Chapter Text
Minas Tirith, the jewel of Gondor, crowning the White Mountains with walls of silver, pearl, and opal, gleaming in the light of the sun. The city stood as a beacon of light against the ever-encroaching darkness. Her people, her men, her solider, and her lords, all battling day by day to ensure the survival of Middle Earth.
Swift footsteps, pounding across the white cobblestones, bounding across the wide streets carved into the side of the mountain. The figure moved swiftly, on sure feet, honed by years of familiarity with the city. Citizens knew to make themselves scarce, shifting quickly out of the way, well-practised from the years of battles. Darting through the Forth Gate, they took a sharp right into an alleyway between two buildings, and began bolting up a narrow flight of stairs, taking them two, three, sometimes even four at a time in their haste.
They had been summoned.
Skidding out into yet another street not far from the Fifth Gate, they all but bounced off the side of a wagon, but barely slowed their headlong charge. Only another two streets to go. Hurdling over a stack of crates, a hasty apology was thrown over their shoulder as they went. Receiving little more than a grunt in response.
The citizens of Minas Tirith were well accustomed to the haste of Messengers.
Only one sharp corner stood between them at their destination. Their hand shot out, catching the edge of the stonework, and used their own momentum to spin, the movement sending their dark blue uniform flaring out behind them with the motion. Before all but jamming their heels between the cobble stones of the street, skidding to a halt.
Thankfully, the door to the Rangers Headquarters, was shut. Although the man stationed as a guard outside, did quirk his eyebrow at their abrupt appearance. But thankfully made no comment, seemingly used to such behaviour.
Straightening up, Messenger Rhosynel tugged once on her deep blue tabard to smooth it and stepped into the building. Her breathing, well accustomed to bursts of activity, was already evening out. Striding down the corridor to the Captain’s Office, she ran a quick hand through her hair, doing little to tame the wild golden-brown tangle.
The door to the office was closed. Unusual but not unheard of, no doubt a meeting that was desired to be private. Stopping just before the door, she hesitated a moment, muffled voices reaching her through the wood and iron.
“—word that was broken—”
“—at Imladris?”
“—rother has alre—”
It was easy to push the words out of her head as quickly as she heard them, they were not for her to know so she wouldn’t hold onto them. Raising her hand, she knocked sharply.
“Come in,” the reply came instantly.
With a swift and practised motion, Rhosynel opened the door, stepped inside, and dropped into a curt bow, even as the door swung shut behind her.
“You requested my presence, Captain Faramir?” she asked, straightening up on his acknowledgement.
Faramir wasn’t sat behind the desk, she could count on one hand the number of times she’d witnessed that. Instead, he was perched on its edge, leaning back casually, arms loosely crossed, more in a comfortable posture rather than defensive. Rich brown hair, almost black in this light, framed his face, as did a short, cropped beard that never quite made it to be fully fledged. Silvery grey eyes smiled warmly at her as she stepped forwards.
“I did indeed, Rhosynel, and you came swift as ever,” he replied, and then gestured to his companion, sat in one of the chairs before the desk. “This is Mithrandir, you may know him as Gandalf.”
It was only then, that Rhosynel turned her attention to the other man. He was rising to his feet, even as she studied him intently. She’d only ever heard rumours of Gandalf, Mithrandir, or the Grey Wizard. He certainly looked the part, long grey beard, longer grey hair, floor length grey robes. And yes, there was a tall, grey, pointed hat and long wooden staff set to one side.
“Mithrandir, this is Rhosynel I was telling you about. She spent several years working with my Rangers and I, but ultimately took the path of Messenger,” Faramir was explaining to the wizard, and she was distinctly aware of the old man scrutinising her as much she eyed him.
She could almost see the questions in his eyes.
Quirking an eyebrow at his open curiosity, she inclined her head deeply to the wizard. “Well met, Gandalf the Grey,” she said, with as much formality as she knew how to muster.
“Well met, Lady Rhosynel,” he replied slowly, still eyeing her as through he could look into her soul. He did however, incline his head back slightly.
“Just Rhosynel,” she replied quickly.
“Well then, Just Rhosynel,” the wizard said, settling back into his chair. “Faramir claims you to be the best at your job.”
Raising her brows, she shot a glance towards Faramir, who grinned back good naturedly. “I certainly try to be,” she replied candidly, allowing her attention to fully settle on the wizard once more. “I’m the fastest runner and rider, I own the fastest horse and bird, so if its speed you need, then yes. I am.”
Admitting so was uncomfortable, she was confident in her own abilities, but marketing herself as such always felt… prideful. She was content to do her job and do it well, but convincing others of her abilities was something she avoided doing. No doubt Faramir had already explained his choice in her.
“And your fighting? How would you fare against the enemy?” the wizard asked.
She blinked.
There was a serious weight to his words, a heaviness that seemed to settle over the room. A finality that told her to answer cautiously.
“I wouldn’t,” she replied slowly but truthfully. “I do not fare against the enemy, because I do not encounter them.”
Truthfully, she avoided them at all costs, kept a sharp eye on the horizons, and was swift to detour if needed. One rider against orcs, was never going to be in her favour, no matter how fast she might travel. Orcs were relentless, and as such, would hunt her for sport.
Apparently, her answer gave Gandalf pause, as he remained gazing at her, grey brows furrowed in consideration. “Are you a coward then?”
There was no accusation in his words, but it still made her rock back on her heels. She’d been called many things, but coward wasn’t one of them. The scars that littered her body were testament enough to that fact.
“If I am a coward for avoiding danger, then yes,” she replied, voice becoming harder. “But that would be like saying a fool that walks into danger was brave.”
There was a slight snort of amusement from Faramir, who was shaking his head at her words, still smiling. “She is the right person for this job, Mithrandir,” he said, standing up straight and clapping a hand onto her shoulder as he moved around to the other side of the desk. “You wanted a fast rider, not a brave, or foolish, one.”
She couldn’t decide if that was a compliment or not.
“True,” Gandalf murmured, eyes still locked on hers.
Had he even blinked yet?
“How can I assuage you of your concerns?” she asked, getting a glance from Faramir. “A demonstration? Would you like me to recount previous missions?”
“No, no that will not be necessary,” the wizard said, and finally, broke eye contact with her. “Faramir has already sung your praises enough—”
She gave her Captain a bemused look, and he held up his hands apologetically.
“—and you have already shown how swiftly you move, in your haste to arrive,” Gandalf was continuing. “No, I require a swift rider, not a brave one. I need to send a missive to Bree.”
Bree.
That was damn near the opposite side of the world to Minas Tirith.
“I… I can do that. But it is a long journey,” she agreed with little hesitation, she had travelled longer and further before. “I would be required to leave for a few months,” she added, looking to Faramir.
“I’ve already cleared it with the Messenger Warden.”
Well, that solved that issue.
Turning back to Gandalf, she tilted her head, waiting to hear more on why this mission was so important. And found his eyeing her up again. It was a little unnerving, she had heard tales of the Grey Wizard, and didn’t fancy being on his bad side. But at this point she was feeling like a slab of meat in a butcher’s window, and he was considering if she was good enough to cook.
“I need you to ride to Bree, I would go myself, but I need to meet with an old friend and do not know how long I will be waylaid. Once in Bree-Land I would ask you to send your… bird, to a friend of mine and ask him to meet me,” the wizard explained, words coming slow, almost ponderous, as though he would change his mind at a moments notice. “He goes by Strider.”
What sort of name, was Strider?
“Will your bird be able to find one man, in the wilds?” Gandalf finished.
Immediately, Rhosynel looked to Faramir, and then the half-shuttered window behind him. The Captain visibly rolled his eyes, not very becoming of the Stewards son, but turned and pushed the shutters open, used to her antics.
Letting out a short sharp whistle, Rhosynel lifted her arm, protected by a heavy leather bracer, already covered in numerous small scratches. From outside, there was a shrill keen in response to her call, and a large, storm grey raptor shot into the room. Wings and tail flaring, the female goshawk landed on her arm with ease, their beak clacking expectantly in demand of a reward.
Rhosynel was already pulling a small cube of bloody meat from the pouch on her hip.
“This is Ilmara,” she said, feeding the goshawk and mildly aware that the wizard had jolted to his feet at the sudden entrance. “She is one of the Limroval of Mirkwood. I raised her from a chick, and she is more than capable of tracking down one man in the wilderness.”
“Ilmara,” the wizard repeated under his breath. “And just how did you get your hands on a Limroval chick?”
It wasn’t hard to miss the thinly veiled accusation.
“Elves of the Woodland Realm do not like to remain indebted for long. Especially to humans.”
Silence met her words, and it was an effort to look away from Ilmara, her pride and greatest joy, to face the Grey Wizard once more.
“Hrm.” The wizard hummed to himself, and then nodded. “Yes, yes I think you’ll do.”
She did not feel relieved at his words.
The remainder of that meeting had consisted of talking logistics with Captain Faramir and trying to wheedle out more details from Gandalf. The pair were both tight lipped as to the reason she was being sent to Bree, and she found herself being pressured into the utmost secrecy. Not something that she particularly enjoyed.
They did, however, allow her to use her own discretion if questioned about her destination. She knew of small villages and sparse hamlets she could name for cover if required, and it would be easier to keep her story straight if questioned, rather than trying to drag up memories of a hushed conversation in the Captain’s Office.
It seemed the pair were content to let her figure out much of the details regarding her travels, despite insisting that she set off as soon as reasonably possible. But when she had suggested the next morning, they immediately changed their tune, insisting she set out today.
Rushed exits were her least favourite way to start a mission.
Whenever she was rushed, it ended badly. Perhaps she lost her pack, or her horse started limping, or she was attacked, or any other number of situations that had happened in the past. She needed at least a few hours to prepare, and then a good night’s sleep to ensure she was suitably rested for the lengthy journey ahead of her.
But now it was an hour before lunch, and she was having to cram a hasty travel pack together. Rhosynel could only hope that she was packing everything she needed. If she was to travel fast and light, there was little need for additional items, which meant she’d have to choose carefully. The journal securely anchored on her hip rarely left her side, neither did the strips of parchment nor sticks of charcoal for writing short missives. Everything which would be carried in her pack or saddlebags, was up for debate. Even her sleeping roll would be at risk of her culling.
“How long will this trip be?” The familiar voice of Rhymenel interrupted her thoughts.
“Like I said five minutes ago, we have no timeline,” Rhosynel replied with only a slight trace of impatience.
Her sister tended to worry, a fitting outlook for a healer, but less so for Rhosynel’s line of work. She couldn’t spend every moment hyper analysing her choices, she had to make snap decisions and hope they ended well. Something that chafed endlessly on Rhymenel.
“I just, I’d rather have an idea,” Rhymenel sighed, approaching, and passed a clean set of clothing to her sister. “Even if it is vague.”
Trying incredibly hard not to roll her eyes, Rhosynel forced herself to pause and consider. “Two, maybe three months, depending on the roads.” She accepted the spare clothing, the only extra set she’d carry, and tucked them neatly into the saddlebags she always used. “Possibly longer, since I may have to wait at the other end.”
“Which is where?”
She gave her elder sister a bemused look.
“Right, right, you can’t say, my apologies,” Rhymenel replied, openly rolling her eyes skywards. And she was meant to be the older more mature one. “I shall have to bully it out of Captain Faramir himself at this rate.”
“Good luck with that.”
Lord Faramir was more jovial and personable, she thought, compared to his brother and father, but he was no pushover and wouldn’t be cowed by an irate sister trying to discover secrets. He’d humour Rhymenel, reassure her that Rhosynel knew what she was doing, and then politely steer her out of the office, all while making sure Rhymenel felt listened too. Albeit without telling her a thing.
“I will be fine,” Rhosynel reassured her, straightening up and clasping her sister’s hands in her own. “It’s no different to any other trip, just a bit hastier in leaving, is all.”
“I know, I know I just don—"
“Rhosyn!” A young boy barrelled into the room, toy sword in his hand, which was immediately jabbed into her right thigh, hard enough to leave a bruise. “Fight!”
“Ah! Betrayal!” she cried out, neatly toppling to one side in mock injury. “No! My best leg! However shall I ride again!”
“Faerhys, stop murdering your aunt,” Rhymenel said warningly, seemingly perfectly content to watch the eight-year-old try and batter her to death, as she made no move to stop the boy from leaping atop Rhosynel, battering at her bracers with the wooden sword. All while shrieking loud enough to put Ilmara to shame.
“Mercy!” Rhosynel cried out, between laughter and the odd wince. “Mercy my lord!”
“Only if you bring back a gift!”
“Oh so its bribery is it?” Rhosynel managed to roll onto her back, catching her nephew around the middle and holding him up in the air above her. His arms and legs flailing adorably. “Very well then, my lord, I shall find you the finest of gifts on my travels!”
“Good!”
He didn’t get chance to demand more, as his mother finally leant over and plucked him out of the air. And then offered a hand to Rhosynel, hauling her to her feet with practised ease.
“Hamasael will be sad to have missed you,” her sister said, tucking her son onto her hip. He was smart enough not to try and hit her. “Are you sure you can’t linger?”
Her husband was a cloth merchant, and frequently in the markets hawking his wares. Early mornings and late nights kept him busy, but she would try to see him before she left. Usually. This time was a little different.
With a sigh, she shook her head, collecting a pack of food rations and adding them to her bag. “Not this time, I have to be swift.”
“Are you going?”
Looking to the doorway, Rhosynel found her niece, Wennarys, stood on the threshold, the older girl was wringing her hands nervously. She’d never warmed up to the idea of travel, and always became anxious at her aunts leaving.
“For a little while,” Rhosynel replied, “is there anything you’d like me to bring home?”
“Yourself.”
Ever the diplomat.
For a twelve-year-old, she was astute, and far too wise for her years. But in this Age, the alternative wasn’t an option. She was already in training to become a healer like her mother and was learning first-hand what war could do to a man. However she had a stomach of steel, and didn’t shy away from blood.
Truly her mother’s daughter.
“When I’m in sight of the city, I will send Ilmara on ahead, so you know I’m returning,” Rhosynel said. Not quite a promise, but the intent was recognised. She’d learnt not to make promises long ago. “But it will be a few months yet.”
Stepping forwards, she drew the young girl into a hug, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Then turning back to her sister, she kissed the forehead of her nephew, before embracing her sister. Narrowly being missed with a wooden sword in the process.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” she said, picking up her pack and flinging it over one shoulder.
Heading for the door, she paused, glancing back to her family with fondness in her eyes. Leaving never got any easier, no matter how much she may revel in the freedom of the open road.
“Oh! Wait!” Rhymenel suddenly exclaimed, almost plonking her son on the floor, and moving swiftly to the kitchen. “I always forget, but here!”
A leather roll was pressed into Rhosynel’s hands, curious, she unrolled it, revealing five small glass jars. One of willow bark for her cramps, one of comfrey salve for inflammation, another of lavender, another of ginger for sickness, the last of Kingsfoil for headaches, and enough bandages and gauze to bind an army. Ever prepared her sister was, hopefully they would be of little use on this journey.
“I feel like you’re expecting me to face the foes of Mordor itself,” she said with a light laugh. “I travel west, not east.”
“Do not. Tempt. Fate,” Rhymenel warned, going so far as to poke Rhosynel’s shoulder with each word.
“Do I ever?” Rhosynel asked innocently, as she tucked the roll into the bag hanging from her waist and headed for the door.
“Yes!”
Rhosynel left her home laughing, hearing it echo back from her sister, as once again she left them behind.
The roads were open and inviting, stretching on to the horizon, a sweeping vista that never failed to make Rhosynel’s heart soar. She loved her family, she loved her home, she loved her city. But the open road was where her heart belonged.
After all, her mother’s Rohirrim blood was strong in her veins.
Minas Tirith offered security and comfort of familiar faces, it kept her loved ones safe, and provided her with security against the armies of Mordor. But her love of its gleaming white walls paled in comparison to the sense of freedom she had whenever she left their shelter.
Beneath her, Gwaedal tossed his head, mane flaring in the breeze which swept across the Pelennor Fields. He was eager to run, to stretch his legs after being cooped within the walls of Minas Tirith, she shared a similar sentiment. It had been a few weeks, since her last ride, and any longer than that and she started going stir crazy.
Further east she could make out the ruins of Osgiliath, its grey stones, ruined towers, and broken walls marred the landscape. But it still held some beauty, as ruined things often did. The road would lead her to its edge, but she knew the dangers than lurked on the eastern side of the river, and while she had faith in the Rangers stationed there to defend the west banks, she had little intention of challenging misfortune.
No, she had told the wizard she avoided the enemy at all costs, and she was right to do so. She had already considered the fact that if her answer had been different, another Messenger would have been sent in her stead.
Gandalf wasn’t looking for a warrior, but someone to slip by unnoticed.
Turning Gwaedal’s head west, away from the view of Osgiliath, she nudged him into a ground covering canter. This pace wasn’t sustainable for long, but that wasn’t the point. Rising slightly in the stirrups, she urged him, faster, and faster still. Until the pair were galloping across the fields towards The Rammas Echor.
The wind lashed through his mane, and her own wild tangle of hair. Her eyes streamed, skin almost burning from the flight of their passage. Far above was Ilmara, soaring as easily on the thermals with wide wings, as Gwaedal’s hooves rapidly covered the ground. As though sensing her attention, the goshawk gave a shrill cry. In response Rhosynel could feel a cry of her own bubbling in her chest, clawing to be released, until she finally gave a great yell of delight.
The three of them thundered across the plains, spurred on by one another’s exuberance. No second guessing, no looking back, only revelling in the path laid before them. This close to Minas Tirith, she could afford to let loose a little.
It would be a different story once out of sight of the gleaming city.
Rhosynel, Ilmara, and Gwaedal by InkedMoth (its me!)