nod.
Southron fanatics were charging and he felled one of them before being knocked
back. His head swam as his vision got blurry and hearing muffled. He did not
fall, but staggered toward the Rohirrim standard. He shook his head as his
sword moved as if it had a mind if its own. He turned and twisted, and as his
head started to clear, he realised there was someone that had his back. With a
final blow an orc fell, and there was a lull. He turned to the one at his back
and saw it was Vorda. She had the standard in one hand and a sword in the other
nd watched out intently. He turned and stood at her back and looked out for the
enemy, but said with a wheeze,

” Do you know where Freja is? Have you seen her?”

His words seemed to stun her and her eyes fluttered. She had not seen her, not
since she was with King Theoden. She did not know. She looked around and saw
that only one other sister was still there with her. She did not know where any
of them were. She snapped out of it with the sound of shattering steel . She
turned and stepped swiftly and her sword ran through the Southron that charged
toward Eomer. She said in halting words as she turned to Berendil,

”I do not know…”

But Berendil did not hear. He was fighting hand-to-hand with an Easterling that
seemed particularly frantic. A solid bash in his head with a rock got him to
fall away, and he stood and waved the few Easterlings alive to him. Berendil
regained his feet, but the Easterlings ran away. They headed for the river. He
pursued them and they ran harder even as the fight continued. It would continue
with varying intensity while the day lasted.

As the sun sank in the west, it threw deep red beams to the east under the
darkness of Mordor. The sky and the ground and the river all looked as if they
were giving up the blood that had been spilled this day. In the hour that night
fell upon the fields of battle, the victory was held by the men of the west!
Those of the enemy who had not been slain had fled, and those of the west who
still stood were exhausted beyond hope. But as the sound of steel fell away,
the sounds of the wounded and dying now filled the air. It would be a long
night before the light of day again came to the field. Only a brief rest was to
be had to regain enough strength to go and find the living among the dead.

Berendil was found sitting by the riverbank with several dead Easterlings
around him. Though he had a severe headache, and his cheek felt like fire, he
waived off attendance to his wound, directing them instead to those in true
need. He went into the night walking about, making the severely wounded men
comfortable in their passing and getting those who would live help to get them
back to the city. As he looked over the dead, he strained to find Freja. In
time he found a shieldmaiden lying face down with a spear in her back. He
gently pulled the spear out of her, and little blood seeped out. He knelt down
and rolled her over, brushing the loose matted bloody braids from her face. It
was not Freja, but one who had taunted him when he went to see Freja. He could
see that the spear was not the cause of her death, but a blade had hewn her
neck. He lay her straight and folded her arms across her chest. Finding her
sword next to her, he placed the hilt in her hands and nodded as he brushed her
cheek. He then tore a red cloth from the brow of a dead Southron whom she had
slain and tied it to his sword before pushing it into the ground by her. She
would be given her full due in honour.
 
When the morning light came, Berendil found he had sat down by a dead mumakil
and fell asleep. What awoke him was the sound of a crow. Then he heard many
crows calling out and talking and clicking and flying here and there. He stood
and looked about. There were several crows flying about over the fields. Here
and there, soldiers were moving the bodies of their dead. They were bringing in
the wounded and setting fire to the enemy dead. Berendil started walking and
searching again. He wondered where in all this that Freja was. Did she live?
Will he find her dead? He had found five shieldmaidens of lesser rank before
his grief and weariness overtook him. He had cared for each in honour, and
marked each where they lay as he did the first. But he saw no sign of Freja.
Berendil wandered far and wide across the fields, searching through the day. As
the sun stood high and crawled westward, Berendil sat upon a patch of bloody
grass. He had no more strength. All he could do is watch over the fields before
he lay upon his back and closed his eyes.

As the sun westered, men still searched. The wounded had either been carried
away to the city or have died. They were now searching the dead. Berendil was
shaken by a boot. He slowly opened his eyes and could see a face he knew. It
was Darhias!

”Berendil! We thought you were lost! I feared the worst when I saw you laying
here! Are you wounded?”

Berendil stood and looked around in grief. He answered in a whisper,

”How bad?”
“Really bad. Our company lost Halbarad, and Gareth is in the healer’s tent. He
suffered a hard blow to the head…

Darhias answered. Berendil nodded in grief and they were silent for a time.
Darhias then went on,

”Macarnil is missing as well as you. But it was much worse for the men of
Gondor, for the fight started in Osgiliath. Lord Faramir and his men fell back,
but long did he hold the Rammath Echor. For two days! This was when we met the
enemy at Linhir abd drove them back through Lebennin. Lord Faramir was gravely
wounded the day we took the ships, Lord Denethor died in grief, and the city
was besieged. Their losses have yet to be numbered.”

“What of Rohan? The Shieldmaidens? I have found five dead on the field this
day. Have you seen Freja?”

The grim look on Darhias’s face broke as he said,

”Eomer is now King of Rohan. The losses are still being counted. Only two of
the Shieldmaidens were brought to the healing tent. They were masters, but
Freja was not one. Of the others, I do not know….”

Darhias was now himself ready to collapse, but Berendil in thought nodded and
said,

”Theoden… where did he fall?”
“There, maybe a mile in front of the city gate.”

Berendil squinted into the distance. He then said,

”The Shieldmaidens who did not ride with Eomer would have stayed there!”

Without further word, Berendil started walking that way. Darhias took a deep
breath and said,

”You will find that battlefield by the stench of the Morgul beast. Even the
crows will not feast on its flesh!”

Berendil nodded but did not look back. He pointed to his left to draw Darhias’s
attention to someone nearby on their knees grieving. Darhias nodded and turned
and walked toward them. As he got closer, he could see it was a Shieldmaiden.
It was Vorda. She was grieving over another fallen Shieldmaiden. As he
approached, she did not look up at him, but knew he was there. She said as she
cried and caressed the cheek of her dead comrade,

”We knew each other since we were young girls learning to ride. We challenged
each other in everything! We joined the Order together.”

Darhias knelt down beside her and looked at her friend. The wound was to her
side, a deep cut by a spear or sword jab. Looking at her face, she looked at
peace. But when Vorda waved away a fly that tried to land on her, Darhias
thought he saw her move. He blinked, unsure, but when her eyelid twitched, he
stood and called out to a couple soldiers with a cart nearby,

”Come! Bring this heroine to care! Hurry! She lives!”

Vorda blinked as he turned to her and said,

”She is not dead, but her wounds are grave. Let us get her on this cart.”

The woman had bled much and gave a moan as she was moved. The soldier medic
looked at her wounds and was surprised she still lived as well. She was placed
with care on the cart with other gravely wounded, and the soldiers started to
look for others. Vorda then said forcefully,

”No! Take her in! Now! She is not dead! I will take her in. You go look for
others!”

The soldiers looked at her, then to Darhias. He nodded and waved them on. It
was a fight they didn’t need or want. Vorda lifted the cart and started to
walk, but she was fatigued beyond her strength. Darhias was as well, but he
relieved Vorda of one of the rails, and they both walked the cart toward the
city.

Berendil came to where the beast lay, and the grass was stained black with its
blood. The dead were being moved and the enemy dead were being stacked by the
beast. He looked at the corpses of the Rohirrim lying side by side, seeing only
a few more Shieldmaidens there. None were Freja. She was one of many of the
missing.

Berendil looked closely at the dead shieldmaidens, and recognised some of them
from that day in Dunharrow. He looked at each and would remember their faces.
Suddenly he heard a man behind him ranting in anger as he stomped forth…

”Why have these fine horses not been attended to!”

“They are dead, sir. We tend to the dead soldiers.”

A Gondorian soldier said. The man of Rohan gritted his teeth and said loudly,
”These horses deserve the same as their riders! We will tend to them now! This
horse over here… it is the King’s horse!”

Berendil looked over at the horse, lying crumpled but flat with another horse
next to it. It was then he noticed a boot just under it. He knew that boot.
Suddenly a vision he had in the Paths of the Dead filled his head and he feared
the worst.
He called out, ”There is a soldier under these horses! Let us move them!”

Two soldiers from Gondor and the man from Rohan quickly came over. The four
worked to move the grey horse and rolled it off the body. Berendil’s heart sank
into his boots. The bootleg and breeches he recognised! He lay down and tried
to look under Snowmane but could see little more than a second mangled bloody
leg. He reached under and felt the ankle. It was shattered, but it still
trickled fresh blood! He sat out and cried,

”They are alive!”

This was not now heard on the field, for it had been over a day. So the cry
drew several of the soldiers who heard. The man from Rohan ordered,

”Let us move this honoured horse with care so we may tend this valiant warrior
if they indeed be alive!”

Snowmane was a heavy horse, and with the kingly raiment, weighed much. It
wasn’t until another rider of Rohan came with his horse that they could move
the horse. Berendil could now see the hair… the matted braids and torcs, and he
knew it was Freja! It took several men to lift Snowmane, and as the horse was
moved, she made an ill gurgling noise. Blood spewed from her mouth and nose as
she coughed, but she still took very short breaths. Berendil cried out,

”She lives! Freja Lives!”
He stood and waved for a cart, but there was none. But as the cry started going
up among the Rohirrim, repeating Berendil’s words,

”Freja Lives!”
It spread across the field. The chant reached Vorda and Darhias as they trudged
toward the gates, and Vorda was filled with joy. Darhias too smiled and they
cheered!

”They need a cart! Come! Let us go!”

Vorda cried, and Darhias could see that they were the closest with a cart, so
they wheeled around and started toward where the men were gathering. All
thought of exhaustion had left them, and they moved swiftly.

Freja was moving her mouth but no words came. Berendil knelt down and whispered
to her,

”We will get you to Aragorn! He is a great healer!”

Freja’s eyes moved and one opened slightly. She could see only blurs, and all
sounds were muffled in her ears. She forced herself to say words to the one who
leaned over her…

”…Theoden… Eowyn…”

“Shhh…. Say no more… Lady Eowyn is in the city. She lives”

Berendil whispered. He wasn’t sure of that, but thought he heard someone say it
was true. He could not say what the fate of King Theoden was. Her eyes closed
and she let out a breath as Vorda and Darhias came up. Vorda ran over to Freja
and knelt down to her. He eyes opened and if there was a smile, she had one.
Freja tried to move her hand but grimaced in pain, and she fell into
unconsciousness. Berendil saw to it that Freja was lifted with painstaking care
and she was laid upon the cart. The two Shieldmaidens were covered with a
blanket from a horse, and Berendil joined Darhias in a rail of the cart. Vorda
soon joined them after finding the fallen banner of their order. She walked in
front holding the banner high, while the two Dunedain drew the cart.

”Make way for the Shieldmaidens!”  Darhias cried out.
Berendil repeated the cry, and they kept calling out in turn as they progressed
toward the city gates. By the time they arrived, the path was lined with
soldiers and citizens, and they bowed their heads as the cart passed. They were
about to turn to the tent that had been set up for the wounded when a High
Guard of the Citadel stepped forward. He was helmless with a bandage around his
head and his arm, but was on duty manning the gate.
He 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, and he walked forth ahead of Vorda, crying
out, ”Make way for the Shieldmaidens!”

It was with much honour that the three shieldmaidens came in to the city of
Minas Tirith, and once they came to the doors of the Healing House, they were
tended to with great care. Vorda stayed with her master and her friend, both
near death. As far as she knew, she was the only living Shieldmaiden here. And
she was unscathed! Darhias and Berendil stood by the door silently watching.
Berendil’s eyes were on Freja. The expressions of the healers said that their
wounds were critical, but there was slim hope. There had to be.

They were interrupted by a familiar voice. It was Hanasian.

”There you are. You are needed at our camp.”

Darhias turned and said, Yeah? Who put you in charge?”

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

Berendil asked, Where’s Mecarnil?”

“Not sure. He is missing as well. With the finding of you two, that makes him
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 allowed 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 Healing House, and Halbarad who was slain, they were now complete. Both
Berendil and Darhias lay down on the ground, and both gave in to their long
fatigue.
***** Chapter 6 *****
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 sudden 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 at this, ”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 flicker of an eyelid from the Shieldmaiden 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. Steps, a familiar gait, sounded in the hall beyond and
Berendil closed his eyes as Vorda strode into the room.

”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 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 will 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, even when I thought she wasn’t.”

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, silently.

”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 notoriously
difficult to read. Rather than debate the matter with Mecarnil, Berendil
answered, ”She loves Freja, Mecarnil. 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.
The ride from Minas Tirith was at first filled with talk, but as they
approached the causeway, there were few words spoken. When they arrived at
Osgiliath, it was for the most part a smouldering ruin. Yet many soldiers of
Gondor who pursued the retreating armies were now busy repairing the bridges
and works that Mordor had hastily set in place during their attack.
Berendil looked upon the ruins and said, ”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 would have been in their day.”

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

Darhias rode apart from the others, and 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
was going to smile at him. If there was more he did not know.

As the sun westered, the foot soldiers made camp, 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, only sign that they had been. A corpse here, a shield there, and
a well-trodden road from their retreat. After scouting the north and south
roads, the reports were the same.

It was Hanasian Berendil , and Darhias that were sent east toward Minas Morgul.
With them were 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. When the order was given to burn the
bridge, Berendil stepped forth.

”I will do this.”

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

Hanasian and Darhias, each watching the flanks, cried out, ”For Gondor, Rohan,
and Arnor!”

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

The show of defiant strength lifted the spirits for a time, but the grim air of
Mordor seemed to close in on them. When they set out the next day, Berendil
volunteered to take the point and scout ahead, and again, Hanasian and Darhias
followed next some ways behind. To the sides, some Ithilien Rangers moved
through the bush on foot, all keeping a wary eye.

 It was the next day when scouts from Henneth Annun came to warn of an ambush.
It was the stealthy Dunedain horsemen accompanied by several riders of Rohan
that rode out away west and came around by hard tracks to spring the trap on
the would-be entrappers when they moved against the vanguard of foot soldiers
coming up the road. The fight was intense but shortlived. The enemy fled in
total defeat, with only two men of the west suffering any injury. Darhias was
one who had gained a slash on his leg from a broken branch shard. Hejoked while
Berendil dressed the wound that maybe he needed to go back to the Houses of
Healing. Right now, his mind was clearly back there trying to see Vorda. But
his humour was lost on Berendil. He grimly finished and turned to see if others
were hurt. His mind was clearly thinking of Freja. But there was no time to
think of those in Minas Tirith. Any heartening from this victory quickly faded.
For every mile north they went, it felt like the hand of doom pressed in. It
grew heavier as they passed into the desolate brown lands.

Darhias was now silent. His great efforts to keep light had all but spent
itself. Now, many of the young soldiers who he had talked to days before on the
road in less hostile country looked to him and the Dunedain for strength.
Berendil and Darhias looked at each other silently. Maybe they both had the
same thought. What of the shieldmaidens were here? Berendil thought that
somehow, Freja would be leading them right with King Eomer. They stood tall and
unflinching as Aragorn gave those whose will was withering a duty. Those young
faces who stared hard at Darhias and Berendil, at Hanasian and Macarnil, took
heart in their grim duty and chose to carry on.

For the Dunedain, they followed their chieftain and King, there was no other
duty.They had followed him through the Paths of the Dead, and they will follow
him down the throat of Mordor.Yet it had been nearly a week since they left
Minas Tirith, and Berendil silently wondered if Freja yet lived. It pushed him
on with evermore embittered determination. He did not let the thought of what
they were doing get in the way, but instead, kept thoughts of Freja and their
first meet and spar in his head. If she has now died, 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. And with the news of the fate of the halflings, Berendil’s grip upon the
hilt of his sword tightened. He gave Hanasian and Darhias a look, and their
faces had the same grim determination. They had resigned themselves to this
hour, and it was about to break.

The rush from the gates was intense, but even here in this wasteland, the
terrain proved to be their friend. The orcs bogged down in the muddy quagmire
that was before the hills they had formed their defence upon. But it only
delayed the inevetible. Huge trolls waded forth through the sludge, and the
multitudes of orcs spread around and started to encircle them. Berendil also
saw the Easterlings issuing forth from outside the gates and sweeping around to
hit their left flank. The ring of steel was now at hand and the fight quickly
turned into mayhem.

”I guess it was all just a real dream…”

Berendil yelled as he slew a charging orc. Darhias had his back and shouted,
”For the shieldmaidens!”

Berendil yelled again as they battled. Slowly they were waning. The trolls took
their toll on the front of their stronghold, and now all order had been lost.
It was full melee , though a lull had allowed Darhias and Berendil to regain
their footing.
Berendil said to him, ”Let’s attack!”

Darhias took a breath and the two stood and set forth into a line of
Easterlings coming fast. Some few of the other men nearby joined them, and the
fight grew in intensity. Darhias was hit with a spear and fell back, Berendil
now was alone and stood by his friend. He fought hard before he was hit in the
head with something blunt. The skies lit up in red and orange and the ground
shook with violence. Berendil fell to his knees and wondered what he was hit
with to cause all that. Someone was shouting about Eagles and h ehot stench of
burning rock filled his nose. Why he wasn’t finished he did not know, for the
enemy all seemed to stop and turn before many fled. An Easterling rand for him
with his axe lifted high, but Berendil’s head spun dizzy. He weakly lifted his
sword to fend off the blow, but the Easterling looked into his eyes and pulled
up.
He didn’t drop his axe, but as Berendil raised his sword over his head, the
Easterling stepped back in amazement and began to turn and run,”You better run
before Freja and the Shieldmaidens get here!”

The Easterling paused at the name, as if familiar to him, and looked back. Yes,
a week ago on the Pelennor Fields! He wasn’t sure as his head swam, but the
Easterling had a very familiar look to him. The Easterling finally turned, and
with another ran into the dust and gloom. He considered running after him like
he did before, but the ground shook so hard he fell forward in exhaustion,
certain he was dead.

His eye opened and the light hurt his head. He was lying on his back on some
green grass, and he reached for his head. It was well bandaged but it still
throbbed.

”You’re lucky. All you got is a big welt on your hard skull.”

Berendil looked up and standing there leaning on a crooked branch was Darhilas.
Berendil said, ”You live! I saw you fall!”

“Yes, I did. I got it in the 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 said.
Berendil stood up and held on to Darhias to keep from falling over. He looked
around before saying, ”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. We got to rest
here by the calming sounds of the river."

Darhias paused before saying, "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… it seems 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 worked out the stiffness in his arms and legs. He seemed to be whole
other than his head wound. For now, he could live with a headache.
He asked, "Where is Aragorn?”

“You mean our King? He is in the healing tents”

Darhias answered. Berendil started to walk that way.
Darhias said, You aren’t hurt that bad”

“I just need to talk to him.”

They both sought Aragorn out, and Berendil did not have to ask what he wished
for.
As soon as Aragorn saw him, he came and said, ”It is well you are up. We have
had victory thanks to the halflings Frodo and Sam. But there is much to do. Can
you ride?”

“Yes, m’lord,” Berendil answered.
Aragorn nodded and said, Good, I have need to get messages to Minas Tirith, and
I am told you have ample reason to seek a speedy return to the city."

“Yes.. I…” Berendil stammered, at a loss for words.
Aragorn nodded and said, "You get the fastest horse and go. Have them send any
who has skill in healing if they have mastered the wounded from Pelennor.”

“Yes m’Lord!”

Berendil turned and ran off. He felt a bit dizzy but he readied his own horse
and prepared to ride anyway.
Darhias limped up and said, "I wish I was going with you, but I can’t ride.
Give my regards to Vorda if you see her.”

“I will. Fare thee well til we meet again my friend!” Berendil said as he set
out upon a ferry to Cair Andros and then to the west.
Once there he rode hard south as far as he could ere the sun set.
***** Chapter 7 *****
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.

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 import 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.
***** Chapter 8 *****
Searching the depths of Mordor was something few men could do. How it came that
he, Hanasian of the Dunedain of the North, found himself searching and breaking
the foundations of Barad Dur he did not know. Yet there he was. Sauron was
truly gone, and there were many who were trapped in bondage in the depths.
Hanasian freed them, but to what their broken minds would find in this sudden
change of fate he could not guess. But the signs were too clear, even if vague.
There was nothing more he could do here now. He gave the order for all to
gather for the night, and after they had another uneasy rest in the fumes of
Mordor, they started their long road back toward Gondor as soon as it was
light.

When Hanasian and his party arrived at Cormallen fields, they were tired.
Hanasian sought out the Dunedain camp and was ready for a long sleep. But it
seemed as soon as he was asleep, a summons came from Chieftain Aragorn.
Hanasian arose and nodded.
Mecarnil who was also there, said after the messenger left, ”I was glad to only
go up to the Morgul Vale and to Minas Morgul, for it spared me from going into
Mordor, and to what is left of Barad Dur. But you have only arrived and a
summons comes from our ‘Chieftain’. “

Hanasian stood and stretched and said offhandedly, ”He likely wants a report on
what we found in Mordor.”

Macarnll chuckled slightly before saying, ”You know that most have been
referring to our Chieftain as King for some few days now. I’m sure it’s just a
formality and all, and he is our Chieftain until such time he declares himself
as King in Minas Tirith and Steward Imrahil, or if he lives still, Steward
Faramir receives him. But I don’t think he has used the title of Chieftain
officially amongst us since he declared himself to the Dead."

Hanasian shrugged as he prepared to leave the tent, "I don’t pay much mind to
such matters. Be Aragorn summon me as Chieftain or King, as he is indeed both,
I will go, even if I am sleeping while I walk.”

Macarnil nodded and waved Hanasian off. He was going to gain some sleep
himself.

Hanasian found Aragorn standing outside his tent alone in thought. He quickly
waved Hanasian inside. Hanasian gave a detailed report on what they found in
Mordor, and also what he didn’t find. It seened to distress Aragorn, but not
surprise him. After they talked at length, Aragorn grew silent for a time but
he did not give Hanasian leave.
He said quietly, My friend, It is sad that we have not had the time serving
together in the north since you became a Ranger, but Halbarad had only praise
of you and all the young Dunedain.”

“Halbarad is deeply missed. I learned much from him, and from my first
commander Elendur,” Hanasian replied.
Aragorn nodded sadly before he went on, ”With the war over and evil abated, I
am giving all my Dunedain brethren the option to return home and find a life
that has been unknown since the days of Arnor. What are your plans Hanasian?”

Hanasian swallowed at that, "I have not thought much about it. I may go see my
mother and sister for a while. Other than that, I have no plans.

Aragorn looked long and hard at Hanasian before he asked, Would you consider
continuing to serve the Chieftain?”

Hanasian cleared his throat as he looked hard at Aragorn, and reading his face,
he said, ”Whatever the Chieftain may need of me, I am at his service.”

“Yes. You perceive my thoughts clearly,” Aragorn said quietly. "There will be
needs of the kingdom that the King will not be able to request. Still, there
will be needs. Though the long fight against the Dark Lord has come to a
successful end, if only all evil would have dissipated as well. But there is
still much to do. For the most part, there will be peace, yet there will be
many a warlord that will rise from the ashes of Mordor’s defeat in Rhun, Harad,
and Khand. We also know that the elf Naiore Dannan had some part in this war,
and we have no clue where she may be now. With this ageless meddler still on
the loose, who can say what ill may come.”

There was silence for some time before Aragorn went on, :There will be peace,
and the kingdom will be ordered, but we will have to be vigilant.”

 Hanasian said, "I think I understand. M’Lord, did you know my father?”

Aragorn looked away with a pained face before nodding. Hanasian then asked, ”Is
he why you ask me to do this task?”

Aragorn walked about a few steps before answering. He said, "Were your father
here now, he would most gladly take on this role. Yet if he were here I could
not trust him with this. His restraint was at times lacking. I think you know
this since you served under Elendur. It is because I trust your judgement and
ability to handle this. I believe you have the right amount of restraint, but
also will be a good leader of men. As your Chieftain and friend, I ask you if
you are willing to do this. If not, then I will ask another.”

“As I said, I will do what my friend, Chieftain, and King ask of me. I will do
this willingly,” Hanasian said standing tall. Already his mind was working on
how to organise this.
Aragorn nodded and said, ”I am relieved to hear you say that. We will talk
further before we ride to Minas Tirith.”

Hanasian gave a nod and turned to leave. He stepped out into the sun and headed
back to the Dunedain camp.

For the next several days Hanasian kept for the most part to himself. He wrote
a lot and considered many ways to fulfil what Aragorn had set before him. He
talked with most of the Dunedain to find out how they were doing and what they
planned to do now that the great victory had been won. Most had little thought
other than to relax and enjoy the days without war and battle. But Hanasian
marked the ones that had a look in their eye. They, like he, would have trouble
in a world of ignorant peace. His thoughts considered the other veterans of the
war. There would be those from Gondor, Rohan, and Dale. Hanasian will not have
to actively seek them out, but he would keep his eyes open to all possible
people that would give his pending company what it would need. Hanasian also
would have to be very careful who he chose

When the time came for Aragorn to go to Minas Tirith, Hanasian already had
worked out the framework. Making full use of the free hand he was given to work
with, he had already had a cadre of soldiers that would likely make the basis
of his company. As they travelled back to Minas Tirith, Hanasian talked long
with many of the Gondorians. The Ithilien Rangers and the hardy men from the
southern provinces which saw the Grey Company ride forth with the Dead would
most likely be open to what he would have to say. Many of them would join, they
just didn’t know it yet. Hanasian considered many of the men of Minas Tirith,
but realised they would be less keen to join, for they would want to remain in
royal service. But there were so many with that long stare. Hanasian would have
to further consider those whom he had considered in his head after they got to
Minas Tirith and things settled. Right now, it would be a time of celebrations
and laughter, but his tracking of Naiore Dannan had already started.

Darhias was both excited and nervous about arriving in Minas Tirith. Would he
find Vorda well, and will his friend Berendil be tending to a recovering Freja?
He was also thinking about being able to walk again without aid. He was sure he
was well on his way of doing so, but he would always have a stagger in his step
for the rest of his days. When Hanasian asked him what he would do now, that
was about all he thought of. Any thought of walking free again in the rugged
forests of Rhuadur was only a distant consideration to him. Maybe one day, but
right now, they were approaching the White city.

The excitement of Aragorn’s arrival was awe inspiring. The people of Gondor had
for so long only known war for so many years, the prospects of peace caused the
joy to spill out in floods. The bards sang and the minstrels played and the
people danced with joy! A fair stock of ale was tapped and everyone who marched
into the city that day were treated as conquering heroes. Darhias found a place
inside the crowded White Swan Inn and were treated to the finest ale and
buttered bread they had tasted. Never mind it was siege stock. They were just
glad to have it. It wasn’t long though before Darhias wondered where Berendil
was. He would be up in the House of Healing with Freja. That would be where
Vorda would be too. Downing his ale, he gave a nod to his brethren and started
to make his way out. It would be a long walk up to the Healing House.
***** Chapter 9 *****
3019, III – April, Houses of Healing


Darhias found Berendil on his way to the Houses of Healing and yet the man was
somehow different. His greeting ,whilst fair and courteous, held a measure of
solemnity and sorrow.

”I thought I’d find you there already,” Darhias exclaimed, thumping Berendil’s
back in a companionable measure. Berendil, for his part, ducked his head and
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 bitterness to them now that was unmistakeable. It was
altogether incomprehensible to Darhias and so the two men said little else as
they ventured up through the city to the Houses of Healing. At their arrival,
Berendil sighed heavily. 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. No Vorda. 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 they were quieter. It was
not as crowded 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 ferocious
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
offer 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. People streamed around them though
it was not as frenetic as it had been some weeks ago. 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? Regards! You send your regards?” she queried and before he could ask
what the devil was going on, she seized his elbow and set to towing him along
after her.

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 often bounced off the walls
that encompassed the garden. Today, 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 usually 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, and 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, ”Doesn’t she need all eight torcs?”

Éowyn’s smile was a sad one, ”Whatever Freja’s path now, it does not lead to
battle.”

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

Éowyn well knew what this meant. So did Freja even 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 rememberance.”

“Of what?!”

“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 beyond odd 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 at all in the years
to come, 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 against the sill of her window, staring at the mountains beyond. At her
arrival 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 she had paused in, 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, awfully sad. As if the
fire that had always flickered and roared within her spirit had been doused and
now guttered, struggling for life. Éowyn heard her draw a shivering breath and
found 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.

”But 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.”
***** Chapter 10 *****
The far corner of the White Swan Inn had become Hanasian’s unofficial office,
for he spent much time there. Summoning the ones he had noted before they
returned to Minas Tirith, he learned of each man and their willingness to
continue to serve. After a week, Hanasian had a dozen prospects, and another
hand full he would consider if any of his first choices decide it was not for
them. Amid all this, there were the high functions and the coming Coronation of
Aragorn as King of Gondor, not to mention the unending victory celebrations.

On the night before the coronation, Hanasian received a message to meet ‘the
Chieftain’. The place was a small café on the first level of the city. Hanasian
arrived and saw a fair young woman working to serve a few patrons, stepping
around the broken fallen stone work that had yet to be repaired. A shadowed
figure sat in the depths of the common room, wrapped in a grey cloak and hood
drawn low. His legs stretched out and he worked the smoke from his pipe in long
slow draws, clouding the air around him. Hanasian for a moment thought he had
walked into the old Forsaken before he walked over and sat down across the
broken table from the Ranger.

”What do you have for me?”

His voice softly said from the hood before his eyes lit in the glow of his pipe
as he took a draw. Hanasian pulled some rolled parchments from his tunic and
sat them on the table. He picked them up and quickly slid them under his cloak.
He drew his pipe and then tapped out the spent ash. Hanasian nodded to the
woman as she brought him a flagon of ale and set it on the table. She sat down
another and picked up an empty and quickly walked off.
Hanasian lifted the flagon, and said, ”Here’s to the Return of the King.”

The Ranger nodded and sipped at the foam. He said, ”I will miss this…”

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

”This will be it I’m afraid. It was hard to get out un-noticed this night with
all the preparation,”  Aragorn said.
Hanasian looked around before returning his gaze on Aragorn, who was lost in
thought. He sighed and smiled as he said quietly, ”Alas, these are my days and
all that we have strived for has come. This will be a glorious time. But there
will be much ordering of the realm, for there is so much to be done. “

Aragorn stood as he downed the near full flagon. He set it on the table and
wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his cloak. He said, ”I will have a look at
what you given me, and I will summon you sometime after the coronation. Be well
my friend.”

"… and you as well my ……"

Aragorn raised his hand in the gesture of the Rangers and Hanasian paused
before saying, ”…friend…”
His cloak furled about him and he went out the door just as someone was coming
in.

Berendil looked back at the swift man that slipped out before closing the door.
He looked about and saw Hanasian with his back turned. As he approached,
Hanasian turned and sat aside and leaned against the wall, waving at the
serving maid for two ore ales. Berendil sat down where Aragorn had been, barely
beating the delivery of the flagons.

”Haven’t seen much of you my friend.” Hanasian said, seeing that Berendil was
deeply troubled.
Berendil nodded and said, ”Haven’t seen much of you either. None of us have.”

“I’ll get to that in a bit."Hanasian said. He sipped his ale and then said,
"You have the look of confusion that runs deep. Have you been to the House of
Healing today?”

Berendil nodded but didn’t say anything. He sipped at the ale before saying,
"I’ve gone there just about every day since I got to this city, But Freja
refuses to see me. I have talked much with Vorda, and today I talked with the
White Lady Eowyn. She says Freja loves me, but what kind of love is it when she
refuses to see me? But she gave me a torc which I know means a lot. Yes, I’m
confused.”

Hanasian took the torc that Berendil held out and looked closely at it. He
handed it back as he said, ”This is quite the gift Berendil. You would be wise
to listen to the Lady Eowyn”

Berendil sighed and said, ”Yes, but what kind of love allows naught my sight of
her? I cannot bear this. I just want to see her! I want to look into her eyes
and hold her hands. Yet she denies me this, and she denies herself of this. I
will stay away for a time… for now.”

“Will you go to our Lord, Chieftain, and King’s coronation? I know you will go.
What if Freja is there?”

Hanasian said, thinking about the coronation, then sipping his ale. Berendil
stared into his flagon before taking a drink. He said, "I’ll be glad to see
her, even if we say naught to each other.”


The grand ceremony that surrounded Aragorn’s crowning was an experience that
would not ever be forgotten! All the Dunedain stood to the side of the throne
dressed in fine clean yet still quite unassuming wear, looking very much like
the mysterious Rangers of the North.


It was days after the coronation, and Hanasian, Darhias, and Berendil sat at
the little table in the Inn that become their local home. A young Citadel Guard
dressed in his formal armour came in and removed his helm. Looking around, he
saw the three sitting and walked over. He said, ”Lord Hanasian, the King
requests your presence.”

With that, he presented a scroll to him, gave a nod, turned, and walked out.
Hanasian broke the seal and read it to himself…

‘The Chieftain has news. Moonrise ~ Winter Garden’

Hanasian let it roll back up and stowed it in his vest. He said as he took a
long drink draining his flagon.

”It is time you tell us. You have been rather subdued of late. You said you
would get to telling us what you have been doing. The look on your face as you
read the King’s summons said more than you may have wanted,” Berendil said.
Darhias added, ”You get some high office in the King’s ministry?”

“You could say that. All will be known tomorrow.”

Hanasian waved away the serving girl as he was done drinking for a while. He
seemed to leave the other two and went to work studying some notes he had made.
A couple men he had thought may join his company when they came back to the
city were now off the list. He still had lots 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 didn’t say anything at
first as they stood in the cool air.
Finally he said, ”It has been too long that a clear moon rose above these
mountains. Yet out there…. She lurks.”

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

Hanasian didn’t say anything at first, but reached into his vest and pulled out
some parchments of his own. He gave them to Aragorn as he said, ”This will save
time. Tell me you approve when we meet again.”

Aragorn nodded and walked away. Hanasian followed. He had some reading to do.

~ ~ ~

A long day and a late night was waiting for Hanasian. He had shut himself in
his tent and did not emerge until the morning of the next day. Hanasian had
been given autonomous authority to create his company even before Aragorn read
what he proposed. He would always hold this trust to the highest degree. Now
the hard work started. He set out to approach a few of the men he had talked to
when they came to the city. By now, the thought of war was waning, and most did
not have the stomach for it. But by days end, he had three members that wanted
in that he accepted. 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 dark brooding tortured former
soldier.

The early dawn came and Hanasian and Aragorn stood silently. Hanasian wanted to
know what the King thought of his plan, but none was forthcoming. All he said
was what he had written days before, so Hanasian nodded and left. He really
needed sleep.

The days passed and Hanasian worked on finding good men he could trust. After a
week he had seven, and after two weeks he had eighteen. 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. D

As the moon waxed toward full, Hanasian received a summons from the King. He
went up to the high chamber in the Citadel where he was greeted by Faramir at
the door.

”Hanasian, come inside. There are matters of deep importance that needs to be
discussed.”

They entered and proceeded to a chamber to the side of the throne. There sat
Aragorn in all his kingly manner. To his side was Gandalf the wizard, and on
his other side was Celeborn of Lorien. Next to him sat Imrahil, and the chair
beside Gandalf was empty. Faramir walked around and stood behind and to the
side of Aragorn and motioned to Hanasian to sit. Hanasian swallowed and went
and sat in the chair. He was a bit nervous to be among such high people in what
all appearances was official business.
Aragorn wasted no time and said, ”Thank you for coming on such short notice
Hanasian. The matter we are discussing here with a matter of urgency pertains
to the elf Naiore Dannan. When I spoke last with the Sons of Elrond before they
departed the city to meet their father, they both were concerned about her
influence. The fact that she remained unfound after the war means she was last
seen here outside the gates of this city. But accounts are vague. Yet we must
be vigilant. Lord Celeborn is here with urgent news.”

Hanasian nodded and thought what he could do with his fledgling company. He
took a breath as Celeborn started to speak.

”As has been with the elder through the ages, there has been a few of us that
have walked their own path. Most only flirted with the edge of darkness, but
one Naiore Dannan allowed her path to go where it will. With the destruction of
the Ring and the coming of the Age of Man, the Eldar will fade. So too will
Naiore, but possibly because of this, she may be even more dangerous. Though we
know not where she may be, she has touched some here in the city, and we expect
she will try and do so again.”

Faramir started to walk around the table as he now spoke.

”When I was in the house of healing, there was one named Freja there who had
been badly wounded on the field. She suffered from dreams and has since been
filled with depression. The Lady Eowyn knows her well, and she has spoken to me
of this. I believe she met Naiore Dannan on the field of battle and now suffers
for it. But we must be careful.”

Hanasian looked about the room and said, "There are none from the Rohirrim
here. Should they hear this that concerns their own?”

Aragorn put his hand up and said, "I do wish King Eomer were here, or Lady
Eowyn, but they have gone back to their lands to give news of Theoden and to
order his realm. They will return soon for King Theoden rests here with our
fathars, and they will bring him home in honor. Who else from Rohan remains?”

Hanasian stood and said, “Lady Vorda, Shieldmaiden under command of Freja
remains. She will not hardly leave Freja’s side. She may know more of this.”

Aragorn nodded and said, “Yes, yes…. And that is why you will talk to her about
it. And maybe with her, you can talk to Freja about the events on the
battlefield. She may trust you being that your mother’s kin are from Rohan.”

Hanasian could see that he was going to have to do it. I couldn’t count on
Berendil for any assistance being that Freja refuses to see him. Besides, he is
likely drowning his sorrows at the inn again. Hanasian hoped there would be
little resistance from Lady Vorda as well. This would be a challenge.

It was well into the afternoon when Hanasian emerged from the Citadel. He was
armed with the questions he needed answers for. He headed to his tent in hopes
to get some rest before sought out Lady Vorda. He wasn’t going to get the
chance. She stood there waiting for him.

”Lady Vorda, I was going to seek you out ere evening, but now is a good time. I
have need to talk to you.”

“And I you,” Vorda said quickly.
Hanasian nodded and said, ”Shall we take a walk to the place where Freja fell?”


Vorda nodded and they started off toward where the Nazgul had fallen.
***** Chapter 11 *****
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.

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 though 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.”

Freja nodded at this and turned away to the window. She had 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? Reprimanded?”

“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.

This 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 she 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 at 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 say
for too many others.”

Her tone sounded bleak and bitter, as though she wished otherwise, even to her
own hearing. A note of condemnation, for had they not met their deaths here in
the south under her command? 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. Untorced.
Unbraided. Whatever Éomer’s decision might be, 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. Perhaps even send her to the gallows. 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 Hanasians 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.”

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?”

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.


~ ~ ~ ~ ~


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.

The day flew past and it was late evening by the time Hanasian left the
citadel. In that time, he had learned that Freja had been returned to the care
of the Houses of Healing. He’d not heard any great detail. Only enough to know
the news was not good. Naiore’s wrath had been most vicious today. As he
walked, he felt a faint edge of discomfort. He had not forced Freja to do this.
She had pressed on at her own volition. There had been no way to know this
would happen. Still, if he were Berendil he’d have some hard questions to ask
and thus far he’d not seen the man since earlier in the day.

Hanasian slipped into the common room of the White Swan Inn to discover the inn
was crowded. Hanasian had little appetite for company and so he turned to
leave. His name halted him and he turned back to see Berendil standing there,
looking straight at him. Berendil was called the Fair for his appearance and
his even tempered nature. Right at this moment, Berendil’s features were not
arranged in a manner that suggested he was well disposed.

Pushing out a sigh, Hanasian began to push his way through the throng towards
Berendil. He found his friend at the other side, seated at a table that was
empty of any tankards. His arms were crossed against his chest and his
agitation played out in the rapid tapping of one booted foot upon the
floorboards.

Hanasian would have rather had this discussion with an ale, preferably even
something stronger, or even better not at all tonight. Instead he pulled out an
empty chair and sat across the table.

”You’ve news,” he said, ”Out of interest, how did you hear?“

“Darhias,” Berendil replied and raked a hand through his hair.

Hanasian grunted, unsurprised. He’d heard the two men arranging just this.

”And what does Darhias say?” Hanasian asked next.

Berendil shifted in his seat and grief shivered through his voice, ”The healers
aren’t certain what will happen next. She…screams when she wakes and so they
keep her asleep.”

”She’s strong, Berendil. Consider what she has endured,” Hanasian repeated and
Berendil nodded impatiently as he washed his hands over his face.

”I don’t think I will ever forget that battlesong,” he hoarsely admitted and
Hanasian nodded in agreement. There were a great many things about today he’d
not soon forget either.

“Will the Elf return again?” came a growl that neither Hanasian nor Berendil
were responsible for.

Both men looked up to find another loomed over the table. Tall, wiry, with a
decidedly dangerous air. Weathered face, hard features reminiscent of Dale and
eyes as black as the pits beneath Barad-Dûr. A killer, through and though, and
an angry, stealthy one. The Daleman’s knuckles popped as he flexed his hands.
Neither Hanasian nor Berendil had known of his approach.

”Who might you be?” Hanasian asked, his hand falling to the hilt of a knife.

”Answer the damn question! Is Freja free of Naiore Dannan or not?”

Across the table, Berendil’s expression coalesced into one as suspicious as it
was angry as he recalled where he had seen this man before: Aragorn’s
coronation. He’d seen him at Freja’s side in the press, speaking urgently into
her ear. It was only the briefest of glances for no sooner had he found her in
the crowd was she gone again. Whatever he had said, it had been enough to draw
her off and keep her away. And now, here he was, demanding answers to questions
concerning Freja.

”She sought Freja out before,” Hanasian said and left the implication hanging.

The Daleman bristled, ”Something’s got to be done!”

“Something is being done,” Hanasian answered, glancing briefly across to
Berendil who had said that very thing hours earlier, ”What concern is this of
yours?”

”Personal,” the Daleman tersely answered and another knuckle popped, ”What’s
being done?”

“Personal,” Berendil growled in return.

The Daleman considered him at length and then Hanasian, as if weighing them
both up, then spun about and relieved a chair from a nearby table. It had not
been unoccupied when Hanasian had arrived but they’d wisely moved on at the
Daleman’s arrival. The fellow sat astride it and hooked his arms over its back
– ready to whip it out and over someone’s head should it become necessary. A
classic tactic for a close quartered melee. Given the way Berendil looked at
him, Hanasian had a growing sense that it just might come to that.

”Fine,” the Daleman muttered, folded his arms atop the back of the chair,
”Freja and I go back a few years. Your turn.”

“I’m raising a company to hunt the Elf down,” Hanasian replied despite the way
Berendil scowled at him.

The Daleman’s dark brows lifted at that, ”Leaving when?”

“None of your business,” Berendil spat.

“What makes you think I’ll have you?” Hanasian inquired, bemused by this man’s
presumption.

The Daleman shrugged, ”I was good enough for the Shieldmaidens of Rohan. I’m
good enough for you.”

Incredulous, Hanasian frowned, ”You served within their ranks?”

“Met Freja when she was knocking about Dale. Come the War, was me Freja sent
her Captain to,” the Daleman paused and then with what was perhaps the first
display of humanity either Ranger had seen from him, ”Was me that returned
Eriwyn’s torcs to Edoras.”

Hanasian lifted a brow but otherwise remained impassive as his thoughts spun.
Freja would not waste her time with this fellow if she deemed him in any way
inadequate or untrustworthy. Certainly, she’d not commend him to her sisters
and captain. Added to that was the fact the man had survived the fighting in
Dale. It had been, by all accounts, horrendous.

”How would you describe your skills?” Hanasian asked and the Daleman gave him a
murderous smile.

”I’ll leave that to you, Ranger,” he replied as he stood, ”Name’s Videgavia.”

With that, the man stalked off and Hanasian scrubbed at his face. It had been a
long, tiring day.

Berendil raked his hand through his hair, ”Will you take him on?”

Hanasian pushed out a sigh and nodded, ”Provided what he says is true.”

Berendil grunted at that and pushed back his chair to stand. The grim light had
returned to his face again.

”Where are you going,” Hanasian asked, worried. The man had to be worried out
of his wits by now.

Once Berendil's mind seized on something there was little chance of shaking it.


“Doing something,” Berendil obtusely replied and wove through the press for the
door.

Hanasian dared not imagine just what Berendil’s mind had settled upon now. He
hoped that it was no more than seeking out Darhias for a further update.
***** Chapter 12 *****
After the day’s events, Hanasian was beyond tired. He went to his tent and fell
into a deep sleep. The trouble was he ony slept for a short while. When he
awoke, it was late, but not that late. He got up and walked back into the city
to the White Swan Inn. An ale or six would get him sleeping again.

No sooner did her get to the front door did it come flying open and two men
crashed down hard together. Hanasian barely had time to get out of the way. The
two went rolling and a few punches were thrown as they wrestled. Hanasian
leaned back against the door frame and watched the show. It wasn’t long before
the City Watch came and pulled the two apart. Hanasian could see that it was
Darhias and Videgavia.

”What is all this? Do you need to go to the cells?”

The watch officer said looking at each. They just looked at each other.
Hanasian stepped down to the street and said, "These two are my men. My
apologies for any trouble caused. I’m sure they will explain to us right now
what this was all about.”

Hanasian looked Darhias in the eye swiftly, then turned his hard gaze onto
Videgavia.
They both were at first silent until Hanasian said, ”Well?”

Darhias cleared his throat as he brushed himself off, saying, "It was a
misunderstanding…”

“Yeah, just a soldier’s fight,” Videgavia said.
The watch officer looked at each as he said, "We will have no more of this. Any
more trouble out of either of you and you will go to the cells.”

The watch officer then turned to Hanasian, "You'd best keep better control over
your men, captain.”

Hanasian nodded and waved the two back toward the door. The three walked in and
as soon as the door closed Hanasian slammed Videgavia to the wall.
He said, “If you are going to join my Company, this will have to stop. I don’t
think the Shieldmaidens, Freja or Vorda, would approve of either of your antics
this night.”

Videgavia made a move to get away, testing Hanasian’s strength. Hanasian
slammed him back into the wall. Videgavia stared into his eyes. He could see
that Hanasian meant every word.
After a long pause, he smiled and said, ”Whatever you say…. Captain.”

Hanasian loosened his grip and Vidigavia straightened his tunic as he watched
Hanasian turn away. He looked at Darhias and said, ”You should know better…
now, both of you… over to my table. Lass, three flagons please.”

They went and sat and when the lady came with the ales Hanasian said, ”I
believe these two will help clean up some of the war damage tomorrow. I think
all of the company will be here to help.”

He turned to Videgavia and Darhias and was going to ask again what the tussle
was about, but he didn’t. He just wanted to sit. After some time of the three
sitting silent and sipping their ales, Videgavia asked, ”So I'm in, then?”

“Under two conditions. First, you respect its given authority by the King of
the united realm of Numenor in exile. Secondly, you'll need to recruit worthy
people in,” Hanasian said without hesitation. He needed good soldiers, and he
was sure this man would know one or two here in the city, and more from the
north.
Hanasian had some good men of Gondor, and many Roherrin pledged to join upon
their return, but the company would be going into some hostile country, and it
would be best to have skills from many lands. Hanasian downed his ale and
thought about it.

”I know a few here, more up north… well, not as many now I suppose.”

Hanasian rubbed his chin,”I need many varied skills in the company. Do you know
anyone who can stomach soldiering but has something to offer? I will need a
diverse company.”

Videgavia stood and downed his ale. He said as he turned to leave, "I think I
know just the people you are looking for. Let me see if I can find them.”

Hanasian went right back into his thoughts.

Darhias sipped his ale and said, ”You know my skills, though I’m not as nimble
as I once was and don’t think I’d do well on long marches and such. But I’ll
keep my eyes and ears out for you, so you can count me in as far as that goes.
Have you asked Berendil?”

“I have. He had no interest.” Hanasian answered. Darhias finished his ale and
stood, turning on his good foot.
He said, "You may want to ask him again.”

He made his way to the door and left. Hanasian thought about it…. He had not
talked to Berendil about a Company except once early on. Even in his mild
manner, he had grown dark in his thoughts with the constant refusal of Freja to
see him. Now that Berendil has gotten past drowning his depression in ale, and
he saw what happened with Naiore torturing Freja at his investigation, he
should talk with him again.

He didn’t have to go look for him. And there was no wait. Berendil came in and
ordered himself a hot tea before coming over to sit with hiom. Hanasian lifted
his flagon in acknowledgement but he didn’t say anything. Berendil didn’t say
anything either. He stared at the table and his finger traced out some old
carving, He was deep in thought. The serving maid brought a steaming cup over
and sat it before him, breaking his concentration on the table. He took a light
sip of his tea.
 
After several sips, Berendil finally said, "So now the word is out you are
getting a free company together.”

“You want in?” Hanasian asked, getting the question out of the way. Berendil
lifted his cup to his lips and sipped.

”Is the goal of this company is to seek out and kill this elf Naiore Dannon?”

Hanasian drank the last remains of his flagon and sat it on the table, “Finding
this elf has been a catalyst for the formation of this company, but it is not
the sole purpose. I do think it will be the first order of business though.”

Berendil sighed at that, “Who do you have, other than our brethren Bareck and
Hilferin?”

“Many Gondorians. There are some skilled rangers from Ithilien and highlander
bowmen from Lebannin, and a couple gloomy Gondorian regulars that called
Osgiliath home. Some of the younger Rohirrim may join, but most have gone home
to order things before they return. We will see how many do return. Oh, I
accepted the Northman… Videgavia of Dale.”
Berendil frowned at that,  ”Why him?”

Hanasian said, “Why not him. He’s seen much up north, and could be invaluable
when these young ones on board are under pressure. Besides, he more likely than
not will bring in some who are outside our Dunedain circles.”

Berendil scowled, ”I don’t like him. I can’t say why, but there is something…”

Berendil eventually nodded slightly and said, "ButI suppose it makes sense to
you on some level. Though I’d prefer he not be around, you can count me in, but
likely only until this Naiore Dannan saga is over.”

“It may never be over Berendil, ” Hanasian said in answer even as he wrote
Berendil’s name down. He looked up and could see that Berendil wasn’t really
listening. He was deep in thought…

Berendil’s mind considered all that he saw befall Freja. If he had not crashed
into the room, what may have befallen her? She would more likely be dead…
Hanasian had been stricken and struggled to get to her. Naiore was holding him
back. But when he had burst through the door, she did not see him coming and
could not react in time. Though Naiore had to be diminished in strength after
such use, he wondered how long she would remain in Harad. But he knew why they
couldn’t make haste….
He finally said as if speaking from a dream, ”No, but I will do what I can to
end this torment of Freja.”

Hanasian smiled slightly before saying, "Then you will make a fine sergeant. I
will need someone like you to get this mob into some sort of discipline. Would
you accept doing this? I really need someone who I can trust.”

“Why not the Northman? You seemed to think he would be a good leader under
pressure.” Berendil said.
Hanasian shook his head, ”He may be, but right now I need to keep things close
right now with ones I know. That is why I ask you.”

Berendi paused after he stood up from the table. He didn’t want to take the
responsibility, but he was being asked by a friend and comrade. Berendil closed
his eyes, and all he could see was Freja. She would take this on without
question.
He sipped down the last of his tea and set down the cup,”I will do this, if I
can bring in Darhias. I’ll need him.”

Berendil would have asked to bring Freja in right then, but he knew that could
not be. He would do this for her, even if he never saw or spoke to her again.
His thoughts were interrupted when Hanasian said to him, Darhias said to me he
wouldn’t be much for a long march, but yes, he will be invaluable here. You
have him when we gather. “

Berendil nodded and turned to go. Hanasian didn’t say anything more. They all
had a lot to do.

Hanasian waved off the serving maid as she picked up his flagon and Berendil’s
tea cup. She wiped the table clean with a cloth as was her custom as she knew
Hanasian was going to want to write. He thanked her and reached for a bound
book. He opened it and looked at the first couple pages. The commission and
preamble were complete. He then retrieved his quill and ink he kept on the
window ledge by the table and started to write. At the top of a clean page he
wrote in his large flowing script ‘Company Roster’. He listed the names in
order of their agreement to join. With Videgavia, Berendil, and Darhias, he was
now up to twenty.

The next day, Videgavia brought in a man who he thought would be worthy. He
was. He was a long range scout that had come south with him. His name was
Gilkis. He had skills in smithing and leatherwork. Quiet, but serious. Hanasian
accepted him. Videgavia also said he wanted another scout that had come with
him, but Gilkis said he headed back north.

”Maybe he will bring down some of our men.” Videgavia said.
Hanasian shrugged, hoping that they did come, and that his cousins in Rohan had
gotten the word he sent and would come as well.

With the coronation passed the talk was that Lord Faramir was to wed Eowyn, and
it was happening soon. So the Dunedain spent more time in the formal halls of
Minas Tirith, but Berendil worked apart, taking his role with more seriousness
than Hanasian expected. He only attended the formal ceremony, nd then only
because he hoped to see Freja. But he soon left saying he needed to work on
company planning. But what he did was write a letter to Freja….

M’Lady Freja Fireborn,

I hope these words find you well and your spirits high…

He stared at these words making halting sentences before throwing the sheet
into the fire. Three times he started, but the words just would not come off
his quill. He knew what he wanted to say to her, but dor reasons unknown, they
just didn’t sound right when he wrote them out. It was well into the early
hours before he was done. It read nothing like what he set out to write…

’As much as I would like to hold you and be with you while you struggle against
this necromancy that haunts you, I will accept now your wish to not allow me
this. It grieves me to no end, bit I will respect this decision you have made
and will step back and not continue to pursue trying to see and talk to you.
Though much thought I have given as to why you wish this, I cannot say that I
understand. I can only trust that you have given much thought to this, that
your reasoning is sound, and you see more into the days and years ahead than I
do.

Know this… you will never be forgotten by me, for my love for you will always
burn bright as the sun with the warmth to match. For those moments we spent
together in Dunharrow will be all that I will have to hold, and they are
priceless to me. I will look for you always, and will take joy and hold dear
every passing glimpse I may have of you from afar.

I now put all will and effort into this new company that Hanasian has formed.
It will only be for a time… until the elf Naiore Dannan is hunted down and
called to justice. I do this for it is the only way I know to fight this
affliction you have suffered. And forevermore, one day, I hope that we will
meet again and remember the fire at Dunharrow.

Namarie Freja, Ci velethril e-guil nîn
Berendil.’

He didn’t read it again, but set it aside. He went to get some water for his
throat was dry. He drank deep and long, and afterward, he folded it and sealed
it. He then wrote her name on it in his flowing script. He would give it to
Vorda in the morning. He now had to remain focused on his duty.
 ~ ~ ~

It was a few days after the wedding when the company gathered at the inn.
Hanasian wasted no time addressing them.

”First off, I would like to congratulate each one of you for deciding to be a
part of this company. The paths this company will take will not be the easy
road. You will have one last chance to reconsider. The official inauguration of
the company will be in two days when we will take over the old Ranger camp
outside the city gates. It will be our home for the next few weeks. Most of my
Dunedain brethren who have not joined us but are staying in Minas Tirith have
found accommodation in the city by now. They will formally turn over the
grounds to us then.Anyone still signed on and reporting in then will have the
decision binding by order of King Elessar.”

Hanasian held up a rolled parchment that indeed bore the seal of the King. He
went on.

”We will be short on time to get ourselves shaped into some kind of military
unit, and we’ll have to work out a plan for our first expedition of which I
will give more detail then. I hope I will see you there.”

They all left quietly. If it hadn’t been real to them by now, it suddenly was
bearing down on them. The next two days passed, and Hanasian wondered if they
all would come. When the morning came, Hanasian met the Dunedain in front of
the old camp.He had prepared for the moment, but he had not found anything to
use as a standard. As if by fate, a thick black cloth blew across the field and
caught on his foot. He reached own and picked it up. It would have to do. It
wasn’t until he had set it right that he realized it was a part of a torn cape
of a fallen Citidel Guard. Silver flecks was entwined in the cloth, and it was
torn in such a shape to have two points. It was a stark reminder that the war
was not so long ago. It was a sign that for them, their war has yet to cease.

The Dunedain gave a salute, and they walked with their banner into the city.
Hanasian stood and looked at his banner in the breeze. For a brief moment, the
only sound he could hear was that of the wind pulling at the tents and the
banner. It was then broken up by a solid cadence of boots. He looked up and
toward him came several men in step. Berendil was on one side, and Vidigavia
was on the other. Every man who had pledged to sign had arrive, along with some
few others.

Hanasian set up in what was the Chieftain’s tent, and through the day, each man
who pledged came in and signed the roster beside his name. Those who newly
arrived talked with Hanasian, and most signed on. They had a company of twenty
seven. Hanasian was impressed that they arrived in such order. He had them line
up for their swearing in.

Hanasian wasted no time once the formalities were done. He stood before them
and said.

”Welcome to the First Order of the Free Company. Now like I said before, we do
not have much time. We will need some plans on how to get ourselves down to
Harad undetected. We don’t know what powers the elf Naiore has in detecting and
tracking us, and we don’t know how long she will be there. We also don’t know
how we will take her into custody, but that will be something that we can work
out on the way. Couple that with Harad being a wide and likely a hostile land,
this will be a hard road. We will leave shortly after the Rohirrim come and the
formal procession of King Theoden’s homecoming has passed. So until then, we
need to prepare. For the rest of this day, get yourself settled in your tents.
Tomorrow at dawn, we will run up the mountain path and back. ”

The days were for the most part like that. With the field before the gate
clearing of camps, the company‘s camp started to look out of place. With the
expectation that the Rohirrim was to arrive soon, Hanasian had the men pull up
and move their camp to the other side of the city toward Harlond. It was a good
place, for they had access to the road south and the quays should they take
ship. And it was done and finished when the horns of Rohan could be heard in
the distance.
***** Chapter 13 *****
3019, III – July, Minas Tirith


Berendil pushed a breath beyond his tensed jaw from his position beside
Hanasian. The two men stood upon a balcony of Minas Tirith’s citadel, watching
those assembled in the forecourt below to escort King Théoden to his final
place of rest. Amidst Rohan’s Knights and Shieldmaidens, Freja was clearly
visible. Her hair shone in the sun, long bright tendrils lifted on the morning
breeze.

Vitality had returned to Freja and yet, neither man had forgotten that
horrifying experience of a few months ago. Hanasian would recall the look of
singular dread as she realised that she was going to die for the rest of his
days along with the sickening realisation that he could do nothing to prevent
it. Berendil found himself still gripped by the terror he had felt that day
too. His dreams were haunted by what could have happened.

But no, Freja was alive and with her kindred in the morning sun. Some touched
her arm in passing and smiled, others engaged her in conversation. Freja
responded in kind, moving from one to the other. Yet, for all of that, she
seemed preoccupied…as if she waited someone or expected something to occur.

Like as not, Hanasian thought, her mind turned to the man beside him and he
considered drawing her attention. Today marked the day she would return to
Edoras and Berendil had been adamant that he would see her from afar. He
studied his friend sidelong. There was one reason he was resolved on joining
the Black Company: Freja. Whilst Hanasian had been greatly pleased to have
Berendil at his side, he harboured a number of concerns.

Chief amongst his concerns was the length of time it could take them to find
Naiore Dannan. It could be months, weakened as she had to be without Sauron to
fall back on now. More likely it would be years and those years would pass
swifter for Freja than he or Berendil. This was the way of the Dunédain. It was
entirely possible that they never found Naiore Dannan. Berendil could perish in
the task. Good men fell as frequently as the bad. The Elf could very well
outlive them all.

Hanasian shook his head at his thoughts. These matters were not for him as
captain to resolve. Berendil was a skilled Ranger, capable and strong, and he
was a fine addition to the company. As a friend though, Hanasian feared
Berendil’s choice would prove to be one he would come to bitterly regret. This
was something Hanasian had been worrying about since they had left Dunharrow.
More than once Hanasian had wondered whether it would have been better if he
hadn’t of drawn Berendil off to see the Shieldmaidens of Rohan that fateful
night.

Had not been him to push Berendil onto that field that night. He’d tried to
stop Berendil’s uncharacteristic madness. He’d told him that it was the
equivalent of throwing yourself into a pack of wolves and that he’d not emerge
unscathed yet Berendil had proceeded all the same. Berendil had a far greater
peril: Naiore Dannan. All for the woman Berendil watched below.

”Are you sure about this?” Hanasian asked, ”It’s not too late to reconsider.”

Berendil nodded, eyes not leaving Freja below, ”I am certain.”

“Does she know what you’re doing?” Hanasian pressed, recalling how resolute
Freja had been from the outset to exclude Berendil from this. That is what
Vorda said the night he had spoken with her. There was little, according to
Vorda, that would stand between her mentor and protecting those dear to her.

Berendil nodded, ”If she does not yet, she will soon. Vorda will make sure of
it.”

Hanasian shook his head at that and returned his attention to the scene below.

All gathered were clad for travel. The Knights and Shieldmaidens were armed and
armoured as per their custom, green cloaks flapping from their shoulders as
they moved about. Freja bore neither weapon nor armour though she had had
succeeded in losing her skirts. Her garb was what one might expect of a serving
member of Rohan’s royal household. She wore a long fitted jerkin of emerald
silk over a short cream tunic and tan breeches. The only suggestions to be had
that woman was more than some sort of royal functionary were the boots she wore
and the belt she’d slung about her hips in all its sturdy, gnarled and well
loved glory. There was nothing refined or delicate about either.

The approach of a Knight and a Shieldmaiden, fully braided but torcless, won a
wide smile out of Freja. These, then, were those she accounted friends. All
three heads bowed and there was an immediate kinship apparent quite different
to that which might be observed between Rangers. Something said made Freja
laugh in a manner that was suggestive, filled with illicit delight that
invariably attracted interest from others – be it curiosity, anticipation or
disapproval.

Her companion shook her head slowly from side to side but the Knight grinned
rakishly, thumbs hooked through his baldric and at his ease as he rocked back
and forth on his heels. Judging from the wide smile on the man’s face, he was
well pleased with himself. The moment passed and the fellow took his leave as
Freja and her sister Shieldmaiden fell to talking about something else. Nothing
dire by their expressions, but certainly it was serious business. Freja’s gaze
swung to where Vorda stood with Darhias and then away again. She bowed her head
to consider her boots and then delivered whatever her thoughts on the matter
were to her companion.

Hanasian was struck by a sudden pang as he watched on. His eyes wandered to
mark out the other Shieldmaidens present below. Rohan’s king had always been
their preserve to defend, until such time as Wormtongue intervened. They were
outnumbered some five to one by Rohan’s Knight’s below and these were likely
all that remained in active service. None would have remained behind, not with
Éomer and Théoden both to see to.

How awful it would be, Hanasian thought, if these women were to be lost
entirely. Nothing endured forever in mortal lands. Not even the Elves. There
would come a time when there were no Shieldmaidens or Knights or Rangers. How
remarkable it would be to capture their songs and their history if such a
chance arose.

The Sindarin oath that Berendil hissed intruded through Hanasian’s thoughts and
he frowned, unsure what had drawn such a pronounced response from the man. His
frown deepened when he marked a dark head moving through the Rohirrim below.
Judging from his path, Videgavia was directly approaching Freja however she
remained unaware of this. Her companion paused, noting the Daleman’s arrival
and alerted Freja. She spun about, the quality of her movement suggesting she
was surprised.

The Daleman began to speak immediately, hands moving about in an animated
fashion utterly foreign to the fellow. Loquacious and expressive were not
qualities Hanasian had ascribed to Videgavia. For her part, Freja remained
contained. She nodded intermittently but did not seem to otherwise say
anything. Not that she had the chance, Hanasian realised, and then concluded
that she was waiting Videgavia out. The Daleman had to run out of breath at
some point. She was playing a strategic game, but of what nature he could not
guess.

The sound of Berendil’s teeth grinding emerged as the Daleman leaned forwards
toward Freja. A sideways glance revealed Berendil’s expression was one of rare
open anger, but already Freja was dealing with the matter of her own accord.

She carefully eased back from Videgavia, movement subtle and measured. Whatever
Videgavia’s connection was to Freja, it was obviously not reciprocated in full.
That’s what it looked like to Hanasian, at least. She wasn’t batting her
lashes, twirling hair, smiling coquettishly. Not that he could imagine that
woman ever doing so. Rather, she was patiently smiling until Videgavia ran out
of things to say.

When he did, Freja’s response was prompt, almost brusque but she softened
whatever she said with a warm smile. At that Videgavia reached towards her as
if he would embrace her. Berendil’s spine stiffened involuntarily at this but
Freja intercepted the Daleman with a swift extension of her arm towards him.
Videgavia diverted quickly to grasp it with his own but it was awkward and,
judging by the disappointed grimace on his face, not at all what he had wanted.


He freed himself from that parting gesture with a haste, nodded and drew back
from Freja. He remained there for a moment, at which Freja canted her head to
one side evidently trying to ascertain what the Daleman was really about, and
then turned on his boot heel and left. Freja studied his departure for a few
more heartbeats, then shook her head and pushed her hair back as if resetting
her thoughts. She turned away just as Videgavia turned around again to stare at
Freja’s back. Hanasian thought he had the look of a man working up his courage.


Videgavia had only offered sparse detail on the nature of his connection with
Freja. Allies and companions in battle. Perhaps even friends. Now it seemed
that there was far more to the bond than Videgavia had alluded to. He was a
secretive, cold man. So much so, it seemed, that even the woman he cared for
was oblivious to his feelings. If Videgavia returned to remedy that, Berendil’s
restraint might very well snap.

The Daleman stared at Freja’s back for what seemed to be for a very long time
and then lifted his eyes to balcony, as if he had known Berendil had been there
all along. A provocation, a declaration, an admission? What, Hanasian wondered,
for the Daleman’s expression was unreadable. The silent exchange ended with the
arrival of Foldine, one of the Rohirrim that had signed onto the Company when
Videgavia had put out a call of his own.

Foldine was an experienced warrior with little interest in retiring his spears.
His expansive, convivial nature stood in stark contrast to the Daleman’s
ascerbic one. Foldine closed on the man in an amicable fashion, reinforcing the
fact that Videgavia of Dale was well regarded in Rohan despite his antisocial
inclinations. Even Hanasian’s younger twin cousins, Frea and Folca, had looked
duly impressed when they heard Videgavia would be serving with them. The
Daleman was highly skilled and surprisingly well connected. For all of that,
Hanasian wondered at how Videgavia would conduct himself within the company.

Berendil, thus far, had restrained himself when it came to the Daleman but
Hanasian was not confident that Videgavia would be similarly inclined. That
which drew the two men to the Company, Freja, could well fracture it. He’d have
to maintain a hard disciplinary line. Berendil would appreciate that for
himself but Hanasian was not nearly so certain of Videgavia. The man seemed to
accept no master beyond himself.

Any further consideration of this conundrum was pushed aside by the arrival of
Théoden’s bier. Éomer, Éowyn and Aragorn followed in solemn procession. Those
gathered in the forecourt, Freja included, lowered their heads as the bier was
brought forward and set reverently in the bed of the wagon that was to bear
Théoden to his final resting place.

Proud green pennants snapped upon the morning breeze as sombre silence fell
upon those assembled. It hung suspended in the bright summer air, a mark of
profound respect that all were reluctant to break. Upon it’s end, those below
set to moving out. It would be quite the procession from Minas Tirith to
Edoras.

Already the streets and avenues of the city below were lined with people,
waiting to pay one final mark of respect for the king that had fallen in their
defence and those that had ridden with him. Hanasian would not be surprised if
people came from wherever they might be on the road back to Edoras to stand,
heads bowed, to mark Théoden’s final journey and set eyes upon Rohan’s new
King.

As people moved to their horses, Freja approached Théoden’s bier. She stretched
out a hand to touch the richly couched wagon tray, fingers gentle as if she
feared somehow damaging the finery. As she did this, Éowyn left her brother and
the king and came forward to join her. The White Lady of Rohan was not clad for
travel for she was now wed to Lord Faramir and would remain in Gondor at his
side. The two women drew together a final time, their lives parting on separate
courses any moment now.

Their heads bowed together and the breeze mingled their unbound hair. A pale,
stately gold wove with rich, bold fire as they spoke quietly to each other.
Éowyn tucked an errant strand of hair behind Freja’s ear, the gesture one of
immeasurable fondness, as Freja drew her arm around her. Leave taking, joy and
grief mingled. Hanasian glanced sideways to Berendil and saw that the man’s
eyes shone with unshed tears.

A soft word from Éomer parted the two women. Lord Faramir came forward, his
presence previously unmarked, to claim his bride’s arm, and returned her to
take leave of her brother. Freja gathered herself, straightened her back and
rolled her shoulders as if she readied for combat, and turned towards her
horse. Darhias held it at the ready for her, his presence below a company
arrangement initiated by Berendil and ratified by Hanasian.

Darhias had no intention to set out for Harad with the rest of them, though
this was not solely due to his inability to endure long marches. Darhias had
been intent on settling down with Vorda. By agreement, this would now occur not
in Rhuadar but Edoras. Given Naiore Dannan’s overt interest in Freja, it was
unwise to leave themselves without a careful watch behind them as they ventured
to Harad.

Freja’s progress to her horse was markedly faster and smoother than when
Hanasian had seen her last. She did not lean upon her cane so greatly and
something of her usual rolling gait, had begun to return. Freja issued what
would have been orders were she still a Shieldmaiden as she went. But for the
injuries she had sustained upon the Pelennor, the woman below would now be
Captain of the Shieldmaidens. Those she addressed responded as if she were,
swiftly attending to the fine details she noted. The sort of things only an
experienced eyes would see.

Oh, to have a Shieldmaiden or two on the company, Hanasian wistfully thought.
Not a one had had sought him out, devout in their fealty to Rohan. There were
too few to release and Éomer hoarded them jealously as a result. Hanasian
couldn’t fault the man for that.

Darhias moved forward to assist Freja to mount but she waved him off. The
Ranger hesitated, looked to Vorda to find her emphatically shaking her head at
him, and then up to the balcony where Berendil and Hanasian stood. In this
time, Freja had stowed her cane and gripped her saddle tightly in preparation
to hoist herself into her saddle unassisted.

Pure determination alone was not enough to get even Freja Fireborn into the
saddle yet none of the Rohirrim were disposed to intervene. Disaster seemed
imminent, anything from falling to the unforgiving flagstones under foot to
being trampled by her own horse. For all of this, those watching on below
looked…impressed. Open admiration and no small amount of curiosity as if they
thought she just might accomplish such an impossible feat.

”Madness,” Berendil murmured, worried.

”Possibly,” replied Hanasian, ”But, then, so was their dawn charge on the
Pelennor…and we both know where she would have been in that.”

At the front, roaring lustily for blood, as they thundered into the combined
might of Mordor’s army. A stunning, eerie, rousing sight if the accounts of the
city citizens that watched on in stunned amazement in that grim dawn could be
relied upon. The woman Berendil loved was not one to shun peril, particularly
when she felt she had a point to prove as she evidently did now.

Darhias coiled, ready to do whatever he could to prevent the looming
catastrophe. Like as not, that would require tackling the woman. She’d not take
that well. Nor would the Rohirrim watching on. However, before a brawl could
break out, the one person Freja could not conceivably ignore intervened.

Though Berendil could not yet make sense of Rohirric, Hanasian could follow
along. There was more than a little fondness amidst Éomer’s chiding. Freja
shrugged her shoulders as if his words couldn’t possibly apply to her but did
shoot him something approximating remorse as she looked back over her shoulder
at her king. With a shake of his head, something he’d likely done countless
times over the years in and around Meduseld, he hefted Freja safely into her
saddle before he moved off to his own horse.

Freja drew her horse about easily, moving with the liquid grace of the Rohirrim
so envied by others, and examined the the Knights and Shieldmaidens as they
fell into swift order. Despite her ruthless scrutiny, she found no flaw in the
scrupulous precision of their arrangement. She nodded to herself, the only hint
that she might be satisfied. Her restive horse danced under her, eager to be
away. She let it fidget, unperturbed, as her gaze swept along the citadel a
final time. It was then that she saw them upon the balcony.

Berendil’s grip on the stone balustrade tightened as he pushed out a shivering
breath. Even from this distance, the haunting blue of her eyes was evident. She
stared up at Berendil as Théoden’s bier began to move, as though she had lost
all sense of where she was and why she was there. The yearning was palpable.
Sunlight gleamed, trapped within a tear upon Freja’s face. Anguish was stamped
upon her features.

”Go to her,” Hanasian urged Berendil.

Staring, he replied, ”I have business with Naiore Dannan to attend to.”

“Business you may not return from. Business that can be left to others,”
Hanasian counselled but it was too late for Freja had turned her horse upon its
way out of the city, following in Théoden’s wake.

Berendil gazed after her until she was lost to sight and Hanasian thought the
man might just fling himself from the balcony and after her but instead he drew
in a shivering breath and scrubbed his hands over his face. These were the
actions of a man torn. A man divided. An honourable man.

Hanasian clapped a hand against his friend’s back, ”It’s done. Come…we’ve both
work to do.”

There was no sense wallowing, Hanasian thought and apparently Berendil agreed
for he nodded his head and followed him from the balcony. Upon their return to
the White Swan Inn, Berendil was met by a messenger from the Houses of Healing.
Though he did not recognise the youth, the young man immediately knew Berendil
and held out to him a folded letter that bore his name in an unfamiliar hand.

”She bade me to give this to you,” said the youth, no more than twelve summers
of age.

Berendil stared at it for a moment and then recovered himself to reach for it.
No sooner was it in his possession did the youth hasten back to his masters
atop the city. The Ranger stared at his name. He’d never seen her writing
before. It was as bold as it was graceful. Hanasian cleared his throat.

”I’ll leave you in peace for that,” he offered, for they both could guess who
had written it.

Berendil nodded and took himself off to the table that Hanasian had all but
inhabited since his return to Minas Tirith. He drew a raw breath, braced
himself and unfolded Freja’s letter.

My love,

Presumptuous, I know, to name you as such. You must wonder, scoff even, that I
do so. I’ve given you little cause to believe I bear you anything beyond
contempt. After all I have done, you must despise me yet love you I assuredly
do. I always will.

In time you may come to understand that all I have done has been for love of
you. I know it is a poor excuse, but it is no less true. There is no crueller
master than love.

I do not know how I can forgive myself for what I have done. And yet, it is as
nothing when set it against the harm and pain I would bring you if you joined
your path to mine. I would sooner die than let that happen.

I know of but one way to stop it. I beg of you, forget me.

Seek a path that leads far away from me and takes you to the hope and the new
life we spoke of that precious night, before the fire, at Dunharrow.

Another may be so fortunate as to win your heart. When that time comes, as it
surely will, go to her with my blessing.

Ever yours,

Freja
***** Chapter 14 *****
Going South ~ Late July 3019

It was a grey drizzly morning when the new company set out on the last day of
July. They embarked on a ship bound for Pelargir, and the quietness as they
made their way downriver was only broken by the sound of a lone seagull. The
voyage to Pelargir didn’t take long. Their arrival was for the most part
unnoticed, but Hanasian was ever vigilant. There were too many eyes and ears
here, and most of the company had not even been to the city where worlds mix.
They stayed only two days in Pelargir, gaining extra supplies before making
their departure in the middle of the night toward the Fords of Poros. Hanasian
kept drilling into the men not to get complacent and to keep their eyes and
ears wide open. Though the trek was uneventful, he used it well for training,
and the company had the chance to get to know each other and their ways.
Hanasian knew this bonding would be worth much should events become terminal.
There is never anything like the first combat of a new company. If things go
well, that would be some time off.

Berendil was for the most part quiet, not talking much with the other men
except at need. He was always watching, being aware of all that was around him.
So much so that he was one of the first in the company to gain a nickname….
Watch.

The coolness of the sea air faded as they made their way toward the Fords of
Poros. Upon their arrival there, the Anórien garrison were at first welcoming,
thinking that the unadorned company of men with one worn banner was to be their
relief. The men of the Harondorian Home Guard were less enthusiastic at their
arrival, for they lived there. Once Hanasian had the men replenish their water
and let the horses drink and rest, he sat down with the captains of both of the
garrison. After settling into their command tent,
Hanasian said, ”First thing I must say, is we are not here for garrison duty.
Your relief will be here in the coming weeks. We only wish to rest here for the
night if you give us leave.”

Hanasian handed the captain a small parchment, and after a brief look, both
captains gave a nod. The captain of the Anórien Guard then said, ”It is well
with me, though I did wish to return north upon your arrival.”

“It is well with me also. I will ask what business of the King’s you are on
coming down here.”

The Harondorian captain asked, looking him over. Hanasian replied, “We seek
remnants of the servants of Sauron. I take it none have passed here, going
either north or south in recent days?”

Both captains shook their heads. Hanasian nodded and said, ”This is good.
Beware of any caravans moving north and west going to Pelargir. We ourselves
make for Harad, be it Far or Near. There are some warlords that need seeing
to.”

“Then rest you will need, for there is naught between here and the Fords of
Harnen ere thirty some leagues down the Haradian Road. There you will find the
Haradian Guard on the south side and our southern garrison on the north side. I
suggest you tread carefully as you approach,” The captain of Harondor said.
Hanasian nodded, taking all advice in consideration. Thinking of how to get
into Harad with little notice was forefront on his mind. He was already forming
a plan in his mind, and this helped him revise it even more. Hanasian traded
some small goods that were hard to find this far south, namely, a pouch of
Shire pipeweed, and he and his men were settled and well fed as the sun set in
the west.

Videgavia saw Berendil sitting apart from the others, turning something over
and over in his hand. He also had a book and had his quill and ink out. He
stood and watched him for a moment from afar. Berendil was penning another
letter to Freja. He had pages in that book of letters he had not sent. Four
letters since they left Minas Tirith. One he wrote the morning they left,
another he wrote upon the ship, a third he wrote in Pelargir, now this one. He
would pause and look hard at the torc in his hand and his fingers traced the
edge. He knew everything about that torc, for it was the only thing he had to
touch that was Freja’s. Every curve and etch he could see with his eyes closed.
When Berendil noted Videgavia from afar, he quickly pocketed the torc and went
back to writing in his book. He closed it when he saw Videgavia starting to
approach.

”You mind some company?”

Berendil said nothing , motioning with his hand that the ground was free. Once
Videgavia sat down beside Berendil, he offered up a stick of dried meat, and
Berendil took it reluctantly, looking at it as if it were poisoned.

”It’s good elk, from the vales of Greenwood up north. Thought I’d share the
last of it with you.”

Berendil sniffed it and nodded silently before he gnawed off a bit of the end.
A slight look of satisfaction came over him.
Videgavia said after he had chewed down a bit of his stick, ”It’s pretty dry
now. The last of my pre war ration. Of course, having been on one of the
hunting parties, I got a little more than most. The hunters and meat smokers
always did. Can’t beat it fresh, or even a month old. It keeps well, but as you
see, it gets dry.”

“Its good to have a taste of the north again, thank you.” Berendil said,
adding, ”I may keep some for later.”

“Good thinking. It looks like our choices of ration will only be limited by
what we can find in these lands.

Berendil nodded and looked out east. Videgavia did the same. These two were not
going to talk any more. Eventually Berendil stood and said, ”I’m going to get
some sleep. We will need it in the coming days.”

Videgavia nodded as Berendil walked away.

From Poros, they rode nearly seventy leagues through Harondor’s dry escarpments
as they made their way to Near Harad. Except for the garrison at Poros, they
didn’t really see anything living. Water was nowhere to be found either, so
they rationed the water they had gained at Poros. They followed the Harad Road
south and east, and when it turned more east, Hanasian looked at the maps he
had and would make corrections to them. The knowledge of these lands were
sketchy at best the farther south and east they went. Gondor’s maps were based
on old information from when they were for a time a strong power in these
lands. The road had been well built long ago, but the years and theabuse and
the driving sands had taken their toll. The company were as brown as the lands
as they neared the River Harnen. They could not see it, but they could smell
the water and at times the sound of water dancing over stone echoed over them.

The River Harnen was in the days of Gondor’s furthest reach the border with
Harad. With their approach to the fords, they halted. Hanasian sent a few men
forward to scout. Berendil, along with Gian and Amira, moved slowly up the road
while most of the company took position off each side of the road. Videgavia
and a couple others took the horses north of the road and found a good place to
set camp.

When Berendil’s scouting party returned, they took Hanasian aside. Berendil
said, ”The fords are well guarded. There are a half dozen Harondorian Guards
milling about on this side of the river, and there are some large, well dressed
black soldiers on the far side. We also went further east along the river, and
there is a place where we could cross unnoticed. The water is low after the
summer, but if it starts to rain in the north along the mountains, that will
change quickly.”

Hanasian nodded as he considered his options. He didn’t want to cause any harm
to the relations after the King had sent his proclamation the Haradrim, but he
knew that it had not been long and there was likely some bad feelings toward
northern men. In the end, he decided to split the company. Berendil would take
ten men and make for the crossing he had found. The rest would go to the Ford
of Harnen. If their welcome is friendly, they will pass and meet on the other
side. If not, they would withdraw and make for the crossing. They would set out
in the morning.

The crossing was done quietly in the first light of the morning. A short time
later, Hanasian rode at the front with Videgavia following close by. The
Harondorian guards nodded and stood aside, and Hanasian slowly walked his horse
through the waters. On the Haradian side, two large, towering guards in fine
attire stood before him, their spears crossed. One said in fluent westron,
"Where are you going, and what business do you have in Harad?”

Hanasian looked up into his dark eyes. After a pause, he said, ”We seek someone
who we last heard was living down here.”

The guard stiffened before saying, ”Bounty hunters?”

“No bounty is on the head of who we seek”

Hanasian replied. The guard stared at him for some time before he finally said,
"Who is it you seek?”

Hanasian crossed his arms and said, ”We seek servants of Sauron, and we have
reliable information there are some either hiding or being harboured here in
Harad. Will you allow us passage or must we go and have the army of Gondor come
and do this deed?”

The two stared for some time before the guard turned to his comrade. He was
sweating and looking nervous. A slight nod was all he managed, and the guard
turned back to Hanasian and said, ”Welcome to Harad. May you find who you
seek.”

He stood aside and waved the company through. He watched as each passed, and
they gathered at a side pool tapped from the river to replenish their water.
The watchful eye of the guard was never turned far away from them. Once they
rested and drank and washed, they made their way down the Harad road. They
reached the escarpments by evening and they set a camp once they reached the
high table land. They now had to find the others.

It was in the sunset that they could see men approaching. It was Berendil’s
party. But it looked too big as he only had ten men. As they got closer,
Hanasian could see there were sixteen men. One however was big and black and
looked to be a captive.

Great. Looks like they have captured the bridge guard or one of his comrades.
And who are these other northerners?He said to himself. He then called
Videgavia, and sent him with a couple of men down to lead them up to their
camp.

Videgavia moved quickly. He suspected who the northerners were. Gilkis and
those he sought out before they left Minas Tirith. Better late than never.

It wasn’t long before the party emerged atop the escarpment. Hanasian waited
until the last man was up the track. The last man was Berendil. He then
directed the arrivals to get situated and rest, and flagged Berendil to his
tent.

”Give me a report on all that transpired after you forded the river. I want to
know when and how you ran into Videgavia’s countrymen, and how it came to be
that the Haradian became a captive.”

Berendil walked around the rock that he used as a table and rolled out a map he
had sketched. He pointed to the river ford and said, ”After we crossed here, we
ran into some Haradians. They must have suspected that part of the river is
used to bypass the main ford. Anyway, they didn’t seem like they were
interested in opposing us and withdrew. Trouble was we thought they would
report that we had crossed into Harad, so we rode fast to intercept them. That
was when this guy ran up to us. He wanted us to spare them and take him! I
thought he was joking but the others were young kids scared. So we did. Why
this guy wanted to give himself up to us I don’t know. He hadn’t said much.”

“I know him. He was the guard at the Ford. I knew something wasn’t right when
he let us pass. I look forward to talking with him.” Hanasian said, pausing to
consider the events. He went on, ” Strange… but he must know something. It was
the hesitation and look he got when they were talking. He has either alerted
Naiore, or has an idea where she may be found.”

“My thoughts exactly. If it be the first, I suspect at worst, a whole lot of
trouble will be on its way to us. At best, she only gets spooked and moves on
to… Khand? Rhun? Deeper into the far reaches of Harad? At best this guy is on
the level, and he may have some idea where she lurks.” Berendil said, half in
statement and half in thoughtful analysis. Hanasian nodded agreement to
Berendil’s assessment.
He said, ”Bring him here and we will see what all he knows… at least is willing
to tell us and maybe get to what he is thinking.”

“Don’t you want to know about the Northmen?”

Berendil asked. Hanasian shook his head, saying, ”I assume they found you after
you crossed the river?”

Berendil nodded and said, ”Yes, they had crossed further north. Apparently they
had just missed us leaving, and they found a ride on another boat the same day”


“Well, comrades of Videgavial will be welcome. They bring much with them, and
Vid speaks highly of them.”

Berendil nodded and turned and left the tent.

He came back with the Haradian. He was the same man at the Ford, but he had
lost his fine armour. He had a look in his eye like he knew something nobody
else did, and it made Hanasian nervous. He asked, "You were the guard at the
Ford. Then my men find you north of there not a day after we crossed? What is
your reasoning for leaving your post? I believe it would be seen as desertion.”


The Haradian looked at him and said, ”Yes, captain. It would be, and is. But
one look at you at the ford and I knew you were here for something big. I knew
it was the evil one, the elf witch. Yes, I believe she is here in Harad. As you
could not say at the time, I could not say at the time. And yes, she likely
knows you have come. She has spies everywhere, even in Gondor.”

The Haradian said expressionless. Hanasian nodded and looked at Berendil before
asking, ”Yes, and how do I know you are not one of her spies?”

“You can’t know that but for my words. And I will tell you that I am no minion
of the elf witch. But I fear that some of my people are,” The Haradian said.
Hanasian looked hard into the man’s face, ”I’ll accept that you are not. Now I
ask you straight. Do you know where she is, and if so, will you be willing to
assist us in finding her?”

The Haradian blinked and nodded. He said, ”I do not know where she is, but I
would still like to assist you. My gut says she will leave Harad as fast as she
can knowing you are here. It is hard for one such as she to remain obscure down
here.”

So it was that Molguv started working with the company. He wasn’t ready to
renounce his Haradian duties just yet. Hanasian let him go after their talk,
and he gathered some of his men and led them south and east to keep Naiore from
running that way. They were loyal men, and so when Molguv ran into a burning
house, they assumed he perished. But he didn’t. He set out in search of Naiore.
Though diligent, he could only find old sign that she had been. And she had
headed north. If Hanasian moved swiftly, he may have gotten in front of her
before she got into the highlands of Khand. It would be several week’s time
before he again found the company to the southeast of Khand. They had seen no
sign, and Molguv was sure she would have had diverted east and would make north
to eastern Rhun.

With supply running low, they had to make a hard decision. If they pursued,
their provision would be dependent on what they could find. Hanasian had to
make the call. They stayed by a rocky hillock where they could watch a place
where two tracks crossed and there into the night a discussion ensued.

First was about the tracks. One ran west to east, likely the northern ‘road’
that the company had travelled after their crossing of the Harnen. Where to the
east it went, only Molguv could say, and he only spoke of a great eastern sea
that was in some children’s tales in Harad. Of settlements and such there was
no knowledge. The other track was the one that Molguv had come up and followed
the track of Naiore. It went on north to Khand. Since no sign of Naiore was
found, and Molguv had lost any sign of her miles south of here, it would be a
hard follow. Yet Berendil offered up a plan.
He said, ”With our limited resources, maybe I could take a few men east and
recon for a couple days. We will move fast and light while the rest of the
company either stays here or goes north toward Khand and sets a camp. When we
return we head west.”

Hanasian nodded and said, “Good idea. But I’ll send Videgavia with his northman
scouts. Set out in the morning, go east for a day, and if nothing is seen of
Naiore or anything that may look like a town or settlement, return here. If you
do see any sign of her, try and work out which way she is going. But I fear our
excursion down here has been for naught.”

Berendil was incensed and was going to question Hanasian, but Hanasian have him
a look when he was about to protest. With their plan for the next couple days
in place, those who would be leaving early retired for the night. Watches of
two were sent down each track, and some of the rest scattered and took care of
some neglected work on their equipment.
Hanasian took Berendil aside and said, ”You know I can't have you off on your
own chasing after Naiore. You can go if you wish, but Vidigavia is in charge.
If you don’t come back, you are on your own.”

Berendil didn’t say anything at first, but said, I’ll go take watch then… to
the south if you will trust me to do that.”

Hanasian nodded and waved him off. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Berendil. It
was just that he would be the one that Naiore would draw forth into possible
folly. He wasn’t going to let that happen, especially since Hanasian held
possession of the letters Berendil wrote to Freja. It wasn’t going to be him
that delivers them, but he did agree to safe-keep them. Berendil didn’t trust
himself to not destroy them when thinking of her too much and getting in a foul
mood. Just about every week he wrote a letter. And he would give it sealed to
Hanasian. It wasn’t forgotten what Naiore did to them in Minas Tirith. Hanasian
too retired for the night. He need some sleep.

Morning came too soon. Berendil and Belgon who had the south watch were there
alerting them to ready to move. Hanasian got up and Berendil said, ”There is a
company sized force of Haradians moving our way, purpose unknown. We will need
to get moving if we hope not to be discovered.”

Molguv came walking up yawning. He asked, What is all the commotion?”

“Friends of yours.” Berendil answered.
Hanasian said, ”Either they are looking for you, or they are looking for us.”

“I would be imprisoned if they catch me, so I can only stay with you,“ Molguv
replied. Like it or not, he would from now on be a de-facto member of the
company. With the return of the east and west watch, the plans of the night
before were forgotten, and they set out north toward Khand where only
uncertainty awaited them.
 
 
***** Chapter 15 *****
3019, III – September, Meduseld


Most of the autumnal morning had escaped her by the time Freja sat at her desk
and attempted to marshal her thoughts. Something else nagged at her, insistent
and for the moment certainly insane. She tried to silence it, snuff it out
entirely, but had to settle for containing it in a distant corner of her mind.
It prickled at her thoughts, like a stone in her boot or bur in her saddle
blanket, and this pushed an irritated sigh from her.

Éomer anticipated a report from her imminently. A report she had yet to sink
her teeth into it in the way the subject required due to her inability to pay
it the attention it deserved. Instead, her mind careened recklessly, ensnared
in a…well, what was it exactly? A distraction? A fantasy? Madness? Her nails
scratched over the surface of her desk as she curbed her thoughts once more.

The report! A very important, necessary report upon which the future of her
order and perhaps even Rohan may well depend. Rebuilding the Shieldmaidens was
a significant undertaking. One likely to stretch over generations – beyond
Éomer’s reign and her own lifespan…unless…they changed the recruitment customs
that had been in place since the days of Eorl.

The rules had been bent for her and she had to wonder if yet more could be done
to allow
more still to follow in her steps. They could allow girls of common birth to
seek entry to their ranks. Why not look at admitting older girls, or even women
grown? Maybe even wives, mothers and widows. Why not? Women such as these
fought as ferociously as any Knight or Shieldmaiden to defend hearth and home.
And thinking of Knights tipped Freja’s thoughts into a recollection of a
discussion she’d had the evening before with one such individual.

She’d found herself seated beside Taran in Meduseld’s main hall. This, in
itself, was not unusual. Taran was often to be found rattling around Meduseld
of late and they had been friends for some years now.

”The way you train,” the Knight of Rohan had said to her in his deep rumble,
”I’d think you were bound on returning to their ranks yourself.”

Freja had waved that away then for she was under no illusions. Yes, she had
managed to liberate herself from her cane. Yes, much of her skill and speed had
returned in the intensive training she set herself to each day. For all of
that, her hip would never fully heal. She could compensate for it whilst she
was young still, but the years would continue to inexorably march by.

”I will not take the braids again. Shieldmaiden ranks are thin enough as it is.
Last thing they need are liabilities such as I amongst them,” Freja had
answered.

“Why push so hard if not to reclaim the spear?”

“Because I am ill suited to needlepoint,” Freja muttered into her ale,
unwilling to divulge the raw truth to him.

She’d first met Taran when he was a lad, training much the same as she, at a
tourney. Though they were competitors, they’d taken a liking to each other
almost immediately and their friendship had grown from that point on. With
sandy hair, green eyes and a ready laugh, Taran had proved a steady companion
down through the years despite the variance in their positions. For all of the
fact that she was the king’s ward, he was of unsullied noble birth and she was
assuredly not. A true Son of the Mark, and yet this had not particularly
mattered to either one of them. Yet despite the fact that Tarun was a dear
friend, Freja was reluctant to divulge the truth to him on this score. If he
sensed her dissembling, Taran was generous enough to say nothing of it. Rather,
he nodded in amicable agreement and returned to the topic they had been
discussing.

”Expanding admission requirements is sensible, provided skills are not diluted
or standards compromised,” he’d declared but there had been an intriguing and
cheeky glint in his green eyes that had puzzled her.

She’d tilted her head at him, the unbound waves of her hair shifting over her
deep blue kirtle. He took all of this in and, well aware that she was onto him,
chuckled into his ale. Freja had waited him out, her attention squarely focused
with all its weight upon him until he finally lowered his tankard.

”There is another option,” he leaned towards her to whisper, ”Éomer could unite
both the Shieldmaidens and Knights into one force.”

Freja’s eyes had widened immediately and she’d swiftly scoffed, ”Horses would
sooner fly!”

But now, as she sat staring at her report in the cool light of day, she wasn’t
nearly so certain the notion was unreasonable. Merging two distinctly different
orders into one would difficult. They could lose Knights and Shieldmaidens in
the process, particularly the traditionalists and they tended to be the more
experienced hands. That was skill and wisdom they could ill-afford to lose with
the pressing need to train so many new recruits. Still, why maintain two
separate emaciated forces when they could be combined into one? Somehow.

Freja rubbed at her hip as she pondered which particular course of heresy she
would tread. Her thoughts tumbled about until she settled on the only logical
course of action she could perceive. She needed to discuss this with Vorda
before she made any recommendations on to the king. It was only proper, and
Vorda was a traditionalist. If she could sway Vorda with her arguments, then
perhaps it might be feasible after all.

She pushed to her feet just as a man barrelled through her door and into her
parlour. Though their paths had crossed just the once when they were both
children, Freja recognised her younger brother immediately. The new Lord of the
East Fold, born two years after her to her father’s new and suitably noble
wife, stood in the middle of her parlour and stared boldly back at her.

Like Freja, he was tall and possessed of strong, finely carved features but
ended the familial similiarity. Where her hair stubbornly waved, his was
straight. Hers blazed like a fire but his was golden sunlight. His eyes were
more refined than hers as well. A pale blue icy glitter in marked contrast to
the piercing, rich blue of her own. With his straight golden hair pulled
smoothly back into a queue and his glacial eyes glittering, he stared at her as
though she were something unpleasant he had trodden in.

A frozen moment passed before Freja remembered herself and more importantly her
current station. Éomer had continued his uncle’s generosity in extending to her
a place within his household but that was it. That was all she would accept.
Neither shieldmaiden nor a Daughter of Mark, she possessed no rank whatsoever
and so she offered her younger brother the courtesy his noble birth required of
her. Better late than never, she supposed, as she bowed her head to him. As she
did so, she studied her brother’s appearance.

Ióen’s preference for fine clothing appeared to have endured with him over the
years, she noted. His immaculate dress suggested that he was in Meduseld on
court business. Why that would prompt him to seek her out, however, she could
not discern. Freja smoothed the folds of her skirt, rarely pleased to be
wearing one. Her garb was not as fine as Ióen’s, no velvet or fine golden
embroidery or fur trim, it was made of good quality cloth. Warm, clearn,
without sign or ware or in need of repair. A stark contrast to the garb she
spent most of her mornings in. It sat in a pile in the bedroom behind her,
waiting for her to deal with the dirt, sweat and blood.

As she weighed him up, so did he. Ióen’s eyes raked over her as though they
faced each other upon a field of battle. Ridiculous notion, given there was no
quarrel between them. Freja barely knew him. He’d been five when she’d met him
and she had been seven. He’d , accompanied their father to answer the furious
summons of a scandalised Mark.

Angry words, as ugly as they were shameful, had rung through Medudseld’s hall
on the day they first met. How the Mark had howled. She recalled the King’s
efforts to shield her from the torrid debate that had played out in his court.
Yet angry voices and ugly words rolled through the halls no matter what
Théoden, Théodred and even Éomer had tried to do.

The seven years she had spent in Meduseld had included a lot of boisterous,
raucous debate amongst the Mark but it had been different that day. She had
been genuinely frightened, overwhelmed and above all ashamed. All she had
wanted to do was hide under the gigantic desk in Théoden’s study until it all
stopped. Instead she had been dragged out at the Mark’s demand and called to
the main hall to face them. Or perhaps she was to face her father. Maybe he was
to face her. Freja still did not know what the purpose had been to this very
day.

At her appearance, her younger brother had approached her that tumultuous day.
Finely clad as was their father, fair hair gleaming. The true heir. The golden
child. He’d wandered up to her, staring. Fascinated. She’d had no idea who he
was, then. All she had wanted to do was to stop her knees from knocking. After
a long moment’s study, Ióen pronounced his assessment of her. Freja could still
hear the piping lilt of his child’s voice as he spoke the first words she had
ever heard from him and there, before the assembled might of Rohan’s Mark and
Théoden King had pronounced her a bastar-

”How do they address you now?” her brother asked, his voice a shockingly deep
contrast to the one playing through her mind, ”Not shieldmaiden. Certainly not
Lady.”

Thrown momentarily, Freja was swift to recover. Any who spoke to her as he had
all those years ago earned her fist in their mouth. Best, she resolved, not to
be provoked into anything unwise. Freja opted for deference and stepped out to
stand beside her desk. She inclined her head to her and kept her voice smooth
and measured. Unruffled and indifferent. Like a passing cloud.

”That which is deemed proper, my Lord.”

He paused, waiting for her to react further, and so she offered him a smile.
Yes, she had a sharp temper and yes, she was known to be bold. Mistake that for
impulsiveness at your peril, brother mine. Ióen must have caught something of
her thoughts. He sniffed at her smile, drew himself up and then reached beneath
his glorious velvet cape. He tossed what he retrieved across the parlour and
onto her desk.

Bundles of paper held together with rough cord tumbled towards her, scattering
the papers in their path. When they came to a rest could she could make out
what they were and her breath caught in her throat and it took all her effort
not to reach for them. All the seals were intact. Her father had not opened a
single letter she’d written him over the course of some twenty years.

The repudiation was as bitter as it was deep and Ióen surely had to be aware of
it. She could feel the weight of his eyes now. They settled upon her and they
were sharp with a strange malice. It was clearly there, for he made no effort
to conceal it from her. Freja, however, was unwilling to be quite so
transparent. She’d spent years learning how to conceal her injuries from a foe
and she drew upon that now to steel herself.

Why Ióen would seek her out to do this, she could not understand. She was no
threat to him or his position. She was no rival for the East Fold. No matter
what she might do, she could never hold that by birthright. What could he
possibly gain from provoking her?

He could hardly resent her position here at Meduseld. She was only the King’s
ward, passed from Théoden King to Éomer King like the rest of Meduseld’s
furnishing. Only last week Éomer had said he’d dispatch her to the kitchens or
the laundry if he deemed she could serve better there. But still, whether she
understood or not, Ióen was clearly here to do battle. To seek to harm her. To
put her low. And she’d be damned if she’d help him do that.

Freja forced her gaze back to him and lifted her chin, ”How gracious of you to
return them, brother.”

His response was immediate and she knew, then, that she’d badly miscalculated.
Disgusted rage washed over his face as he rushed at her. She saw him coming.
She could have pushed him back. She could have tipped him to the floor and held
her foot over his throat until he stopped struggling and, longer still or just
harder, breathing. Yet, he was a Lord of the Mark and she was as mighty now as
any dairy maid. If she raised a hand to him, struck him…

Ióen used his momentum and weight to shove her backwards against the wall
between the parlour and her bedroom. His wide hand, surprisingly strong, closed
in an iron grip over her throat and jaw. Tighter and tighter he squeezed. The
impact with the wall jolted through her, forcing the air out of her lungs.
Freja’s head bounced off the wall and her eyes rolled. He held her high enough
that her feet could not touch the ground and she could not breathe. His grip
tightened, crushing her throat, and her body began to fight, desperate for air.
Ióen’s breath washed over her face as he drew closer still, hissing as he
pulled it through his bared teeth. She was falling into a darkness. Flashes of
red and black at the edges of her vision.

”You’re no kin of mine,” he snarled, loathing thick in his voice.

The next Freja knew, it was afternoon. Sunlight glowed upon the walls of her
bedroom. A bedroom she had no recollection of retreating to and yet she found
herself laying upon her bed. Someone had removed her shoes and laid a blanket
over her for warmth. Groggy, Freja twitched as awareness returned and with it,
memory. The letters. Ióen. Sharp pain at the back of her skull washed through
her, making her stomach churn. She swallowed at it and flinched again. Her
throat was raw and bloody and her mouth was dry.

”Mphf,” she groaned and then she heard water’s song.

Freja levered herself to her elbows and peered through her unbound hair at her
bedroom. Vorda was there, back to the room, as she poured water into an earthen
mug. Éomer King, meanwhile, she found seated in an armchair peering back at
her. His expression was that of a ropable man. His jaw was tensed and his foot
jiggled, agitated, where he had propped it upon one knee. Éomer’s fingers
drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair as he scrutinised her.

Mug in hand, Vorda turned and glanced to the king. At his nod she came forward,
set the mug on the table by the bed and then reached for Freja to assist her to
sit. Freja pushed her hands away, determined to sit in her own damn bed. Vorda
sighed but did not argue and took up the mug again to wait as Freja struggled
to push herself up. It took some doing, the pain and queasiness made everything
that much more difficult, but she got there even if the effort left her skin
slick with clammy sweat. Silently, Vorda passed her the mug. As Freja drank,
she tasted something odd upon her tongue and glanced up at Vorda who lingered
still by her bedside.

”For the pain,” the shieldmaiden told her, ”There is no shame in that.”

Freja grimaced, swallowing the water agonising in itself, and then Éomer
growled a stark command that left no room for further dispute “Drink. All of
it.”

Scowling, she set about the painful task and it was only when she had emptied
the mug did Vorda lift her attention back to Éomer. The king nodded at Vorda to
proceed and Freja wondered just what the pair had discussed.

”What happened?” Vorda asked.

If she told the truth, Ióen’s actions would not be left to pass without
recourse. The East Fold had endured so much these years past. This newfound
peace was too delicate, too new, to withstand having their lord arrested or
worse. As her sluggish thoughts coalesced, Vorda shot Freja look of silent
pleading that she steeled herself against.

”Nothing,” Freja answered, voice little more than a croak.

”This is not nothing,” Vorda pressed.

Freja told the best lie she could think of, voice rasping ”I tripped on my
skirt. It was clumsy of me. You’d think I’d have learned by now.”

Vorda clicked her tongue in dismay and looked to Éomer.

The king pressed out a sigh, ”I will have from you truth, Freja. Who grasped
you by your throat and tried to crack open your skull?”

She pressed her lips together and the silence grew taut as a bow string before
Éomer cursed and then pushed to his feet. When he spoke, he addressed Vorda as
though she were not there.

”From henceforth, Freja is to be guarded at all times. No one is to enter her
chambers without her express permission. This is to continue for as long as I
deem necessary.”

“I will see to the arrangements immediately,” Vorda replied, unruffled, as
though Freja being placed under what amounted to arrest was of no surprise to
her.

A terse nod from Éomer sent Vorda on her way and Freja watched glumly as the
king followed Vorda out. For a moment she thought that he would slip out after
her but instead, after a brief exchange she could not hear, Éomer closed the
doors after Vorda. Freja pushed a sigh out as her king prowled back towards
her. He did not return to the armchair but rather took up position at one of
the windows. He leant against the sill and stared out at the sharp, icy peaks
of the White Mountains beyond.

”I don’t need guarding,” Freja ventured and Éomer muttered under his breath.

”Then tell me who is responsible,” he said louder, turning to watch the thick
waves of her hair tumble forward as she bowed her head – intractable as ever.

Exasperation made him shake his own head slowly, ”I will see you safe in my
halls, Freja, by whatever means you leave available to me.”

She plucked at the blanket that had been set over her. She had no desire to be
watched, be it by her own sisters or that Ranger that was still rattling around
Edoras doing who knew what. She wanted privacy. She needed it, in point of
fact. Without it, everything would be harder. Still, for all of that, she’d not
see the East Fold suffer for their lord’s vicious temper.

Freja lifted a hand to tuck her hair behind one ear, ”I understand.”

”Do you?” he inquired, ”You are lost, Freja. That much I can see. You seek
purpose. I know you are not content to wander, aimless. It is not in your
nature to merely abide.”

“Nor yours,” she countered, uncomfortable.

Éomer inclined his head in agreement, gaze still on the mountains, ”Éowyn was
correct when she named us two peas in a pod.”

He turned to prop his hip against the window sill and crossed his arms to study
her. Freja met his gaze briefly before she dropped it to her lap. She laced her
fingers together and wondered why Éomer was still here. The kingship kept him
busy. She knew he scarcely had time to eat or sleep. There was some purpose to
his lingering here, she knew, but what? Éomer drew breath to speak and Freja
braced herself.

”What do you make of Taran?”

The question baffled her so much that her eyes widened momentarily, ”A fine
knight and even better man.”

A sideways glance to Éomer confirmed he watched her still, ”You’ve nothing else
to say?”

Freja lifted a shoulder, ”I’d recruit him to the shieldmaidens, if I could. I
can offer no higher praise than that.”

“He has spent a great deal of time in your company of late,” Éomer observed and
noted her puzzled expression as she wondered why that was of any significance.

She’d ask, if her throat did not feel as though a horse had stood on it. As it
was, Freja glanced to the king to find he was hesitating. Almost as if he were
debating whether to say anything further.

He pushed out a brief sigh before he added, ”He’s asked my leave to court a
wife.”

”Is that required?” Freja asked, baffled.

She’d not heard of any such thing in her time at Meduseld. Kings had far better
things to concern themselves with and yet Éomer nodded at her.

”Tis you he wishes to court.”

Flummoxed, Freja’s discovered her jaw was ajar and closed it with an audible
click of her teeth. As she did so, she concluded that she would have been
better served riding out of Edoras at first light. As it was, she was here and
she was fighting battles on too many fronts.

Éomer canted his head at her, puzzled by her less than enthusiastic response,
”He is a good man. A fine knight who holds you in very high regard. That much I
know already. You enjoy his company, snd you are restless, searching for a new
path. I had thought you might be amenable, or at least inclined to consider
this.”

Her restlessness had nothing to do with an absence of direction. Freja
tightened her grip on the bedclothes around her. Too many fronts, she was in
danger of being overwhelmed. Eriwyn would say it was time to redraw the field
before the lines were overrun. But which to redraw? Ióen, the madness she was
contemplating or the reason she was contemplating it? Best to fight a tactical
withdrawal and like all fighting withdrawals, this was going to get much worse
before it had any chance of getting better.

Freja drew a deep breath as she gathered her courage and began with the
incendiary words that she had hoped never to launch.

”I gave my spear torc to another.”

Éomer made a strangled sound of surprise, ”Impossible! I saw it at the Houses
of Healing! You returned it to me with the others!”

“Did you check the pouch and count them?” she answered, struck by how oddly
calm her voice sounded to her own ears.

Then Freja winced as Éomer sucked in a shocked breath.

”WHERE IS IT?!” her king demanded, outraged.

Freja knew who had it…but not where. Arnor, for that was Berendil’s home and he
would have returned to that by now? Perhaps it was still in Minas Tirith. She
knew a number of Arnor’s Rangers had decided to remain in the city to serve
Aragorn. Maybe Berendil had given it way, sold it on. Torcs were quite
valuable. Any silversmith worth their salt would snap it up as soon as they set
eyes on it. Perhaps he had cast it into the Anduin, angry and bitter at her
treatment of him.

Whatever the case, the torc was unlikely to return to Éomer any time soon if at
all. Freja’s stomach knotted as her head bowed. Let the battle begin.

”Make no mistake” Éomer growled through his teeth, ”You will answer me on this
score!”

It took all of her dwindling courage not to shy away as the king stormed to the
side of her bed, his eyes sharp as any blade and trained on her. Éomer had been
wroth with her more than once over the years but this was entirely different.
This was not putting eggs in his boots or riffling through his prized books on
swordplay even though he had expressly told her to stay out of his room and
belongings. They were children no more, in any sense of the word, and he was a
king now. Her king. And possibly, depending on how he saw matters, her judge.
If the thunderous expression on Éomer’s face was anything to go by, she thought
it more than likely that she had little hope of appealing for mercy. Not that
she would. Not for herself.

“A Ranger of the North has it,” she answered, stomach rolling, ”Don’t take it
from him! Please!”

Though she was in no position to make demands of any kind, Freja put all her
heart into this one. Éomer’s brows shot towards the ceiling, astonished at her
bold daring, and Freja braced herself for his response as his hands curled and
uncurled at his sides. He was sure to bellow for the guards, summon them to
arrest her. Instead, he spun on his heel and returned to the window.

Éomer stared through it, eyes narrowed, and then asked a question that sounded
more like an astounded question, ”He brought you from the field, stood vigil
over you?”

Freja murmured assent and Éomer set a hand across his mouth, ”A mighty gift.”

Then he frowned, ”He told me, however, that you and he had quarrelled.”

Freja winced at the memory of that foggy, chilled morning. She’d been so
certain made a fool out of her. Convinced that he was about to throw his life
aside on a doomed mission only hours after he had, seemingly, promised it to
her! Fear and humiliation had lent a keen edge to her temper that morning. The
things she had said…the look on his face. Confused. Hurt. Then his own anger,
slower to burn than hers. She’d turned her back on him that day, disgusted at
them both.

She wiped her hands over her face. The heavy silence in the room grew thick as
she waited to hear her King’s pronouncement.

”You have given this Ranger the most solemn of oaths and yet you turned your
back and returned to Edoras without him.”

When Éomer turned from the window to study her, it was as though he did not
know her at all. Two peas in a pod no longer, she thought to herself.

”I do not understand why you would abandon such a vow,” he starkly stated and
she sucked in a sharp breath.

She had not abandoned her vow. In fact, all she had done from the moment she
had given Berendil her torc had been to honour that vow. Yet, Berendil would
not see this. She had given him no hope to cling to.

Éomer then asked, ”Does anyone else know?”

Freja shook her head, refusing to implicate Éowyn. Another necessary lie. They
just kept mounting. At this the king took to pacing. His boots scuffed over the
floor as he went back and forth. What was he calculating, she wondered? How
many crimes she had just confessed to or how best to exact the punishment?

”Vorda will receive Eriwyn’s spear torc when the time comes, which will be soon
if I do not miss my mark. The other…you will replace by whatever means
necessary,” he eventually said.

Freja’s widened eyes at his astonishing decision prompted him to add, ”It will
be some time before we can add a second to the command structure, but do not
leave it overlong. Remedy this matter swiftly.”

Éomer halted his pacing and turned to search her expression as he drew closer,
”I think you should reconsider your course of action with the Ranger. Seek him
out, return to him.”

“It is too late. He has set me aside.”

Éomer frowned, ”You are certain of this?”

She dreamed of Berendil every night. Sometimes, when she woke, he forgave her.
Sometimes he did not. Each dawn brought with it the agony of another day spent
without him. And yet what else could she do? What other way did she have to
protect the man she loved so dearly? She had left Minas Tirith months ago now.
Berendil had ceased writing or attempting to speak to her longer still. That
this is what she had chosen made it no easier to bear.

Freja nodded, unable to keep the grim resignation from her face, ”What’s done
is done.”

Éomer gently sank onto the side of her bed and set a hand over her own. He had
not done that for many years now but she remembered a time when he had. When he
was home, and not afield, he would perch on the side of the bed she and Éowyn
had piled into and tell them stories that made their eyes pop with excitement,
amazement or delight. He and Théodred sometimes took turns to see who could
most amaze and dazzle them, regaling them with all sorts of improbable tales
long into the night.

”Are you certain you can find no comfort elsewhere? Taran is a good man. He
will show you honour and kindness.”

“He deserves a woman who can give him her whole heart. I cannot.”

He pressed his lips together at that but nodded and removed his hand from hers,
”I will inform him I think it best he court someone else.”

“Someone worthy of him. A true Daughter of the Mark; tell him that.”

“You are a Daughter of the Mark.”

Freja gave her knees a wan and bitter smile as she drew them up to encircle in
her arms. They both knew that no amount of wishful thinking could change the
circumstances of her birth.

”Your life is yours to spend as you see fit,” he murmured, ”But I would very
much like to see you happy, as once you were before the Shadow fell over our
land.”

“I will do my best,” she promised and the bed creaked as he stood.

His appraising stare lingered a moment, ”Not a word to anyone of this. Not even
Vorda.”

Freja nodded, ”Of course.”

Satisfied he said, ”Rest, Freja. I’ll have them bring you tea and something you
might be able to eat.”

Whatever it was, it would have to be liquid. She would have preferred ale but
she suspected he meant soup or something very much like it. Freja kept her
silence, though. Already she had demanded more than her share of her king this
day.

She watched Éomer depart, glimpsing the guards already waiting at her door as
he passed through them. When they closed after him, Freja wiped her hands over
her face. Now what was she to do? Watched night and day, questions were sure to
be asked. She would need answers for them, ones that would not raise anyone’s
eyebrows or hackles. Especially Éomer. If he knew…

What? Freja paused, her breath held. Had she decided to do this at some point
between Ióen’s arrival and her interrogation at Éomer’s hands? Yes, came the
answer. Yes. Because waiting for someone else to do it was not in her nature.
Yes. Because the prospect of it never being done was simply unthinkable.

This would be the fight of her life for her life and she would do it alone.
Carefully. Very carefully. Because she had no intention of failing and that
meant she must prepare.
***** Chapter 16 *****
The Company enters Khand


Their ride north was fast and the wide dry lands slowly climbed up to the
highlands. Foldine took two of the Rohirrim and held back as rearguard,
shadowing the advance of the Haradrim. It appeared that the company had covered
their presence well despite the hurried nature of their departure from the
crossroads. Once the Haradians got there, they seemed puzzled as to what to do
next. They sent scouts west, north and east, but all returned with little to
report, and they set camp roughly where the company had been.

With the news, Hanasian sent Berendil with Molguv a northman, and an Ithilien
Ranger to get close and try and find out what they could. It was a big ask to
trust Molguv, and Berendil knew it. But Hanasian put his trust into them both,
and he hoped all would be well.

When they returned a day later without incident, they had much to say. They had
gotten close enough for Molguv to listen in on the commander and his unit
commanders. Apparently the Haradrim scouts had discovered enough information to
know that it was the way the company had gone. But it seemed they were
reluctant to pursue them any further. Hanasian was relieved. The next day they
once again set out north with Foldine and his riders as rearguard.

Months Later…December 3019

Their ride into Khand was without trouble, and the people were welcoming. The
southern tribal elders were friendly and helpful. But in time and as the search
went on, the company was met with resistance. It seemed that Khand had become
after the fall of Sauron a land of fiefs and warlords. Tribal elders held their
lands and people, but some old generals of Sauron’s armies thought highly of
themselves and were making an attempt to win the hearts and minds of the
people. It would be a perfect environment for Naiore to work her wiles and to
really cause problems. The company now expected this uncertainty would be what
they were coming up against, for the people of Khand were intense in all they
did. The Dunedain learned this first hand on the Field of Pelennor when they
came up against the Variags.

It was not long after they had entered Khand that the company came upon their
first Khandese. A dozen fierce looking soldiers lined the stony escarpment,
split each side of the track the company was following. Hanasian ordered a halt
and had the company spread into a defensive battle formation, but without
weapons drawn. It was then a figure walked into sight on the road, holding a
long staff with a banner on it. Though at first looking like a threat, the man
waved his hand and the soldiers stepped back at ease. Hanasian ordered the
same.

 It was here on the southern reach of Khand that the company first met the
Khe’al. Their leader was named Khemal, and they were the traditional southern
lowland people of Khand. After Hanasian and Khemel had a long meeting where
communication was sometimes rough, the company was welcomed into their camp. It
wasn’t long before Khemel took the company in as his own. They had become
guests of the elder, which was saying much to his people. Hanasian at first was
concerned of this, but shortly afterward, eased to it. He had many discussions
with Khemel with the assistance of his eldest daughter who somehow had learned
basic Westron. The how and when and why questions that floated through
Hanasian’s mind would remain unanswered, but her service as a crude interpreter
was very useful to both he and Khemel.

Of the Khe’al, there was now only a few. Khemel himself seemed well off and
though he projected a cheerful demeanour, a sadness could be heard in his words
and seen in his face. It was likely because he allowed six sons to march off to
war for Sauron with most of the other sons of the families of the tribe. None
returned, only rumor of the glorious battles. Of his remaining children, he had
six daughters and a young son who was only a young boy when the war came. It
was his daughters who lined the ridge aside the road and appeared as sons, face
covered and leather armor that gave naught away. Had they been on the
battlefield along with her brothers, it was likely none would have been the
wiser. Hanasian made it a point to instruct the company not to even think about
messing with the women of these peoples. There were a fair many women there,
and men a fair few. The Khe’al had suffered much in the war, and it was likely
the Dunedain were responsible for the death for many of the tribe’s sons, it
seemed they were the best allies the company could ask for in this land. It was
good to be able to get some footing in the land and have some friends there.
But they knew they had to get on with their mission, and time was not on their
side. With each passing day Hanasian hoped to find some information that would
lead them toward Naiore or tell of her whereabouts.

It was the boy who came telling his father in an excited voice. Father looked
worried and with few words his daughters donned their weapons. Hanasian took
the cue and ordered likewise for the company. The charge from several fanatical
swordsmen was quickly stopped, but it seemed to rattle Khemel. Somehow he
wasn’t the same after that day. Hanasian had the company move their camp to the
edge of the settlement, and had a full watch set for the night. It was a good
thing he did too, for that night, Ttheir camp was raided and one of the
company, a Gondorian highlander, was slain as he watched. His watchmate put up
a fight and slew the young man, but was wounded. With this attack, the company
suffered its first loss.

Seeking and finding Naiore would be near impossible here, and as the weeks
passed, the situation became evermore grim for the company. They enlisted a few
friendly locals to work with them, but it brought with it a whole new level of
brutality. The situation in Khand was deteriorating, and unlike Harad and Rhun,
lacked any central government that had acquiesced to King Elessar after the
war. The tribes were loosely federated in union in opposition to the west and
therefore marched north with the Haradrim in service to Sauron. Now there was
little to hold all the tribes together and the situation on any given day was
never cut and dried. Like that first one, an attack could spring out from
anywhere at any time. The company lost four men in a month by surprise attacks
carried out by one, two or at most three attackers.

So began the day, a dark morning, with clouds from the north giving the day a
dull grey-brown look. In the north it would likely mean rain, but here in this
arid land, the small of rain was usually far away. But on this morning, the
smell of rain could be sensed and the locals seemed a bit excited. Hanasian
watched as the daughters went out to feel the first drops fall. It was not long
before it turned into a torrential downpour. It did feel good to get the dust
washed off, but the mud clung to their boots and made walking somewhat hard.
Hanasian had a horrible thought…. He looked about expecting an attack… but it
would be as hard for any attackers to walk in the quagmire as it would be for
them. The rains subsided to a proper northern steady drip when a caravan came
in from the north seeking shelter. If the weather had been more like normal for
the time of year, the dryness would prevail, but the rains of the north had
found their way to this arid lands with a steady sea breeze from the west bring
the cloud and moisture.

With the children of the north came a rumor that Khemel’s young son had heard.
He told his father, and disparingly, Khemel told Hanasian of it. Hanasian was
reluctant to take the words of young kids as completely reliable, but he would
be amiss if he did not investigate further. He called Berendil to his tent.
When he arrived, Hanasian wasted no time.

”I have something I need you to check out. It could be nothing, but then again,
it may be something. Take four men of your choice and head north to the camp
this caravan came from. Check for sign of Naiore, or anything that seems
amiss.”

“That is all you can give me? The mission seems rather vague.”

Berendil said when Hanasian paused. Hanasian then said, ”Yes, vague, and based
on rumours of children. Yet my gut tells me there is something underneath this.
Like I said, it could be nothing, or it could be something. It can’t hurt to
have a look-see.”

 Berendil nodded. They needed to get something going as they had not done much
since coming to the camp. He said, "I’ll take the Haradian and three of the
Ithilien Rangers with me. If per chance I find who we are looking for, I assume
I have full discretion to do what is necessary?”

“Yes… you are in command of this.”

With a nod, Berendil left the tent into the misty greyness.

The boy met him a few paces from Hanasian’s tent. As much as he wanted to go,
Berendil forbade it. When Khemel came and met Berendil, the boy again begged to
go with Berendil. But agreeing with Berendil, Khemel would not allow it.
Instead, he insisted his 2nd daughter Khemra go with them. Berendil was
reluctant to have her come along, but Khemel insisted and he didn’t want to
cause problems in denying this request. Besides, having someone fluent in the
local dialect would help greatly.

 Other than the six who went north, Only Hanasian, Khemel, and his son knew why
Berendil was heading north. Berendil realized it would be hard to disguise
Molguv, but there were Haradian traders that would visit Khand. Trouble was
whether Naiore would sense him, knowing that he pursued her out of Harad. Yet,
he was no more out of place than the northerners like himself, so they dressed
themselves as best they could with the assistance if Khemra. They were ready by
the time the westering sun broke through the greyness,and they set out into the
approaching night.

The stars guided them through the darkness, and by the morning they had come to
a village known as the crossroads. There they rested and took time to eat and
observe the locals in a small trading post. The men had some hot, bitter,
brewed black liquid that Khemra was having. Berendil didn’t care for the taste,
but it was quite invigorating. Molguv seemed to know of it and thoroughly
enjoyed having some. He traded something he had to the proprieter for a small
bag of the beans, and seemed happy with the deal. They set out again once the
sun was obscured by clouds.

It was near morning as they approached the lands of the northern clans. A sense
of emptiness could be felt in the air. It seemed most of the people were
nowhere to be seen. The old and very young were there, but few others. Khemra
said they must have suffered much in the wars, but even she was disturbed by
the lack of people. Berendil ordered them to move west toward a rocky ridge
where they could see the village. They would wait until night so they could
approach in stealth….

The clear night allowed them to watch for shadows, and there seemed to be a lot
of men leaving a small shelter and heading with speed into the night. Too many
Berendil thought. It did answer where everyone was, btu what were they doing?
Khemra said they have underground dens to protect them from the harsh heat of
the summers of Khand, and there may be many such places. Berendil noted other
possible places, but none had so many leave at once. He took two men and headed
down to that shelter…

They arrived at the door and waited to listen. Not a sound. The three stepped
inside and Berendil had one man wait by the door to keep watch and remain in
view of the others on the ridge.

”Be vigilent, for we know not what we will find.”

With a nod Berendil stepped over and found the door that led down a stair. The
lanky Ithilien Ranger followed…


Two Days Later…

News from the western scout came early that there was movement on the plain.
Videgavia returned with the scout to where he had set his watch. It was where
the trail climbed up and crossed a rocky ridge. He had good sightlines and
could remain well concealed. Videgavia watched what appeared to be about thirty
rogue Haradian soldiers. Without Molguv there, it was hard to say if they were
legitimate, so Hanasian moved most of the company west of Khemel’s camp where
he set a garrison at the ridge. This move west was tactical, but it held the
most defensible line to the west, and he felt they needed to separate from the
locals. It would soon prove a decision wisely made.

The dust rose as about twenty men came down from the rough mountains to meet
the Haradrim. It became obvious this was not just some rogue group. Hanasian
waved for some archers to get ready. Unfortunately he had little time to
consider more.

There came with a yell from the high ground. The attackers only had a few
archers, but the few arrows flew straight and true, finding targets of his men.
Two fell outright and two were wounded though not badly. The attackers came
jumping down in a rage with knife and short sword at ready, and the fight was
bloody. Just as the Variags were in battle at Minas Tirith, they too would not
withdraw, but fought to the last. Hanasian was fortunate to only have lost
three men, but three was too many. He could ill afford to lose men at all, let
alone three in one surprise attack. They had little time to see to wounds and
examine the dead enemy, for the yell came from down below as the mixed group
charged up the track. The company archers had a field daty picking them off
from their concealed high ground. By the time a few reached the top they were
met with fell swords. Once there were no more attackers, Hanasian had a good
hard look at some of the dead. He was sure they were northern Khandese. Some
who had charged them up the track were Haradian. All had a symbol either
tattooed or sewn on their vests. Videgavia said in a low voice, ”A cult”

Hanasian nodded as he stood. He said, ”Yes, but what is it they follow, and why
do they come now?”

Looking at the dead, Hanasian remembered seeing some who looked like this come
to the tribal camp in the rain. He looked east and could see smoke rising. He
yelled, ”If no more are coming, then we will quit this position. Make for the
ville with haste!”

The men searched and took anything of worth from the dead and they made haste
to the village. What they found was lots of dead. Many northern Khandese lay
about, all having the symbol. But there were the villagers among them, all
dead. A last stand was made before Khemel’s tent where most of his daughters
and son lay. The piles of northern dead that lay about before them said that
they gave as best they could, but fell due to overwhelming numbers. Khemel was
unrecognizable as he was burned in his tent after taking many arrows. The
stench in the air was stifling, and as the company fanned out to keep watch
around the village, they took care of the villagers. Foldine came to Hanasian
and said, ”I don’t see any of ours here among the dead, so they must not have
yet returned.”

Hanasian nodded. ‘yet returned’… he admired Foldine’s optimism. But if this
happened here in the south, what chance did the six have further north? Foldine
then said, ”One of the daughters lives, but I fear not for long. All she will
say is ‘morcana’ or something. We don’t know what it means.”

Hanasian quickly moved to where the daughters lay. Gilkin, who sat with her
head on his lap, looked up and shook his head. She had spoken her last.
Hanasian stood and kicked the dirt. He called out, ”What are the customs of
these people? Do they burn? Do they bury? Why do we not know this after being
here this long?”

A young archer, a Highlander from Ringlo said, ”One of the daughters spoke to
me of their mother. They burn the bodies then bury the ash in honour.”

Hanasian looked at the young man. Torn between wanting to rip into him for
disobeying orders and congratulating him for learning something of their hosts,
he was silent for a time before saying, ”Right, we burn then and bury their
ashes in honour together. Leave the attackers for the carrion. But we must
hurry. I am sure another attack will be forthcoming!”

The company set to work and after all honour was given To Khemel’s people, they
set out north into the heart of the land, hoping to find Berendil and his party
still alive.


Berendil let his eyes adjust to the darkness before moving onward. Silently
they moved, knives drawn, listening for movement. They heard none. Having gone
some distance, Berendil detected a side passage. He sent the Ranger that way as
he continued on. When he sighted a slight flicker of light coming from around a
turn in the passage, he moved ever slowly not making a noise. Peeking around,
he could see that a larger chamber was before him. Dim lighting flickered
about. The chamber was empty but for a solitary figure standing on a rise at
the front. They leaned forth against a stone pillar with their hands holding
their head. Squinting, they appeared elvish, and Berendil knew that he had
Naiore in his gaze. Had she not detected them with her keen senses? Apparently
not.

It was the slight popping of a bowstring stretching that alerted both Naiore
and Berendil. She looked to the side suddenly, and Berendal shouted out, You!
Surrender!”

She turned her head to Berendil just as an arrow pierced her side. With a wave
of her arms, smoke shrouded her, and a loud bang erupted around him. Another
echoed from the passage. Berendal wavered between rushing in toward where she
was, and retreating back down the passage. He was wise to retreat. The chamber
started to crash down before him. He ran back to where the other passage was,
and as he looked and saw the Ranger running toward him, the roof fell in on
him. Berendil dug him out enough so he could breath, and he said, ”I got her!
Know I got her…”

Another rumble above them started more rock and dirt falling. Barandil tried to
pull the man through, but he was soon buried. Berendil’s only choice was to
retreat back up the passage. He got to the stairs to find the Ranger on guard
down the stairs calling for them. They both scurried up the stairs and moved
out the door. Berendil was covered in the brown dust of the land, and with a
final crash, the passage was no more. The two scrambled back to where the
others watched, and Berendil asked, ”Did anyone see anything over in that
direction?”

Molguv said, "Yes, a column of dust shot up into the sky when the ground
shook.”

Berendil squinted and saw nothing moving. Yet he could not assume that Naiore
perished in there. He was sure she set the cave ins into motion. If there was a
way out she would know it. Berendil got them moving to search the area. If the
dying words of the Ranger were true, then he surely hit Naiore with an arrow.
Again, he could not be sure.

They spent the day and into the night looking around for anything or anyone.
They found nothing. Berendil was wondering how he would report this. They
settled into an uneasy watch, and in the morning, a messenger came from the
company. Hanasian was on his way.

Naiore Dannan lay in the shade of a pillar near where she had crawled out. The
arrow tip was still in her side, and she worked it out. How did she not see it?
To be taken by surprise by Edain! How! She tended her wound as best as se
could, and set out east into the approaching dust storm…

The Company had set out to kill anyone who bore the symbol as payment for the
slaughter of Khemel and the Khe’al people. By the time they had arrived where
Berendil had set his watch, they were tired. Khemra took the news that her
father, her sisters and brother, and all her people had been slain silently.
Her eyes welled up in tears but she refused to let them fall.

”I am alone, ” She said softly as she clutched the hilts of her knives.
Hanasian was going to say something to her, but a Ranger had found a fresh
blood track not yet a day old. It led them east, so Hanasian ordered them to
get ready to pursue. They checked their weapons and provision, and were soon
ready. When Hanasian turned back, Khemra was standing. He asked her,"Is there
any settlements east of her?"

Khemra nodded yes, pointing toward the high dunes. She said, The clan of the
warlords. They are strong and they are many.”

It would be where Naiore would be heading. She likely had many of these
Moricarni followers among them. But the company barely numbered more than
twenty. They would have to be vary careful, as it was doubtful that Naiore
would be caught at unawares again in these lands. Hanasian thought hard at what
his next move should be with the resources he had.
***** Chapter 17 *****
3019, III – December, Meduseld


Darhias paused to knock the snow from his boots before he entered Meduseld’s
hall. A blistering wind, frigid, blasted from the White Mountains and his beard
was thick with crystals of ice. All things considered, winter this far south
was decidedly pleasant. Two guards, heavily wrapped against the elements,
flanked the thick oaken doors of Meduseld. Frost gathered in the crevices of
the carving and iron reinforcements. Beyond these doors, all the firepits would
be alight. Well tended, and never permitted to go cold throughout the winter
season, there would be a welcome warmth for all who sought shelter within.

He nodded to the guards as he neared but his passage out of the cold was
forestalled as the doors opened to reveal a Gondorian man. He blinked against
the sudden sunlight, turned back to raise a hand in farewell to someone waiting
within and shouldered his pack. This must be Freja’s pet Gondorian, Darhias
concluded. He had the pale cast of a scholar just as Vorda had described when
the fellow had first called upon Edoras some months ago when the weather was
still benign. He’d made repeated trips north since, his latest some two days
ago just as the blizzard had come howling down onto Edoras. It was only now
fading.

The fellow was outfitted in clothing far better suited for the conditions than
the garb he had arrived in. That, Darhias guessed, had come from Freja for
there was a reason the Shieldmaidens now referred to him as Freja’s pet
Gondorian. At a shout from within, he scuttled out of the doors proper and let
them close behind him so as to not let all the warm air out. He then nodded
amicably at Darhias and made his way down the wide steps of Meduseld.

Darhias turned to study the man as he departed. He trudged through the snow
with a clumsy lumber that spoke of man who did not frequent the outdoors overly
much. Just what, he wondered, was a scholar of Gondor doing here in Edoras.
Vorda had been muttering, off and on, about him for months now. Newly appointed
captain of the Shieldmaidens, it had fallen to Vorda to retrieve the scholar
from Edoras’ gates only two scant days ago. She’d then spent a good hour
stomping about their home as she cast off her gear, muttering about “southern
men and the rocks they keep in their heads”.

Was a long road from Gondor to Edoras. Not a road to take, back and forth,
routinely without reason. And this was hardly the season to be taking it at
all. Confined by the weather to their home, Darhias had spent the past two days
delicately asking questions he probably should have asked months ago now.
Delicate, because it did not do to irritate a Shieldmaiden when you were forced
to endure the consequences in close proximity. Vorda had been more than happy
to complain about the fellow, however Darhias had discovered all too late that
Vorda had been grumbling about him for some time now and was far from impressed
that Darhias had not noticed.

According to Vorda, Freja’s pet Gondorian scholar hailed from the library of
Minas Tirith. He arrived semi-regularly, always expected by Freja and always
received by her. The purpose of his visits and what they discussed Vorda did
not know and Freja had not divulged. Éomer was aware of this, of course, but
saw it as a promising indication that Freja was taking up new interests now
that her old life was behind her. Yet, was it?

Darhias knew for himself that Freja trained as diligently and intently as any
Shieldmaiden currently in service. That was not the behaviour of woman who had
set her spears down, even if she no longer bore the braids and torcs of her
sisters. And so, what possible use could Freja Fireborn have for scholars?

He had heard her declare that nothing of any worth could be found “mouldering
within the pages of a book”. Her attitude was entirely consistent with that of
her people. The Rohirrim were not known for their scholarly arts. Theirs was a
culture of spoken word, each memorable event codified in long sagas, poems and
songs that their bards spent years memorising. If anything was set down, it was
a map or one of their tapestries. The Shieldmaidens had their own spoken lore
to learn, each initiate spending long hours each day in the task.

On one memorable occasion, so as to fill the hours, he’d started recording this
spoken history. Unfortunately, Vorda had found it, taken it to Freja and his
transgression had been ruthlessly dealt with. Freja had burnt the book he’d
started writing their battle songs into right before his eyes, along with
anything else he had set down within the covers, whilst Vorda had riffled
through his other papers looking for anything else he might have stashed away.
Once both women were satisfied, they’d left him with the ashes of his book and
a stern warning. So, why on earth would book burning Freja have any interest in
a scholar from Minas Tirith’s libraries, much less the information Vorda said
he brought along to show her? Brought along and left, Darhias thought, for the
satchel of Freja’s pet had not been bursting with books or scrolls when he had
left.

No two ways about it, this was odd. As he had waited out the blizzard, Darhias
had gotten to weighing up all he had observed since arriving in Edoras. He’d
been diligent, watching from afar for any sign that Naiore Dannan was afoot. In
all that time, though, he’d seen no trace of her malign influence. Yet, the
last time Freja’s conduct had been inexplicable, Naiore Dannan had been at the
heart of it. He gave off his study of the scholar, who was now attempting to
mount his horse in a manner that both surprised and amused the Rohirrim
attempting to steady his horse, and shouldered through Meduselds’s heavy doors
into the hall proper.

No sooner had his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light of the hall did he sight
Freja. In truth, her hair made her was difficult to miss. The thick waves that
tumbled unbound to her hips caught the light from the torches and sconces lit
above and all but glowed. Her sable kirtle of finely woven wool suited her
handsomely, as did the emerald shawl trimmed with rusty fur that was slung over
her arms. The golden belt slung around her hips marked her station as King’s
ward. To all outward appearances, nothing looked askew and yet this did little
to settle Darhias’ growing concerns.

He drifted across to one of the wide heavy beams that held Meduseld’s golden
roof aloft and skirted around it before she noticed him. Not that he needed to
worry overmuch, for she seemed preoccupied with whatever it was a functionary
of Éomer’s hall discussed with her. The fellow waved a hand at the doors as he
spoke to her and Freja shook her head as she gestured deeper into Meduseld. The
two people Darhias watched stood at the corner of the dais that held Éomer’s
throne. It sat empty, save for a luxuriant array of furs and a beautifully
embroidered cushion said to be the work of Lady Éowyn Dernhelm herself.

Darhias studied the exchange playing out and debated whether it might be best
to double back and see what the scholar might be able to tell him. Judging by
his facility with horses, he’d still be trying to climb into his saddle outside
if Darhias were fast enough. No sooner had that occurred to him did Freja’s
discussion end. She nodded to the functionary and took her leave at such a pace
that her skirts flared. No time for doubling back, he decided and set off after
her.

Freja wound through Meduseld’s halls with the familiarity of one who had grown
up in them, seemingly unaware of his presence. Despite that, more than once she
almost outpaced him for the woman had very long legs and he had a persistent
limp. He caught her again as she rounded the final corner and came to her
chambers within the royal wing of Meduseld. The tapestries upon the wooden
panelled walls here were rich and ornate. He peeked around the corner to see
her pass by the two knights at her door with a briefly murmured greeting and
disappear within.

Darhias paused and weighed up what to do now. This could be nothing, a fool’s
errand, but his gut told him that it was important. There were too many
unanswered questions and if this did have something to do with Naiore, Berendil
would never forgive him for allowing it to unfold beneath his very nose. He
decided to push on, hoping that the knights at her door would suffer him to
pass unremarked. He’d invested considerable time amongst their number to
cultivate friendships amongst them and perhaps this might see him through now.

The two men smiled at his approach, their expressions warm and friendly, and
yet both kept to their duty all the same. Darhias’ teeth ground at that but
what could he do? Charging in, past two knights, to surprise Freja was likely
to end badly. As his name was announced, Darhias heard the sound of a drawer
closing and then Freja’s voice as she granted him permission to enter. He found
her standing at the corner of her desk, surveying him intently in a room filled
with a rosy, warm glow.

”A rare honour, Ranger,” she said and he couldn’t be sure if he caught a
sardonic note in her voice.

Just what Freja made of him he did not know and did not want to guess. Instead,
he wanted to know where the scholar’s books were. Freja did not own a bookshelf
but they had to be in here somewhere. In her parlour she had a wide desk, a
locked cupboard and chairs scattered about. Her bedroom was sealed from view,
the doors to it closed. His gaze must have wandered to her desk for Freja swept
her shawl off and dropped it onto the surface, effectively covering most
everything upon it.

”Can I interest you in tea?” she inquired, arching a brow at him.

Though he’d not chased her through Meduseld to take tea, Darhias nodded and
watched her smile to herself as she turned to commence preparations.

”Sit or stand as you please,” she told him without turning about, ”The reeds
are freshly laid and I do not intend to ruin them with your blood.”

Now he knew she was mocking him for she shot him an openly mischievous grin
over her shoulder.

”You could try,” he returned in a clumsy display of bravado.

Freja nodded her approval of his attempt to engage in what passed as humour
among these people and he felt his shoulders unknit slightly. Darhias had found
that in general terms anything offensive was funny and anything funny was
offensive. Until it suddenly wasn’t.

”What brings you here?” she asked, back to him still, ”You’ve not asked for
Vorda’s hand again, have you?”

Darhias winced at the question. No one had told him that it was offensive to
ask the woman you loved to marry you if she happened to be a serving
Shieldmaiden. Apparently, you’re supposed to wait until she sets her spears
aside first but at that rate he’d never be able to take her to wife. Vorda had
been so insulted she’d not answered him. To that, she had added not speaking or
looking at him for a week and never mentioning the matter again once she
resumed speaking to him. The fact that Freja knew, however, only confirmed that
the two women were thick as thieves. Aside from wondering what else Vorda had
confided in Freja about her relationship with himself, Darhias again wondered
what it was Freja was hiding from Vorda. From everyone, it would seem, who knew
her to any degree.

”I’ve learned my lesson,” he replied uncomfortably, determined not to flush
right in front of Freja.

She nodded as she measured tea into a pot, ”Patience, Ranger. Give it time.
Until recently, it was inconceivable that a Shieldmaiden could both serve and
wed.”

That was ridiculous, for he and Vorda already shared a roof. What difference
did the rest of it make? Darhias wandered over to her desk and saw the corner
of a map peeking out. Its title was obscured by the fur trim of Freja’s shawl
and all he could make out were the final letters – O and R. Utterly useless.

”Taking up cartography, are we?” he tried.

Freja peered at him over her shoulder, ”Cartography?”

“Maps,” he clarified and saw her lift her eyes.

”If you meant maps, why not say so?”

Darhias sighed and rubbed at his forehead. At this rate, all he’d gain from
this endeavour was a headache listening to a master of disassembly take him to
task for failing to speak plainly.

”Was that your pet scholar I saw setting out?” he asked.

Freja nodded, attention back on the water that was boiling, ”Aye, up from Minas
Tirith.”

“What brings him here? Vorda says this is not his first visit.”

“My invitation,” Freja simply replied as she poured out steaming water into the
small earthen pot she had prepared.

”It’s a long road from Minas Tirith.”

Again Freja nodded agreeably, ”Particularly this time of year. Honey?”

How was it, he wondered, that she could be so cooperative and yet utterly
unforthcoming at the same time? He nodded at her inquiry and so she set both a
mug of steaming tea and a small pot of honey on the desk he stood by. Then she
settled into a chair of her own, wrapped her hands around her cup and inhaled
the steam. Vorda had warned him before setting out that questioning a
Shieldmaiden was a fraught endeavour and Darhias was rapidly acquiring
appreciation for what Hanasian was able to achieve at the same task months
earlier.

Darhias dribbled honey into his own tea and stirred thoughtfully. Pick the
right question, he said to himself, and perhaps he’d dislodge something useful.
He nodded to himself, lifted his tea to his lips and flinched. Tea in Rohan was
so pungent it was almost like licking the floor of a stable and Freja was known
amongst her sisters for preferring her tea very strong. Like her ale, they
laughed, and her men they laughed even harder still and now he had an image in
his mind he certainly did not want.

He added substantially more honey and tried to discipline his thoughts. As he
averted his gaze from Freja he could feel the weight of her scrutiny gaze upon
him. Watching, weighing, taking stock.

”How does a Ranger settle into Rohan? Can’t be easy,” she observed.

Darhias sighed, ”Our people are not so different.”

”I imagine that optimism serves you well,” Freja dryly replied.

”I didn’t come to discuss how I was settling in,” Darhias told her and again
her brows lifted.

“Then why are you here?” Freja asked, voice sharp as the tips of the spears she
kept leaning in the corner behind her desk.

Damn the woman – who was questioning whom? This, he concluded, was hopeless.
Freja would talk him in ever changing circles, deflecting and shifting and
exploiting whatever opening she could find. Probably best, he thought, to bring
this to as tidy a close as she’d let him.

”Vorda’s not seen you these past two days with the blizzard and she did not
want to let a third pass. She’d be here herself, if her duties permitted.”

Freja nodded slowly, her attention to her hearth. She said nothing as she
curled her legs up beneath her and considered the flames. Though he’d meant it
as a deflection, something about what he had said seemed to catch. Freja was
very still, as if waiting.

One last toss of the die, he thought, and so Darhias added, ”She worries, of
course.”

Freja pushed out a heavy sigh of regret, ”Vorda has other concerns to focus on
now that she holds the Captaincy.”

“If you can find a way to stop Vorda worrying after those she cares for, I’d
love to know.”

Freja smiled softly though her expression held a measure of sadness. Adept as
Freja was at concealing her thoughts, her emotions were another matter
altogether. She sipped at her tea and slid her eyes askance to Darhias.

”She’ll want to know if the Elf has returned, I expect.”

Darhias stilled, surprised that she had voluntarily broached a topic as
sensitive as this with him.

”Of course,” he replied, careful not to appear too interested, and watched
Freja’s attention return to the hearth.

She watched the flames dance for a moment, he supposed she found it comforting,
and then sighed as she nodded.

”It is different. She no longer rifles through my thoughts as once she did,”
her gaze sharpened and then focused on Darhias, glittering and blue, ”Has Vorda
reconsidered my request?”

“What request?” he responded and Freja grimaced.

”No, then,” she muttered and shook her head, ”I hope this is not something we
all come to regret.”

Flummoxed, Darhias grouped about in his recollection until he found something,
”You mean about locking your door – from the outside?”

“Under the Elf’s gheas, who can say what I might do? How many doors am I from
the king and what would befall Rohan if he were taken from us without so much
as an heir? How long before the Easterlings flood in, eager to exploit our
weakness, and who else will they bring with them?”

Freja shuddered and shook her head, clearly distressed by these notions. What
must it be like, Darhias wondered, to be unable to trust yourself, or your
actions? Enough to drive anyone mad, he guessed, but he had to be careful to
keep any sympathy or compassion from his face. Freja loathed anything that
might be mistaken for pity.

Instead of comforting her, he repeated what he was certain Vorda would have
already told her.

”Vorda took your proposal to the king and he refused it outright.”

”Éomer’s judgement in this is unreliable! she exclaimed, ”The Elf will exploit
his affection, use it to blind him to the true peril. If she is not, already,
doing that. Who amongst us can say? This is a matter that should rest with the
Shieldmaidens. To them falls the charge of protecting Rohan’s throne.”

“Vorda is not about to bind you hand and foot each night either,” Darhias said
and Freja shook her head again, bitterly disappointed. Her eyes narrowed at the
flames and then closed.

Darhias leaned forward in his chair to address her, ”You have defied the Elf at
every opportunity, Freja. Do you truly think you could do Éomer harm?”

Her head bowed and she remained silent for long enough that Darhias thought
she’d not respond. But as he prepared to leave, she lifted her head.

”There was a time when I thought I knew what I would and would not do,
Darhias,” she told him, her eyes haunted as they came to his, ”That time has
passed.”
***** Chapter 18 *****
The Company In Khand - 3020

After that day, Khemra became withdrawn and silent, but she did not waver and
guided them through the lands with skill. With the massacre of the Khe’al,
Khand fell into chaos and the clan wars erupted between the tribes of the south
and west, and those of the north and east. Khemel of the Khe’al was a highly
regarded southern tribal leader, and his death and of all but a few of the
Khe’al people inflamed the allied tribes. The blame was put squarely onto the
eastern warlords who had been the main commander of Sauron’s Army of Khand,
even though the Moricarni had infiltrated almost all tribes. The Company found
itself straddling a fine edge between the two, with their friendship with the
southwest, but working within the lands of the northeast.

The company’s attempt to follow the blood trail led them east, but coming upon
a large, well-fortified town, they had to withdraw. They kept watch as best
they could. The days stretched into months, and the summer was a warm one even
for Khand. The attrition, though not resulting in any battle casualties, were
straining the company in this harsh land.

”I’m tired! I’ve had it! I have to sit here day after day after stinking day
with this foul-smelling northman! Why didn’t you wash when there was a
chance!”  Mardor, one of the Rangers from Ithilien said harshly. Drakius
shrugged when Berendil came over to see what the trouble was. Mardor went on,
“I can’t stand it! It’s all shit!”

He threw down his braces and pulled the leather vest off and threw that down
too. Berendil stepped in and said, ”Mardor, let’s take a walk… now!”

Berendil put his arm around Mardor and led him away before the situation got
any worse. They got some yards away as others of the company gathered around
the disturbance. Gilkis looked at Drakius and shook his head.

”What?” Drakius said looking up from where he sat. Gilkis said, ”He has a
point. You DO stink.”

Gilkis said in an offhand way. The Highlanders and other Rangers listened to
the exchange. Drakius, feeling put upon, stood up and swore angrily. He said,

”You idiots! If you knew, you would not wash in the field either! I stay dirty
for a reason!”

“And why is that?” Gilkis asked. Drakius looked about at the gathered faces,
then back at Gilkis. He finally said as he gave a rare grin showing his broken
teeth.

”If you have been in the field as long as I, you would know! Natural body oils,
mixed with dirt, makes you waterproof.”

“Waterproof?” Macvil, one of the Highlanders of the Ringlo Vale asked. Gilkis
turned and looked at him with a sarcastic grin, ”Sure. Why not.”

Macvil shook his head and said, “That is some messed up logic. Besides, this is
a fine place to be waterproof. There hasn’t been any rain since December, and
Drakius didn’t even go out in that!”

The men laughed and things seemed to have settled some.

Berendil got Mardor to settle down, which wasn’t hard once he got out of nose-
range of Drakius.

”I’m sorry you got paired up with Drakius. Hanasian wants to try and keep the
company from clanning … you know… guys staying with their own. He wants to mix
it up some. But in the case of Drakius… well, I think some adjustments will be
made.

Hanasian and Videgavia came walking back after climbing the high wall and
having a look around. He could tell there was something up.

”What seems to be the trouble here?” Hanasian asked Berendil as he and Mardor
walked back to their positions. He said, "There was a bit of a disagreement on
what the best field hygiene method was.”

“Why do I literally smell Drakius in all this? Vid, you take care of this.”
Hanasian said shaking his head.
Videgavia said to Mardor, ”Rest easy. I think Gilkis will take your place. They
have been serving together for several years, and he has gotten used to
Drakius’s oddities.”

Hanasian rearranged the roster and had the pairings mixed for the most part. He
was sure that if they ever had to do a river crossing any time soon, there
would be a dunking. He would be fine with that. But right now there was little
time for these troubles, and Hanasian knew he had to get this angst out of
them. He called out so they all could hear…

”Videgavia, take these four and set watch.”

He pointed at the four men that accompanied himself and Videgavia on their
early morning recon.

”The rest of you will run with me up to the high plateau with full battle
gear.”

“At this time of day? In this heat?” Berendil asked scratching at his cheek.
Hanasian only had to give him a look for Berendil to get his answer. Nobody in
the camp was getting out of this. It was only because Berendil and Hanasian had
a long history together that he could even ask that question.
Hanasian said, ”Yes, in this heat. And each man will take half a water ration.
We will need to conserve! But take extra empty bags. It will help simulate the
weight of the missing water.”

Hanasian kept his grin inside him, and only looked like the stern captain to
all who dared to look at him. All he had to do was find that spring that Khemel
had told him about. If he had figured his mapping right, they would find it and
will be able to fill all the bags before returning.

They set out into the heat of the day. Not one even thought about the fact that
Hanasian, having been out on the early morning recon, was doing this with them.


Sweat-soaked and parched at the same time as they ascended up the crags of the
cliff, Molguv showed many of the northerners that occasionally sucking the
sweat off your arm gave you a slight relief of thirst and got the salt back
into you. The big black man was proving his worth, and has proven it many times
since his coming to the company. Without him they would likely still be
ruminating around Harad searching for a long cold trail.

Berendil was the first to scale the last steep incline and paused just below
the edge to look out over the flatness of this high plateau. There was no sign
of any movement. He scaled the last couple steps and stood, looking about.
Brown and dry with a hot wind. He moved forward slowly as the next man crested
the ridge.

Hanasian reached the top and he looked about. There was no obvious spring here.
But a check of his hand drawn maps had him guessing the were southeast of the
spring, and to the northwest there appeared a dark depression. They would make
for that. He waved the others up and set out toward it without rest, stopping
only to turn to check the rearguard With Drakius coming up over the edge, he
signalled that all had made it up. Hanasian then looked about and turned and
said, ”We make for the northwest… double time battle drill!”

There were no grumbles as they set out with a hand on their weapons. Hanasian
led the way. It took longer than he expected to cross the broken top of the
plateau. It looked fairly flat, but they had to route around some deep crags.
Once they started to encounter the faded green scrub, it was much easier. As
they dropped down, Gnarly trees reached up from their shady breaks in the
rocks. Hanasian silently signalled a stop, and he sent Mardor and Beregon, two
of the Ithilien Rangers, forward to have a look-see. It didn’t take long before
the birds of Ithilien started chirping. Hanasian moved the men forward.

The spring was light and clear, and somehow quite cold as it pushed its way up
into a fair sized pool. Hanasian said, ”We’ll take a rest here. Berendil, set
watch on the perimeter of this glen. Gilkis, take Drakius and see how far this
wood goes up that way. I am sure that someone will be watching over this place
so be alert. Fresh water does not come lightly to these lands. The rest of you…
relax for a bit and drain your water ration. We fill every bag we carried in
our gear here before we go.”

The watch faded back into the wood and the others set themselves down and drank
and ate some of their dried foods. Hanasian himself leaned down and checked the
water. It appeared good, and he sipped some in his palm. It was good! He then
filled his bags as others came to do the same.

They relaxed by the cool water and shade. As the sun westered, the men were
wondering what Hanasian would do. They all expected to have to head back into
the darkness where their camp was. But Hanasian didn’t say anything. He just
leaned back against the tree listening to the water bubble up from underground.
Finally, Berendil went and sat down next to him.

”What do you think, Cap. We going to trek back to the camp? Vid may be
wondering what have happened to us.”

“We’ll be right. Tell the men to make themselves comfortable for the night. If
they packed all their battlegear, they will have their field bedroll with them.
If anyone thought they’d get away with less weight on a day hike, well, they do
have their cloaks.”

The news that they would be staying there for the night brought relief to the
men. Most had prepared properly, but there were some who thought it was just
going to be an afternoon run. Seeing the few who were caught out not bringing
all their gear, Hanasian walked over to then and gathered them together. He
said, ”Next time I say ‘bring full battle gear’ you bring full battle gear.
Now, since your five didn’t bring full battle gear, you are assigned a task.
You get to head back to the camp. And take some of the extra water bags. I’m
sure the guys left to watch would like some of this fresh water.”

“Sir, it is nearly dark.” Frea said, a bit ashamed that he listened to his
brother Folca before they set out. Hanasian looked hard at his cousin and said,
”Are there any other obvious observations you would like to point out to me?”

The others mumbled but said nothing. Hanasian however wasn’t done. He went on
to say to them, ”Since you didn’t bring your bedrolls, you thought you would be
back in camp by nightfall. Well, maybe if you hurry, you will make it by the
midnight hour. You best get moving if you wish to make it by then. Look at it
on the bright side. It is dark, and it is cooler. We’ll see you tomorrow
sometime around the middle of the afternoon. Now Go!”

Frea, Folca, Drakius, Hamil the Highlander, and Mardor the Ithilien Ranger
would be making the trek back in the darkness. They set to ready themselves to
set out in short order.

The only business that had to be addressed was brought forth once all the water
bags were filled to overflowing. Mardor, Frea, Folca, and Hamil all charged
Drakius as he finished filling his last waterbag. There was a commotion
followed by much splashing. They had surprised and dragged Drakius into the
pool, and Mardor was holding him under. Hamil got him to let go, and Frea led
him back to shore. Folca fished Drakius out of the pool. Folca said, ”We had a
bet on how waterproof you were.”

Hanasian watched from afar, and once Folca followed Drakius out of the pool, He
said, ”Well done morons. Now you not only get to take the waterbags back with
you, you get to carry the extra water that has soaked into your clothes too.”

Drakius shrugged, and Folca smiled. It was worth it.

They set off with a sinking crescent moon in the west lighting their way. They
arrived at the camp in the midst of the night. Fortunately Videgavia was
manning the watch, for he had employed any of the local people to help watch.
They would have skewered the incoming patrol.

Khemra, the sole living child of Khemel, had set out many days before to find
any living Khe’al that remained in Khand. She was not a part of the company and
so she came and went as she saw fit, but the company had no better friend in
Khand. She had been gone for a week, and Hanasian had concerns that she may
have gotten swept up in the fighting to the south. But not long after he had
set out for the plateau, Khemra approached from the east. She was careful, for
she knew that the company was vigilant on watch. She had remembered the hand-
sign that Hanasian had taught her, and Videgavia recognised it easily. Khemra
had managed to find twenty of her people, seven young men and 13 women. She
explained to Videgavia that she considered them her brothers and sisters. Every
one of them looked grim. Vid wasn’t in a position to question them, for he had
four other guys. The fact Khemra respected the company was, for them, enough.
But Vid was somewhat uneasy.

Videgavia was pretty happy to see some of the company arrive during the 4th
watch. He said to them as they trudged in.

”That was some run up the hill!”

“Yeah.” Drakius mumbled as he handed a large bag of water to Videgavia.

They were tired and were ready to collapse. At least they could do it in their
own bedroll if they made it that far. But Vid grabbed both Mardor and Drakius
and took them aside.

”We’ll not have any more troubles between you now, will we?”

“No.”
“No.”

Came two quick and tired replies. Videgavia looked each in the eye hard and
said, ”Good to hear. Don’t make me have to remind you of this moment. I take it
Hanasian and the others will be back tomorrow?”

“Yes.”
“Yes.”

Vid nodded and slapped them both on the back, "Thanks for the fresh water. Now
go get some sleep.”

The two followed the others to their tents and looked forward to some sleep.

The next day, Hanasian and the rest of the company came in with Khemra and
those she had gathered with her. Videgavia, having not slept, scratched his
beard at their arrival.

”You leave on a drill, and arrive with a whole other army!”

Hanasian smiled and reached for Vid’s hand.

”It was a strange day. We set out for the high ground, and we found a spring of
fresh cool water. I had to send some guys back due to their unpreparedness.”

”Yes, we appreciated the emergency water run!” Videgavia replied.
Hanasian nodded, ”Sorry you missed out on the little oasis that we found. Well,
maybe not. We did have a couple surprises. As nightfall neared, the scouts
alerted us that there was an armed party approaching from the north. Berendil
went forward to see what they were up against, and he had the archers ready
their arrows. Just as he about to have the archers let their arrows fly, word
came from another scout that a dozen armed Variags were heading for their
position from the east and closing fast. Berendil watched close as he shifted
some of the archers around to meet this new threat.
"As the first group drew closer, he saw a hand go up and the fingers flicked
about. Berendil knew it was Khemra. She had a fair band of people following her
to the spring, for she had found many if not most of the remnants of the Khe’al
people who still lived. I don’t know what these Khe’al were doing, and it had
been a fortnight since we had seen Khemra around here, but it seems she has
become some sort of folk hero of the other southern and western tribes. She had
only a dozen or so well-armed folk. Nine were women, and three were young men.
The rest carried what they could. They all looked ready for a fight. Berendil
swiftly waved them in to our camp, and we then turned to face to the Variags.
The fight was swift, and the Khe’al were ruthless.”

Videgavia looked about and smiled, saying, ”Well, you are the captain, not me.
No need to explain.”

“I consider you and Berendil as my sergeants. I think its best you know.”

“Thanks,"Videgavia said in a sarcastic tone. Hanasian smiled and went over to
where the other put their extra water bags and dropped his. They were well
supplied with water if nothing else.

The summer seemed to keep going on and on, and the dryness only seemed to get
worse. Berendil would run a squad up to the spring almost weekly, and for all
the dryness of the land, it seemed the place was little used. With the slow
change toward the autumn season, the spring barely flowed, and Berendil took
care to cover the spring-head from sight. His trek back to the camp was
uneventful. He got back that evening and went to Hanasian’s tent.

Hanasian seemed agitated that night. Khemra and her people had not been at the
company camp for nearly a month now, and Videgavia’s reports pointed to
something stirring in the fortified town. Hanasian was silent as he thought,
pacing. Finally he said to Berendil, ”Have the men rest and go to sleep at
their usual time. But let them know that they need to have their gear ready to
pack in the early morn. We’re moving out by the third hour. I’ll take the
watch.”

Berendil was puzzled, but knew Hanasian had his reasons. He nodded and turned
to inform the men. They were disciplined enough to know that their preparations
to move was to be done in stealth. By the midnight hour all was ready, and the
men rested as best they could. Berendil found Hanasian on the edge of the ridge
.

”There is movement on the plain.”

He pointed into the darkness toward the fortress. Henasian slapped Berendil on
the shoulder and said, ”Let’s go.”

They went about and awoke the men. Most were only napping, because knowing
something was brewing usually made it hard to sleep. They were ready to move
before the third hour and they moved quietly along the ridgeline to the
northeast. When the ridge faded into the hilly dunes, they could see that an
army was moving on the fortified town where the warlords lurked. The trouble
was, Naiore lurked there too, or so we thought….

A few months back after they met at the spring, Khemra said she had discovered
the most likely way to get inside the city. Spies had discovered a weakness in
the defences of the fortress. Khemra and her people wanted to move soon, but
Hanasian held back. Berendil said she wouldn’t want to linger there in their
camp, and after a week, she had left to the west. In the passing weeks,
Hanasian suspected, but had no proof, that Khemra had become a leader of sorts
of the southwest tribes. She had gone away and raised an army! With no word,
she moved on the fortress. Was she right not to tell the company? Maybe. She
had no obligation to. But Hanasian sort of hoped she would have, just to give
them fair warning. Berendil saw that Hanasian had enough foresight to sense
this was happening, and their movement came none too soon.

~ ~ ~

What was happening in Khand that morning would be a civil war that was long in
coming, and it would have devastating effect. It would linger for years, and
Khand would never be a stable place and seemingly always a thorn in the side of
the kingdom of Gondor. The company moved quietly north and skirted east along
the Ephel Dúath until they reached the highlands at its eastern reach. For the
most part, they avoided the troubles, having only a few quick skirmishes. They
stayed in the crevices for a day to rest and they kept watch, and Hanasian was
silent as he tried to decide what to do.

He didn’t have long to decide. Having considered themselves lucky to get out of
the impending chaos of Khand, the chaos was coming to them. They had a fairly
good defensive position, but they had no route to supply. What they had was all
they would get. The morning light found them between the retreating remnants of
the tribes that had attacked the warlord stronghold. The attack Khemra led was
at first successful in breaking into the city, but that took much of the
strength they had. The Warlords were surprised by the intensity of the attack,
and worried about the consequences when they could not find Naiore anywhere.
The elf had only used them for the short term, and had slipped away and headed
north and east before the attack. The city was destroyed, and by the night,
only fires lit the sky. But the southwestern tribes had spent themselves, and
there were no reserves to bolster their hard-fought gains. The warlords had
reserves, for not all their armies were in the city. By morning, the
counterattack began. Khemra tried to rally her followers, but they were not
professional soldiers, and the counterattack soon became a rout. Their path
back west and south had been cut off, so their only escape was to run north.
There were only a few that reached the highlands where the company was.

”Look out!” Berendil yelled as an arrow just missed him. Swords were drawn and
arrows readied for any who came over the ridge. The first was someone falling
over with many arrows in their back. The same with the second. They were being
picked off as they fled! Hanasian signalled for the archers to move up. They
unleashed their arrows into the advancing line of warlord troops. Many fell but
they did not break. A second volley caused them to waver and pull back into a
defensive line. Hanasian then signalled everyone to withdraw to the north in
haste.

But another problem had developed for the company. The approach of the
reasonably well ordered troops of the Warlords of Khand toward the north drew
the attention of the army of Rhun that was guarding their southern reach. The
Easterlings had recently moved into the Nurn in hopes of making the land
theirs, and already were making gains on its productivity. This was sanctioned
by King Elessar in his peace offering toward Gondor’s ancient enemy. But the
Easterlings were seeing the approach of the well-ordered warlord army of Khand
as a challenge to the possibly fertile lands. Maybe the King made the same
offering to Khand? The Rhun army had some months ago moved forward into
defensive positions and had made some fair fortifications in the short time.
The company move north put them in between the two armies. The only advantage
the company had was the rough terrain on the plateau, but it was the anchor for
the Easterling line, and the Warlord army wanted it for the same. Nothing good
would come from this. Despite objections from the Dalemen, some of the
Rohirrim, and Berendil, Hanasian decided the company would have to take their
chances with the Easterlings.

”Berendil, you will need to take the company down the slope to the north. You
will be able to hide in some crevices gorged out of the rocks by fast-running
creeks. I’m going to take Molguv, Videgavia, Beregon, Foldine, and Macvil with
me. We’re going to go talk with the Easterlings.”

“Do you really think that is a good idea?” Berendil asked, clearly worried.
Hanasian looked out over the land they were in and said, "I am open to
alternative suggestions.”

Berendil sighed and shrugged. Hanasian was always been better at making these
sorts of decisions. Why doubt him now. He said, ”I’ll keep things in order
here. May all go well with you my old friend.”

Hanasian nodded, seeing the deep concern in Berendil’s eyes. He took a deep
breath, and with his hand coming to rest on Berendil’s shoulder as he passed he
said, ”It will be what it is. I just hope we’re convincing and in time.”

The six men set out as soon as they were ready. Hanasian had them only carry
knives, for the mission was a peaceful one. Hopefully there wouldn’t be a
fight. He gave orders to Berendil and the men to be wary and avoid any
Easterlings who may discover them. Detain any they can’t avoid. For any Khand
warlord men, deal with extreme prejudice.

The tactic worked. As the two armies clashed on their eastern flank on the
lower plains, a few more desperate rebels of the southwest tribes made a break
and ran toward the company positions. Two were killed by the warlord archers,
but one ran desperately one way, then the other. Berendil said, ”Don’t shoot.
Let him come! Target any who pursue!”

As the runner got closer, Berendil could see he was wounded. They staggered and
started to limp as soldiers were popping up from the rocks and let loose
arrows. None found their mark. Berendil had the archers try and take down any
who were close enough and showed themselves too much. Two were killed. But the
running Khand rebel was losing their speed. Hilferin jumped up and said, ”Cover
me, I’m going out to help them!”

Before Berendil could say anything, Maclon followed, pausing to say to Berendil
before running after Hilferin… ”Those people helped us. It is the least we can
do!”

Berendil couldn’t argue with that. He had the archers watch and ready to shoot
at any who tried to impede them.

Hilferin got to them just as they fell. He lifted them up and threw them over
his back and turned to run. Maclon fired an arrow at an archer that was going
to try and fell Hilferin and as his neck was pierced, the arrow flew wildly. He
retreated behind Hilferin keeping watch, finally making the run back to their
line. Hilferin came tumbling down, dropping the rebel. Maclon followed.
Berendil knelt down and looked at the rebel. Lowering the scarf that cover
their face, he could feel breath from their mouth. He said, ”Its Khemra! She
lives!”

Bereck, one of the Dunedain and the closest they had to a healer, knelt and
attended to her wounds Berendil stood and turned to Hilferin.

”What were you thinking? You could have gotten yourself and Maclon killed with
that stunt! Don’t you ever do that again without word! Would you have done that
if Hanasian were here?”

“Yes, I would,” Hilferin said,”We owe the Khe’al, and for all we know this may
be the only one left. I think we owe them a life or two.”

Berendil stepped toward him and stared hard into his eyes.

”We lost four in Khand. Don’t ever forget that. Because we have been through
much together in the north and in the war, I will let this pass. Let us not
speak of this again.”

Hilferin nodded and walked away. Berendil looked at Maclon who only shrugged
and walked off too. Berendil want back over to where Khemra lay. He asked
Bereck, "Will she live?”

“Uncertain,” Bereck answered looking at her. He stood and stepped back with
Berendil, saying ”She has suffered many wounds. Some are older than others, but
all recent, since they moved on the city. I estimate she had been pierced by
three arrows, has two sword blade wounds, and the worst, a deep knife wound
above her hip. How she managed to live, let alone be able to get as far or run
as fast as she did is beyond me. But there is infection and possibly internal
bleeding in that knife wound. I used what little Athelas I had on it. She needs
to stay still and rest.”

“I’m not sure we’ll have that luxury Bereck. Our hold on this position is
tenuous, and if Hanasian is not successful in what he has in mind, we all may
be having to move, and move quickly, somewhere. If that befalls us, she will
have to remain as we can’t afford to carry her,” Berendil said.
Bereck nodded and sighed,

”We will do what we can. Do you have any athelas?” Berendil reached into his
tunic and pulled out a small bag and tossed it to Bereck, who nodded and
returned to Khemra’s side.

The rest of the day was quieter than Berendil thought it would be. Only a few
scouts from both sides came close to where they were. The Easterlings were
captured, and the Khandese were slain. Their fighting was limited to a small
skirmish with an Easterling unit, but it was aborted when a charge of warlord
troops headed right for them. When the company turned to loose arrows at the
advancing soldiers, the Easterling commander ordered his men to accept the
unlooked for help and to fight the approaching army of Khand.

Berendil led the company into engagement, and all the while his eyes searched
for the elf. If she stood behind this warlord army, they and the Easterlings
would likely be defeated. But Naiore was not with them. She used the chaos of
Khand to her advantage, and she moved quickly while eyes were on the civil war.
She had escaped first east, then north, making for Eastern Rhun. Berendil
wondered how many of these warlord soldiers carried the mark of the Moricarni?
Should he get a chance, he would search the dead. But right now, he did not
have that option.

The Easterlings battled the Khand warlord army to a stalemate and even pushed
them back some. The highland plateau at the eastern end of the Ephel Dúath was
mostly in the hands of the Easterlings. It was with with no small thanks to the
initial resistance that the company gave the warlord army in the beginning. The
local commander realised this and was thankful.
He said to Berendil, "You and your men shall stay here and rest. I will have to
report back that you are here, but my recommendation will be that you are
allies and fought well.”

”I will accept this. Though I am not the captain, I am the ranking officer
here. I thank you for allowing us this ground for a time.”

Berendil was uneasy, but he could ask for no more. This would give time for
Khemra to heal, and for Hanasian to return.

~ ~ ~

After leaving the company lines, Hanasian and the five others made their way
down toward a large camp, and it was mid-day when they approached. A guard,
quite young and looking scared, ordered them to stop. Soon his sergeant limped
up and joined him. It must have been a sight to have five men from different
parts of the world approach. The first thing Hanasian noted was the lack of
numbers of Easterlings. The sergeant stepped forward and asked, ”Where are you
from?”

Hanasian stepped forward and the guards grasped their axes. Hanasian held his
hands out in gesture of peace, and they relaxed slightly. Hanasian said, ”We
wish to discuss terms of passage with your commander.”

The sergeant turned and looked toward the rise to the southeast. He pointed and
said, ”He is off fighting Khand, up there.”

Hanasian stared up there, and could see dust and an occasional flash of sun
reflecting off of drawn steel, and estimated the company would be on the edge
of it. He hoped att was going well for them, and in hindsight should have
considered bringing down the whole company. But they were up there, ahd he was
down here. Hanasian turned back to the sergeant as he began to speak again,
”You will wait here for their return. We have a guest tent for you. Since you
approached in peace, you may remain armed.”

It was good to get into the tent and out of the sun. Though they were
considered guests, they were under heavy guard and were not allowed to leave
for a time. Later, they could leave the tent but there were limits on how far
we could wander. It was a form of house arrest, waiting for the return of the
unit commander. Hanasian knew that as they idled, Naiore was moving.

As it approached evening, Hanasian, with the help of Molguv, came up with a
possible plane of escape. It would require them to leave behind most of their
gear, but they had travelled light anyway. It would get them out of this
situation, but would the next one be any better? Hanasian put his idea in
reserve, for the unit commander came to the tent after the sun set. He looked
directly at Hanasian and summoned him to come outside the tent.

”Come. Walk with me.”

“Very well,” Hanasian replied and they started toward a watchfire. The
commander’s tent was near it. Coming inside, the commander said, ”Please have a
seat and drink with me. I have had a long day, as I’m sure you have too. My
name is Khule, temporary commander of the Nurn settlement brigade. You are…”

“Hanasian, captain of the Black Company” Hanasian said as he eyed the drink in
front of him. Khule nodded and said, ”Yes. My commander is concerned. He wants
to know what a band of mercenaries working for King Elessar is doing in Nurn.”

Hanasian said, ”We pursue one whose name is Naiore Dannan.”

Khule winced at that, ”Yes, she is known to us.”

“Do you know her?” Hanasian asked. Khule said, ”I know of her.”

Hanasian was uncomfortable, for how could he know the Easterlings had not
already fell into an alliance with the elf witch? He didn’t. But something
about this Easterling told Hanasian that he wasn’t a regular part of the
overall command structure. He may be able to use this… he said,

”She has caused much mayhem, most recently in Khand.  I suspect she has now
made her way into Rhun.”

Khule stepped around and looked down. He finally said, ”If our people were
filled with their spirit, they would march now against Khand and make sure this
new land of ours that was Mordor and now given to us by King Elessar, would be
secure.”

He looked around nervously with his eyes burning. He then said in a lower
voice, ”Beware of followers of Naiore!”

Hanasian nodded, saying, ”Yes, the Moricarni. We know of them.”

“They are here!”

Khule was looking nervous, but all of a sudden, as if he had an epiphany, he
nodded to himself as if he had suddenly made up his mind about something.
Hanasian watched him close. Khule leaned back and said, ”I think I can get you
and your men to the Sea of Rhun, and there arrange a boat to take you up the
River. I understand you have some Dalemen and Rohirrim in your company?”

“Yes.” Hanasian said. He had obviously ran into the company in the highlands.
Khule went on, ”This could pose a problem, but I think I have a way to make it
so. You see, I and my cadre will be relieved of this post tomorrow. Some
regulars will be manning the front with Khand until things settle. Me and my
men who are not Moricarni, will be going back home. I will see that your
company march with us."

Hanasian eyed him suspiciously. ”How will you do that?”

“We will discuss that in the morning. I hope you will be ready at first light.
Meanwhile, you and your friends can find your company to the west of our camp.
They came down with us.”

Hanasian left Khule’s tent and headed back to where the other had been. The
guards were gone. It was no surprise the tent was empty. Hanasian headed out to
where Khule said the company would be. He found them around a watchfire in deep
discussion. It appeared Videgavia and the other Dalemen, along with some of the
Rohirrim were quite angry. When Videgavia saw Hanasian approach he quickly took
him aside.

”I know who that commander is. I have dealt with him before. So have the
Rohirrim! He is Khule the Easterling, and commanded a force that was
responsible for attacking both Dale and the Eastfold…”

“Well you best keep a lid on all this, because he is our ticket out of this
mess we’re in.”

Videgavia sighed and looked around. There was no winning a fight here. Maybe if
they got to someplace else….

The morning came too soon, but the company was ready to move. As he said, Khule
and about a dozen Easterlings came marching up. Videgavia strained to keep the
steam inside. They were in east Mordor and were going to Rhun. The only way
back was south to Khand, and they would not find any welcome there. Vid knew
this was the only chance they had. This was going to be hard to do…

Hanasian saw Bareck tending to someone tethered to a travois. He asked, ”Who
got hurt?”

”It is Khemra. She alone made it to our lines during the battle.” Berendil
said. Hanasian went over and looked at her. She looked peaceful, and she
breathed.
Bareck looked up and said, ”I think she may make it.”

Hanasian sighed and looked around. Hopefully the pace they make will allow her
to continue to rest and recover. Hanasian said, ”Get what rest you can this
night. It will be an early day coming.”

The morning light found the Easterling regulars moving south to take up the
line against any incursion by Khand. Khule and his rag tag reservists and the
company set out north at a leisurely pace. They arrived in the city by the Sea
of Rhun before Naiore. They had no idea they had by their presence foiled her
plans. Their presence kept her from meeting the old general Khurg before he set
things on motion that nobody expected. The company was caught in the middle of
chaos again.
***** Chapter 19 *****
3020, III - April, Edoras


”M’Lady! Lady Éowyn!”

Éowyn paused, swaying as she turned back to find one of her ladies in waiting
pursuing her down the hall. The woman had a letter in hand. She waved it high
in the air at Éowyn as she closed and the White Lady of Rohan’s brow furrowed.
Letters arrived each day and so why, she wandered, was this so urgent. The
woman rushing towards her was not given to outbursts such as this.

Her answer was not long delayed. No sooner was the letter pressed into Éowyn’s
hand did she recognise the hand in which her name was written.

”So soon?” Éowyn murmured as her eyes ran over her brother’s hand. Haste was in
each letter of her name.

Lady Tarwyn nodded and glanced back the way she had come, ”The rider awaits
your reply, my Lady.”

Éowyn’s brows lifted at that and she nodded at Lady Tarwyn resolutely, ”Very
well, then.”

Drawing a deep breath, Éowyn cracked the wax of her brother’s seal and unfolded
his missive. Sure enough, his hand continued to race across the parchment,
words and letters crowded and leaning as if drunk, in his haste.


     =====================================================================
     My dearest sister,

     I wrote to you only a week ago and you must be concerned to receive
     another so soon. I will not tarry with the reason for it: Freja quit
     Edoras yesterday and I believe she means to leave Rohan entirely.

     To be clear, she was not set upon again. While I still do not know
     the identity of her assailant, she has remained safe within my halls
     since that day. Indeed, I had thought her finally settled. I followed
     your advice and kept her busy. Renewing the order of the Shieldmaiden
     is no small task and her counsel has proved invaluable. She had her
     training and I am aware that she had taken to corresponding regularly
     with the library in Minas Tirith.

     I ascribed it to a new interest that she had found to fill the breach
     and I encouraged it. Now, I fear we will come to regret it.

     Freja did not divulge her intended destination but my maps of Eriador
     and Arnor have vanished from my collection. In addition to a
     considerable supply of rations, she has taken her weapons and armour.
     In short, Freja has equipped herself for a campaign: a long and
     arduous one at that.

     Difficult as this is to credit, I fear Freja has gone in pursuit of
     the Elf. Even now, I find it hard to believe she could be so foolish.
     She is bold, yes. Ambitious even, yet her risks have always been
     calculated and measured. But what other reason can there be? What
     could draw her from her home and the country she so loves? What could
     pull her away from her Shieldmaidens?

     There is a Ranger that has settled in Edoras by the name of Darhias.
     He has urged me send a pursuit after her but I have forbidden it. I
     will not have Freja hunted. Hounding her will only harden her
     resolve. And in any case, what hope is there of forcing her back to
     Edoras. I will not make of her a fugitive, nor a prisoner. Nor will I
     remain idle and leave Freja to so futile a course.

     I have sent word to those likely to encounter her in Arnor in the
     hope they might intercede in some way. Darhias informs me that there
     is a Ranger in Bree by the name of Massuil. A stern man of hard
     resolve, perhaps he might find a way to delay Freja long enough for
     her to set this madness aside of her own accord. Somehow.

     I have also sent inquiries to Minas Tirith’s library in hopes of
     discovering the nature of her studies for I think this will shed
     light on her intentions. I hope it may set my concerns to rest.

     I know you two are as close as sisters. I hope that she may have
     divulged something to you.

     I beg of you Éowyn, I ask that you set any vow of secrecy aside, for
     Freja’s sake. I do not ask this of you lightly. I fear for her. If
     you know anything of this matter, tell me. Please.

     I remain, as ever, your loving brother.

     Éomer
     =====================================================================


Éowyn released a troubled sigh, foreboding overflowing, and Lady Tarwyn set a
hand to her forearm in concern.

”Oh Freja,” Éowyn whispered, ”What have you done?”
***** Chapter 20 *****

The Company In Rhun - 3021

It had been a day since the company had arrived at the Sea of Rhun. Khule had
brought them up from Nurn and had smoothed the way with the local command,
where he had wartime friends. The company was allowed to set up camp near the
lake shore well north of the city in the woods that stretched north from there.
As camp was being set, Hanasian took Berendil aside and said,

”I will need you to keep a journal. I have started one, but I would like
another perspective of events.”

“What is your plan for this?” Berendil asked.
Hanasian said, ”I want to keep records of the company, their deeds and the
names of all who serve. I want to record the names of those who help us and
those who hinder us. I want this company to have its history recorded.”

“Why do you wish me to do this?” Berendil asked, knowing what Hanasian would
say…

”Because I have known you the longest, ever since our early days when we
trained to be Rangers. I know you are insightful, and I know you can also write
good Sindarin.”

Berendil nodded,”I will do this for you, but you need to trust some others as
well.”

“Sure, but who can write?” Hanasian asked. Berendil paused and said, The
Daleman Videgavia somehow knows how to write. It isn’t Sindarin, but is a runic
Westron of sorts. Not sure where he picked that up from, but it is readable.”

“I’ll have a talk with him as well.”

Berendil nodded and left to join the men.

Berendil found that once the men had camp set, they posted the usual camp guard
then they stripped and went for a swim in the sea. The men had made it a point
to set five on watch, and made it a ritual when they were near a body of water
to carry Drakius, clothes and all, into it. It was no different this time and
he was not too happy about it, at least initially. After he got out, he took
his clothes off and returned to swim. He was beginning to like it but would not
lead on. he said, ”Damn you all. You made me take my yearly bath and do my
laundry all at the same time! But this water, it seems… soothing.”

He dove back in and swam way out before turning to come back. The others
laughed and splashed and scrubbed and floated in its unusually buoyant water
for a long time. Some even took the time to wash their linens and clean and
treat their leathers. The week of quietness allowed them to get all their
weaponry sharpened and repaired, for if the Easterlings were not exactly
friendly, they weren’t unfriendly either. They were indifferent. Still, even
though they were for the most part at ease, the Dalemen and Rohirrim were
uneasy. They still visibly fumed when Khule would visit, which he seemed to do
every night. But despite the misgivings of the Dalemen and Rohirrim, Hanasian
and Molguv seemed to have some rapport with Khule and knew he was their best
card in their hand.

After a week, the uneasiness was becoming well-founded. A local general named
Khurg had tried to take control of Rhun by a series of raids and
assassinations. Whether Naiore was behind it was unclear, none the less, it had
put the company in a hard way. Their pursuit of her it seemed to them was going
nowhere, but just by being there and having made her travel far and wide from
Khand, they were keeping her from her planned path.

Berendil watched the Easterlings, and while Hanasian and Molguv were off with
Khule, Videgavia came to him and said, ”You get a bad feeling about that one?”

“What one?” Berendil asked before going on to say, ”I have a bad feeling about
them all. There is something happening here. What it is, I’m not exactly clear
on that. I suspect Naiore is involved somehow.”

Videgavia nodded, saying, "Yes, things seem to go to crap when we arrive
anywhere, so I’m sure that elf is pulling the strings from somewhere. But
getting closer to the here and now, What do you think of Khule? I’m pretty sure
I know that guy.”

”Yeah, well maybe you can tell me how you feel about Khule. I’m indifferent
right now. Now here.”

Berendil had pulled out one of Hanasian’s bound journal books and some ink and
quill and handed it to Videgavia. He said, ”This has been tasked to us, the
company sergeants. You know how to write in your way, and me in mine. Keep a
journal for Hanasian. He wants to chronicle the company history. Unlike your
story telling song singing countrymen, I know you can write, even if your
script is nearly illegible. Try to keep it readable, and use clean Westron if
you can.”

Videgavia took the utensils in hand and looked at it. He shrugged, then said,
”I’ll do my best with the writing. But if we’re going to record anything, we
take that company roster Hanasian made before we left and note the fate of each
and every one who started out with us.”

“That will be good. A Roll of Honour. I think Hanasian may have had that in
mind.” Berendil said. He looked about and watched as a couple Easterlings
walked by the edge of their camp. They had a different emblem on their vests,
and Berendil looked hard at them. He said to Videgavia, "Get the men alerted.
Something is amiss.”

“That Sagath double-crossed us?” Videgavia replied as he moved.

”Don’t know, just want to be ready because something doesn’t feel right.”
Berendil said as he looked around in a check.

“Hopefully Hanasian will be back soon,” Videgavia said as he did his own
weapons check.

It didn’t take long for Hanasian and Molguv to return. Hanasian waved both
Vidigavia and Berendil into his tent.

”We are in deep it appears,” Hanasian said. He looked around at the two and
they nodded in agreement. Berendil said, “Agreed. Naiore?”

“I don’t think so, but her Moricarni friends may be involved. We were just at a
meeting with the prefect of Rhun and the provisional government, and it appears
most of the tribes are considering siding with this rogue General Khurg, for it
is what they know,” Hanasian said.

”What of this Khule.” Videgavia asked as he rubbed his brow,”I don’t like him,
I don’t like the Sagath, and I hate Easterlings in general. Khand was an
unknown, but I know what these men are like.”

Hanasian shook his head. He answered, “Right now, Khule may be our only chance
to get through this. He and his Sagath clansmen are all that is standing
between us and this rebel general named Khurg. Now there is a provisional
prefect that was appointed by King Elessar and so is seen as the legitimate
government of Rhun. Now I know we just got here and got settled and such, but
we need to break down camp in the morning. As much as I would like to regain
the trail of Naiore, we will be here for a time helping the Prefect. Since
Khule and the Sagath are the only other support we will have, we will be
joining their camp, so you all better be nice to them.”

Hanasian ran his fingers through his hair. Berendil was silent, then exited and
gave the order that camp will be struck in the morning and for everyone to
prepare. There was some grumbling, but not much. Most of the guys thought they
were getting out of Rhun. Berendil didn’t tell them that wasn’t happening just
yet. He headed back to the tent where he found Videgavia beside himself. He was
stomping about and saying, ”This is great! This is just great! I’m stuck here
defending Easterlings I don’t like from other Easterlings I don’t like, and it
looks like we’re on the short end of it as well!”

Hanasian stood and said, ”Yes, something like that. But hear me out. We have an
opportunity, and in time we will have relief. The prefect has sent messengers
to Gondor requesting aid. How long, and how much aid will come is anyone’s
guess. But I suspect the King will want stability. So, for now, we’re Gondor’s
aid, and we’ll do what we can until what I hope is a sizable army comes from
Gondor. We’ll have to take up the trail of Naiore again when this is over.”

Berendil sighed. He shook his head and said, ”So while we’re here trying to
keep a friendly government in power, Naiore is off going wherever? I know she
is close now, but she won’t stay close. We need to get on her trail! Maybe if a
few of us go…”

“No, I need every man here. You help me finish this as soon as we can, and
we’ll be back on the search.”

Hanasian gave his old friend a stare that said he would not take any
insubordination on this. Berendil let out the words he was forming in a big
sigh. Hanasian nodded and said, ”We could make this work for us less so if we
move early. Maybe finish this in a hurry? I can only hope. We’ll talk more
tomorrow night, with Khule.”

Hanasian glared at Videgavia and he said nothing. Hanasian finished by saying,
”Now, go and get some good rest. It may be the last we get for a while.”

Berendil and Vid left the tent and were silent as they walked. Neither one
wanted to know what the other was thinking, and neither one wanted to admit
they liked the other better than Khule and his Sagath clan. Yet, Berendil
sensed that Videgavia knew more about them than he. Still, he wasn’t going to
ask. They both retired to their respective tents in hopes of getting a good
rest.

For Videgavia, he seemed to have no trouble getting asleep. Berendil on the
other hand, lay on his bedroll and looked at the roof of his tent as it lazily
moved with the breeze. He was not going to sleep. He sat up and pulled his
satchel to him, and started to go through it. He thought of writing a letter to
Freja, but had six letters already he had written since leaving Minas Tirith.
He looked at one of the earliest ones written in Pelargir. He then pulled out
Freja’s letter to him. He opened it and read it again…

My love,

Presumptuous, I know, to name you as such. You must wonder, scoff even, that I
do so. I’ve given you little cause to believe I bear you anything beyond
contempt. After all I have done, you must despise me yet love you I assuredly
do. I always will.

In time you may come to understand that all I have done has been for love of
you. I know it is a poor excuse, but it is no less true. There is no crueller
master than love.

I do not know how I can forgive myself for what I have done. And yet, it is as
nothing when set it against the harm and pain I would bring you if you joined
your path to mine. I would sooner die than let that happen.

I know of but one way to stop it. I beg of you, forget me.

Seek a path that leads far away from me and takes you to the hope and the new
life we spoke of that precious night, before the fire, at Dunharrow.

Another may be so fortunate as to win your heart. When that time comes, as it
surely will, go to her with my blessing.

Ever yours,

Freja

He pondered her words. His path had definitely led him far away from her, but
forgetting her would never happen. He would take all pain and harm to be with
her, and will not change his course. On his second reading, he only re-read the
first two words. He then got his quill and penned on a sheet her words as he
read …

‘My Love, love you I assuredly do. I always will. All I have done has been for
love of you. There is no crueller master than love. Seek a path that leads far
away from me and takes you to the hope and the new life we spoke of that
precious night, before the fire, at Dunharrow. Ever yours.’

These were all the words he needed from her letter. The only ones he would
heed. He placed this sheet atop her letter and folded it and put it away. He
then looked at the letters he had written and had not sent. Torn between
burning thenm and opening them and reading what he wrote, he did neither. He
decided to write another letter now.


’Lady Freja,

I read your letter again, and I hold to what you say in it, well some of it.
For there will never be a time that I do not think of you, or dream of looking
at you silently as we sit on the shore of Lake Evendum at sunset on a summer
evening. Yes, I think of us almost all the time. Even when I give full
concentration on the task at hand, I think of you. When we were fighting the
warlords of Khand, I made a move that I saw you do in training at Dunharrow.
You see, I have memorized your every moment that you have appeared before my
eyes. I guess it is why it was so grievous that you refused to see me in Minas
Tirith. I remember you leaving and Videgavia coming to talk to you. I held that
against him for some time, but now we seem to peacefully co-exist. Still…. I
think of sitting with you and talking and laughing and walking through the
trees without a care. Do I dream? Yes. I dream. Until the day you are before
me, I dream of you, and of us.…’

Berendil paused and thought. He then put down his quill, and sat up. He turned
the sheet over and he started to slowly draw Freja. By the early morinig hours,
he had drawn her in different stances as he remembered her that first day in
Dunharrow. He finally let the paper slip to the floor as he fell into a deep
slumber.

Dreams came to Berendil as he slept. Freja was battling in the ring at
Dunharrow. Vorda faced her as she did when Berendil met them, but now, it was a
battle. The swords clashed and sparks flew, and they had blood on them. What
caused this shieldmaiden vs shieldmaiden fight???

A crashing sound awoke Berendil at first light. A thunderstorm. He sat up and
put away all his writing utensils and looked at his artwork and unfinished
letter. He had no time now to finish. He stowed them in his pack and went
outside into the dark rumbling morning.

The breakdown of the camp had commenced early and the men were nearly done when
the first of the rain came…. They set out for the Sagath camp and arrived
before midday as it was only a bit farther into the wood to the east. The
Easterling sentries had been expecting them, but they seemed wary and watched
hard for others. The company then set to making camp on the edge of a clearing.


Hanasian had come earlier, and he and Khule approached Berendil and Videgavia.
Hanasian said, ”Videgavia, get three of our stealthiest. Berendil, get camp
ordered and defense set. Expect an attack from any direction at any time. We
could be gone for a while.”

Hanasian looked around and made sure the four of them were the only ones in
earshot. He then leaned in and said, ”Anyone loyal to the Easterling prefect of
Gondor is here in this wood. If any approach, challenge them with the word
‘Apple’. If they do not reply with the word ‘Green’, then take them down.
Khule, you get the ones you need, Vid will get our guys, and we meet here at
sunset.”

Khule nodded and set off He would be bringing three guys with him. Hanasian and
Videgavia would have two other guys with them. Hanasian leaned in again and
said, ”In case there is any spies or informers, our reserve challenge is
‘Demarcation’ to be answered by ‘Red’. Let’s hope we don’t need to use it.”

Videgavia nodded and set off to pick who he thought were the two of their
stealthiest men, Hilferin and Beregon. They spent the day resting and getting
ready for what was planned for that night. When evening came, Khule and his two
men came, and they talked about their goal in the raid. They had only small
swords and axes, and their daggers. If their information was good, they could
be very successful. If not, They may never be heard from again. When the last
of the twilight faded into night, they set off into the woods.

Khule sent one of his men out on point, and they moved quietly. Hanasian was
impressed by the skills of the Easterlings in wooded land. The silent air on
the moonless night was their friend, and they came to where the army that
General Khurg had gathered to him camped. It was sizable, and they were going
into the middle of them.

Khule gave the signal and the first sentry fell silently. The second looked
around and was face to face with another of Khule’s Easterlings, and he
silently crumpled. The rest followed Khule past the pickets. Coming to a large
tent, they each took position at a corner, with Videgavia staying a way back to
keep watch. Inside, voices talked unsuspectingly, and with a nod, Khule,
Hanasian, Hilferin, and Belegost cut through a side. The two Easterlings
charged in and threw knives and axes, and the others charged in and killed who
was closest to their side of the tent. It was over in moments. With the last
burning candle, Hanasian looked closely at one of the dead. The mark of the
Moricarni! Their information was good! All the others save two were also
Moricarni. Twelve in all. And the meeting was at the time and place they had
been told. Sadly they would never know who gave the information so accurately,
for the servant girl who risked her life to get this information to the Sagath
was also killed and lay there among those she wished dead.

They then moved on across the camp to where General Khurg was reported to be.
Again, with stealth, they killed most of his commanding generals. But Khurg was
not among them.

With their third tent, things started to go wrong. Videgavia had to kill a
sentry who got curious about the first tent, then Belegost and one of Khule’s
Easterlings were hit by knives. Belegost deflected it mostly, but his arm was
bleeding. The Easterling wasn’t so lucky. Hanasian set fire to the tent, and
they made their way to the exit point. The raid hurt Khurg and the Moricarni,
but didn’t eliminate the threat. They made their way as fast as they could to
the Sagath camp.

”Apple!”
“Green!”

Came the reply in the dark and the raiding party filtered in one by one.

”Be ready, they’re coming!”

The night went on and they did not come. When first light broke, the attack
commenced. Khurg had gathered his strength and were attacking in force. Due to
the raid by the Sagath and the Company, Khurg had to move sooner than he
wanted. Losing most of his top commanders didn’t help him much, but the 2nd and
3rd commanders readily stepped up for him. Their eagerness was instilled in the
old Easterling general, and they made their big move.

After a pitched battle in the camp, the company, with some of the Easterlings
retreated. They wanted to keep a route open to escape, and fortunately Khurg’s
army hadn’t sent out a flanking wing, at least not one they knew about. They
were able to secure the woods and lakeshore, and any boats they found were
taken and readied should they need to evacuate over the water. They headed
north and west with a screening front to the east. The remaining Sagath army
kept defense along the east, but it was uncertain how long they could hold
against the superior force. The Sagath advantage was they were fighting on
their own ground and knew the land well. But General Khurg would roll right to
the north and eventually find where the Sagath line ended. Their only chance
was to withdraw.

It took a week of pitched fighting and raids to work their way to the mouth of
the River Celduin. The company losses were mostly wounds, and Hanasian made a
not that he needed to recruit healers to the ranks. Bereck was an able healer,
but he was only one man, and it was a secondary duty.

They met the Prefect when he came in by boat. He had evacuated the week before
and stayed offshore while his guard prepared this camp. The base camp was well
laid out and was where the remaining boats that could travel the river could be
readied. They would retreat no further. The company, with the Prefect’s guard
and Khule’s remaining Sagath soldiers made a defense perimeter and would have
to hold out there until the rumoured expeditionary army of Gondor arrived. The
Prefect had sent requests to Gondor informing King Elessar of the dire reality
of Rhun. Hanasian hoped that Elessar, with his great foresight had taken action
sooner than at the arrival of the prefect’s messages.

King Elessar’s Rhun Expeditionary arm was indeed on the march to Rhun, but were
several days, if not a week away. Until their arrival they would have to hold
here. With the advance of Khurg’s army to their line, a fight would commence
sooner rather than later.

Berendil sat and looked at the torc, turning it in his hand. He drew more
sketches of Freja and thought of her and wondered where she was and what she
was doing. His thoughts were cut short with the sound of alert. The first
battle of Celduin Field was beginning as the rain started to fall…
***** Chapter 21 *****
3021, III – May, Rhûn


The battle was all but done and with it the day. and so was the day. Spears of
ruddy light jabbed at them from the west. Videgavia walked the churned ground,
looking for anything that might have been dropped by these latest raiders.
Hanasian and the Easterling they’d recruited were questioning those captured.
Bereck was busy with the injured. Berendil was establishing pickets that would
see them through the night. Another day, another raid, each one slowing their
progress down.

Vid wondered if the Elf was behind this. According to their pet Easterling, the
Elf didn’t much care for using Easterlings. But then, the treacherous man would
say that, wouldn’t he? And besides, everything they had seen in Khand suggested
the Elf was not above anything now. She had not the luxury for her contempt of
mortals now her lord and master was gone.

Vid kicked at ground he inspected and then squinted. A shaft of bloody light
caught something wedged in the earth. It gleamed at him, winking, and he knelt.
It looked to have been trodden into the ground. Videgavia pried it free, dusted
it off, and then promptly swore. Unfortunately, Foldine was close at hand and
his head bounced up. He trotted over to Videgavia as the Daleman stood, his jaw
knotted.

”What? What’d you find?” the man of Rohan inquired.

”Nothing!” Videgavia snapped at him and jerked his head at the battleground
search as he sought to pull rank, ”Back to it!”

Foldine’s eyes narrowed suspiciously but he turned away all the same. Videgavia
scowled at his back. Once he was certain the Rohirrim had returned to his task,
he uncurled his hand again. Sure enough, there it was. The Daleman’s expression
became haunted as he stared at it. There but one person this could belong to.
He’d returned the other himself to its proper keeper. Then his expression took
on a bitter cant and his fingers locked around his prize anew. Curse the woman!
What had she been thinking to do this? He shoved the item into his pocket and
did his best to forget it was there.

His best, though, was not enough. As the day wound down and pickets for the
night were set, the item in his pocket seemed to grow heavier. It held no
special qualities, not like one of the famed and doomed magic rings. He knew it
to be a trick of his mind and yet, Videgavia could not ignore it. As night
closed around them he found his gaze turning to the west time and again. He
swore at himself for it once he realised he was looking in the general
direction of Edoras.

What would it accomplish if he returned it to her? Or Éomer? Nothing good. But
how could he bring himself to send it to the man that had surely dropped it?
Videgavia shook his head. It was too much to ask. Snapping and snarling at
anyone that ventured too near, he took himself out to second watch where he
could brood. Second watch stretched into third and by its end his mind was
still clouded.

The Daleman padded into camp to find most were asleep for the night. The
command tent, though, was still alight. His intention was to make a report – no
raiders had been sighted for two whole watches and this could be significant.
Either they had abandoned harrying the Company or had fallen back to await
something big. Hanasian had to know, he figured, and he shouldered into the
tent to discover that his Captain was not alone.

”- what then? Rhuadar?” Berendil asked, leaning forward to jab a finger at the
map spread out.

Both Rangers paused at Videgavia’s arrival. Of all the people he did not want
to encounter, it was Berendil of Cardolan. His hand fell into his pocket to
close about the item as Hanasian waved him forward.

”The trail, such that it is, leads to Rhuadar. So Berendil thinks. What are
your thoughts?”

Videgavia rocked on his heels as his eyes met with Berendil’s. Then he
grimaced, grit his teeth and stepped forward to jab a finger at their
approximate current position.

”She could be brewing something right here for all I know. The past two
watches, there have been no incursions across our forward positions. Nary a
sound in the darkness. Who can guess at what the witch is up to? Anything else,
everything else…” Videgavia shrugged, ”If I thought I knew, I was mistaken.”

Berendil frowned at this and Hanasian’s brows climbed. Something was clearly
amiss.

”Perhaps they’ve given up the chase,” Hanasian suggested.

”Perhaps,” Videgavia muttered and then realised that his fist had closed over
the item in his pocket.

Without thinking he jerked his hand free but by some quirk his thumb caught the
rim of his pocket and from there it all went awry. He could feel his dismay
surge as his fingers splayed. The sight of the torc gleaming in the torchlight
only added to his unhappiness. It spun, a tumbling arc of silver, up and up and
then landed on the map itself. Round it rolled on its edge until finally it was
still. And then Berendil was on the move, his hand plunging to retrieve that
which he should never have had. Unable to stop himself, Videgavia’s hand darted
out to catch Berendil’s wrist even as the Ranger’s hand slapped over Freja’s
torc. He had no idea that one of his long knives was in his other hand until he
saw its sharp tip dig into Berendil’s jaw.

”That is not yours!” Videgavia snarled.

”It’s owner thought otherwise!” Berendil returned, naked anger gleaming in his
grey eyes.

”Fool! She does not own it! No Shieldmaiden does!” Videgavia returned,
blistering contempt dripping from his words.

Steel scraped and Berendil’s lip curled, ”Thief!”

But for Hanasian’s intercession, a strong grip on Berendil’s free arm, Berendil
would have drawn a dagger of his own.

”ENOUGH!” Hanasian roared, his voice jarring both men, ”Videgavia, release
him!”

There was no mistaking the crack of command in Hanasian’s voice. Never had
Videgavia disobeyed a direct order but the strain of compliance was almost too
much to bear. His knuckles cracked as they tightened on his knife and
Berendil’s straining against his hold on his wrist almost made him ignore their
Captain. And then he heard an unmistakeable voice cut across the seething
turmoil within. He could almost see her. Firelight bathed her face and she was
relaxed, at her ease. A playful smile flickered on her lips as she tipped her
head to one side and her braids tumbled, heavy ropes of glowing fire.

”Taking a leaf out of my book now, are we?”

Damn the woman! With a snarl, Videgavia pulled his knife back as Berendil broke
his grip on his wrist. The torc was gone again, tucked away by the Ranger as
Videgavia’s breathing came in great heaving bursts. He’d never see it again
now. His sight held a bloody tinge around the edges still as he slammed his
knife back into its sheath. Finally, Hanasian judged it safe to release his
hold on Berendil’s free arm.

”Explain yourself. Now!” Hanasian demanded.

Videgavia twitched, ”I am no thief.”

Berendil growled deep in his throat and Hanasian shifted as precautionary
measure, ”Then how did you come by it?”

“The fool dropped it! It’s too valuable to leave lying on the ground,
especially that of Rhûn!”

“You’ve returned it then and that’s an end to it,” Hanasian said through his
teeth.

”An end to it? An end to it!” Videgavia incredulously explained and then swore
in a thick stream of Rohirric.

He turned on his heel and was almost out of the tent when Berendil growled,
”Wait!”

Videgavia spun back with a snarl, ”What more could you possibly demand?”

His hands opened and closed at his sides. Another moment in this tent and he’d
throw himself at Berendil. He knew it, just as he knew Hanasian would not be
able to intercede in time.

”Who is the true owner of her torc?” Berendil asked, the question astonishing
enough to slice through the Daleman’s rage.

Shock registered on his face, ”You don’t know?”

At this the two Rangers exchanged glances before Berendil quietly admitted,
”She did not say.”

Videgavia’s jaw dropped at that. How could he not know? Freja should have made
the import of her action clear. That she had not defied everything he knew of
her. It was mystifying, if it could be believed.

The Daleman’s attention swung to Hanasian, ”Is this true?”

The Captain of the Black Company nodded and just like that the fight fell out
of Videgavia. His shoulders slumped and he washed a hand over his face. None of
this made any sense whatsoever to him. He knew Freja was a masterful dissembler
when the circumstances called for it, wily and cunning as a fox. What possible
reason could she have for being so obtuse about this? Come to think of it,
there were a good many other questions that crowded his mind and he had to
wonder if he knew Freja at all.

For Freja to set her spears aside, to have her head turned away from her path,
was astonishing enough. She lived and breathed her order, her duty, and she was
devoted to her realm with a singular dedication that was almost unsettling. It
was rare enough for Shieldmaidens to set down their spears for a man. Not a
single Shieldmaiden had done as Freja had. And then, if this was not mystifying
enough, he had seen her ride out of Minas Tirith with his own eyes. She had
turned her back and quit the city, abandoning her torc and the man she had
given it to.

The Freja he knew honoured her word. She was steadfast. As unmoveable at times
as a damned mountain. She never turned her back on a vow. If she’d kept the
truth from Berendil she’d have a reason. She’d ridden out for a reason too.
Whatever that was, he was left with a conundrum. Could he countenance leaving
that torc in Berendil’s ignorant hands?

Videgavia shook his head in disbelief and he let the tent flap fall back into
place, ”I can’t believe this falls to me.”

He stared at the ground, wondering not only how to explain the torc’s
significance but also whether he could do so. She’d given her spear torc to the
Ranger to bear and if he was to do so, then he needed to know the truth. One
way or the other. Irrespective of her reasons, whatever they might be.
Videgavia squinted at the ground as he screwed up his resolve into a tight,
jagged, bitter ball.

”That torc is why Shieldmaidens are said to be wedded to their spears,” he
finally said, ”Most prized, most precious, rarest of all the torcs. More than a
signifier of rank. Or mastery of skill, like the others. They vie for it all
their lives and most never attain it.”

Videgavia paused, aware that he was stalling, but there was no way he was ever
going to possess the strength to say what needed to be said. Still, it had to
be said.

His voice grew strained, ”Until you, Ranger, it passed from Rohan’s king to the
one Shieldmaiden he deemed worthy of it. It is a vow of immutable fidelity, one
that they hold extends beyond death.”

“Freja has bound herself to me?” Berendil repeated, astonished.

Videgavia hoarsely clarified, ”You hold an oath of a like never before
exchanged with any save Éorl the Young and his line.”

An oath he would have gladly returned in kind, if ever he had the chance.
Videgavia knew, now, such opportunity would not come. All the years, all the
time, so many points at which he could have said something. And now…it was
enough to make a man howl.

Berendil stared at him, dumbfounded, and then to Hanasian. Equally astonished,
Hanasian shook his head at Berendil and then both men flinched as an anguished
growl tore free of Videgavia’s throat. With that he was gone, pushing back out
of the tent and into the cooler night beyond. Within the tent, Hanasian placed
a hand on Berendil’s shoulder to prevent the man from following the Daleman
outside.

He shook his head at his friend and counselled, ”Let him go.”

Berendil shook him off, ”Why bind herself to me only to push me away?”

Again Hanasian shook his head and kept his counsel to himself. He recalled
Vorda’s words by the barrow of Snowmane that night. Vorda had warned that there
was little Freja would not countenance when it came to protecting what she
loved. Rohan, he had thought at the time, and her king. But now he wondered if
instead she was protecting someone else.

Berendil’s next question cut across Hanasian’s thoughts, ”Did you know?”

“What I knew I told you as soon as you told me you had it. That it was
precious, a rare gift.”

Berendil retrieved the torc to turn it over in his hand, staring at it as if he
had never before seen it, ”Rarest of all, I should think.”

“What will you do now?” Hanasian asked and Berendil pushed a breath out through
his nose.

”I will give her no cause to regret this,” he murmured as he closed his hand
around the torc again, ”More than that, I cannot yet say.”
***** Chapter 22 *****
The Company In Rhun – May 3021

The walk back to his tent he took slow, expecting Videgavia to ambush him at
any moment. Berendil was unsure what he would do if he did. He never liked the
Daleman, but slowly started to respect him and his abilities. But now….He put
his disdain for Videgavia on simmer and lay back on his bedroll. He remembered
that letter he started to write.

’Beloved Freja, this morning we had another skirmish with Khurg’s Easterlings.
Somewhere in the fight, it became known to Vidigavia that I had your torc. He
explained a couple of things about it to me after we had a skirmish of our own.
All I can say here in finishing is that I look forward even more to the day we
can sit alone and talk and laugh and touch….

Ever yours my Love,
Berendil’

He folded it and sealed it. He would make sure it went out with the first run
back to Gondor before he left this camp. Whether it would find her, he did not
know. He only knew she was in Rohan.

He emerged from his tent to a barge coming in. On it had the commander of the
Gondor Expeditionary army, and there were others that were coming around the
north of the lake on foot. Their relief had come! Berendil went out to meet
then at the dock .

”Lord Faramir!” Berendil said as he stepped off the barge. The two shook hands
and Berendil said,

”You will find the prefect over in that tent, along with Hanasian and a …
couple others.”

Berendil escorted Lord Faramir to the tent and before he entered, Hanasian came
out and met him.

”Lord Faramir of Ithilien has arrived with his army.”

”Lord Faramir! Welcome! The king has left little doubt how much this relief
means. Let us walk for a bit.”

Faramir and Hanasian started to walk and Berendil returned to getting things
ready to move.

Faramir asked, "What is the situation?”

Hanasian paused and looked around. They were far enough away from everyone now.
He said,

”Our situation has us held here in the northwest of Rhun. Khurg has for the
most part the support from the east, and reluctant support in Nurn and south of
the lake. Our early raid has caused Khurg some grief, and he struggles with
leadership among the armies. Though formidable, their communication with each
other is not very good.”

Faramir nodded and looked at the state of the Easterlings. He said, ”So it is
looking like this will have to be a full frontal assault then. I was hoping it
wouldn’t come to that. Is the prefect here?”

“The prefect is here in his tent, and he is well.” Hanasian replied. He then
squinted and said, "There is a chance we can do something about General Khurg,
tonight.”

“Assasination?” Faramir asked.
Hanasian took a deep breath and said, ”It is probably best that the Steward of
Gondor not know much detail of this. I will just say that one of the Sagath
commanders named Khule, well, he seems to be able to get information from
sources inside Khurg’s camp. We were going to make a raid tonight. That is all
I can say.”

Faramir nodded and turned. He didn’t want to hear any more. He said, "Well,
know that your duty in this will be done as of tomorrow. You are free to return
to your previous mission. Thanks for helping stabilize the situation.”

Hanasian nodded as Faramir left to find the prefect.

Hanasian decided to move fast. They wanted one last shot at Khurg before they
left Rhun. Khule wanted one more chance as well. This time it would only be
three of them going in.

Unlike before, they managed to slip the sentries without killing them. When
they got to Khurg’s tent. They were luckier than ever. They caught him with his
serving maid. They had captured him naked! He was brought back to the camp and
turned over to the Gondorian army in the early morning hours.

Faramir didn’t ask any questions when it was reported to him that General Khurg
‘surrendered’ last night. He wasn’t in a very talkative mood. Faramir got his
emmesaries ready to go and talk to the various tribes. Meanwhile, The company
broke camp and prepared themselves to move out. Berendil was eager to try and
find the trail of Naiore, but any sign was now long cold. The only thing he had
was a hunch. That night, he came to Hanasian and said, ”You have had those gut
feelings where you are sure of something, even if you have absolutely no
evidence to prove it?”

Hanasian smirked, ”Just about every day, why?”

Berendil thought as the took a few steps. He said, ”I’ve been thinking a lot
about this while we have been working here. Where could Naiore go to regroup
and regain strength? I thought of all the places I knew, and each had a
distinct drawback for her. Then I thought of the dread fortress of Carn Dum.”

Hanasian nodded. It would make sense. It made perfect sense. He estimated
Naiore had about three weeks while they were tied up in Rhun. They would make
for Dale and see if any sign of her was noted there. They would commander a
couple of the river boats to take them upstream.

~ ~ ~

Wih the troubles aborted by the lucky capture of Khurg, The company set out up
the River Celduin, and after two hundred miles, the Carnen river met the
Celduin. Some of the company rode on the river boat, with a couple of the
Rohirrimon the west side of the river leading horses and having a tether to the
boat to move it against the strong current. The same was done on the east side
of the river. It wasn’t any faster than riding their horses, but it was a bit
more comfortable.

Berendil spent his time on the boat pouring over maps and routes and possible
routes Naiore could have taken. They knew she was east of Rhun when they
arrived there, so she likely circled north around Rhun but south of the Iron
Hills. Being summer was coming, she could have taken a northerly route up this
river to Dale? Whould she make her way west directly through Mirkwood and over
the High Pass past Rivendell? Would she go north to the Ered Mithrim and make
for Carn Dum? Berendil knew she was making her way west, and his gut told him
she would make for Rhuadur. They would know once they reach Dale. But in his
mind, Berendil was already preparing to make for the Forsaken Inn. The company
set camp by the confluence of the River Carnen for rest, Berendil came to
Hanasian as he relaxed on his bedroll. He said, ”I’ve been mapping routes….
Ones I think Naiore may have taken, and there are a few.”

Hanasian Sat up and motioned for Berendil to lay out his hand-drawn maps and
notes on his bedroll. Berendil sat down next to him and laid a map he made
down. He said, ”I think the most likely route she would take would be one of
threading between the dwarf kingdom of the Iron Hills and the Rhovanion men of
Dale, make for the Grey Mountains, and move west along them to come to Carn
Dum. The place has been abandoned for 1300 some years, and the Dunedain rarely
go there, usually only in need.”

Hanasian looked at the route he had marked, then looked at him and said, ”And?”


Berendil tapped his finger on Carn Dum a couple times before it back-tracked
the path. He stopped north of Dale and picked up his finger, saying, ”Not
‘and’, ‘but’. The fact that is the most likely track to take and makes the most
sense tells me that is not the way she would go. Instead, I think she will
skirt the elven strongholds instead, and make directly for Rhuadur.”

Berendil looked at Hanasian as he examined the route. He nodded silently.
Berendil then said, ”I think the key will be in Rhuadur, and the way in will be
the old Forsaken Inn.”

Hanasian let his finger drop on the Forsaken Inn on Berendil’s sketched map. He
then reached for his satchel he was using for a pillow, and he pulled out a
full map of the north. He put his fingers on the scale of leagues, and then
started crudely measuring from where they were at the river confluence. In his
head Hanasian was calculating time and the seasons. Berendil went on as
hanasian did so, ”I think she will not go to Dale, but will traverse Mirkwood
and make for the High Pass. It’s the most direct route to Rhuadur and adds much
cover.”

“But why Rhuadur?” Hanasian asked, studying his map and making calculations.

”It is near enough to the populated lands, but rough enough to give good cover.
And it isn’t as remote as Carn Dum. It’s just my gut feeling.”

Hanasian finished making his calculations and put away his map. Berendil
collected his together, and Hanasian said, ”Well you keep thinking about it for
a while, for we have about 70 leagues to go upriver to the fords of the Old
Forest Road. We will decide then which route we take.”

Berendil nodded as he stood. There was no more he could say about it now.

The journey upriver was uneventful, and Berendil spent his time either
considering his thoughts, looking over his maps, or drawing Freja. He had
dozens of them now, each one different, and as he went, the perspective was
closer. His last one was of her face and it had every detail. From the way she
held her mouth, to the shape of her nose, to her intense eyes. He looked at it
for a time and put it with the others. He wondered where that letter he sent
with Faramir’s messenger back to Minas Tirith was, and if it would find Freja.

After a week, they came to the fens where the Old Forest Road forded the river.
It was decision time…

They camped there an extra day because the horses needed rest and the grass was
green and lush near the fens. Hanasian came to Berendil and asked, ”So, has
your conclusion changed?”

“No, she went down that road there.”

He pointed west to what looked like a track heading into the nearby forest.
Hanasian looked that way, then said, ”Yeah, about that…. I think we make for
Esgoroth.”

“Why, it is miles out of the way!” Berendil protested. Hanasian nodded in
agreement, saying, ”Yes, nearly two hundred and likely a couple weeks there and
back. The thing is we need a break. We haven’t re-equipped since we left. Sure
we were able to field repair with the Sagath, but that is not a refit. Also,
the horses need an extended rest, Also, this boat here is property of the king,
and we need to leave it in good hands.”

“So we let Naiore gain even more days on us?” Berendil said, frustrated.
Hanasian said,

”Yes, I understand that. But unlike in Rhun, we aren’t in a situation where we
are called upon to represent the King in a quickly deteriorating situation. So,
if you can find four others to go with you, you can set off west with most of
our remaining provisions. There are likely some who would want to forego
Esgoroth, but the Dalemen are all looking forward to it, as are most of the
others. It has been a long road since we left Minas Tirith.”

Berendil looked west and then to the horses who were grazing the grasses. He
nodded and said, ”I’ll ask some I think are of like mind as me.”

They both walked off toward the camp, but at slightly different paths. The two
old friends since their young ranger days seem to be showing their differences.


The next day, Hanasian had things set to continue up river to Esgoroth.
Berendil had the five youngest and freshest horses and with him, he had Macvil,
Maclon, Foldine, and Hilferin. They had stowed the provision they would need to
get over the Mistys, and as the boat was readied, they said their farewells,
and vowed to meet later at the Forsaken Inn. Mulgov was intrigued with this
inn, but Berendil and Hanasian thought it best that he stay with the main
group. Besides, Khule wanted him around for protection while in Esgoroth. The
sight of an Easterling this soon after the war would likely gave them bad
intentions.

It didn’t take long before Berendil’s hand of men were under the eaves of the
old forest. Even though it had been two years since the war, the Mirkwood had
lost little of its darkness. As heavy as the air was under the canopy of trees,
the sound of birds could now be heard there in the day time. But it was nearly
70 leagues across the forest, so even making good speed, they spent three
nights in the forest. When they finally emerged from the forest on the west
side, they basked in the warmth of the sun. It was good to leave the heavy
dankness of those woods. They did not rest long, but kept a steady pace to gain
the Old Ford where they camped. The remainder of the journey would be a hard
climb up into grassless areas, so Berendil made the decision to stay there an
extra day so the horses could graze.

The rest of the company made their way to Esgoroth, and arrived after 6 days.
Their horses were rested and they worked on re-supplying for the journey over
the High Pass. Hanasian kept everyone on task, but the night before they would
leave, they enjoyed the luxury of an inn. The Dalemen knew where to go and the
food, drink, and music was re-invigorating.

But they weren’t going to be there for long. Mostly the time was spent
procuring supply from people the Dalemen knew. Videgavia managed to procure
some dried meat and fruit, and this was good, for their trail rations had been
depleted to nothing. Somehow, Khule kept his skin, for Mulgov was who they
gawked at. Needless to say,he two were left alone.

After three days, in the morning they rode out on their horses. The boat was
left with the city guard, and should the King of Gondor or any of his agents
should require its use, it was to be signed over to them. After they had been
ferried to the east side of the lake, they rode south along the river, letting
their horses graze and drink as they went. When they arrived at the Carrock,
they were a fortnight behind Berendil and the others. The next day it was they
who set out under the canopy of the Greenwood. Under the deep canopy, Barek
asked Hanasian, ”What do you think Berendil will do, should he come across the
elf?”

“He will try to kill her,” Hanasian replied. They were silent for a time before
Hanasian said, ”I hope he doesn’t find her directly. May he do some forward
recon and get things settled by the time we get there.”

Barek nodded and they silently made their way west.

Berendil and his men gained the High Pass and there rested for a couple days,
for the air were warm and the melting snow refreshing. Once they were rested,
they made their way down the west side of the Mistys. They would allow
themselves one day’s rest at Rivendell. In all, it took ten days to arrive
there from the Old Ford. Berendil had pushed hard, but now they needed a rest.
It would be a few days ride west to gain the Forsaken Inn, but Berendil
considered skirting just south of the inn and setting camp in a fold unseen.
Then they could visit the inn and see who may be there.

Berendil lay on the edge of the grassy hill south of the inn. The stables
appeared empty, and he didn’t see anyone moving about for the time he was
there. He withdrew, and that evening, he called his men together.

”Two will need to go inside. There may be nobody there, but then again, maybe
not."

Macvil who had watch at sunset said the lamps were lit inside, so someone had
to be there. Foldine and Hilferen volunteered to go. They stripped off anything
military that could identify them. Looking like little more than a couple of
highway ruffians, they set out for the inn once it got dark.

The two came to the door, and Foldine pulled it open. The low light inside
showed a few patrons who paid little attention to their arrival. The two saw
the man at the bar and both got some hot tea. The two talked as if they had
travelled far, and were eventually going to Bree, and rented two rooms for
three nights…. In a few days all five had established themselves at the inn.
Foldine had managed to carry on a good rapport with the proprietor. It didn’t
seem he really wanted to run the inn, so when an offer came to help out; he
took the offer and set off for Bree the next day. So they had the inn, and
Foldine was the ‘proprietor’. Since all who were there when they arrived were
weary travellers, they had long gone on to Bree or to the east. Berendil’s part
was the rough rogue that sat by the fire in the far reach of the common room.
Macvil was went east down the road for a few days to watch for Hanasian.

When he came, the first rain since Summer started began to fall.

”Are we glad to see you Cap!”

Hanasian held up and dismounted. He shook Macvil’s hand and asked, ”What is
your situation? Any sign?”

“No, nothing. There was one who looked suspicious when I and Maclon went into
the inn, but he was a mere traveller heading to Bree. Our situation is we have
established ourselves at the Forsaken Inn, with Foldine ostensibly running the
place.”

Hanasian nodded. He said, ”Well then, I guess there will be room for all of us
then.”

“Aye!” Macvil said as Hanasian walked along with him leading his horse.

That night Foldine and Berendil took first watch. The company relaxed and
unwound from the long road. They would have five days where nobody arrived. By
the time the sun set on the sixth day, two men arrived from the east. By then,
the company had settled in as no more than a band of rogues exiled from the
proper pubs of Bree.
***** Chapter 23 *****
3021, III – September, Forsaken Inn


At one of the corner tables, Hanasian sat up when a tall man slunk through the
door of the Forsaken Inn upon evenfall. Heavily cowled, he fit the description
of the man his scouts had reported. The Slippery Eel, as they'd come to call
him. Now that Hanasian had eyes on the Eel, he could see why he had caught
their attention.

Just from the way he moved, Hanasian could see the man knew how to handle
himself in a fight. His clothing, though worn, was the kind favoured by a canny
operative. Generic, functional, able to blend in easily in most locations from
Rhûn through to Arnor. Forgettable. It was entirely possible that this was the
Moricarni agent they’d been hoping to find in this dank and dismal place.

The Eel prowled to the bar, deep cowl drawn low and lower face wrapped in
cloth, to slot into the press. Khule had marked the Eel as well and with a
glance to Hanasian, began to wend his way towards his target. They’d been here
close to a week and thus far they’d found no discernible trace of Naiore Dannan
nor those who served her.

Still, for all of that, the information that had led them here was credible.
This man was likely to be connected to the Elf somehow. The Eel was no petty
bandit or down on his luck criminal. That much Hanasian was certain of now that
he’d sighted the man. A better target there was not to be had in the fetid
Forsaken Inn.

He glanced to Berendil seated beside him and saw that his friend also closely
watched the Eel. A quick sweep around the common room revealed Videgavia. The
Daleman was already on his way to join them at their table. It was the best
vantage to be had. His dark eyes held a cold gleam and Videgavia’s expression
was set in its hardest lines. He fit right in to the Forsaken Inn’s clientele
and so no one risked setting themselves in his path.

He yanked a chair back, dropped into it with a sullen thud and growled, ”We’ll
soon see what the Easterling’s made of.”

The almost gleeful note in the man’s rough voice lifted Hanasian’s brows and
made Berendil look askance to him. Videgavia shrugged at them in reply and
turned his attention to the bar. Whatever this man was or wasn’t, Khule was
their best chance of taking him in. It was not long before a scuffle broke out
at the bar. Khule had made contact and the game was finally afoot, come what
may.

Fights were not uncommon at the Forsaken Inn. Drunken aggression often
overflowed. This, however, was a different creature altogether. Khule was
amongst the best warriors within the Black Company. He was a master of both
close and ranged combat. Such men were rare and this was why Khule had been
selected to initiate contact. He was most likely to emerge unscathed.

Those at the bar did not push, shove or lash out. All Company men, they drew
back to give the Easterling room to move. The fight spun away from the bar and
careened dangerously towards the tables, the Eel swiftly revealing he was not
to be easily overcome. Videgavia straightened from his slouch and frowned. His
eyes narrowed as he leaned forward and Berendil whistled appreciatively at the
display.

Whoever this Eel was, he was easily Khule’s match. On the other side of
Hanasian, Videgavia took to muttering to himself and then fell silent as the
mercenary very nearly took Khule’s face off. Khule's shaken expression was
clear for all to see for a moment and then he recovered from what had been a
very close call.

”The Easterling can handle himself,” Hanasian murmured but Videgavia shook his
head from side to side.

Hanasian glanced at the Daleman curiously and saw concern, if not outright
dismay, in the deep lines of Videgavia’s face. It was odd, he thought, for
Videgavia had only managed to barely tolerate Khule’s presence in their number
thus far. Khule recoiled from yet another vicious strike and still the Eel gave
him no opening, no chance at seizing the advantage, no opportunity to regroup.
Hanasian could see his men starting to twitch, restless and worried. If this
descended into an outright melee, the Eel could easily slip away in the chaos.
Videgavia wiped a hand over his jaw and, eyes still tracking the fight, uttered
something from the corner of his mouth.

A name that made Berendil shoot to his feet immediately. Try as he might, he
could see nothing that might identify the Eel and so he slowly sank into his
seat. Videgavia leaned forward, dark eyes glittering and then nodded to
himself.

He swiftly leaned back between the Rangers he was seated amongst, ”It’s her.
I’d stake my life on it.”

The two Rangers rose to their feet for a better vantage but all that could be
seen was Khule fighting for his very life. Swathed from head to foot it was
impossible to see whether the Eel was in fact a woman, much less which woman.
However, if it was Freja then she was about to take out their best and if she
was recognised, their entire operation would be derailed. Hanasian and Berendil
sank back into their chairs.

Khule twisted to slip by in a bid to gain the window of the inn, which he did.
He crashed through it, raising a shout from Foldine as the barkeep. The Eel, as
swift as Khule, paused ever so briefly in the sill. A brief calculation and
then the Eel was through to give pursuit.

In that moment, a flash of hair was glimpsed. Just the end of a braid, perhaps,
but most assuredly the rich wine coloured shade of one Freja Fireborn. It
settled the matter of identity for such a hue was not seen beyond the East Fold
of Rohan. All three men were on their feet in an instant but Freja had already
disappeared into the night, hunting Khule.

Something had to be done and quickly before Freja scuttled their mission and
killed their newest recruit.
In the wood north of the Forsaken

Hanasian, Videgavia, and Berendil darted out the door of the inn and looked
about. Macvil was on watch and he pointed north across the road. The three
fanned out just far enough to keep the other in hearing distance while they
pushed into the bushes that lined the north side of the road. Mulgov then
stepped out the door and slid away into the night. He was worried about his
comrade and new friend, so he wanted to help. Foldine knew that the time at the
Forsaken was numbered, and so he started to gather what he could to take.

Khule was making tracks hard to the north. He had noted the wood there, and it
would be the best place to lose this assassin, whoever they were. But he could
see his pursuer was still right behind him. He was not going to win this run.
The best Khule could do was find the best place to stand his ground. He started
to hold up from his full run, and it was a good thing he did for as he came
into a clearing from under the trees, the moonlight showed clearly a rock ledge
that dropped about as far as his height standing. He could hear the raging
water from the recent rain running its way through the ravine, but it sounded
like its flow was waning. He considered climbing down, but there was going to
be no time. He crouched down by the edge in hopes his pursuer didn’t see it in
time.

The Eel came out but screeched to a halt, nearly losing their balance. Khule
knew that was his chance and he jumped and swung his hand axe. He just missed
their head as they turned to meet the Easterling. Khule tackled the figure and
they plummeted over the edge. It was his best shot, and as they bounced onto
the rocks he lost his wind. His attacker fell a bit farther and the splashing
of them regaining their feet told Khule that his days were numbered. He worked
to get his breath as he saw a blade in the hand of the Eel. His arm barely
lifted enough to deflect it, and the blade bit into his shoulder. Khule kicked
the Eel back but they regained their footing and came again. But they slipped
and the knife missed Khule’s axe hit and plunged into his thigh. He grabbed
their hand and squeezed their fingers as he rolled away. He pulled the knife
out in time to see his deathblow coming. But then a rock came out of the
darkness and glanced off the Eel’s head. The Eel shuddered and fell to the
side, falling into the stream. Khule stood and started to stagger over to the
Eel intent in burying the knife into them. But both Mulgov and Hanasian jumped
down and stopped him.

”We need this one alive.” Hanasian said.
Khule sat back, finally realizing he wasn’t going to die, and he laid back
against the rock of the embankment. Hanasian said to Mulgov, ”Didn’t know you
were in on this pursuit. Nice throw by the way. Do you think you can get her
out of this ravine?”
Mulgov stood taller than even the Dunedain, and he looked and nodded. He lifted
the limp body of the Eel and threw it over his shoulder, and stood and turned
and stepped up on a rock and dropped the Eel hard on the flat grass.

Hanasian, Mulgov, and Khule then climbed out. Mulgov wasted no time binding the
Eel’s ankles and wrists. About then, Berendil and Videgavia came running down
the edge of the ravine. They had gone farther north in hopes to cut off an
escape. After a brief tenseness that the fight was on, it was seen that they
were company. Another rustle in the bush and Bareck came slowly up as he looked
at Khule bleeding from his arm, shoulder, and leg. The Easterling tried to act
like he wasn’t hurt, but the way he was gritting his teeth told a different
story. Hanasian asked Bereck, "Did you bring your aid kit?”

“No, I headed out figuring we will have to abandon the inn. There is a good
hidden camp not far from here.”

Hanasian nodded, ”I know of it. We will relocate there shortly. Right now,
Khule, can you walk?”

“I don’t know. I think so.”

He said as he ripped off a part of the Eel’s cloak to tie around his leg. He
stood and said, ”Maybe.”

Hanasian said to Bareck, "You get Khule back to the inn and see what you can do
for him. Tell Foldine the he the Macs, and Hilferin will stay at the inn for
now. The rest need to move out to this place before morning. Go.”

Bareck had Khule lean into him with his bad side and they set off back to the
inn.

Hanasian didn’t want Khule around when the eel came to. Videgavia wasted no
time and knelt down by the eel. He pulled her hood back ad the face covering
down. He nodded and sighed, mumbling, ”Freja!”

Berendil was right there to see. Hanasian drew them both back with the help of
Mulgov. He said, ”Let her breath!”

He said as he stepped over to her. She started to move, then struggled as she
realized she was tied up. She looked hard at Hanasian. Mulgov leaned over and
looked over Hanasian’s shoulder and said, ”I am sorry about that lump on your
head, but I could not let you kill my friend.”
***** Chapter 24 *****
3021, III – September, Arnor


Hanasian squatted in his hastily erected tent and rubbed a weary hand over his
face. Freja lay on the other side, yet to come to. She’d be in a murderous
frame of mind when she did. They’d unbound her hands and feet and thoroughly
disarmed her, he hoped. The woman had a startling collection of various knives
and daggers.

The Shieldmaiden was a very long way from Meduseld. For what purpose was
anyone’s guess but he had his own ideas on the subject. It was unlikely that
she’d come here looking for Easterlings to kill. Was she alone, though, or was
a horde of irate Shieldmaidens about to descend on his camp. He shook his head
at that notion and pushed out a sigh as he studied her. How was he going to
approach this?

He’d had the task of questioning Freja the last time their paths had crossed.
She’d yet to recover from the injuries she’d sustained on the Pelennor then. He
recalled well the air of vulnerability that she’d tried to mask through nothing
more than sheer will and determination. Now…well now she was very much back to
her full strength, as near as he could guess, and she’d have an axe to grind.
He could not rely on her inclination to assist an ally. Not after the events of
tonight. As that thought travelled across his mind he caught the slight twitch
of one of her feet.

He rose to his full height and prepared himself for whatever was to come next
but she did not stir. Her breathing remained measured and slow. Hanasian
frowned and then snapped into action when she tried to roll herself under the
tent wall and into camp. Predictably, Freja did not take this quietly and a
short struggle ensued until she caught a good look at who grappled with her.

”You!” she exclaimed and while there was a world of anger in her voice she
didn’t swing at him again.

Her brilliant blue eyes narrowed into a searing glare and such was the
intensity of her focus that there was no need to worry about whether she was
concussed or not.

”Release me, Ranger, or…” she growled and Hanasian felt the unmistakeable prick
of a dagger. Evidently, their disarming had not been thorough enough.

”Really?” he replied, but released his hold on the Shieldmaiden and eased back.


Freja pulled herself into a fighting crouch, her wary expression wary
suggesting she was not sure what would come next. That, Hanasian thought, was
probably understandable. He pulled back to the other side of his tent.

 ”Welcome to the Black Company,” he said and nodded to the dagger she held,
”And that, I can tell you, will not be necessary.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she muttered, truculent.

He remained where he was, completely still, and after a long moment Freja
elected to unfold herself from her combative crouch. She winced momentarily as
she did so and then her attention shifted to the lantern that lit the tent.
Hanasian had a sudden mental image of his tent burning down.

”I apologise for the manner of our meeting,” he was swift to say.

Her eyes fairly crackled with ire at that, ”As well you should!”

For good measure, Hanasian moved towards the tent entrance just in case she
tried to rush it. Freja pushed a breath out, either in frustration or
disappointment.

”I’m a prisoner?” she demanded, rubbing at the back of her head.

”Of course not,” he answered, ”Though I can understand the confusion.”

Freja was silent for a moment, evidently deciding what to do or say next and
then he was relieved to see her dagger lower. Hopefully that meant she was not
going to try to fight her way out. She stowed the dagger into her belt and
glared at him.

”Where is the Elf?”

Any doubt as to why Freja was so far afield vanished with that question but
still, alone? Surely not, for such a course was foolhardy in the extreme. The
woman scowling at him was bold and ambitious but not reckless.

”I doubt she is close to hand,” he answered.

Freja seemed to weigh that up before she dismissed it with a flick of her head
that she clearly regretted an instant later. Hanasian unhooked his water skin
from his belt and passed it towards her. Freja accepted it warily, uncorked it
and then cautiously drank.

No sooner had she lowered it did she say, ”Her agent is here, she is here.”

“You’ve seen one of the Moricarni?” he inquired, brows lifting.

She frowned at a word she was unfamiliar with, then pushed past it as she
corked the water skin and tossed it towards the ground at his feet.

”I encountered her agent tonight. That Easterling could be anywhere now, thanks
to you!”

“He is being tended to by my own men, as it so happens.”

Freja was clearly repulsed by any such notion, “WHY?!”

“He’s one of my mine. Sworn, like every other man in my service to pursue
Naiore Dannan wherever she may be found and bring her to justice.”

At that her jaw hung for a moment, as though she could not believe what she had
just heard. Then she spat a furious curse in Rohirric. She stepped forward so
fast he thought she might come at him.

She demanded, ”You permit him to serve?”

“There are many in my service far from unblemished. Videgavia of Dale, is one
such.”

“Videgavia does not burn women and children in their beds or toss them back
into the flames should they somehow manage to escape their pyres,” Freja
recoiled as Hanasian flew towards her to clap a hand over her mouth.

To her credit, she did not lash out at him but he knew she was sorely tempted.
He could feel her coil in preparation for any number of responses. All of
which, he was certain, he’d not enjoy in the least.

He glanced pointedly at the tent door, ”Such talk will rip this Company asunder
and wouldn’t Naiore Dannan appreciate that! Is that what you want?”

She glared at him over his hand and then he slowly he loosened his grip over
her jaw.

Against his fingers she hissed, ”Videgavia did not flay my sisters alive and
wear their skins!“

And now it was his turn to be appalled. He responded as though scalded and
Freja pulled herself about so that all he could was stare at her back. Her hair
was caught in a single, intricate braid that fell fat and heavy to her hips.
The lantern made it glow, like embers were caught within its strands.

She drew in a shuddering breath as she contemplated an old horror that for him
was new. He did not know what to do with it. Then he did. He hated it, but he
knew it was right.

”Khule has sworn service to the High King. If you strike at him now, you become
what he once was – the Enemy. Is that any way to restore honour to those you
seek to avenge? What is more,” he paused and her braid swayed as Freja turned
her head to study him over her shoulder.

”Are you prepared to let it overtake your war path?” he asked.

Her eyes closed at the question and he knew, then, that he had correctly
identified the nature of her braid. And, with that he knew how he might cobble
together a way forward. Freja muttered something he didn’t catch under her
breath.

”Does Éomer know you are here?” he inquired, the question turning her about to
face him again.

She folded her arms against her chest, expression guarded. Clearly, then, the
answer was no. Made sense. Éomer guarded his Shieldmaidens jealously. He’d not
squander them, particularly not this one . It confirmed for Hanasian that his
Company was not about to be awash with furious Shieldmaidens all trained to
some degree by the woman in his tent. That was the first piece of good news all
night. Freja’s boot tapped a few beats on the ground, impatient, and then she
called his bluff.

”Is that how it’s to be, then? Pack me back to Edoras?” her tone veered
dangerously towards open hostility.

Hanasian rubbed a hand over the bristles along his jaw, ”Needn’t come to that,
Freja, if you’re willing to reach an agreement.”

Brief, incredulous laughter fell out of her, genuinely surprised, ”Why would
you want to do that?”

“My reasons are my own,” Hanasian replied and pressed on, ”The terms are
straightforward enough: I’ll not send you back to Meduseld and you’ll not kill
my men. Any of them.”

”You think you could return me to Edoras against my will?” Freja countered.

Not for an instant did he think anyone could make this woman do anything
against her will. More to the point, he didn’t want to have to try.

”You think you could take the Elf down on your own?” he answered instead.

Freja sniffed at the question, shifted her weight and then offered him a
shallow, ambivalent shrug, ”I’ll…consider it.”

”Then I’ll have your answer on the morrow,” Hanasian replied and inclined his
head to her, deference from one Captain to another. For that was how he
regarded the woman in his tent even if she had repudiated all claim to rank
within her order.

He stepped away from the tent’s entrance and she seized his clear invitation to
leave without delay. With that a woman affectionately described as an army in
her own right was at large in his camp. Some exaggeration there, to be sure,
but then again Freja was alarmingly adept and if she decided to employ her
skills she’d wreak havoc through his men. Hanasian very much hoped he had not
misjudged her character for if he had, he recognised that there was little he
could do about it now.

But Freja did not get very far from the tent for waiting outside was Berendil
of Cardolan. She was ill prepared for the sudden longing that stabbed at her.
She tried to swallow against the sudden dryness of her mouth. How was it fair
that he was so damn beautif-

”Ni nîn,” he said quietly, his deep velvety voice slicing through her thoughts.


Berendil’s eyes combed over her as she stood there, struck momentarily dumb.
What did he see, she wondered as she tried to gather her scattered wits, and
why did he insist on speaking Elvish? Surely he knew she had no grasp of that.

His clear grey eyes glinted as though she might see his thoughts if she looked
closely enough. In truth, she dared not. She had not the stomach to face it and
in any case, Freja could guess easily enough. Resentment and anger. Bitterness.
Regret. He must surely rue the moment their paths crossed.

”What are you doing here?” she finally whispered and his dark brows lifted.

”Our battles, you informed me, are our own to choose,” he replied and her eyes
flared with dismay.

”And you chose this?!”

Berendil’s response was resolute, ”I am not here to argue with you, Freja.”

He swiftly caught her wrists and pulled them up between them. Something dropped
into her palm and instinct closed her fingers around it even as his eyes
trapped her own. She could not look away and her breath caught in her throat
when she realised what she held. He had kept it. Through the years that had
passed between them he had retained the torc.

”Annon 'ûr nîn angin,” he said and folded his hands around her own.

This Elvish was not new to Freja. She’d heard it before, in the darkness of
that chaotic night at Dunharrow, but she still had no idea what it meant. This
time Berendil imbued the words with force and urgency. Before he had whispered
them in that night, on the eve of war. His hands were still wrapped around her
own and his eyes remained locked on hers. What did this mean, she wondered.
What did any of it mean?

He returned to Westron, ”You would have me forget you.”

“Yes,” she answered, her voice betraying her with a persistent quiver.

She would have that, despite what it meant for her. Forget her, leave the past
behind, search for a future free of war and battle and treacherous Elves and-

”Have you, I wonder, any sense of the enormity of what you ask?”

His question fell across her thoughts. She had no idea what he meant and Freja
had never been particularly adept at concealing her emotions. Still, despite
her confusion, Berendil continued to gaze at her. He had fallen silent, as
though waiting for something. Did he want her to seek his forgiveness? She had
a thousand times over in her dreams already. Sometimes he forgave her.
Sometimes he did not.

She did not know what to do and this unsettled her further. Even in uncertain
times Freja had always known what to do. She felt strangely adrift, as though
the strings that had anchored her to her lonely path were unravelling one by
one. Through it all, Berendil’s grey eyes rested on her own. Freja could not
help but shiver, skittish.

At that Berendil stirred, ”Videgavia says you have bound yourself to me. Is
this true?”

What she should do is lie to him. Tell him that Videgavia was mistaken, or that
she’d changed her mind, or that she had made a mistake. Anything to save him
from the path he was on. Yet, the thought of such deceits twisted her gut.
Ashamed tears prickled at the back of her eyes for she knew that for what it
was. This was why she had sent Éowyn in her stead before. Now she had only
herself to rely upon. Freja closed her eyes and lowered her head. She knew her
coward’s heart would betray Berendil with the truth.

”Yes,” she hoarsely answered, the truth welling up from the earth beneath her
feet.

His brow came to rest against hers and the effort required to not throw her
arms around him made her tremble. She had already betrayed him once this night.
Berendil drew his fingers lightly along the line of her jaw, traced towards her
ear. She should have pulled back from such a caress. Instead she felt herself
lean into it. His thumb brushed over her lips gently and her heart surged from
her chest to her throat.

Berendil gathered her to him as he had at Dunharrow and his mouth descended
towards hers until their lips barely brushed. That alone was enough to send
jolts of sensation thundering through her, scouring all in its path. She felt
disorientated and the hair upon her arms stood on end.

”This,” he groaned, ”Is neither the time nor place.”

“It never is,” Freja sighed and the spell was broken.

He released her with a reluctant sigh and pulled back. She watched him rake
fingers through his hair and glance briefly around him, as if recollecting
where they were, before his attention returned to her and lingered for a
moment. By the Sun and Moon, she thought, he was beautiful to behold.

Berendil shook himself, ”I am to take the third watch. Will you be here when it
is done?”

Freja had not intended to remain another moment. Certainly not with the
Easterling loose. She should be setting about retrieving her gear, particularly
her weapons, now that she knew Khule of the Sagath Clan was about. She’d
already decided that on her way out of Hanasian’s tent behind her. Now, though,
was astonished to discover that she was nodding at Berendil’s question. Remain,
in this camp mostly unarmed with that Easterling rattling about somewhere
unaccounted for? Apparently. It was bewildering to say the least yet when her
eyes met Berendil’s she saw he was pleased.

”I will look for you when my watch is done,” he said, offered her a shy smile
and then was off.

He did not pause, nor glance back as he strode for the camp’s perimeter,
drawing up his cowl upon its edge. Soon his swift, long stride carried him past
it and into the night beyond. Had her heart not still been galloping she might
have thought this all some sort of strange, waking dream. It had been a long,
lonely trail since quitting Edoras and she knew she was fatigued. Hunting Elves
and dodging Rangers was not easily undertaken alone.

Across her rambling thoughts came the sound of a man clearing his throat
nearby. Freja felt her cheeks heat as her head swung about and her attention
settled on another Ranger. He had the look of the Dunédain. His eyes crinkled
at the edges as he offered her warm smile and acknowledged her with a
respectful nod.

”Cwēn Béma,” he said, invoking an ancient honorific for Shieldmaidens that
surprised her for how would a Ranger of Arnor know that.

”I think you must be very weary.”

“I am,” she admitted and at that he stepped closer.

”Let’s get you settled.”

“The Easterling, where is he?” Freja asked and after a moment’s thought the
Ranger answered.

”He is not in this camp tonight.”

That, Freja thought, was a likely story and her attention fell on one of the
largest men Freja had ever seen. He had the look of the Haradrim to him.

”What of him?”

“The Southron will not be troubling you,” the Ranger replied, ”My word upon it,
Cwēn Béma.”

”Where did you learn that?”she asked as he invoked the honorific again,
frowning at him.

He offered her another smile, ”Does not everyone know it? If not, they should.”


Freja was certain he was laughing at her but she was too weary to pursue the
matter further. Besides, she had more than an inkling that she probably
deserved it after her conduct this night. A farce, from start to finish.
Somehow. She fell into step beside the Ranger of Arnor and allowed him to
escort her through camp to what he considered a suitable location. There was a
tent, empty, and a nearby log. A fire had been set, small and flickering.

”Whose tent is that?”she asked warily.

”Berendil’s”he replied calmly and again she felt her cheeks flush.

”I’m in deep enough as it is,”she muttered as she planted herself on the log.

The Ranger considered her for a long moment, his thoughts on the matter his
own, and then nodded to her,”As you wish, Cwēn Béma.”

Freja squinted at the Southron and then considered the Ranger. He had set off
again, his greyish cloak flapping at his heels. Bloody Rangers, she thought to
herself and then returned to her scrutiny of the Haradrim.

~~~~~~~~~~

AUTHOR’S NOTE – Translations:

Old English will be used for Rohirric save where JRRT cannon stipulates a
variation of Old English.

Ni nîn – Dorathien Sindarin = my love

Annon 'ûr nîn angin – Dorathien Sindarin = I give you my heart.

Cwēn Béma – Rohirric (Old English) = Maid of Oromë (Shield Maiden/Spear Sister)
***** Chapter 25 *****
Berendil’s Watch

Berendil strutted off to take watch of the road and the inn, adjusting his
breeches after a few steps. Damn, that woman made it hard for a man to walk. Of
all the places to find Freja, he didn’t expect it to be here east of Bree.
Meanwhile, his letter was rattling around somewhere down south in Gondor or
Rohan if it made good time. Still, she was here and apparently trying to murder
their pet Easterling. What a mess!  Berendil didn’t have any love for Khule,
which was something he and Videgavia actually agree on. But Hanasian thought it
worthy to bring in the Easterling, and the Haradrim. But Berendil felt as
though his friend had grown distant and forgotten his own. Perhaps it comes
with the responsibility of command, perhaps it was inevitable, but still it
felt uncomfortable for him to be wondering now what his friend would do with
Freja.
Feja.
She'd smitten him since the moment he'd seen her laugh. Right then and there,
she'd claimed his heart. He sat on the edge of the clearing, thinking of that
torc. Before tonight, he would have taken it out and looked at it and rolled it
about in his hand and thought of Freja being somewhere far away; of finding out
its meaning and why she'd given it to him. But this night, He did not have it.
It was with Freja again, and she is not far away, but right here. His thoughts
shot all around in chaos as he considered this night’s events. Had her thoughts
and feelings toward him changed in the time? Would she freely give the torc to
him again? Did she love him as he loved her? Did she love him more? Less? At
all?

He blinked his eyes and looked around, for he was supposed to be watching. He
didn’t need to have one of Naiore’s agents slip by while he ruminated in
thought. He checked his lines and there was no movement. He could barely make
Maclon across the way, and they signalled each other that everything was clear.
This just seemed it would be another long night, to Berendil, longer than most.
At least it wasn’t raining. Summer had regained its hold, and the bright moon
made the landscape silvery in its sheen. Berendil pondered the moons he had
gazed at in his travels, and every one reminded him of Freja. He wanted to see
Freja, and see her now! It had been so much time and so many miles since he had
last seen her, and even longer since she was right before him and they talked.
He couldn’t remember much of talking with her since Dunharrow. It seemed he was
since then trying to see and talk to her. Berendil blamed Naiore for all this.
Had she not ever entered the picture, how would have it gone after the battle
of Pelennor fields? It was one of those questions that would never be answered.
The reality was that he was here, north of the Forsaken Inn watching for anyone
who may approach, and even hoping they would be an agent of Naiore. The reality
was that Freja is here, pursuing anyone and everyone she thinks is an agent of
Naiore. All the scenarios he had thought of as he trekked through Harad, Khand,
Rhun, and west to these lands, have come to naught. Hanasian should have known
the he was the last man who would be alert and paying attention on watch. He
must have known there would be nothing out here happening. Berendil knew that
Hanasian knew what he was doing sending him here on third watch. It was to give
me time to think, ponder, and consider. It was wise of him in that aspect.
Besides, Maclon was keeping a very good eye on him.

As the time for his relief was approaching, Berendil waited for his relief. The
moon had westered in the sky and was now high overhead. He thought of Freja and
wondered what she would be doing other than trying to kill Khule. It was then
he became scared that when they actually get to spend time together, would she
realize she had made a mistake? These thoughts pulled at Berendil as he watched
the road. By the time the end of his watch approached he had settled down and
only wished to see and talk to Freja once again.

The slight rustle and the challenge word came, and he answered. Hilferin came
up and sat down next to Berendil.

”What is the situation?” Hilferin asked.
Berendil replied, ”Quiet, but not so suspiciously so. There were a couple of
foxes  running about, which they don’t do if there are people about. No
movement on the road and nobody at the inn. May the fourth watch be just as
quiet.”

Halfirin nodded and  with a couple pats on his shoulder, Berendil was up and on
his way back to the camp. And whatever lay ahead there. Hopefully, she was
still there. Hopefully, she'd not tried for a second shot at Khule.

When he gave the challenge word and came into camp, he immediately looked
around for Freja. He found her in the open air tent that Hanasian set for his
command tent. Freja sat across from him. They were deep in conversation.
Videgavia eyed him from near a watchfire, and some of the Dalemen sat across
the fire from him. He decided to settle by the watchfire that Frea, Folca, and
Dereck sat by.

”What is this all about?” Berendil asked as he pointed at Hanasian and Freja
talking. Dereck shrugged and said, ”I think they are trying to reach an
arrangement."

“Where’s Mulgov and Khule?” Berendil asked looking at the fires.

”Somewhere else, likely at the inn”

They all would have been at the inn had not the disruption happened. Berendil
was quiet though. He just sat quietly, straining to hear any word that was
said.
***** Chapter 26 *****
3021, III – September, Black Company Camp


All it took was for Berendil to return to camp and just like that, her focus
was scattered. Hanasian was saying something and from his expression it looked
like something important but she didn’t hear a word of it. As soon as she
realised what had happened she wrenched her attention back to Hanasian but in
the process she met the dark, bitter gaze of a man she considered her friend.
Videgavia glared at her, cold enough to make her shiver and it was this that
alerted Hanasian to the fact that she was no longer paying attention.

“Well then, it would seem we have ourselves an alliance,” Hanasian asked and
her attention returned to him.

The enemy of her enemy is her friend. So did Eriwyn hold, ever the pragmatist.
What would her Captain have done now? No, wrong question, because Eriwyn would
have slit Khule's treacherous throat. That was what Eriwyn would have done but
she was not here, so far from home, to hunt Khule of the Sagath Clan. Freja
pushed a heavy breath out through her nose. Was she going to throw away her
best chance at taking the Elf down because of one Easterling? She was under no
illusions. Her singular warpath was likely to lead to her singular death one
way or another. Exposure, last winter, as it so happened. That had been a close
call.

Now winter was coming again. She had cleared Eriador on her way north. Rhuadar
was next and after that Angmar. A dreadful place to consider on her own even in
the best of seasons. Freja did not flinch from peril and she had embarked upon
this path holding no assurances that she would prevail. She was ready to die
for it, if that was what it took. Better to die on her feet than endure on her
knees.

But what if she did not have to either die or endure? That, right there, was a
treacherous thought and she knew it. She met Hanasian’s gaze squarely from
across the fire and then he extended his hand above the flames. She stared at
it, perplexed.

”Grasp my forearm,” he murmured.

”Why?”

“Because that is how things are done in Arnor,” he answered, and not because
that was what she would need to learn judging by the long, heated gaze
exchanged between the woman across from the flames and his friend.

Freja followed his instruction and the alliance was formally struck. Seated
with Berendil, Hanasian’s cousins clapped, clearly well pleased at the prospect
of serving with Freja.

”Just to be clear, I am not recruited am I?” Freja inquired.

”Would you accept an order from me?” he quipped and she shrugged.

”All depends on the order,” she answered as she released his arm.

He nodded, unsurprised, ”We will reconvene upon the Inn at dusk. I expect you
amongst us. Until then…”

Hanasian paused, thinking and then pushed to his feet. Freja followed suit.

”Until then, do as you judge best, Shieldmaiden.” Hanasian finished.

Just what did he mean by that, she wondered, but already he had turned away.

”And fetch your gear. I know you did not set out from Edoras like that!” he
called over his shoulder and rightly so.

There would have been protests in street had she been sighted in Edoras wearing
the loose pantaloons of Rhûn. Though she’d sooner lose her teeth than admit it,
the pantaloons were damned comfortable. Practical too.

Now that Hanasian had concluded their meeting she was at a loose end. An entire
day to fill and one Berendil of Cardolan. As she turned away her eyes fell on
him. Immediately she heard his voice.

”Have you, I wonder, any sense of the enormity of what you ask?”

What did that mean?

”Annon 'ûr nîn angin.”

Damn it! She understood Elvish no better now than she had mere hours ago!

Slowly Berendil rose to his feet, his features illuminated by the watchfire he
stood beside. Distantly, Freja noted that two of her country men shared the
fire. Young, she noted and then inwardly rolled her eyes. No younger, really,
than her. Still, they did not have the look of long experience to her eye.
Twins, she saw, and one grinned at her, excited for some reason.

What was she supposed to do now? The answer came as Berendil approached her.
She was suffused by a sudden emotion that she did not understand.

”Can you find respite here?’ he asked simply as he drew up.

She’d sooner pull the Sun from the sky than rest peacefully on what remained of
this night.

Freja shook her head, unable to tear her eyes away despite herself.

”Come, then,”and with that he was off.

Freja lingered, undecided. If she followed him would that make things worse?
Probably. If she didn’t…also probably. Muttering under her breath, Freja again
considered her options and decided that it was important to set the record
straight. From one mess, then, into another or so Eriwyn muttered in the back
of her mind. She hastened after Berendil, catching him up at the camp’s edge to
fall into step beside him. He spared her a brief glance and then directed his
attention to the way ahead. Freja let him keep his silence and followed on
until the camp was lost in the night behind them. His pace slowed eventually
until he turned about, scanning the trees around them.

What he was looking for, Freja could not guess, for without the moon she could
see little.

”This will do,” he announced, gently took up her hand and led her further,
”Come, sit.”

“Why?” she asked, puzzled.

”Please, Freja,” he pushed a breath through his nose, ”Humour me.”

If there was a woman alive who could resist that voice, she did not know how.
Never mind what his hand in hers did and so Freja sat.

Then she promptly began to fidget, ”What’s this in aid of, Berendil?”

“You can’t sleep in camp,” he replied and then glanced about, ”This is not
camp.”

“You brought me here to sleep?”

Berendil met her incredulous expression placidly, ”Settle in. I promise you
that I will not bite.”

Her eyes felt like they were filled with gravel, her skull throbbed in
counterpoint to her heart beat and if she yawned one more time she thought her
jaw would drop off…and compared with the alternatives, Berendil’s shoulder was
very appealing. This was a slippery slope, she knew. She told herself that as
she drew a little closer.

She could feel the tension building as it had last night. The only thing that
had saved her then had been the military encampment they stood in at the time.
Here in the woods she had only her will and self-restraint and she knew all too
well that she could not rely on either when it came to this man. Her heart was
jumped every time she tried to set her head on his shoulder.

Berendil shifted and she froze as he settled an arm around her shoulders.
Gently, he guided her head into place, fingers lingering to stroke her cheek
before they withdrew. Her heart started echoing in her ears at that. Sleep was
going to be nigh on impossible, she thought. Then she heard him begin to say
something. Nothing she understood, and very soft, almost beyond the ranges of
her hearing. The strange words soaked into her, melted and left her limbs
feeling pleasantly warm and heavy. The ache of her skull had begun to fade.

”A Ranger’s trick,” she observed, her voice thick and drowsy.

”Something like that, ni nîn,” he answered and let his cheek rest against the
top of her head.

Oh but she loved the sound of his voice and it was not long before her
restlessness ebbed away until she was curled against him, wandering the realms
of sleep scarcely knowing how she arrived there. At first there were no dreams
for she was far too tired for them. She’d scarcely slept properly since setting
out from Edoras. In part that was her own doing but more than once she’d had to
sacrifice rest for remaining ahead of those attempting to intercept her. In
time, though, heavy sleep gave way to dreams and they were as ever they were.
Mild at first, benign, and then not. Freja woke violently trembling. She surged
forwards to her hands and knees, gasping for air. To make matters worse, the
subject of the dreadful dream was on his knees beside her, trying to comfort
her.

Dawn had arrived and with it, a cool fog.

”A dream, that’s all it was,” Berendil said, rubbing her back.

 ”Stop, Berendil. This, us, it can’t be. The harm it will cause,” she said and
at that he drew back.

”The Rohirrim are not known for their seers,” he challenged.

Freja sat over her heels, ”Others possess gifts I do not.”

Berendil was stunned momentarily by a dawning realisation, ”You trust Naiore
Dannan?”

He stared at her, aghast and Freja found it unbearable.

”She lies,” she spat, loathing for the Elf clear in her voice, ”But not always.
I knew of Eriwyn’s fate well before Vid gave me the tidings. The fall of
Théoden King, Éowyn, the decimation of my Order in Dale and upon the Pelennor.
All of it, every abominable detail, given to me first by that Elf!”

Berendil was either lost for words or unwilling to speak. He stared at her,
expression unreadable, and Freja lifted her face to the sky. Her will had been
sharpened by that dream but that, in no way, made this any the less agonising.

”And the things she has shown me,” she pressed her fingers to her mouth as
sudden scenes spilled into her mind, each terror enough to make her voice
shiver with dread, ”She has lied about your fate since you took the Dimholt
Road, or so I thought. I thought you safe all these years. Until last night.”

Freja’s head hung again and she stared at the ground, scarcely seeing, ”The
things she can do, Berendil… How am I to know what is true and what is not?”

Her hands tightened into fists as she steeled herself against the anguish
swelling hungrily within her, ”I will not be your undoing.”

Freja pushed to her feet and Berendil followed to catch her wrist in his hand,
”The Elf seeks to divide us. Why do you think that is? Do not now give her what
she wants!”

Deep pain twisted in her belly as she turned back to him and he moved closer
still, eyes locked on her own, ”I am here, Freja. I have met no terrible end.
Do not give in to her lies now, ni nîn.”

He studied her face for a moment and then lifted the back of his hand to her
cheek. Her eyes closed at the tenderness and hot tears slipped free such was
the torment. She felt Berendil shift and her eyes opened just as he drew her to
him.

”You are wise to mistrust the Elf…but will you not trust yourself? Will you not
trust me?” he released her hand to gently place the palm of his hand over her
thundering heart, ”Will you not trust to this?”

Berendil kissed her with a passion that undid anything that remained of her
certainty. She was helpless before it. Colour washed across her mind and
instead of pulling away she wound herself around him. Emotions stormed within,
swirling this way and that like leaves scattering on the wind. Through it all
pulsed that which she had known at Dunharrow, unchanged and undiminished and
roaring for answer despite all that had unfolded since then. It had woken her,
aching and cold through the long dark watches of the night. It had gathered her
tears when the longing and sorrow became too much to bear in steadfast silence
and now it grew until it howled and clamoured. Hunger, for him, for this, and
it would not be denied.

She was fire, as Lady Verawyn had foretold, winding around him with urgent
need. Unable to deny it or keep it banked, she surrendered to it and allowed it
to rage through her blood. Berendil knew that this to be a declaration of its
own. Unmistakeable.
The shimmering moonlight gave them a silvery glow, and as Freja wrapped herself
around him, Berendil held her close. Ever since Dunharrow did he dream of this
moment. Their lips met and he melted into her. He could not hold back. Freja
slammed him against a tree, and they soon fell to the ground entwined and
tearing at each other. Berendil gasped and shook, and he could not believe what
had just happened. Freja kissed him and looked at him, and asked,

”What’s the matter?”

She looked at him with concern even as the blood rushed to his face. Berendil
leaned back and propped himself up against the tree. As he caught his breath,
he said, ”I think I…”

He didn’t know how to say it. For so long he had thought and dreamed of this
moment alone with Freja. He did not even consider this happening. He finally
mumbled, ”I uh…. Couldn’t help myself.”

They both looked down at Berendil’s breeches, and Freja started to laugh.
Berendil let out a long breath. Freja stopped and looked at him serious for a
brief moment before she smiled again. Berendil smiled at her as well, happy to
see her smiling and even laughing even if it was at his expense. He finally
said, ”Maybe that says how much I been thinking of and about you through all my
travels. I had a hard time after Minas Tirith, when you refused to see me. I
knew you would not like to know I joined Hanasian’s company in pursuit of
Naiore.”

Berendil leaned his head back against the tree.
He was so vulnerable right now that it brought tears to her eyes. That he would
trust her so, in this moment, after all that had passed. This man had
astonished her, and at times baffled and infuriated her, from the outset. Freja
reached a hand out to run her fingers along the inky bristles that lined his
jaw.

Berendil’s eyes opened at that, turned quicksilver in the uncertain light of
dawn, and he considered her as she let her fingers trace the line of his jaw,
then his throat and along the spread of his shoulders. Such power was there
beneath her touch. These Rangers, they were not common folk like her. Dunédain.
Students of the Elves. They saw in the dark and could sense things that she, no
matter how she tried, could not equal. What did he see in her, she wondered.

Especially after what had passed between them.

”I…wanted you…safe,” Freja said in a quiet voice as her fingers wandered lower
over his chest, ”I wanted you spared. I have wanted that from the outset, even
when you interjected into Vorda’s training.”

Berendil’s hand rose to cover her own, ”You spared my pretty face.”

Freja grimaced, her words echoing in her mind. She’d been so furious then. And,
if she was honest, something else too. As had her spear sisters around her.
Yes, they were all vastly displeased at the disruption. They were also not
blind to the fact that Berendil was a vastly attractive disruption.

”I was…unkind,” she said, lifting her eyes to his solemnly and he nodded.

”And magnificent. Beautiful.”

Freja flushed at that, for she knew that beauty was not one of her attributes.
Such things belonged to others.

”I am no Elf maid,” she demurred.

“No, you are not,” Berendil smiled, ”And given you left me painted in bruises,
you have a very curious notion of what safe means.”

Freja lifted a shoulder, ”People were watching. I couldn’t just let
that…slide.”

She sighed and slowly lifted her hand away to peer at Berendil, ”I don’t
understand how it is that you still…after everything thing I said…and did…”

He pushed out a deep sigh, settled his hands to her hips as if to assure
himself she was there still, and closed his eyes.

”Only two did Cardolan send to the Grey Company. I dare say you were hip deep
in battle in the East Fold at the time,” he paused, opened his eyes to see her
nod, and then settled back again, ”We set out before dawn, Mecarnil and I. I
recall it well for I could scarcely believe I was to go. I had thought the
Prince would refuse the call for aid…”

Berendil fell silent, his thoughts briefly wandering before he collected them
again, ”But there I was, checking through everything I had with me, waiting to
take my leave of my liege lord.”

“This Prince?”

Berendil smiled dryly, ”I do not serve Prince Bereth directly.”

To Freja he sounded relieved but she was not given the opportunity to press
further for he pushed on, ”As I waited to take my leave, Lady Verawyn, the
daughter of my liege lord, sought me out. I had heard talk that she was gifted
with foresight but until then, I did not know whether it was so.”

“Dwimmerlaik,” Freja breathed, eyes wide.

Berendil’s brow furrowed at the unfamiliar term, ”I am not sure. In any case,
the Lady spoke of fire. She both warned me against it and commended me to it.
And, until such time as I set eyes upon you, ni nîn, I had no idea what she
meant.”

Freja jaw dropped just a little and then she flushed, ”This? She saw…this?”

Sudden laughter burst out of Berendil at the question, ”Oh, I hope not. But
even so, she saw…us. And it is to that, and my heart that I trust, Freja.”

Freja leaned forward, her heavy braid sliding over her shoulder as she did so,
to kiss Berendil with no small degree of passion. But even so, she could not
forget who she was and who he was. He felt her thoughts shift.

”What is it?” he asked.

”I…do not speak Elvish…and I am not of the Dunédain…”

“It matters not,” he answered urgently, ”Not to me.”

“But you do not know,” she said pulling away.

The dismay on his face was palpable and she lowered her eyes, ”And it is time.”


“Time for what?” Berendil asked as she shifted back.

Freja’s hands lifted to the worn dun cloak she had replaced her proper cloak
with and let it drop. Berendil frowned at her as she pulled herself away, hands
delving to grasp the hem of her tunic even as she turned her back. She pulled
it up, revealing the naked expanse of her back to him for the first time and
all that was writ upon it. From the base of her spine to the spread of her
shoulders, her life as a Shieldmaiden was set out.

Right at the bottom of it all was the mark that represented her…a Daughter of
the Mark in spirit, but not by blood, for such were the inescapable
circumstances of her birth. Eriwyn had held that there could be no escape from
such truths but nor did it serve to allow it to become a weapon. And she had
made it part of her. Only by embracing the truth could you be freed from it.
Such had been Eriwyn’s counsel, stern and unflinching. She clutched her tunic
to her chest and behind her Berendil sucked in a shocked breath. Did he see it,
she wondered? Did he understand what she was.

”It’s…this…it’s…”

Her eyes closed at his struggle to find words and she found them for him, ”I
daresay it is crude to Dunédain eyes.”

And just like that she felt his fingers touch one of the swirls that looped
below her shoulder blades, ”The Pelennor. You are in that one.”

His touch trailed down, following the designs etched into her skin, ”How is it
done?”

“With a particular ink and something very sharp, so that it is sealed into the
skin.”

“Do all Shieldmaidens have…?” she nodded.

”Though each is different,” she added and braced herself for what he would ask
when he saw it.

“Does it hurt?”

Freja smiled for every Spear Sister wondered the same thing when their first
moment came. Always in the victorious tumult of finally gaining all eight
braids, giddy, exhausted, filled with purpose and usually no small degree of
wonder at having finally done it. At least, that was how it was for her.

”At times,” she replied, echoing the very answer Eriwyn had given her all those
years ago.

Her heartbeat was in her ears and she heard movement behind her before Berendil
pressed himself against her back. She could feel his need pressed into her and
knew it echoed within her and yet she swallowed as his arms curved around her.
His hands delved into the soft folds of the tunic she clutched to her.

”I am not Dunédain. I am-“

“The woman that has claimed my heart,” Berendil murmured into to her neck,
grazing with his teeth.

She arched, electrified by the sensation and his hands tightened in the tunic,
pulled it away and let it drop.

Freja gasped as his hands ran over her skin, ”If you bind yourself to me you
will never be free of the El-“

Her capacity to speak failed her, undone by the man who held her to him. She
could sooner pull the rising sun from the sky than articulately explain the
delicate matter of her scandalous birth now. He chuckled, well pleased at the
soft moan he won from her.

”I say again, woman, that come what may we face it together,” Berendil’s velvet
voice was warm in her ear, ”One of these days, I hope you will take me at my
word.”

”That might be easier if you used Westron,” she answered as he ran his hands
down her flank, tracing in to her waist and then flaring out to her hips,
”Though, it would seem we understand each other well enough now.”

“Is that so?” he asked, hands grasping her hips.

Freja closed her eyes and leaned into him, ”You know that I have bound myself
to you and, given you have done the same, I know that you are a madman. Who
speaks Elvish.

She felt quiet laughter shiver through him but did not hear it for his face was
buried in her hair. Despite the lunacy of this, Freja found herself smiling up
at the leaves overhead, though in truth she did not really see them at all
given what Berendil was up to.
Berendil stretched up behind Freja and he breathed into her ear and kissed it.
He said softly,

”I have dreamed of this day for so long. The long days and long miles of Harad,
to the close intense days in Khand, and the unsure days in Rhun, I wondered
what you were doing under the same moon but where the stars had moved. Those
words the Sindarin speaking madman says…I would say them to the familiar stars
and the moon in hopes you would be looking at the same star or moon and they
would reach you. I believe that Varda has the power to affect such things
should she wish it.”

He kissed along her shoulder following the pattern as he whispered, ”Ni nîn
Annon 'ûr nîn angina…. “

He lay aside Freja and she turned to him. He looked into her eyes and reached
deep, saying, ” My love, I give you my heart.”

He then kissed her long and slow as he pressed himself to her. He was filled
with love and desire for her, and all the time he drew her picture from his
memory, and all the letters he had written and had not sent… He rolled to his
back and Freja rolled atop him. She worked her thighs around him and settled on
his hardness and leaned forward with her hands on his chest. His hands came up
and took a breast in each as she started to move back and forth atop him. Her
warmth wrapped about him, and the intensity kept building. It got to a point
that they had forgotten about trying to be quiet as noise discipline had been
well and truly forgotten.

When Freja finally collapsed onto him, he wrapped his arms around her and held
her, and even as the skies started to brighten. He kissed her brow as he lay
there with his eyes closed.

”Ni nîn Annon 'ûr nîn angina. Forevermore…“

He felt as if he was drifting away asleep, when a rain drop hit his face.
***** Chapter 27 *****
3021, III – October, Black Company Camp


Freja adjusted slightly where she sat with, or rather leaned against, Berendil.
Then she shivered for she really could feel winter even if Berendil teased her
that it was still far off. Tonight they were both retired from the watch on the
Forsaken Inn. Another contingent was cycling through. She was reasonably sure
they’d find it as fruitless as any of them. As her, though all things
considered she’d found the Inn to be quite productive…she smiled at the thought
and considered sidelong the man she was lounging against in front of his tent
before the fire.

”Isn’t that Hanasian’s map,” he observed and then, when she went still, ”Does
he know you have it?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling widely.

By now Berendil was not in the least fooled. He lifted his eyes at her but
remained where he was, content to study the map. He had the end of her braid
rolling idly in his fingers.

”Now, what about here? There’s no detail there whatsoever,” she said,
refocussing once more on the task at hand.

”You must have heard of Angmar. There is a reason the map is sparse there.”

“Yes, but you Rangers have probably been there. Just to nose about. So…”

Berendil pushed out a deep sigh and she knew that meant he was thinking. Brief
though their time together was, she had come to know a great deal about him. As
she had sensed from the outset, she had tumbled headlong into what was a new
place. Wondrous to her and also, sometimes, terrifying. She had loved before,
in many ways, but never like this. But, then, he was unlike any she had ever
encountered. Deeply intelligent, compassionate, kind and gentle of nature,
Berendil was a thinker. Still waters ran deep, she had heard it said. The man
she loved was proof of that. However, whilst Freja knew that she was in and in
deep, she had yet to resolve what that meant for the way ahead.

They’d been so focussed on the here and now, discovering each other as they
juggled their commitments for or with the Black Company, that there had simply
not been the chance to discuss the path ahead. The braid Berendil was playing
with was a very clear direction, but it was not the only one. Not now…and she
had no idea how to broach the subject or even if she should. Perhaps it was too
soon.

As these thoughts rolled about her mind she looked up at the approach of
another. As soon as she saw who it was she eased herself up to sit, crossed
legged. Videgavia looked straight through her, as though she was not there.
He’d met her with that cold, detached indifference from the outset and Freja
was beyond the point of being concerned about it. Now, she was just plain
angry. But for the need for camp discipline, she’d have confronted the Daleman
over whatever it was.

Berendil too moved, no longer content and relaxed. In the brief moment between
Freja’s study of the map, Berendil had seen the Daleman’s haunted expression
upon arrival. By the time Freja looked up to see Videgavia, his face had
resumed its habitual sullen lines. His black eyes were coldly glittering and
calculating once more.

”Captain’s tent,” the Daleman growled to Berendil, turned on his heel and
stalked off towards Hanasian’s tent.

Berendil studied the man’s back, the stirrings of sympathy in his heart. He
looked down to Freja to find her head was still bowed over Hanasian’s map,
studiously ignoring everyone and everything. With a shake of his head, Berendil
followed in Videgavia’s wake. As ever the two twin Rohirrim courteously greeted
him as he passed. They’d been doing this since the day he’d arrived in camp
bearing Freja’s shield and whilst he nodded, Videgavia ahead muttered darkly
under his breath and walked faster to push into Hanasian’s tent ahead of him.

Still, it was only a few moments before Berendil arrived to find Hanasian
rifling through his collection of maps, looking for something. Berendil rubbed
a hand over his jaw and wondered just how it was Freja had managed to take one
of his friend’s more detailed maps…and how Hanasian would react.

”As it so happens, I don’t really need it now,” Hanasian murmured as he rose to
his feet and nodded at Berendil, ”I’ve just received my seventh consecutive
report that nothing has been sighted at the Inn.”

Berendil frowned, ”But Freja was drawn here by the same information we were.
There has to be something more to it.”

“Freja thought Khule was the agent,” Videgavia muttered, ”And we thought she
was. We could be here another month, empty handed.”

”And Bareck informs me Khule is in need of care we cannot provide,” Hanasian
paused and then sighed, ”It’s time to pull out and take stock.”

“Bree?” Videgavia asked as Berendil shook his head.

”Freja is planning a fresh campaign,” he glanced apologetically to Hanasian,
”Full of questions on what might be found beyond the north eastern reaches of
Rhuadar.”

“You can plan a campaign without-“ Hanasian paused and his eyes narrowed, ”I
don’t know how she got it but I want that map back. It’s my best one.”

Berendil nodded without hesitation and so Hanasian rubbed at his jaw, “Angmar,
as winter encroaches?”

Vid barked mirthless laughter.

”Of course Angmar. And if her mind is set, then that’s that” he declared and
then shrugged, ”But that doesn’t mean we need to follow along. Let her go.”

“We cannot have her venturing to Angmar on her own,” Berendil returned,
astonished at how stonehearted Videgavia was.

”We cannot have her venturing anywhere at all,” Hanasian added with a sigh, ”I
crossed paths with Massuil today. He’s been looking to intercept Freja for the
better part of the year, and the fact that he hasn’t been able to suggests that
she is well aware of that. This war path of hers is unsanctioned by her King
and our own. Unless she acts as part of this Company, Massuil will forcibly
return her to Edoras for breaching Arnor’s peace.”

“Die trying, more like,” Videgavia muttered.

Berendil was too astonished to find words but Videgavia was not for he
continued on to warn, ”That woman will ask for forgiveness before she does
permission.”

It was an extraordinary charge to make and the urge to speak out pressed hard
at Berendil. He glared at Videgavia for a moment and then looked to Hanasian.
It then he realised that his friend was not in the least swayed.

”I’ve yet to consider the matter fully,” Hanasian said, quashing all further
debate on the subject.

”Your funeral,” Videgavia declared and eyed his captain, ”When do we move out?”

“We break camp tomorrow,” Hanasian replied, his attention on Berendil for the
man had gone quiet, deep in thought.

”Done then,” Videgavia declared and left them to it.

After a pause Berendil asked a quiet question, ”Do you truly mean to recruit
her?”

Hanasian rolled his shoulders before he responded, ”Freja has an unrivalled set
of very particular set of skills that will serve the Company well. She would be
an asset, despite Vid’s…concerns.”

Berendil nodded thoughtfully and then lifted his eyes to Hanasian, ”Then I ask
something of you, one friend to another: wait…at least until Bree?”

The two men considered each other and then Hanasian nodded, ”Naturally. But, if
Freja pursues this warpath of hers, then I will act. I’d sooner see her one of
us than under arrest.”

“Agreed,” Berendil smiled gratefully, ”Thank you, Han."

He turned to depart the tent and Hanasian called after him, ”Good luck.”

“Why would I need that,” he returned, pausing at the tent’s only entrance.

Hanasian offered him a rakish grin, ”Because you’re the one who is going to
break it to her that her Angmar is not happening. And I really do want my map
back.”

Berendil groaned but Hanasian was adamant, ”I can think of no one better
qualified for the task.”

Whatever Berendil said, it worked for come the morning Freja zipped about with
a singular determination to ensure camp was broken down in a timely fashion and
time, it seemed, moved faster for Shieldmaidens than anyone else. When she
wasn’t chivvying men along, she was saddling horses. Through it all she hummed
to herself as though this was all just a jolly summer lark.

”You, sir, are a magician,” Hanasian quietly observed out of the corner of his
mouth as Freja swung another saddle into place set about securing it with
brusque efficiency.

Berendil shrugged his shoulders, ”I’ve been paying attention this past week.”

He passed across to Hanasian a rolled map, ”She has quite the collection. And
if the Prancing Pony doesn’t have a cask of honeyed ale, I am a dead man.”

Hanasian carefully tucked his map into his jerkin with a chuckle and then
reached across to pat Berendil’s back.

”Knew you were the man for the job,” he mused and then turned about to ensure
the rest of the Company was matching the Shieldmaiden’s pace.

Within an hour of dawn they were on their way to Bree.
The rain seemed to set in that day as they set out for Bree. The Autumn weather
of the north had finally driven out the last bit of summer. The sun would not
find the company for many days to come.

When they set out for Bree, Mulgov and Khule tried to convince Hanasian that
they would be best serving the Company by staying and running the Forsaken Inn.
Hanasian considered leaving Foldine and Maclon, but he decided that if the
Moricarni was going to be anywhere, they would eventually come to Bree. They
needed to keep eyes out on the road though, but so far, they saw no one. Once
they would arrive in Bree. They would regroup and send out their own watches
outside the gates.
Berendil rode point with Freja, and they kept a wary watch on the road even as
they talked.
Berendil said, ”Of all the miles if travel with the company, it would have been
so much more enjoyable to do it with your company. But since you weren’t there,
I brought you with me and I drew several sketches of you. When we get to Bree I
will show you. And I would like to draw you with you in front of me if you
allow it.”

Freja seemed curious about what he had drawn.

”I would like to see them,” she replied, unsure if she would allow him to
sketch her. She would save judgement on that for now. She deflected the
conversation away from herself and asked,

”Tell me Berendil… tell me of these lands you seen.”

Berendil looked straight on and to the side at some bush that grew close to the
road. It was safe with only two birds flirting about in it. If the birds were
there, nobody else was. He looked at Freja as she scanned the other side of the
road. As she turned back toward him he started to tell her.

”We took ship to Pelargir, an old Numenorean city with much history. The quays
were many and could harbor many large ships, but these days, they only use one
jetty. We stayed there three days and gathered horses, supply and intelligence
before setting out to the east side of the river.”

He paused as he looked hard at some stones that rose up by the road where it
started to hook around to the right. His right fist went up and two fingers
motioned to the right as he and Freja pulled their horses to a halt. The signal
silently went through the line, and Videgavia who was toward the rear rode his
horse up the slop to the right and circled around coming to the back of the
rocks. He led his horse to the edge of the rocks and looked down, signalling
all was clear. Berendil and Freja started forth again. Videgavia dropped into
line about three men back from the leaders. Freja watched him warily before
turning her eyes back to Berendil.

With the road clear, Berendil went on…

”Our journey across Harondor was long and dry, and meeting Mulgov as he guarded
the Fords of Poros… well there was an awkward relationship between Gondor’s
former enemies and us. Not sure what he did, but Molgov ended up deserting and
joining us, and we had a reluctant pursuit from the Haradians. We made it to
Khand though. That was where the nightmare started…”

Berendil paused, thinking of those of the company who were killed, and of
nearly getting Naiore, and of the brutal civil war and the slaughter of the
Khe’al and the Moricarni…. He hoped that Khemra fared all right in Rhun. Freja
noticed he went quiet. Freja said, ”You don’t have to speak of Khand if you
don’t want to.”

Her hand reached over and touched Berendil’s arm. Berendil reached for her hand
and held for a time before they parted. Berendil said, ”I think the Cap..
Hanasian is keeping records. He tasked Videgavia and I to do the same. I have
done some, but I always found myself writing letters to you. It helped me write
the records, as if I was telling you all about things. I told you about Khand
then, I can say it now.”

He looked about, and the road looked clear and open as far as they could see;
they would be approaching Bree soon. Berendil took a deep breath and said, ”We
lost the first man of the company in Khand. He was from the highlands of Ringlo
in Gondor. His name was Tarucal He was ambushed while on watch. His countryman
who was on watch with him slew the lone attacker, but he was cut. It was
because of some tribal animosities there, and though we were met in the south
by the chief of the Khe’al tribe and his seven daughters and they welcome us
into their nomadic camp and were very friendly. But there were some in the east
that had been the power of Khand under Sauron. They were called the warlords.
The southern and western tribes, which the Khe’al were but one, had lost
heavily with the decimations of their sons in the war. They rose up against the
east, and Hanasian had our camp moved west. It was when sappers from the east
came and killed everyone in the camp save a few.”

Berendil paused, remembering the people there. He went on, ”I wasn’t there for
I had taken some men and had gone north to recon. It was there we nearly had
her. She was unsuspecting, and I laid eyes on her. Maras, who was an Ithilien
Ranger in the war, had gone a different way in the caverns, and when she caught
sight of me, he hit her with an arrow. The elf bleeds and is not invincible!
Yet, in her anger at being caught out she tried to bring down the cavern on us.
Maras didn’t make it. He was our second man lost. After that, we were left
hanging alone but for the only surviving daughter of Khemal. Her name was
Khemra. I think you would have liked her.”

“Did she live?”

Freja asked. Berendil shook his head and said,

”Yes. She became the leader of the southwest tribes and led the attack on the
warlord fortress. The company had moved north and were in the highlands above
Nurn in east Mordor. The attack of determined but not very well armed tribal
fighters against a fortified city with professional soldiers could never be
won. The eventually were spent and eventually were wiped out by the
counterattack. Khemra was one of the few who made it to where we were dug in.
We cared for her wounds, but we had to leave her in Nurn with the Easterlings.”


Freja winces at that, she looked back to make sure Khule was well behind them.
Berendil looked back too. He said, "We met Khule there. He was in command of a
provisional army of Nurn and they got caught up on the edge of the civil war in
Khand, fighing the warlord army when they pushed a little too far. So it was
Khule who got us passage north to Rhun. There we got caught up in their civil
war, well, a coup against the ruling prefect. The land of Rhun was a relief
from the arid dryness of Harad and Khand.”

He looked about and held up the company. A neutral stop so they gathered around
and spread out across the road and into the grass.

”Bree is before us!”  Berendil said.
Hanasian nodded and waved to get the company to form up in pairs. They would
approach two abreast. Hanasian would take the front alone. Berendil and Freja
would ride right behind him.
He said,”Let us look professional. A large armed force like this approaching
the gate will be disconcerting to the gatekeepers.. Once inside, we make for
the Prancing Pony.”

He signalled to move and the slowly rode toward the gate as the sun shone red
before dropping behind the western hills.
***** Chapter 28 *****
3021, III –October, Prancing Pony Inn


As Freja rode through the gates people stared. Their eyes bounced from her
shield to her spears to her hair and then repeated that process, as if they
were not sure what they were seeing. It was almost as if they had never seen a
Shieldmaiden before…and then she recalled that they probably had not. A girl,
scarcely older than 14 skipped forwards towards her and beyond her mother’s
clutches.

”Are you…are you a Shieldmaiden?” she asked, eyes wide and voice breathless as
she looked up to where Freja sat.

”Not any more,” she answered, softened it with a smile.

”Once a Shieldmaiden, always a Shieldmaiden,” said one of the younger Rohirrim
twins, utterly undoing everything Freja had said.

Freja shot Frea or Folca, she wasn’t sure who, a sharp glare over her shoulder
and as she straightened in her saddle her eyes settled on a Ranger of Arnor. He
stood, feet planted and arms crossed over his chest, outside what appeared to
be a barracks of sorts. His dark hair had turned to steel at his temples and
his face was well weathered. Slowly he nodded to her and she wasn’t sure if
that was a greeting or a warning or both and something else besides.

”Who is that,”” she asked out the corner of her mouth.

”Massuil,” Berendil replied.

”Sour fellow,” she observed.

”So would you be if a Shieldmaiden had led you on a merry chase clear across
Eriador and Arnor both,” Hanasian supplied from just ahead.

Freja’s attention returned to Massuil at that, grasping now who this Ranger
was.

”Yes, well I have a bone or twenty to pick with him,” she muttered, ”He had no
reason to hunt me so.”

“No?” Hanasian turned about in his saddle to peer at her directly, ”If that’s
your story, try it without a war braid, Freja. And if you have half the sense I
think you have, do not cross Massuil. Not in Bree, right under his nose.”

Freja glared at Hanasian, ”I do not recall signing onto your Company,
Hanasian.”

Hanasian muttered something in Elvish as he turned about. It made Berendil grin
and as soon as she saw that she demanded to know what Hanasian had said.

”Nothing, ni nîn,” he assured her.

The Prancing Pony turned out to be a much better inn that the Forsaken. Higher
standards for one, given that the keeper refused to allow the Company to take
up residence. Freja swung down out of her saddle as men milled about and
shouldered her way into the press of Company officers.

”Well, what are we waiting for?” she demanded to know.

”Not ten minutes earlier you were informing me that you were not part of the
Company. And so, Freja, why is it that you think you have a place amongst its
officers now?” Hanasian growled.

Freja lifted her brows at him and made a show of looking at the Company men
dismounting, ”Well, I suppose you know this innkeeper better than I, but I
really do not think any of you men stand a chance charming him into a more
agreeable…disposition.”

“And you do?” Hanasian challenged.

Freja smiled broadly, ”What have you to lose?”

Surprisingly, Videgavia broke his sullen silence, ”Actually, she can be
charming when she has a mind to be.”

Freja glared at the Daleman, turned about and zeroed in on one Barliman
Butterbur. They had no idea what she said or did after that but sure enough,
when she had returned, she had won them bed and board and a discount on the ale
they consumed.

”All except him,” she declared, pointing at Khule.

Bareck shrugged for Khule was unconscious, ”I don’t think he’s up to any ale
just at the moment.”

And so it was settled and Freja was the most popular Black Company recruit
they’d never had. Eager to acquaint themselves with the ale, the men of the
Black Company were anxious to stable their horses and set to. Freja, though
hung back to take her time. In dribs and drabs the Company men departed the
stables, eager to set to. Videgavia cast her a suspicious look over his
shoulder as he left, aware that she could stable a horse in less than half the
time she had taken. Freja loaded her saddle onto the racks and wondered how
long it would take for Berendil to return.

On her way back to the stall she had set her mare into, a hand reached out to
catch her wrist and drag her into another. Just the scent of him was enough to
confirm who pulled her against him and drank from her lips with such abandon.

”The sun in your hair tonight was almost my undoing,” Berendil groaned against
her.

She ran her hands over his chest, glorying in the strength she felt under her
touch.

”I thought the day would never end,” she sighed as he ran his hands under her
cloak.

His fingers danced down her spine towards the spread of her hips and dragged
her to him. He kissed her again, greedy.

”Bree is afire with talk of the Shieldmaiden. It will be a busy night, I
think,” he observed.

Freja smiled against his lips and then nipped her way along his jaw to nuzzle
his earlobe.

”Oh, I think we’ll find time enough,” she purred, enjoying the way he shivered
against her.

”Time for what,” Berendil inquired, sinking his fingers into the base of her
braid and pulling her face around to his again.

Her hands sank lower, ”Oh…I think you shall soon find out.”

Berendil groaned deep in his throat as she found what she was looking for but
he frowned, ”Here?”

Freja offered him the very smile she had thrown at him from behind her shield
that first night. She would have him, she would own him, right here and right
now. He swallowed as he took her meaning and she leant in to kiss his throat,
his heart pounding against her chest as she did so.

He made her cloak drop to the straw they stood in and he knew, from prior
experience, that the neck of her tunic was wide enough once unlaced to be able
to force it down over her shoulders and further still. She felt it slide as far
as her elbows and then his hands plunged to seize her ass and pull her hard
against him. Berendil was already moving to lift her leg over his hip but this
was not what she had in mind and so she teased the laces of his breeches free,
his hard cock straining for freedom.

Once it had sprung free she wrapped a firm hand around its girth.

”Careful now,” she teased, stroking slowly.

He had his revenge, burying his face between her bared breasts and then taking
a taut nipple between his lips. She arched at the sensation, pushing against
him until he fell back against one of the stall’s barriers. Freja’s other hand
gently gathered his balls.

”I want you,” he groaned in the valley of her breasts, ”I need you.”

“Not yet,” she purred, stroking a little harder.

His face bounced up at that, confused until such time as she sank to her knees
before him. Berendil’s eyes widened as he realised her intentions. Staring up
into his face, Freja ran her tongue from the base of his cock to its proud
peak. Then she closed her eyes and did it again, taking her time to savour the
sensation of him against her tongue. Berendil groaned deep in his throat.

”I don’t know how much more I can-“

His speech failed as she took him into her mouth proper, sliding her lips over
his cock. She moved carefully at first, slow enough to allow him to acquaint
himself to the feeling of her mouth and throat. Then, gradually, she gathered
pace and he began to lightly thrust towards her. Freja looked up again to find
his eyes closed, an incredulous expression of wrapt wonder stamped on his
features in the fading light.

His hand lowered to grasp her braid firmly, guiding her ever so slightly. At
this Freja set to, driven by the swelling heat building in her. How she ached
for him. She shifted so that her breasts pillowed his balls and at this
Berendil’s eyes flew open again, the desire in them sharp.

More urgently he began to thrust, abandoning himself to her freely. His
breathing was broken, coming in heaving gasps and his hands around her head
became stronger still. Faster she pushed until she felt him begin to shake.
Berendil yanked back on her braid to free her mouth from him but she refused to
surrender. Hot waves of his seed washed into her mouth and down her throat
until finally she allowed him to drag her mouth away. He splashed over her
chest and then, when he was finished, dropped to his knees, panting and then
collapsed onto his back on the straw.

She was so wet that she had managed to soak through her pantaloons. Freja
shifted at the sensation, still hungry for him. Berendil’s eyes opened to take
her in and closed again briefly.

”You are in for a long night, woman,” he murmured and opened his eyes again to
regard her.

Freja answered by collecting up a trickle of his seed drying on the slope of
her breasts.

”Promises, promises, Ranger,” she murmured, enjoying the way his breath caught
in his throat as she brought that finger to her lips.

It was well after sunset before Freja departed the stables, sauntering along
feeling very pleased with herself. Yet, as she approached the inn proper, a
shadow detached itself from the inn and revealed itself to be Videgavia. Though
she had taken care to restore appearances, for even though everyone in the
Black Company knew, appearances were still appearances, she flushed with sudden
concern that perhaps she had not been as careful as she thought.

”You, “ he snarled in the early darkness, ”Are a disgrace to your Order.”

Such was the condemnation that Freja was utterly unprepared for it. Yet
Videgavia was not done.

”At least Eriwyn is not here to see the depths you have allowed yourself to
sink to.”

With that Videgavia pulled away and disappeared into the twilight. Freja turned
to watch him go, uncertain what to do. Jarringly the door to the inn burst
open.

”Come on then, Shieldmaid! There’s people what want to see you in here,”
Foldine called from the doorway.

Trying to push Videgavia’s words from her mind, Freja pressed forward and into
the Prancing Pony. Berendil was already within, ensconced in the corner with a
coterie of Rangers including Massuil.

”Where’s her armour?”

“Where’s the spears?”

“She had them coming in. I saw them myself I did.”

“Shouldn’t she have a shield?”

Foldine shepherded her through the press and the questions.

”I need a drink,” she muttered quietly and then her frown faded when Berendil
climbed to his feet.

He lifted a tankard at her and offered her a devious grin as she set off
towards him.

”Thought you might be thirsty,” he remarked as she arrived and she shot him a
quick grin before she lifted the tankard to her mouth.

”So kind of you to join us,” Massuil announced as she drank.

Freja set down the empty tankard, ”I’ve been busy.”

“I’d noticed,” Massuil replied, ”Been meaning to ask, how did you slip away
that last time. I was sure we had you pinned.”

“Not easily,” she muttered as she turned about to survey the common room.

Men, for the most, some of the haflings too. She’d last seen them at Minas
Tirith. How they’d survived the War still baffled her. Not really made for war,
these ones. Still, not to be underestimated.

One of them, apple cheeked and a few too many half pints to the wind strode up
to her.

”Do you know Merriadoc Brandybuck?”

Know him, Freja thought. She’d tried to convince Éowyn to leave the mite
behind. Freja lifted a shoulder.

”Rode with him, I suppose,” she allowed, ”Why?”

“He’s my father’s, cousin’s wife’s broth…” Freja stopped listening at that
point but that didn’t stop the haffling from grabbing her hand and towing her
after him to an even bigger crowd of hafflings.

”Listen, there is a bath upstairs with my name all over it,” she declared as
the crowd loomed closer and closer.

”But we’ve got ale,” said the hobbit with a firm hold on her hand.

Freja grinned back at Berendil over her shoulder as she replied, ”Oh, well
then, I suppose I could find the time to-“

“Here you go.”

“Where’s the rest of it?” Freja asked, stared at the smallest ale she had ever
seen.

Back in the corner, Rangers burst into laughter. She was certain she could hear
Berendil amongst them. The hobbits, with their tiny ales, proved most diligent
company and no one of the Black Company seemed remotely inclined to rescue her
from their questions about one Meriadoc Brandybuck. Did he have special armour?
How big was his horse really and so forth.

After a point, Freja took to inventing her answers and they became increasingly
outlandish. And through it all, Berendil wandered back and forth, lingering
where he knew she could see him. That quiet smile of his upon his face, as if
he knew what it did to her to set eyes on him. For one, it made it hard to keep
track of what she had last said.

Freja shot to her feet, swift as a spear and declared, ”Bath.”

“That’s what he said during the charge?”

“How would I know?” Freja answered as she extricated herself, ”Suffice it to
say my attention was elsewhere at the time.”

“On what?” a disgruntled hobbit inquired, seemingly offended that Freja had not
set all her varied duties aside to concentrate solely on what one stowaway
hobbit might or might not utter.

”On beating Éomer King to the lines,” shouted Foldine raucously.

Freja aimed a pleased smile at his intervention, ”And I did, too!”

“Treason!” Folca added, grinning, and Freja held up her fingers.

”Only a little one, though,” she returned, winked and then set off for that
bath before she could be waylaid by any other curious guest of the Prancing
Pony inn.

It was not long before she had retrieved a relatively fresh set of clothes,
unravelled her hair and submerged herself in the first hot, soapy water she had
found since setting out from Edoras. Freja surfaced again with a contented sigh
and stretched out her legs to prop her ankles on the far end of the copper tub.


The day had been so full she scarcely knew how to make it all fit together. How
long would they have in Bree and, once it was ended, then where? Continue on
with the Company or take a different path…she looked down to the water she
soaked in. Her hair, free, gently waved on the surface. What if she abandoned
her war path? Perhaps it was wise given she now knew the Elf had sighted
Berendil directly. If Freja pulled back, perhaps he would too and maybe that
would be enough to spare them both.
Berendil took his boots off and his leathers and was clad only in his breeches
as he silently crept into the room where Freja was soaking. He knelt down
behind her and watched as her hair floated about her.

"Ni nin,” he whispered hoping not to startle her. She flinched but settled
realizing it was Berendil. He started massaging her shoulders gently, working
the stiff spots out of them.

”Relaxing... I can feel it relaxing you my love…”

He kissed the top of her shoulder as she raised her arms and drew him close for
a kiss.

"Where will our road take us now my love." Freja said with her eyes closed,
Berendil had thought of that, but here and now, all he said was, ”We could just
stay here ....”

He said quietly as his hands pressed the tight spots of her shoulders. He hoped
that would not bore Freja too much. Berendil would like to enjoy a quiet life
with the woman he loved. But with Naiore hanging from their necks, it was a
doubtful dream. Still, as the elf’s power waned, maybe they had less to fear
from her? It wasn’t so much Naiore anymore, but her cult following.

He leaned over and started kissing Freja’s neck as his hands started to drift
forward, caressing the sides of her breasts. Tenderly Berendil lets his lips
drift down her shoulder as she stretched. She reached around Berendil and pulls
him in on top of her. A wave of water pushes its way over the side and splashes
upon the floor. Berendil turns about and he slides atop Freja. He kisses her
and says in a whisper, ”You could have let me get undressed first…”

“What would be the fun in that!”Freja said as she laughed, ”We may as well get
out since all the water is now on the floor.”

Berendil kissed her and stood up and got out of the tub. His clothes drained of
water all over the already wet floor. He took Freja’s hands and she stood,
stepping out of the tub. Her hair clung to her body and dripped water to the
floor. Berendil wrapped Freja in a towel before stripping off his wet clothes.
He rubbed the towel over her shoulders and patted her hair against her skin,
and soon leaned into her back, kissing her neck and earlobe through her hair.

Berendil’s hard cock pushed against her ass as his hands drifted around her,
one sliding up to take a breast, while the other slid down to finger her clit.
She pushed back against him and he held her tight while he slid his cock
between her thighs. His fingers slid down from her clit to caress her pussy
lips and swirl the wetness that was starting to flow from her before slipping
two fingers inside her. They pressed around as the moved, sliding in and out.
She gasped and suddenly turned around and gave him a long, tongue-dancing kiss.
His cock rubbed her wet clit and she took a deep breath. She pressed her
breasts into his chest and he slid his hands down her back to grab her ass. The
fell to the floor covered in a towel, Berendil’s wet clothes, and the water
from the bath. Berendil was on his knees and Freja sat on top of his thighs,
her wet pussy finding and sliding over his hardness. She wrapped her legs
around behind him and started riding his cock harder and faster. Her wetness
pushed its way down over his thighs and balls, and he could not hold himself
back from her beautiful movements. He grasped her ass and pulled her to him,
filling her repeatedly with pulses of cum. Berendil managed to get his legs out
and stretched, realizing he had a bit of floorburn on his knees, and as he lay
back on the floor, Freja lay atop him, her body jumping in spasm on occasion.

They didn’t know how long they were out, but Berendil woke up with Freja still
atop him. She stirred when he moved and sat up. Berendil too sat up. He kissed
Freja as she shivered. Berendil said, "Maybe we should go to a room. It may be
warmer.”

Berendil wrapped Freja with her towel, and he lifted his wet clothes and
covered himself as the left the bath and set out for Freja’s room.

They peeked down the hall and when nobody was there, they scurried down to
Freja’s room and quickly closed the door. Out in the hall, the wet footprints
gave it away.
Once they properly dried off, Berendil and Freja lay together and held each
other. Too much time had passed where they did not or could not do this. With
his hand caressing her hair on her shoulders, he said, ”I am thinking of
resigning from the Black Company.”

Freja picked up her head and looked at him and said. ”Why? Are not you and
Hanasian life-long friends?”

“Yes… but this company of mercenaries he has vision for, well, It is not mine.
Along with the continual pursuit of Naiore Dannan, there will be other battles
and journeys. What happened in Rhun is an example. I had considered finding
Naiore our primary mission. But there, we became an extension of Gondor for
some weeks. It will happen, again, and again. I think I will leave the company.
What do you think my love?"

Berendil said still considering her question about their road. He looked into
Freja's eyes as she considered his words.
”I think Hanasian will not be well pleased,” she answered.

Berendil stroked his fingers down the curve of her cheek tenderly, ”And
upsetting Captains is contrary to your ideals, is it?”

Freja smiled wryly at the question, ”Eriwyn would call me a liar if I said that
it was.”

Still, she pushed out a pensive breath and so Berendil added, ”In truth, I do
not think Hanasian will be overly surprised. He counselled me against taking
service. More than once.”

Freja’s brows rose at that, ”He was lucky to have you, Berendil.”

That was high praise indeed from this woman and he felt curiously bashful to
have received it, ”Still, it is true.”

“If you resigned, what would you do?”

“This,” he said, tightening his arms around her, ”How I endured without you, I
do not know. Nor do I want to,” he murmured and she pressed her lips to his
chest, nuzzling.

”Never again, my beloved,” she murmured against him and he went utterly still.

In that moment Freja’s sated senses stirred. What had she said, she wondered?
How had she ruined it?

”Again. Say that again,” he whispered, vulnerable.

It took her a moment to realise why…and her heart both swelled and broke.

”I love you. I always have. I always will,” she ventured.

Berendil went still, as though holding his breath. Then it escaped him all at
once.

”You are my world, Freja, and I would have it no other way.”

She closed her arms around him, locking him in close, and drifted off to sleep
with the man she loved beyond all else safe in her arms. As safe as she could
make him. Hours later, when Berendil woke, he found himself alone in her bed.

Freja padded through the empty common room below, silent as a shadow, and then
down the hall towards the inn’s rear door. The kitchen garden would be outside,
she knew but she was more concerned about what was behind her. Or, rather who.
She kept looking over her shoulder for pursuit and so backed out of the rear
door with a quietly pleased chuckle that died in her throat when a very large
hand descended onto her shoulder.

Arms full, Freja spun about to stare up into the impassive face of the
Southron. He stared back at her flatly and then what she held.

”Those are not yours,” he rumbled and Freja swallowed, ”Whose are they?”

She considered running. She considered retreating. She considered trying to
roll between his legs and then she sighed.

”The Dalemen,” she confessed and shifted her hold on their boots.

”There are not enough,” the Haradrim observed.

Freja twitched a brow at him, ”There are if you only take one boot per man.”

At that the man did something that utterly surprised Freja for he grinned at
her, jubilant.

”Where are you going to hide them?”

Freja hadn’t worked that part out yet and besides, this man was no friend of
hers, ”Not sure.”

“What about the roof?” he asked, glancing up as did Freja.

It was a very long way up…and they’d never look to find their boots there…

”Give me the boots and climb up onto my shoulders. You can throw them into the
roof from there.”

It was plausible but then this man was no friend of hers, ”You’ll only take
them back.”

Freja tightened her hold on her cargo and the Haradrim rolled his eyes at her,
”Little woman, if I wanted them I could have them right now.”

“You and which army?”

“Not yours, certainly, since we mopped the Pelennor with you.”

“Weren’t us running away at the end.”

“Nor you, since a horse went and sat on you…” the Southron said and then,
”Could do this all day, but they’ll wake up soon.”

“True,” Freja admitted…the Dalemen would wake up and some would discover that
their boots were gone. Only some, for she had carefully mated up the mismatched
pairs for the others. And then they’d find out their boots didn’t fit right.
And then….

Freja handed the boots over to Molguv, who grinned at her again and went to
stand against the wall of the inn. He dutifully crouched so that Freja could
climb up his back.

”Hold on,” he said, ”I’m going to stand up now.”

Hanasian listened to the whole exchange between the Shieldmaiden and Molguv
below. They worked well together despite their apparent and abundant
differences. This was a pleasing development for he had been concerned that
Freja would not be able to overcome the divisions of the past if he brought her
into the Company. Soon enough, he could hear the thud of the boots Freja tossed
onto the roof.

”Wait,” Molguv urged after a while, ”Someone’s coming.”

“We have to hide!”

“I’m too big to hide…hang on.”

“What are you-“ Freja’s question vanished into a startled squeak that was
alarming enough to make Hanasian poke his head out of the window. There was a
solid thud on the roof as he got the window panes unlatched and when he looked
below, all he could see was the top of Molguv’s head as he casually leaned
against the inn. No trace of Freja anywhere…unless.

Slowly Hanasian turned about to look up and sure enough, there was Freja
peering down from over the eaves. Her eyes widened when she saw him and then
she was gone. Just in time too, for the rear door of the inn slammed.

”That’s mine!” Videgavia growled, recognising a boot that had been dropped so
that Molguv could toss Freja onto the roof instead, ”Where is the other?”

Videgavia’s fury was to be expected for the Daleman was notoriously
temperamental should anyone interfere with his possessions. And of course Freja
had stolen both of Videgavia’s boots, because she knew him very well indeed. A
deliberate, calculated tweak of his nose to make it impossible for him to
ignore her as he had been. Or so Hanasian guessed.

”How should I know, sergeant?” Molguv answered, having perfected the art of
playing innocent long before now, ”Do you often leave your boots outside? What
if it had of rained last night….though, if you want to leave your boots
outside, that’s your business I suppose.”

“If I find you had a hand in this,” Videgavia warned.

”Don’t boots go on your feet, sergeant?” Molguv continued, infuriatingly.

The door slammed again, the Haradian chortled and then Hanasian heard the door
close more quietly. So did Freja, listening to all of this on the roof.

”Hey!” she called down and poked her head over the edge again, ”Hanasian, is
there a ladder?”

In his room, Hanasian grinned, ”I’m sure there is. In fact, I’m sure Barliman
Butterbur would be only too happy to let you use it if you ask him nicely.”

At that Freja set to muttering in Rohirric, understanding that if she wanted
down off that roof then she was going to have to climb down on her own.
Hanasian had no doubt that she could, too. Freja was resourceful…which meant
that if she got herself into a scrap she was even better at getting herself out
of one. Sure enough, she selected the correct window and climbed down only that
far to crawl across the sill.

Only to find that whilst there was one Ranger in the room she had clambered
through, there was also more than one. The Ranger nearest to her snatched up
his boots as a precautionary measure and shoved them behind his back.

”Mae govannen Freja,” said another by the name of Hilferin.

He was stretched out on his bunk, hands behind his head, ”To what do we owe
this unexpected pleasure?”

Freja blinked at him, still crouched atop the table by the sill.

”Ummm…”

Hilferin sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, ”Just so you know,
Videgavia’s prowling the hall outside, waiting for you.”

Freja sighed at that, nodded her thanks and then edged back towards the window.
She disappeared over the sill again and Hilferin went to the window to peer
out. Sure enough, the Shieldmaiden was scaling the wall, preferring to climb
down two stories to going through the ropable Daleman in the hall. Once she
reached the ground, Freja dusted off her hands and strolled around to the front
door of the inn. She ambled inside to find Berendil seated there, a pot of
steaming tea before him and two cups.

Freja beamed at him, ”Sleep well?”

Berendil began to pour a second cup, ”Pleased with yourself, I see.”

“Very,” Freja purred, smug satisfaction thick in her voice as she sat down and
accepted the cup of tea.

She sipped, frowned lightly and then pulled the lid of the tea pot off to peer
inside.

”Have they run out of tea leaves or something?” she inquired, peering up into
Berendil’s face.

He refused to allow her to distract him, ”You will not restore peace with
Videgavia like this.”

Freja dropped the lid back into place and slumped back in her chair, ”Wasn’t me
that started the war, Berendil.”

He could hear the injured pride in her voice and wondered at that. Freja had
been angry at Videgavia’s blunt dismissal of her very presence, but he heard
pain now. What, he wondered, had brought that on. Whatever it was, Freja had
folded in on herself. He’d not win it from her freely now, he knew, and he had
no desire to argue over the matter with her. He drew her hand into his and
lifted it to his lips to win a little smile from her. Freja sighed heavily and
set her cup down.

”Very well, Berendil, I will try,” she said and then shook her head at herself
to mutter, ”The things I do for you…”

”YOU!” Videgavia roared from the stairs.

Freja’s jaw clenched and then, with a glance to Berendil, offered the Daleman a
blindingly sweet smile.

”And a good morning to you too,” she said with dry cheer, ”I believe there is a
ladder about. You’ll find it useful, I should imagine, if you can lay a hand to
it.”

“The roof?!” Videgavia exclaimed and Freja sipped her tea as he finished
descending the stairs, "You threw my boots...our boots on the roof?"

Freja shrugged, "I'll admit, that wasn't what I had originally intended but
look at this way. The roof is much cleaner than the midden."

She smiled sweetly at him again and at that, Videgavia whirled on one bare heel
and started off in search for a ladder.

"Do you think that helped?" Freja asked Berendil.

"Not in the slightest," Berendil remarked, "Have you any further plans for
general mischief and mayhem."

"Not as of the moment, as it so happens," she remarked.

"Good to hear...for I am of a mind to show you around Bree. Do you fish?"

Freja inclined a single brow at him, "If I can't shoot it, I don't eat it."

"You've never eaten fish?" he exclaimed and then shook his head, "That settles
it. You're going fishing today."
***** Chapter 29 *****
Berendil retreived his satchel that held the drawings he had made of Freja, and
his pencils. His other satchel had some of the dried food and some lines they
could use to fish with. With Freja ready to take a walk, they set out going
north toward Archet. Berendil knew a few quiet places on streams that flowed
out of the Chetwood. He said as they walked away from the Prancing Pony, ”It
will be nice to have a fresh trout dinner my love. And while we work on
catching some fish, I brought all the drawings I made of you while on my
travels.”

He looked at Freja’s face to see what reaction she gave. Maybe she had
forgotten he had mentioned them? He had yet to show her, and this would be a
good opportunity.

It wasn’t long before they came to a place Berendil knew by a stream, and they
sat down in the grass. Berendil got the fishing lines set and they sat back.

”Is  all we do when we are fishing is sit here?”

“Something like that. You watch the line and if it goes taut, you pull in a
fish,” Berendil smirked as he spoke. He then took out his leather binding and
said, ”There is many other things one does while waiting for the fish to bite.”


He sat down next to Freja and opened the binding. Freja leaned to him and said,
”Are these the drawings you made?”

“Yes… I have several. I thought a lot of you my love.”

He leaned to her and she looked at the first one he drew in Khand. A distant
view, of her with her back to him. The next few had her looking to the left,
and then one with her face looking past where Berendil would be drawing the
picture. Freja looked at the drawings intently. She asked, ”Do I really look
like this?”

Barendil smiles as she looks over at him. He said,

”Well, to me at the time of each drawing, this was what I saw. I only had our
few meetings in Dunharrow and Minas Tirith to remember, and the mind can do
strange things.”

She looked at a few more and smiled. She looked over the top of the binder and
said, Maybe you should draw me while I’m in front of you?”

Berendil paused at this, for he had only drawn her from his memory. After a
moment of silence and a check of the lines, he looked at Freja and said, ”Yes,
I can do that. You sit there watching the water for a moment.”

Freja looked at him and then around while Berendil got his charcoal out to a
fresh page. Berendil took a long look at Freja, then started to draw. He said,
”it’s all right for you to move my dear. I have captured the image I want to
draw.”

He worked his pencil and quickly had her face and shoulders outlined and he
started to fill in the details. It seemed a short time when Berendil turned his
binding around and Freja looked at what he had drawn. It was a thoughtful Freja
on the paper, looking out over the creek. A lock of hair has escaped and hung
by her cheek. He turned the binder back around and started on another one. He
looked at Freja briefly and drew furiously. When he was done, he turned the
binder. He had drawn her with a wreath of flowers as a headdress and her
shoulders covered in a white silken dress. He moved over beside her and
whispered as he fumbled for something in his vest. He drew out a silver pendent
with a white stone in it He holds it out to Freja with the bridal drawing and
asks even as he barely can speak,

”Beloved Freja, I ask thee to be my wife, for you are the love of my life. I
wish nothing other than sharing each and every day with you. What say ye
shieldmaiden???”

He watched her as she looked at the pendant. Not noticing that one of the lines
in the water grew taut.

Shieldmaidens, as a rule, did not look too far ahead. At least, not past the
campaign they were engaged upon. Their lives were brief, their duty hard and
the price they paid for it ultimate. And yet, in those rare moments when
Freja’s thoughts had tripped further down the paths of the future, she had
never imagined this. A wife. More to the point, Berendil’s wife. That was role
that belonged to another woman, one far more suitable than she could ever be.
One who wore silken dresses.

A woman of gentler nature, hands unwashed in blood, innocent of battle and war
and all the grim tasks that went with such acts. One that could keep a warm
home and raise a family. Certainly Dunédain, so that she could remain with him
down the long years they would share together. Freja stared down at her own
hands. The hands of a warrior. Some might say a killer. And now…a wife? She
stared at the dazzling stone. It was like looking into a thousand tiny suns all
at once…and only last night she had been puzzling over how she might turn
Berendil from his pursuit of Naiore Dannan.

”Say…something,” Berendil quietly pleaded, his heart in his throat.

Freja peered at him, utterly flummoxed. She loved this man, but his wife?

”Are you sure this is what you want?” Freja asked, perplexed.

”Yes,” Berendil replied and then pushed his drawings aside to pull closer to
her, ”I have no doubt of it.”

“But I’m a…” Freja frowned as she searched for adequate words, ”A
Shieldmaiden.”

“Oh, that certainly has not escaped my notice,” Berendil’s answer held a wry
note as he lifted his knuckles to lightly stroke down her cheek.

”But…children?”

Freja watched his dark brows lift at her question and his grey eyes, glinting
in the sunlight, searched her own for a moment, were undaunted, ”If they come.”


“And if they do not?”

“Then they do not,” he answered and then cupped her face between his palms,
”Had Lady Verawyn told me I would fall hopelessly in love with a Shieldmaiden
of Rohan...”

“You would have asked her what a Shieldmaiden was,” Freja replied and his smile
grew as he nodded.

”Marry me, Freja” he lifted a brow at her, ”If you dare.”

“Is that a challenge?” she retorted, astonished and then laughter escaped her
at Berendil’s nod.

Her laughter faded away as she realised just how true that was. He offered her
a campaign unlike any other she had ever undertaken. Full of uncertainty and
opportunity. Her heart was thundering in her ears. That combination of
thrilling excitement and utter terror…Freja knew then what she had to do and
she leaned into Berendil to kiss him deeply.

”Is that yes?” he hoarsely asked against her lips and Freja kissed him again
for good measure, lingering at the last to nibble his lower lip.

”If you’re fool enough to take a Shieldmaiden to wife, Ranger, far be it from
me to stop you,” she replied, her own voice husked.

Just like that Berendil surged into action. In a blur of movement, he pulled
them both to their knees and Freja found herself staring at him, wide eyed.
Mind you, she could happily look at his man for hours on end and sometimes,
during the night as he slept, she found herself doing exactly that. He had the
sweetest expression when he slept.

”You’ll marry me?” he pressed, as if he could not believe it.

“Yes,” she replied and then paused at the intensity of Berendil’s expression,
”Unless you’ve come to your senses and changed-“

He swallowed her words as he drew her to him, gathering her up easily. When her
senses cleared again, she discovered that she had wound her legs around
Berendil’s hips and her fingers were splayed across his back, under his shirt,
to soak up the warmth of his skin. The fire in her blood was roaring and she
knew it was the same with him. It was in his eyes and she could feel it
elsewhere too.

”Oh my love,” he whispered, sudden tears in his eyes, ”My bride.”

Slowly she unfurled herself and he lowered her to the ground and reached for
the pendant, ”A symbol, beloved, of the troth we have plighted.”

Freja turned about and gathered her braid forward so that he could fasten it in
place. When it was done, her hand rose to close over the clear stone as his
lips brushed the sensitive skin at the base of her neck. His lips rose along
her throat to nibble an ear and then he hooked his chin over her shoulder to
peer down at the pendant.

”My father gave this to my mother, in their time,” he murmured.

Berendil had told her of his parent’s sad fate and so she lifted her right hand
to stroke his bristled cheek.

”I wish I could have met them,” she said, ”And this Lady Verawyn you speak of.”


He smiled at the notion of Freja in the oppressive court of Prince Bereth and
the Old Forest. Presuming he could get her in there. Like as not, she’d set the
entire place afire convinced there were Huorns lurking within the ancient
forest. And, of course, Prince Bereth would all too inclined to use Freja for
his own ends. As the ward of Aragorn’s most potent ally, Berendil had no doubt
that his own Prince would find a way to use her to his advantage. He’d lost his
family to Cardolan’s machinations. He’d not lose the woman he loved as well.

”Perhaps one day,” he murmured, again keeping his counsel to himself.

”Never, you mean,” Freja astutely replied and Berendil smiled inwardly as an
idea on how to distract her came to mind.

He resumed nibbling on her earlobe.

”I know what you’re doing,” Freja observed and he smiled against her skin.

”Can I help it, Freja? Since first I saw you I have wanted you.”

“And now you have me,” she said softly, ”And I you. But still, there is
something else that must be done.”

Berendil murmured something indistinct against her earlobe as she gathered up
the end of her braid. When she did not respond, he paused to find she was
unknotting the length of hide she used to bind it. He watched on in silence for
a moment as she set to unravelling her war braid, but after a moment he reached
around to gather her braid and her fingers in his hands.

 ”Please,” he said, ”Might I?”

The question was quiet, almost solemn. Almost as if he understood the
significance of what was occurring. She nodded and eased her fingers out of his
grip so that he could unravel the braid the rest of the way.

”You are a brave man, Berendil of Cardolan,” she murmured as he worked, ”Tis
one thing to turn a Shieldmaiden from her spears and bear her shield. Quite
another to draw her from her war path.”

“Unusual, is it?” he asked.

”Aye.”

“And how common is it to steal a horse from the royal herd and live to tell the
tale? Or, say, give a torc to someone other than your king?”

“It’s different when I break the rules.”

“How’s that?”

“They’re mine to break,” Freja answered, half smiling at herself as she did so.


Behind her, she heard Berendil’s soft chuckle as he ran his hand over her now
freed hair. He swept its weight aside to kiss the back of her neck, lips
lightly grazing over her skin to raise gooseflesh down her arms. She sighed as
she leaned into him, feeling strangely content despite the remarkable course of
the morning so far.

”Is it forbidden to draw the tattoos set upon a Shieldmaiden’s back?” he asked
and Freja’s eyes flared open.

”Yes!”

“Oh,” Berendil said, wreaking yet more havoc on her senses, ”Pity. For I’d like
to draw them.”

“Why?”

“Because they are quite beautiful, Freja. And because…well, because they are
you as told by your sisters, rather than what I see. Or imagine.”

Freja’s jaw knotted and her eyes closed. She knew she should say no. She knew
this…but…but…but Berendil had been turning her customs on their head since the
moment they had first met and so what should be different now.

”No one else may see, my love. If one of my sisters were to discover this…”

“For your eyes and mine only, dear heart. Never would I bring dishonour to your
name.”

Well, when he put it that way…Freja’s head turned to study him over her
shoulder and then she pressed out a sigh as she reached for the hem of her
tunic.

Berendil pulled back to study the profile she presented. He gently shifted the
angle of her shoulders and adjusted the fall of her hair. The light fell
perfectly. He fit his hand under her chin and turned her head towards her
shoulder. Yes, every line, angle and plane…perfect.

”There…just there…don’t move a muscle.”

“What? Before you said that-“

“Not a muscle, Freja,” he replied and grinned at her voluminous sigh of
frustration.

It was not easy for him to pull back either. His heart was thrumming and the
sight of her back, bared to the sunlight with all the markings upon it was
nothing short of intoxicating. Got him hard every damn time. Still, he
swallowed thickly and went back to work, aware that the sun would shift if he
was not swift enough. Was not long before he had the lines of her set down. The
sweep of her flank and curve of her hip. The long, clean lines of her
outstretched arm. The indentation of her spine, hollow at the base. The soft
swell of her breast. The glorious tumble of her hair. It would be quite the
challenge to capture the way the sunlight kindled in the rich strands of her
hair in pencil alone. The high line of her cheek and the curve of her nose and
full lips. But most of all, he wanted to capture the designs upon her back.

This was Freja’s life as told by the women she served with. Etched over the
smooth skin and fine muscle was each important event, until now. He allowed
himself the rare indulgence of soaking in the sight of her, absorbing each of
the details that made her who and what she was. Freja was so rarely still like
this. The hunger he felt did not diminish. If anything, it sharpened each time
he lifted his eyes from the paper to her. He wanted to taste her, drink her in,
sink into her, surround himself in her. And, he could tell she wanted exactly
that from him. Still, she held her position with the determination and
diligence that had seen her rise so swiftly through her Order’s ranks.

His pencil raced against the course of the sun in the sky and his mounting
desires until at last, he had what he needed. Never before had he worked so
swiftly, and in such a storm of conflicting needs, as this and yet what he saw
upon the page stole his breath away. His best work yet, he thought with pride
and looked up to where Freja still sat. She had closed her eyes and so she did
not see him push his book aside. At his movement towards her, though, her eyes
flared open.

”Remember, not a muscle,” he warned as he drew near.

He ran a hand from shoulder down to her wrist, then back to run it up again.
His fingers shifted then to the side of her ribs, gently brushing the outside
curve of her breast on their way down to her waist and then out to her hips. He
brought them back up again, this time shifting course to brush directly over
one hard nipple. Freja swallowed at that and her jaw tensed, for it took all
her effort not to jump in response to such a thing. And well he knew it.

”Impressive restraint,” he murmured, lips brushing her shoulder as his hand
curved under one breast.

His fingers closed to weigh it in his grasp and again Freja had to swallow. A
finger and a thumb closed around her nipple and rubbed, gently yet insistently.
It sped her breathing.

”I wonder,” he mused and closed his other hand around her other breast.

A primal groan came from deep in her throat at what he did next but she did not
arch or otherwise flinch. Berendil’s warmth pressed against her back as he
peered over her shoulder and down at what he cupped in his hands.

”Perfect,” he whispered, lifting her breasts, ”I think I will draw these next.”


“Now?” Freja asked, plaintive, and Berendil chuckled against her skin.

”Why not now?” he teased and nibbled an earlobe, ”Have you something else in
mind?”

Freja had one thing and one thing only in mind. Frustrated, she moaned a
Rohirric curse half under her breath as his lips moved from her ear down her
throat.

”Please, Berendil, can I move now?” she asked, pulse thundering in her ears. If
he said no, she was not sure what she’d do.

At first, though, Berendil made no answer. Instead he lifted a hand from her
breast to trail his fingers down over her belly. Momentarily, his hand remained
there, fingers splaying wide over it. Almost as if he was thinking of the
children yet to come. Would they? Then his hand continued down to unlace her
breeches. She shivered with anticipation at that and his fingers froze.

”Not a muscle, Freja.”

Forlornly whimpering, she clamped down again and held herself ruthlessly still.
After what seemed an eternity, his fingers resumed unlacing and then stroked
down over her slick pussy.

”Hmmmm,” he murmured as his fingers spread her lips and slipped over her silken
sex, ”I do not think you are ready.”

“What?!”

The question exploded out of her as his fingers plunged inside her.

”No…not quite.”

“Now, Berendil! I want-“

“Patience, Freja. We have our whole lives ahead of us. And this…this is a
moment I intend to savour for the rest of mine.”

Freja frowned at that, baffled, and then his fingers withdrew, trailing a wet
path back up and out to her hips.

”Now, up,” he said and she rose to her knees with him.

Did he want her mouth again? Was that-

Her thoughts tumbled away as he pressed his hips against her. His cock,
engorged and hard, slid between her ass and Berendil thrust against her, his
legs between hers. His hands gripped each cheek, slipping over the curvature as
they had her breasts.

”Forward,” he urged and followed her down as she lay upon her belly, splayed
around his knees.

Again, his cock was rubbing against her pussy, so close and yet so very far
away, as he pushed her hair aside once more. She could feel his own straight,
dark lengths brush her skin as he leant over her to kiss the base of her neck
again. Then he ran his tongue lightly down her spine to bury his face against
her and breathe her in. All he needed to do, she thought, was pull her breeches
down and claim her and yet he did not. She pushed back to rub against him.

”Now,” she growled.

”No…not quite,” he answered, amused.

”I need you,” Freja said plainly, ”Fuck me.”

Berendil grasped her rolling hips in his hand to hold her still and then
released his grip, ”On your knees again.”

Groaning, Freja pushed herself upright to discover that Berendil had stepped
away. She twisted about to find he was undoing his cloak. This he laid out on
the ground and then pointed at it.

”On your back, if you please.”

Freja scrambled into position with all due haste, for she could be very
obedient when it was worth it, but Berendil did not move with her. She leaned
back on her elbows and canted her head to one side, utterly puzzled as to what
he was about. Berendil watched all of this with his thumbs hooked through his
belt and, after a long moment of trading gazes, his hands moved to unbuckle his
belt. Not once did he lift his eyes from her. His movements were slow,
calculated and his smile was knowing as he let his belt drop. He moved to
straddle her ankles as he set to untying his own breeches. Freja swallowed in
anticipation, unable to tear her eyes away from what he was about to
reveal…only instead of pulling his breeches down, Berendil instead dropped to
his knees over her legs

”What are you up to?” Freja asked at last and Berendil offered her a truly
delicious smile.

”Oh, you’ll soon see, my love.”

And with that he reached for her hips again and reefed her own breeches half
way down her thighs. Freja gasped at this but Berendil gave her no time to ask
more questions for he had scooped up her knees to fold her legs back over her.

Freja had little recourse but to lie all the down, puzzled as to what he was
doing as he continued to push her legs back.

”There,” he murmured as if to himself, ”That is what I want.”

Her eyes rolled and something incoherent fell from her as he ran his tongue
over her pussy. Anything else was lost in an exploding sea of pleasure as he
drank from her. Freja writhed with each wave of sensation, losing all sense of
where and when she was. Someone was crying out Berendil’s name with increasing
ardour…she had no idea it was her. Higher and higher he took her, his tongue
weaving and stroking until she was helpless before the roaring fire he had
stoked.

Then she was moving as Berendil spun her over onto her belly and lifted her
hips towards him. He drove into her with a guttural moan, slapping against her
ass with such force that she surged forwards before she got her hands
underneath her. He drew her back into place, locking himself within her for a
long moment. Then he started to move again, strong, forceful strokes along his
full length. She pushed against him in counterpoint to set a rhythm that soon
had them both panting in deep, primal unison.

Their pace built slowly, his hands growing tighter on her hips as he guided
himself into her, deeper and deeper. Berendil groaned her name to the blue
vault of the sky as she arched her back to change the angle of her hips and
then he growled something in rapid Elvish. Whatever it was, it made her want to
grind harder against him.

”Yess,” he hissed and moved one hand to stroke along her back before he
returned it to her hips.

She felt herself cresting again, pulsing and quivering along Berendil’s cock as
he drove gloriously deep within her. Freja drove back against him with a
guttural grunt that became a victorious cry as she came, echoing through the
Chetwood. Moments later Berendil’s deeper voice wove through her own as he
exploded into her, pulsing through her in dizzying waves and driving them both
forwards so that she was flat on the ground beneath him.

His breathing came in gasps and she could feel the powerful muscles of his
chest and abdomen pressed against her back, his skin as slick as her own. Her
Ranger, her betrothed, her husband. Slowly, gently, he eased his weight from
her and rolled to his back with a contented, weary sigh.

”I am still so hungry for you that I am like a starving man presented with a
feast.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Freja panted, still on her belly, and Berendil chuckled
briefly.

”I’d noticed...but I think you will find a slower approach just as pleasing.”

“Well, I’ll try anything once, I suppose,” Freja acknowledged and then propped
her chin on her hands, ”Is that line taut?”

Berendil looked to the bank and sure enough one line was taut. So taut that
whatever was hooked on the end of it was trying to tow it back up stream. He
scrambled to his feet on legs still rubbery and nearly tripped over his own
breeches, still down around his knees, in his haste to reach the bank. Freja
remained exactly where she was, openly chortling at his unseemly progress. Just
as he reached the bank, the line came free and began to travel along the bank
upstream.

Trouts were notoriously spirited fish and so Berendil set off after it, his
breeches held safely up in one hand as he scampered along the bank.

”I think I like fishing very much,” Freja called after him, laughter shimmering
in her voice as Berendil disappeared into the trees.

She rolled to her back on his cloak, stretched her limbs languorously in the
sun and slowly sat up to restore herself to rights. By the time she had thrown
her short tunic on over her now grass stained breeches, she realised that there
were certain matters that needed tending to for the second line had gone taut.

She hastened to the bank to retrieve the line, picked up the pole and then
pulled the line out of the water to find they’d caught something. Definitely
something, though it hardly looked edible to her. She tossed the line and
whatever it had caught, hopefully not dinner, up the bank. Freja had not seen
many fish at all, but this one was decidedly ugly. She stared down at it on the
grass, hands on her hips and then called in the direction Berendil had headed.

”I hope yours is prettier,” she tilted her head to one side and then the other,
”It has a beard!”

When she heard nothing in response, Freja picked her head up to stare at the
trees.

”Berendil?”

Still no answer and so, puzzled, Freja set off in his footsteps. Surely a
Ranger had to be able to outrun a fish, she thought as she slid through the
trees. But there was no sight of him, not by the stream. Puzzled, Freja turned
about between the trees and then she felt the sharp sting of something she had
encountered before – a dart.

When Freja came to again, her shoulders and arms were an agonising mass that
nearly overwhelmed her. Her eyes rolled in her head and it was only sheer
desperation that kept her conscious. Understanding came in jolts, and those
jolts came from the fact that she was being dragged behind a horse. Where
Berendil was, she did not know but she dared hope that perhaps he had managed
to escape whoever these brigands were.

”Halt!”

The same voice as before, a strange accent…she’d heard that accent before,
though…and then Darhius’ came to mind. Though the horse she was strung to had
stopped, the rope was not long enough to allow her to rest her weight entirely
upon the ground. If her shoulders had not been pulled from their sockets, they
were close to it and once that happened, she’d be next to useless.

Footsteps, boots crunching over the ground and someone came into view. Freja
squinted up but whoever it was, his face was shadowed. Definitely a man,
though. Whoever this Rhuardarian was, he said nothing as he stared down at her.
He slowly drew a knife and turned it over in one hand as if thinking.

“Who are you,” she asked, her voice scarcely more than a croak from her dry
throat.

He didn’t answer her and instead turned away.

”We’ll start with the other one,” he called and with a sick feeling in her
stomach, Freja realised that Berendil had not slipped away at all.
***** Chapter 30 *****
Bree

Hanasian sat at the Prancing Pony with Videgavia and Hilferin enjoying some
tasty pot pies the kitchen had made that afternoon. A few of the others
gathered about the common room. It was only Videgavia that sat alone even away
from his countrymen. Retrieving his boots didn’t make him much happier.
Foldine, Frea, and Folca sat by the bar enjoying some early ale, with the
highlanders out watching the back and the front of the inn. No consideration
was given that neither Berendil nor Freja were there. Likely out walking or
rolling in the grass somewhere.

When the afternoon came and the sun westered, Macvil had commented after his
watch was replaced by Bereck, that he had seen the two walking off north with
little more than fishing poles. It wasn’t until the evening gathering came that
Foldine stood and said that something was amiss.

”My gut doesn’t feel right. I know all should be well, but I have a bad feeling
about this.”

Hanasian got up and walked over to the bar where Foldine was talking. He could
see at least three empty pints in front of him, and who knows how many had been
taken away. He said to Foldine,

”You’re drunk. You never mind about Berendil and Freja. Come morning, if they
aren’t here, we will go have a look-see. Now, I hope you all have enjoyed your
day of leisure. Tomorrow, we have things to do so I expect everyone up early.”

Hanasian intercepted the pint of ale the barmaid was bringing Foldine and
sipped it. He said,

”I was looking for a fresh beer.”

He then walked over to the table where Videgavia sat alone. He was truly
wrecked as his head hung low.
”You need to get a grip on this, and soon. I can’t have both my sergeants
losing their heads now.”

He left the table and went to return to where he was sitting. Hanasian tried to
settle himself, but now his gut was telling him something was not right. But he
was not going to do anything right now with te majority of his men drunk and
enjoying themselves after a long run in the field. He looked to Foldine who
looked back. He would wait until morning. He finished the ale he had and
retired for the night to write in his journal.

It was the 4th watch that sounded the alarm in the dark. Bereck was on watch
and he was jumped by a man. Unfortunately for that man, Bereck had his knife in
hand and was cleaning his fingernails, so it found its way into the man’s ribs.
But not before Bereck was cut. He awoke the company at the inn by banging on
doors, It was not long they were in the common room. Hanasian and Videgavia
went with Bereck after he was bandaged up, and they looked at the dead man.
Both Hanasian and Videgavia tensed… Moricarni! They were in t=Bree, and how
many they could not know. With no sign of Berendil and Freja, there suddenly
was an urgent need to find them.

Hanasian had everyone up and outside the inn as the light of day started to
chase the stars from the eastern sky. There were a few who were tired and some
wavering on their feet, but only Berendil of the company was missing. Freja was
missing too. A check of his and Freja’s room told them they had not returned
from their walk yesterday afternoon. Their weapons were still there, and little
seemed to have been taken by either of them. A bit careless in their part,
Hanasian thought but now he was truly worried.

He wasted no time getting the men ordered and a search pattern set. Bree would
be combed, and he hoped they would be found soon. They were sent in pairs, two
out each gate and along the bounds of Bree, with no report that they had gone
out a gate, Hanasian had the rest move through the traks and trails that went
through the Chetwood toward Archet. They would meet at the Archet tavern.

The morning wore on and the afternoon came. A picturesque sunny day. Hanasian
had found what appeared to be the best track to take to go fishing, and as he
and Videgavia searched, they were met by Hilferin and Bereck. A little farther
on and Frea and Folca came through a narrow track and met them. It was with the
sun westering that they found a place where it appeared two people sat by a
creek. There was no sign of a struggle, but a fishing pole was found in the
creek, and another further down the creek. There, it appeared there was a
struggle with much of the undergrowth broken. Someone had been dragged away.
Another sign showed someone else falling to the ground and was carried away.
The heavy boot prints going across the creek showed the weight was of two
people. A hard look around had Hanasian find a tan leather binder. He took a
brief look inside it and quickly closed it up. Videgavia came by, stern and
quiet, but he asked, ”What did you find?”

“Berendil’s company journal.”

He eyed Videgavia sternly, ”You and Bereck go to the Archet Tavern and gather
the others. I’ll take the rest of these guys and push on the track. Once you
gathered everyone, set out a sweep behind us in case they get by and backtrack.
I don’t think we have much time. Now go!”

“Maybe, Cap, had you listened to Foldine and myself last night we would have
not lost valuable time,” Videgavia said not moving.
Hanasian stepped back in front of him and said, ”Maybe… then maybe not. The
fact is we are here now and we know time is short. Now get the others, now!”

Videgavia took a deep breath as if to not let it go, but instead he set off
down the track toward Archet. Hanasian watched as he went, and he could see the
fearful faces of Frea and Folca looking at him, and also of Hilferin. As he was
readying to go, two more came crashing through the bush. It was Mulgov.

”I think we found a track Cap. It led away across the river. I followed it back
from across the river to here. Khule is watching the other way, moving slow. I
told him not to go in alone should he find anything.”

That set Hanasian alight. They had to get going in hopes Khule doesn’t try to
spring Freja on his own. He sent Mulgov put as point to lead the way back to
Khule.

Once ther were across the creek, the sign was there had been two heavy booted
people, with a few other boots along with them. Then there was a fresher set,
likely Khule’s, but they were well alert with weapons drawn as they moved
forward going farther east into the forest. Hanasian really hoped Khule didn’t
try and take them on his own…
Chetwood

Freja heard the door open as before and willed herself to remain calm. There
was nothing these Moricani could do to break her. She was a Shieldmaiden and
she would prevail as had her sisters as before her. They would win nothing from
her, not a shred of information not matter how slight. They would not know that
she feared for herself and moreso for Berendil. They would not know that she
felt pain. They. Would. Not. Know. She’d rise above it, just the way she had
been taught. As all Shieldmaidens were taught. When the shields went down and
the spears shattered, they were the final defence and they would not be broken
come what may.

Bound and weakened as she was, turning over to meet her latest interrogator’s
eyes was beyond her. Still, she did not whimper as she was turned over to face
him. Shadowed as the cottage was, she recognised Berendil immediately and her
eyes flared with shock and relief. He was alive, but in little better condition
than she was. He pulled the gag from her mouth and set to work on her bonds.
And that was not all he had done for when she sat up, Freja saw he had brought
weapons.

Two swords and two daggers, both of questionable quality but it was better than
what they had. Their weapons, their armor, her spears and shields had all been
left behind in their rooms at the Prancing Pony.

”How is this possible?” she asked as Berendil unbound her ankles.

”Something draws their attention. The Black Company, perhaps,” he answered as
he freed her.

Despite their circumstances, they gazed at each other. Somehow blind to the
abuse both had been put to, they pulled together in a passionate embrace.

”I thought I’d lost you,” Freja admitted, pressing her face into Berendil’s
neck.

”Never,” he answered, pulling her lips to his again and drinking deeply and
then capturing her face in his hands, ”Are you hurt?”

“No more than you. They questioned you,” she said, brushing back a fall of
midnight hair.

”And you,” he acknowledged and then swallowed ”And…and it is different. A woman
can be harmed in certain...ways.”

Freja offered Berendil a ghost of a ferocious smile. A Shieldmaiden’s smile and
though her strength was flagging her eyes flashed, ”They did not dare!”

He pushed out a deep, shaking breath, relieved and she pushed on, ”How far off
are the Company?”

“I do not know,” Berendil admitted.

They could be about to descend or oblivious and anywhere in between. Freja knew
that immediately. They’d not declare where they were going or when they’d be
back. It was entirely possible the Black Company had no idea they’d be taken.
Freja glanced to the boarded-up window.

”It will be dark soon. A moonless night,” Freja observed and Berendil
understood immediately.

They needed to win their freedom as they could not risk going into this night
with untold assailants hunting them.

He nodded and hefted one of the swords he had obtained from the other guard,
”I’m ready.”

“As am I,” Freja said and realised he was waiting for her to lay out a plan,
deferring to her experience, ”We split, round the camp and take out who we can
as we make for cover. There, we can pick them off as it pleases us.”

“I will not leave without you,” he declared, resolute.

Freja ran her fingers along his jaw, ”Nor I without you, beloved man.”

And it was done. They took up their weapons, such that they were and with a
final passionate exchange, set off. It had been a gamble from the outset but
what choice did they have? All that had been certain was that they’d die
waiting for someone else to win their freedom and so when the opportunity came,
such that it was, they had seized it. Time trickled past and one by one they
fell and Freja found herself wondering whether they just might win their way
clear. Another of the Moricarni fell and the sword she had sourced was notched
but still serviceable. Dusk had not yet failed and the Moricarni were
dwindling. At her back, Berendil slew another of these fiends.

It had been all but impossible to know how many of them were, but by her count
their number had be getting thin. They had no more of the cowardly darts. She
knew that for surely they would have used them by now. Oh, to have her spears
now. A shield. Armour. A decent sword. Still, she could feel they were at a
tipping point as she put another Moricarni down.

Freja adjusted her grip on her appropriated weapon. It was going to get very
dark very soon. Dusk was short now. They couldn’t go into the moonless night,
pinned into place as they were. Out of the thickening shadows another Moricarni
launched herself. Freja batted her away, snapping the blade of her sword when
it lodged in her foe’s ribs.

She swore at that, hunkered and grabbed up one of the two knives they’d been
able to harvest with the swords. She hoped the sword Berendil had would hold
for a while longer, sighted another opponent and launched herself at him, knife
at the ready. He was not nearly the fighter the Easterling had been and she
managed to drop him in short order and pull back to where Berendil dealt with
another.

A pitched battle, that was, and she had nothing to assist him with. No so much
as a shield to hold. And yet, how glorious it was to finally see battle with
this man. He fought well, she thought, more than a worthy companion at arms.
But she’d known that from the outset for a swordsman does not easily fare as
well as he had against her spear haft at Dunharrow. As that thought crossed her
mind, yet another Moricarni rushed at her, sword slashing about. Freja grimaced
at the prospect of a meeting a sword with a knife and got on with it as best
she could.

It was a scrappy, messy affair as far as technique was concerned but form be
damned. She wanted him dead and them alive and that was that. In the time it
took her to accomplish it, losing the knife in the process, Berendil had taken
another two Moricarni. The dead littered the ground and another was bearing
down on Berendil. Freja drew back, scanning the undergrowth as best she could
in the failing light. She saw it too late. The swordsman came at her and she
knew just from the way he carried himself that he knew what he was about. She
was tired, injured and reduced to a dagger. Still, she accounted for herself
with all the skill she had to muster.

Then, through the shadows, a war axe came winging through. Her assailant
swerved to avoid it and a quick warning to Berendil saw them do the same and
then, a searing pain as steel punched through her and into Berendil at her
back. Freja gasped at it, though it sounded more like a gurgle, and behind her
Berendil slumped. His weight carried her down even as the swordbearer fled. Her
lungs were filling with blood. She was drowning and all she could see was the
Easterling’s face, contorted. Strange, she thought, she’d have expected Khule
to be pleased by her death. Why was he not grinning with victory? Her hand
found Berendil’s, fingers winding.
 
***** Chapter 31 *****
The Road to Rohan

The rain fell in a dreary grey curtain when the set out from Bree. The only
thing that changed for the days they went south was how hard the rain fell. The
days were grey and shrouded, and the nights no better. The sombre procession
made their way south with their morale at an extremely low point. Hanasian kept
to himself, and Videgavia rode rearguard, often lagging well behind everyone
else. Neither one spoke, to each other or to any others in the company, which
was unnerving. Hilferin, Beregon, and Gilkis were the stoic strength that
stepped up to hold the company together during this dark journey. Khule had
become grim, and Mulgov stayed close to the Easterling. When they had to hold
up in Tharbad because of the rain-swollen Greyflood had made fording too
dangerous, they settled in an old inn that was in the west of Tharbad.

The rain fell hard as it did for many of the days they had been on the road
since Bree. Hanasian finally gathered the company and said they would rest and
wait out the weather until they could safely get the Caisson that carried
Berendil and Freja safely across the river. The best care had been taken in
preserving the bodies of Berendil and Freja in Bree, and they lay side-by-side
in the Caisson they had built just for them. After they were found, Hanasian
had grown sombre and quiet, even cold and withdrawn. Videgavia too was a frozen
man. Feeling the weight of responsibility, Hanasian analysed all he could about
the Moricarni and knew that only the death of Naiore would eventually lead to
their demise. He would work to bring this very thing to fruit. He did little to
hinder the revenge killings many of the company did as they searched for any
Moricarni. Hanasian barely kept it together to gather everyone to make the
journey south. He gave everyone the choice to stay or remain with the company.
Everyone without exception chose to stay in. Still, Hanasian was shaken, ad
there seemed nobody who could approach him in the way that Berendil could. They
would have to wait and work it through with him, and they without exception
held true.

The day’s wait was spent at the old inn while the ford was getting emergency
repairs as the water started to recede. They whiled away the grey hours with
ale and food such as it was. They had brought in the Caisson as they thought it
proper that Berendil and Freja be a part of their gathering. It was here that
the high walls that Hanasian had put up began to crack. He saw everyone in the
common room with the Caisson, and with much ale in him and much difficulty
walking, he came to the Caisson. He let his hand run along the dark wood, and
he started talking…

”When I was a boy and I lived in Rivendell with my mother and sister, I met
another boy. We took a liking to each other and we would go explore the reaches
of Rivendell into the valley to the north, and we would watch and learn from
the blacksmiths of the great forge that was there. It was with great sadness
that I accompanied my mother and sister to Rohan when I was growing into a man.
It wasn’t for another few years before I returned.”

Hanasian took a drink from his tankard as he leaned on the Caisson. He went on,
”When I returned, I went into training to be a Ranger, and there beside me was
Berendil. We had done much together. He was with us when we were ambushed at
Raven Falls in 3008, and we mourned our commander and mentor, Elendur, who fell
that day. When I saw my first death in battle when Amakin fell, it was Elendur
who told me that there would be days like these. It was a day of days when my
friend Berendil and his wife to be Freja fell.”

He looked at the Caisson and his hand ran along the length of it. With a pat,
he turned and said, ”If anyone wishes to speak of our comrades, please do so.
We will do so again in Rohan, for I know of their rituals. And before you can
ask, yes, I named Freja as a comrade. For even though she was not a member of
our company, she held its spirit to heart and was an integral part of it. Both
Berendil and Freja will be missed.”

He gave a nod and as he walked away from the caisson, he tapped Videgavia on
the shoulder as he passed. Vidgavea gave him a nod as he looked down at the
worn floorboards. The rest of the company saw this and felt a sense of relief,
for it had been the most open either of the two had been with each other. With
Hanasian opening up some, it seemed a breaking of the tension happened.
Videgavia stood by the Caisson and looked down. He could either do this here,
or in Rohan with many many more people around. He sighed and took a drink of
his ale. He then said, ”The first time I met Freja, I tried the steal the horse
she had also stolen - and been banished for. But I remember a different day. We
were in the field and we had routed some Easterlings, likely friends of Khule
here. We were tired and we were simply resting, drinking water. She was
grumbling about the absence of ale...and it was then that I saw her properly.
She carried a light within her. Something touched me that day, and I was never
the same. Maybe I fell in love with her then and there, but I could never say
it to her or even show it. I guess it was why I resented Berendil... he had won
what I could not...and though their time was cruelly short, he brought her
happiness. And so for that I lift my tankard to him. And to Freja...who held my
heart even if she knew it not."

Videgavia stood, and fidgeted. He finally took a drink and nodded to everyone
and walked off. He joined Hanasian at the bar. The feelings of loss were no
less, but some of the heavy tension in the company seemed to melt away after
that. The talk seemed to flow in a subdued manner, and for the most part
everyone slept well for the first time in a while.

The next day the water running over the ford was still quite high, but it was
receding. Hanasian asked Frea and Floca if they dared ride across the river.
They eagerly said that it could be done, and they crossed with some difficulty
but once on the other side, made haste to the Fords of Isen to bring word of
their arrival. By the late afternoon the water had receded enough to allow for
the crossing. Hanasian to a vote on whether they stayed the night, or crossed
and made as far as they could before nightfall. It may have been the only time
the company voted unanimously. They crossed the river and were again moving
onward toward Rohan.
.
The Fords of Isen

When they approached the Fords of Isen, a great host of riders waited there.
They lined the river and only parted where the crossing was. Hanasian had the
company part to the side as the approached, and Foldine leading the caisson
crossed into Rohan. A great clash of shields was heard as it rolled up out of
the water past the Eyot where Prince Theodred had fallen in battle. There a
monument had been built, and as the company fell in two by two behind the
caisson, they each gave a nod to Theodred as if he still watched the Fords.
When all were in Rohan, they paused. A shieldmaiden, in full battle dress
approached from a line of riders with an unadorned man in a grey cloak beside
her. When they drew closer, Hanasian could see that it was Vorda and Darhias.
The other riders she was with lifted their spears high and rode forth slowly
and started singing a chant with one beating a steady rhythm on a drum. They
came to the front and made an inverted ‘V’ formation as they kept up the chant.
They would precede Vorda and Darhias when they set out to Edoras. When Vorda
and Darhias paused before Hanasian and Videgavia, Hanasian could see the wet
eyes in them both.
Vorda cleared her throat and threw her head back and said, ”For bringing our
sister home, I thank you. The daughter of Rohan rests with the son of Cardolan,
and together they will be interred. I ask permission to take reins and lead my
sister and mentor, and her beloved Ranger of Cardolan to Edoras and to their
final place of rest.”

Hanasian bowed to Vorda and said, ”M’lady, I have no authority to give
permission to lead Lady Freja, shieldmaiden of Rohan. For her none is needed,
but I give wholeheartedly to you permission on behalf of the Black Company to
lead our comrade in arms Berendil through the lands of Rohan to be laid to rest
with his beloved. May they never be parted.”

Lady Vorda bowed and said, ”My husband, Dunedain Ranger Darhias will accompany
me in leading them.”

Hanasian nodded and Foldine lifted the lead reins of the two horses in front of
the caisson into the hands of Vorda. They turned their horses and set forth. In
smooth order, the company set forth following the caisson as Frea and Folca re-
joined their ranks at the rear. Led by the chants of the Shieldmaidens, the
other Riders of Rohan set forth in a line each side of the caisson at the ends
of the ‘V’, and they made their way toward Edoras as a chill wind blew from the
north. The break in the rain had ended as a drizzle started to fall.

Edoras

As they approached Edoras, a host of riders came forth and met the
shieldmaidens. It was the Kings Guard met them, and with them were King Eomer
and Lady Eowyn. She was close to Freja, and now attends her wake as Stewards
representative of Gondor. The procession made its way slowly toward Edoras.

With their arrival, the people lined the way for miles. The weeping and the
sombre songs carried through the grey mist. With procession passing, the people
followed as the drum kept its rhythm. From a distance, a horn echoed through
Edoras. A single long tone, followed by another after a breath. More deep drums
sounded in unison with the shieldmaiden’s drum. The V had folded back around
the Riders and the caisson as they rolled toward the sound of the drums and
horn. The shieldmaiden’s chant kept steady and was being joined by others.
Eomer King rode forth and in a deep voice voiced lament as the procession came
to a halt. The chanting waned but could still be heard, and the horn sounded
and the drum kept beat. The ramp had been placed to allow the caisson to be
drawn into the great hall of Meduseld. The dead would be prepared for the wake
while the rest proceeded on to the training grounds.

Once they arrived there, a fire burned in the middle of the grounds, and there
were younger shieldmaidens who dancing around it. The drum echo faded to a
light beat and the horn sounded its deep bellow, soon accompanied by others.
The other Rohirrim Riders circled and dismounted and sat and watched the dance
and listened to the chants and the horns and drums. Hanasian had the company do
likewise. The songs and dirges went on as the day went, with various items
dedicated to the dead and thrown in the fire. Foldine, Frea and Floca each in
turn got up and went to the fire and they threw something of theirs in. Later,
Khule the Easterling, who had kept himself vague and cloaked, arose and
approached the fire. He took out a hand ful of medals and threw them in all at
once. He then removed a kerchief he always worn and it too went in. Some of the
Rohirrim were stunned to see an Easterling there. Some moved uneasy and some
put their hands on the hilts of their swords. But Khule looked about, and again
turned to the fire and reached into it. He held it there as he started to
sweat, and as he grimaced, he felt the skin on his hand sear in the heat. He
pulled it back and held it up his sleeve smoking and his hand blackened but not
blistered. He clenched his fist and turned and went and sat down. Hanasian had
tensed when Khule stood and revealed himself, and he could see there would be
some explaining to do, but it seemed that it would not explode into an incident
just yet. Mulgov stood and removed one of his many necklaces and held it out to
the fire, letting it slip from his hand into the coals by the edge where it
quickly kindled. When Videgavia stood and went forth, he brought out a knife
blade. He looked at it with longing, and with one last nod, turned and threw it
hard into the fire. It was lost in the fleme and coals, and sent sparks racing
skyward. He went and sat back down. The rest of the Dalemen each offered
something, and for himself, Hanasian stood and drew his knife. He cut off a
lock of his hair before sheathing it, then wove it in a quick braid. He then
stepped to the fire, and as he stood there, he cut his finger and let the slow
trickle of his blood run out on the lock of hair. He then lifted it and bowed
to the north, and threw it into the fire. He wrapped his finger with his hand,
and went to sit down.

It was not long after the last person had made their offering that word came to
Hanasian that he and the company were summoned to Meduseld. He stood and had
the rest of the company stand, and they walked out in line and made for the
great hall on the hill.

When they arrived, they could see the uncovered caisson in the middle of the
hall. Berendil and Freja lay in it and with the front of the caisson unhitched
and down, they lay at an angle and faced toward the throne of Rohan. The
company lined up single file to the left of the caisson and turned to face it.
The shieldmaidens likewise came and stood along the other side. The procession
began with King Eomer and Lady Eowyn of Ithilien at the head of the line
approaching; the Company and the Shieldmaidens drew their weapons and held them
up at an angle. They came and circled the caisson. There was silence, for now
even the drums and horns outside had ceased. Each had the look of deep sorrow
and their eyes were wet. The mourning had begun, and as everyone passed, the
company and the shieldmaidens paired off and each led their line down each side
of the Caisson, giving their comrade and sister a final, personal, farewell.
Then the songs, chants, and dirges again commenced. The kegs of ale were
brought out, and a feast was served. It was the last celebration of the life of
Freja Fireborn and Berendil of Cardolan, and the eating and drinking was hard
and heavy. There was tales and songs and poems and stories told, and a sense of
joy filled the hall. But in time the tales were told, and the songs and dirges
faded. With the food gone and the ale spent, the sun broke through the low grey
clouds and shone through the hall from the west as sunset approached. King
Eomer stood and banged his throne with his boot to get everyone’s attention.
He said, ”We, friends and even some former foes, have celebrated the life and
time of one dear to us, Freja Fireborn, and a son of Cardolan, Freja’s beloved,
Berendil, Dunedain Ranger of the north. Hanasian had told me he had no home or
family in the north, and the he was as close to family he had, that he would
adhere to the customs out our people and be laid to rest with his beloved, our
own Freja Fireborn. We will now take them to their final place of rest. A place
has been made in the far barrows, where high born are laid to rest. I have
decreed the first barrow of the new row will be theirs, and will be honoured
forevermore by the people of Rohan, and will forevermore welcome our friends,
the Men of Arnor and Gondor”

The hall was silent, for the merriment had been again taken over with grief.
The horses were brought in, and the caisson was covered and turned, and it was
led out. The King and Lady Eowyn followed, with Hanasian and Vorda next. The
company followed Hanasian, and the shieldmaidens followed Vorda. The distant
drum started to beat again, and soon the horn bellowed its dirge. The
shieldmaidens started a low song or chant, the words unknown to Hanasian. The
company remained silent, but they marched in the finest of military precision.
Darhias walked now with his old comrades and even he with his leg, kept step.
The procession followed the road lined with people, and they slowly made their
way out to the barrows. With a final song from Lady Eowyn, with the
shieldmaidens following in chorus, the two were laid to rest.

After the barrow was sealed, there was silence but for the wind in the grass.
The sun sank and the shadows stretched, and when it finally dropped beyond the
horizon, there remained only the company and the shieldmaidens. None wanted to
leave, and the darkness slowly crept around them.
***** Epilogue *****
EPILOGUE

IV, 44 - Pelargir

In the bright sunlight, Naiore pushed back her cowl, turned her back and spread
her arms. A trick, Hanasian wondered, and if so how might she accomplish it?

”Hold!” Hanasian barked, eyes locked on the Elf that stood upon the docks, ”She
must answer for her crimes and for that we need her-“

The first arrow was launched before he even finished his command and he knew,
without needing to look, who was responsible for it. Videgavia’s arrow was the
pebble before the avalanche and soon the air was thick with them. There was no
shortage of men in the Black Company that wanted Naiore Dannan dead. Few,
though, had a seam of vengeance that ran as deep and dark as Videgavia’s. He’d
been a broken man since the day they’d found Freja and Berendil, dead.

Naiore Dannan was malicious and cruel but even so, Hanasian felt uneasy at
attacking her whilst her back was turned. Freja, he could guess, would not have
any such compunction but he knew Berendil would be equally hesitant. Despite
the fact that they’d have no measure of honour from the Elf now on her knees.

Arrows spent at last, many of them littered the docks or floated in the waters
of the Anduin. As for Naiore Dannan, she bristled with them and yet somehow she
was still on her knees. Her arms had fallen to her sides and she was otherwise
still. Cautiously, Hanasian issued a second order to his now shamefaced men.
They remained concealed as he broke cover and cautiously approached the Elf.

As he neared, he was struck at how fair she was despite her treacherous heart.
It was impossible not to notice, even though she was grievously wounded. He
could see she felt pain. The bloody red tips of arrows protruded, here and
there, from her chest and stomach. How, Hanasian wondered, was the Elf still
alive? Some sort of foul trickery on her part? And why did she look
so…relieved?

”Ware,” she whispered and he did not understand until the first wave hit him
like a blow to the stomach.

Emotion as strong as any flooding sea spilled out of her, like a wall that had
been breached. Oceans of torment, pain, sorrow, despair, loneliness and,
unbelievably, love. By the time Hanasian’s head cleared, he was lying on the
ground. So too were men and the Elf. By the third such wave, he had learned how
to withstand it. Hanasian understood, then, for each and every act Naiore
Dannan had committed, she had paid a vicious price which she had locked within
her across the centuries of her life. The walls she had built to hold it all in
and retain her sanity failed as she died.

There was an image of an Elf lodged in his head and Hanasian did not know who
it was. Without understanding why, he asked Naiore as he tried to pull himself
together. If she lived she could answer for her crimes yet.

”Celebrimbor,” she whispered, weakening fast as she lost blood.

She did not beg nor whimper and at the last, there on the sun-drenched docks of
Pelargir, Naiore smiled at the very last. Once her spirit had fled her body, he
found it surprisingly difficult to believe she had been responsible for so much
suffering. Even in death, pierced and bloodied, she was beautiful.

It was done…the Company’s primary purpose fulfilled and so many avenged.
Berendil and Freja sprang to his mind’s eye. He saw them seated together in the
corner of the Prancing Pony Inn, eyes only for each other in a secret exchange
that had the both of them smiling. Berendil whispered something into Freja’s
ear, her brows climbed and then she tipped back her head to issue a throaty
laugh that Berendil seemed to lap up…and then his eyes drifted past to where
Hanasian stood at the bar, caught his attention and nodded, quiet and certain,
before he returned his gaze to the woman at his side. And then that image was
gone, replaced by the sight of their lifeless bodies. Over forty years had
passed since that awful discovery and yet Hanasian recalled it as if it had
only been yesterday.

He heard a boot scuff behind him and turned his head to see Videgavia approach.


”It’s not enough,” Videgavia declared, voice gaunt and haunted, dark eyes
locked on the dead Elf.

”If you look to death to avenge Freja, it never will be.”

Videgavia brought his despairing black eyes to Hanasian, ”What then?”

“Celebrate her in life,” Hanasian answered, for Freja had always been full of
that until suddenly, jarringly, she wasn’t.

Videgavia stared at him and then turned away. Still a broken man Videgavia
remained and Hanasian thought he always would be until he forgave himself. He
did not know what had passed between Videgavia and Freja before her death, but
whatever it was gnawed at the Daleman. Hanasian returned to his study of the
fallen Elf. She would have to be buried, unmarked and unnamed, for he did not
wish to create a place that would draw darkness nor a beacon for those who
would despoil her remains.

He kneeled to relieve Naiore of the most beautiful sword he had ever seen. It
would serve as proof when it came time to make his report. He turned the sword
over in his hands and sure enough, there was Celebrimbor’s mark. It was a
masterpiece, a rare and incredibly valuable artefact. She had born it
throughout her life, from the moment Celebrimbor had given it to her through
the Second Age, the Siege of Mordor, through the War of the Ring and now here
it was in his hands.

He shivered as he stared at it, recalling Freja’s chilling description of it,
and decided that he would keep it if he were permitted even if he was not sure
why. For Hanasian had no way of knowing that in just a year’s time he would
encounter someone that would take this sword and his heart as her own. Rosmarin
she would be called then, but he had looked for her before many years ago when
she had been but a child named Erían of Cardolan. The sort of woman that
Berendil, were he alive still, would have been proud to serve.

That evening Hanasian sat at the small table in his room at Pelargir and drew
out a binder he had carried with him for over forty years. He stared at the
cover of it as he had before and then he did something he had not done since
first he had found it by a stream near Archet. Carefully, he cracked the cover
open and caught his breath at what he saw. Drawing after drawing of Rohan’s
most revered and accomplished Shieldmaiden was set down with such skill it
almost seemed as though she’d roll right off them and into this very room. And
demand to know what he was staring at, most likely.

He had known, of course, that Berendil had been an artist but Hanasian was
astonished by the skill of Berendil’s work. This amazement deepened when he
took note of the dates of each drawing. Berendil had done most of them whilst
in service to the Black Company, separated by many leagues and a good more from
the woman he drew aside from the final three. The final three, though, were
dated on the very same day and these were by far the most poignant. The day the
Moricarni had taken them. One was an image of the day Berendil hoped to wed
Freja. Hanasian had recognized the pendant around her throat when they’d found
them. Sunset’s failing light had caught it and made it gleam, as if some spark
of her spirit lingered yet still waiting even as they’d bled out on the ground
before their very eyes. They’d died never to know the joy of the day Berendil
had drawn.

Hanasian shook his head, blinked rapidly as tears threatened to escape him and
turned over to the final drawing and froze. It was the only one Berendil had
titled. One word: Beloved. It was the most extraordinary of them all for it
revealed exactly how Berendil had seen Freja. He had not been distracted by her
reputation or her formidable pride for one moment. Rather, Berendil had seen
past the myth and legend, past the spears and shield, to the woman beyond it
all. In this final drawing, he had captured ephemeral beauty, vulnerability and
intimacy. He had poured all his love, all his yearning and all his desire into
it.

She was seated on the ground, weight resting on one hip and one outstretched
arm, ahead of Berendil. Her long legs were coiled to one side and she was
looking to the ground her hand rested upon. Her hair had been freed and
Berendil had captured both the way it waved and the way sunlight fired within
it. That was astounding enough but Berendil had not stopped there. There, on
the page Hanasian was staring at as if transfixed, was a sight in exquisite
detail that few men are privileged to see - the intricate markings upon her
back. They flowed up her spine and along her shoulders in a magnificent sweep
that he knew he should not see at all and yet could not tear his eyes from.

After a long moment, Hanasian drew in a shaking breath and closed the binding
as he bowed his head. What to do with these drawings, he wondered as he splayed
his fingers over the worn leather cover. If they ever fell into the hands of
Freja’s Order they’d be destroyed. Hanasian knew that much, particularly the
last. Yet no one that Hanasian knew of had made such an intimate study of a
Shieldmaiden. These insular proud women were as mysterious as they were
accomplished to outsiders. They did not write books or keep histories and the
lays they sang shifted and changed over the years, adding details and dropping
others. Mutable, friable, save for the history they wore on their backs unseen
and private. Berendil’s drawings were not only beautiful, they were rare and
valuable for the insight they offered. And…if Freja had consented to them, who
was he to gainsay her on such matters. He could hear her grumbling about the
presumption of Rangers even now.

”Very well,” he murmured as he patted the cover, ”I will keep them safe.”

A couple of weeks later, Hanasian found himself standing by a meticulously
maintained barrow outside the walls of Edoras. A riot of flowers waved and
nodded in the afternoon breeze, all different colours. The stones that sealed
the doomed lovers within had been beautifully carved since last he had seen
them. That, he guessed, had been the gift of a city who would never forget the
Shieldmaidens that rode to their defense. A fine horse of proud bearing
bedecked with a garland of roses around its graceful neck. The Ranger of
Cardolan and the Shieldmaiden of Rohan, never again to be sundered by war. Just
a month they had together…were they together now, wherever mortal men went
after death?

”It is finally done,” Hanasian murmured to them and a weight seemed to lift
from his shoulders with those words, ”Savo hîdh nen gurth.”

The afternoon wind picking through the barrows plucked at his cloak and sent it
snapping at his heels. Restless, ill inclined to remain still, pulling him away
as if there were better things to be doing.

”Cap?”

Hanasian turned his head to find Foldine standing a respectful distance away,
the grimace on his face testament to how uncomfortable he was about intruding.
Hanasian approached him and the Rohirrim inclined his head.

”It’s Vid, Captain,” Foldine reluctantly reported and Hanasian sighed.

”How bad this time?” he asked and Foldine pushed a hand through his hair.

”Arrested, pending surety.”

Hanasian swore at that and Foldine grinned briefly, his eyes tracking past to
the barrow Hanasian had just quit before he fell into step beside his Captain.

”Oh, I think she’d say a good deal more than that,” he observed.

Hanasian grunted, ”Like as not. And were she still here, we’d not be contending
with this.”

“You know what she would do, were she here?” Foldine asked and then launched on
a description that was as devious and bold as it was ingenious.

But only Freja could pull it off for the Daleman in question would not brook
such an action from anyone else. Videgavia had never dared make his true
feelings known to her and suffered for it, immensely. Berendil, meanwhile, had
done all in his power to ensure she knew how he felt and had died for it.

”Never fall in love, Foldine,” Hanasian mused darkly, ”That’s the only way to
live.”

“Aye, Cap,” Foldine agreed with a quiet smile as they passed through Edoras’
gates.

And it was precisely that smile that Foldine wore when a certain thief hurtled
through the trees outside of Tharbad to bounce right off the very man who had
just made such a statement a year later. The widening of eyes as Hanasian and
Rosmarin first beheld each other told all Foldine needed to know. But Foldine
was too experienced a campaigner to point this out to his Captain.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Long was Naiore's time in the Halls of Mandos. By mortal count, it was many
thousands of years before she emerged into the gardens of Lorien and there
reunited with her beloved Celebrimbor. And in that time, through all that time,
the mortal woman that had dared defy Naiore rode in the Eternal Hunt, laughing
and singing and feasting with her sisters and the man she so loved. And though
he was not of their kin, the Ranger of Cardolan was accorded an honoured place
in his own right.


TRANSLATION:

Savo hîdh nen gurth [Dorathien Sindarin] = Have peace in death
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