Chapter Text
The first time Anna hears that word, she grimaces as her father thrashes her with a bridle. Cold leather bites into her bare shoulders. She’d left the stable gate unlatched and three horses had leapt into the plains - only recovered after her brother rode off after them. You must never forget your duty. The word stings like her raw, bleeding wounds. She hates the pain. She hates herself for forgetting this simple task. She looks at her father’s gritted teeth, and in that moment - she hates him too. But he wipes a tear from his gaunt cheek, and she realizes he's lashed her because of his duty as a father.
And that's when she truly hates that word.
Duty.
And yet, the word sticks to her. Like flies to a corpse. It helps her pass each day, enduring the stench of manure as she fulfils her duty as a horsemaiden of Rohan. It keeps her hands steady as she births each foal. Fills each trough with well water. Sweeps the never-ending mess of hay and straw. It holds her heart in her chest as she sits on the steppes at sunset. Chewing on crusty bread and wondering if there’s more to this world beyond the endless sea of grass and horses.
Duty keeps her face granite when she watches Bethiel steadily succumb to a malice of an illness. Kneeling in her pen with the life drained from her face. Feeding her by hand with herb-poulticed hay when the mare refuses to eat.
“She’s no good,” Anna complains to her father. He presses his ears on Bethiel’s heart.
“Bethiel will pass soon-”
The horse snorts. Its beastly, mighty wince laying down prods at Anna’s chest.
“But Lord Theorl will be back for her soon won’t he?”
“In a month,” Anna’s father laments, “I know not what foul breath he’s infected his steed with but I’d be damned if he blames us.”
“What-”
“He’ll confiscate all our horses, the ponies too. Theorl’s a petty bastard.”
Anna lurches upright, “Father, I’m at my wits’ end. This isn’t the stable flu. Or Hoof rot. Or any of the ailments – there’s something dark and sinister brewing within her. I can feel it.”
“Can you?” he snarls. His rough face softens as he breathes a few Rohirric words into Bethiel’s ears. Fingers trailing through her mane; once a gold sheen - now resembling a heap of matted straw that’s been out in the rain. The man’s eyes fall shut. Decades of raising horses appear to whirl through his memories. Before at last he rises in the musty stable air. And pronounces his sentence.
“You’re right, some foul ailment festers in her that’s beyond our skill to heal,” he announces, “You must take her to Dwimordene . North of the river Limlight.”
Anna cowers back.
“To the Elves?”
“The forest’s magic will heal her.”
“Not if it kills me first!” Anna exclaims, flailing her arms about, “Or if I get shot from the trees! Or if the Lady of the Woods turns me into a horse myself! Is your own daughter worth the life of this Mare? Of Lord Theorl’s kinship? How could you-”
“Oh don’t you argue with me!” he raises a hand, meaning to strike her but relenting, “Our livelihood is at stake and you care more about your well-being than ours! I didn’t raise you to forsake your duty at the first sign of danger.”
That word strikes her in the chest again.
Duty.
It seals her mouth shut. Clenches her fingers around that sackcloth bag of gold thrust into her hands. The word kicks her stirrupped feet as she mounts Estella and leads Bethiel off before dawn. A single day’s ride from their village, they told her. Yet taking three because of Bethiel’s slowgoing burden. Oh come on, you - Anna groans. Watching Bethiel slump into the grass for the dozenth time that day. She starts a fire for the night, and wonders if horses have their own duty to be a pain in her arse.
She fords the River Limlight at noon on the third day. The roaring currents fade into a deathly silence. Like a veil had been draped over her ears. Before long, the veil falls over her eyes as well. Accustomed to the open grassy seas, the endless rows of Mallorn trees resemble a darkened cage. Hello? She calls into the golden leaves. One falls from the canopy. A bird tweets. Nothing. The overwhelming serenity terrifies her. She dismounts Estella - alarmed that Bethiel is suddenly well enough to trot ahead of her. Oh now you’re fine, she snags her bridle.
And turns to a drawn bow. Taut arrow inches from her face.
Anna’s hands fly up.
Bethiel slumps to the ground again.
“P-please, I mean no harm,” Anna stutters. Before her eyes swim into focus at her would-be assassin. Tall and fair. Icy-blonde hair braided behind her deep sapphire cloak. Her crystal blue eyes glimmer with fury. Anna gulps at the thought of getting shot out of her boots.
“And yet you venture into Lórien with horse and sword,” the Elf accuses, withdrawing her bow but keeping an arrow nocked.
“Please miss, ‘twas a long journey from the Riddermark. You do not expect me to ride defenseless. Where my mount and innocence may be stolen from between my legs,” the slight raise of Anna’s voice sounds like yelling in the forest’s silence, “And as for the horses - I bring Lord Theorl’s mare Bethiel. She’s sick and we’ve tried everything. My father sent-”
The Elf kneels at Bethiel’s side. Urgent yet silent movement upsetting her hood and exposing her hair in a flash of radiant gold. It blinds Anna. She opens her eyes to see her whisper an alien language that drifts through the woods. And her ears. She sees her clearly now. The radiance of her steep cheekbones. Those long eyelashes flutter in time with her heartbeat. Slender fingers trail through Bethiel’s mane. She must be ages old, Anna thinks. Already she senses Bethiel’s spirit mustering at the Elf woman’s magic whispers. The Mare neighs and rises to its hooves unburdened. And so does her healer. All of a sudden, Anna feels frail before her fairness. Like an insect before a Queen. Threadbare unwashed clothes appear ragged next to her delicate velvet cloak. Her own rough features worn down from days of travel. That sharp face with perfect features. Worse still, the woman’s burning stare pierces through her very soul. Her mind flutters open like it’s being read.
“Bethiel’s fallen ill,” the Elf announces. Her voice light like the breeze.
Anna rolls her eyes, “Yea I told you-”
“I must bring her to Caras Galadhon, she will be better in a week. Our people will tend to her. I swear this to you. You can come get her then.”
“What?” Anna gasps, “but - how do I even know who you are-”
“Look for Elsa.”
“Is there only one Elsa in Lórien?”
Without answering, Elsa unties Bethiel’s bridle and the mare follows after her without coaxing. Anna thrusts a purse of gold into her hand - only to have it shoved so hard into her chest that she staggers backwards. She fathoms the strength in the Elf’s slender arm. A strength honed from decades pulling a bowstring, perhaps.
“Do not insult me with your petty gold,” Elsa snarls, “I have a duty to this living beast. A duty that you failed as its keeper-”
The word stabs her like an arrow. Its pain grates deeper than any blow her father could give her, any harsh word he’s thrown throughout her entire life. She’s left shaking her head. Once again cursing that wretched word like a stain on her godforsaken life.
Does she count the week starting from the moment she crosses back over the Limlight? Or does it start once she returns home to her father's nagging words? Do Elven weeks even have seven days in them? The only thing Anna knows for sure is that chain tugging her back. To that terrifying serenity. It departed her soul the instant she crossed that golden treeline. Fading from her like the last leaves of fall. The only scaffold that props her resolve is the prospect of seeing Elsa once again. If only to confirm someone as fair as her could even exist. Perhaps she’s an average elf. And there are yet others fairer than her. Now that would be a sight.
Wait - don’t you have a duty to Bethiel? To your father’s stable? Yet here you are fantasizing about an immortal being who only had harsh words for you.
Her heart’s plugged in her throat the entire day’s ride on Estella. She ponders the words to Elsa. An apology perhaps. Or a plea to exchange tokens. Alas! She should have brought a gift. Yet what gift could her shabby existence provide to an Elf of Lórien? She washes her face in the river Limlight. Tidies and braids her windswept red hair into pigtails. Brushes the creases from her white dress; the best outfit a stablemaid could conjure. Satisfied with her own reflection - she leads Estella into the golden forest. The harrowing peace clamps her mouth shut. And the sight of Elsa robs her of all breath. She’s been standing there for what must’ve been ages with Bethiel by her side. The same terrifying beauty. That same steadfast poise. Bethiel bows once. Perhaps she taught her the common tongue as well.
Why would Bethiel even want to come back, after spending a week in the most tranquil of places?
“I-I hope you didn’t wait long,” Anna stammers.
Elsa looks at the carpet of golden leaves, “No - I just arrived.”
Lies.
“She’s all better now,” Elsa announces, holding her bridle out, “regained her spirit. We know not where her master has taken her. But these are dark times and one ought not to dwell on such things.”
Why does every sentence sound like a song coming out of her mouth?
Their fingers brush as she takes the bridle. Anna feels dirty again. Like she’s stained Elsa’s immaculate skin.
“T-thank you for this duty you’ve undertaken,” Anna averts her eyes, “And-and I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, the last time we met.”
“I admit I might have been harsh with my words,” Elsa relents, “Forgive me - it has been a long time since I’ve laid eyes on one of the Horse Lords’ daughters.”
Anna’s eyes lift to meet Elsa’s, “You’ve met my kind?”
“Your father, actually,” Elsa points at the intertwined Rose motif on Bethiel’s saddle, “he crossed here years ago on similar business. And thrice your grandfather - trading leather and silver for crafted saddles and bowstrings. He was the one who thought of the Roses. And I’ve met your great-grandfather when he provided horses to-”
“Wait,” Anna gasps, “there is no way you could have, unless - h-how old are you, exactly?”
Elsa’s face falls still, before she mutters, “I-I don’t know. One’s mind wanders with compulsion when counting the years. Instead, I try to make the years count.”
A breeze passes between them. Elsa’s braid flutters. Anna only manages to gawk at the wisdom she’d just imparted. And that fair face. And those eyes. She could be millenia old and yet looking barely older than herself. Her throat ties itself into knots.
“Y-you sound very wise, Elsa,” Anna stammers, “I feel wiser already, standing in your presence.”
“And I feel brighter.”
The answer catches like the breath in her lungs.
“ Brighter, ” Anna mouths. She feels her spirit lift. Like she’s on thin air and rising. “Now I bid thee tell me how. Do my hands and feet glow like lanterns?”
Elsa giggles and turns away. Her bow’s dangling from her limp wrist. Lips move. As if translating Sindarin words from poems and songs past.
“Like finding a ruby stitched in tapestries of Mithril and gold. Like seeing Eärendil’s light in the skies before you sleep. Like hearing the song of a bird you once thought dead.”
Her breath deepens with each melodic syllable floating past her. Or meeting someone like you.
“You know of such things, do you not?” Elsa turns to face her, “One could spend a lifetime searching for it - and not find a single wasted moment.”
“Alas,” Anna chuckles, “This probably won’t seem new, but - I have much fewer years than you.”
The words tug at Elsa’s lips. She smiles, “I hope you spend them wisely then.”
“I already did,” Anna steps closer, “Coming here. Even if it was my duty to bring Bethiel to you. This feels like the most remarkable thing that’s happened to my life. Unless you count leading two dozen horses to Edoras remarkable. But yes - seeing the Golden Forest. Feeling its tranquil peace.”
She sucks in a deep breath. Courage, Anna.
“ Meeting you. ”
A huge grin spreads across Elsa’s face, “And I suppose I’m the only Elf you’ve ever met. I hope I’ve made a good impression.”
“If all Elves were like you,” Anna remarks, “I’d love to meet every one.”
Elsa colours. A red glow like the sunset. It touches her cheeks as well - and she feels that warmth filling her chest with lightness. Not unlike the glow of a summer’s first morning.
“Will you write me?” Elsa asks, “Such that I will not forget the memory of your presence.”
“I will,” Anna answers, without thinking, “I’ll address my letters to the only Elsa in Lórien. And you can write me back, the only Anna in Feldburg.”
“That’s a beautiful name, Anna,” Elsa’s eyes cloud with sorrow.
And you’re the most beautiful being I’ve ever laid my eyes on.
“Farewell - Elsa of Lórien. I’ll keep you close to my heart until duty brings me here again.”
That chain tugs at her the moment she turns her back on Elsa. It chafes her heart as she wanders past the glade into the Limlight’s roaring currents. And when she reaches Feldburg - her soul’s ready to be yanked back all the way to Lórien. To be with that woman. She curses her duty for bringing her so close to heaven. Gifting her a taste and yet condemning her to the rest of her life without satisfaction. And yet by night she moans Elsa’s name into her straw bed. Blessing Elsa’s memory with all the gods that men prostrate themselves to. The chain tethers her taut to that one other soul across the Limlight. Finally giving Anna the courage to take on another duty. One she’s put off for years.
Learning how to read and write.
Dear Elsa of Lórien,
I am sorry apologise for the months? length of time that has passed since promising you a letter. I wanted to make sure ensure my ill-learned calligraphy was befitting of your eyes to cast on. Oh, what folly it would be if I sent you a letter you could never read! Or perhaps it does not matters not, for you have forgotten me. It pains my heart to consider this. But what could I expect? I felt like a frail child before a goddess when I last stood before you. And yet you had such good polite kind words towards me which I could never hope to return in depth. But I have made a promise, a duty to write you. Alas, I shall be content consider it blessed to have only known the memory of your presence. The radiance of your hair and the curve of your smile.
In all my years I’ve cursed this duty I was born into, never chose, never loved. But after seeing where it took me - and who it brought me to. I will embrace it to my dying days. Knowing at least its stitched one glowing diamond into the short tapestry of my life.
-Anna
Dear Anna of Feldburg
Your words hurt like thorns. Bramble bushes tangled my heart the moment you left. If you were a child before me I’d forsake my duty and ride south across the Wold just to be a child with you again. We could skip stones across the Limlight. Count the stars and give them names. I’d make you Elven tea and you can tell me Tales of the Horse Lords’ past.
Indulge me - are all Horsemaidens in Rohan gifted with hair like the sunrise? Did Elentári look upon the fiery threads of red and orange and braid them at your birth? I could think of no greater crown any King or Queen could grace. My breath still loses its way amongst the Mallorn grove when I recall your eyes. Anna, what have you done to me? I bid thee return my breath, such that I may continue my listless sighs each time I remember you.
-Elsa
P.S.: I did not forget you. Not for one second, as numerous as they may be. Write me back, will you?
The sunset over the steppes burns like the crumpled letter she keeps against her chest. Does Elsa see the same sunset? Perched on Mallorn branches. Keen eyes staring off into the Wold. Perhaps she’s looking for you? The thought puts an ache behind her eyelids and she shuts them against the tears. Against the sunset. Against that wretched chain tugging her back beneath the golden trees. The letter singes her. She reaches beneath her cloak just to feel those words again. What have you done to me?
Her hand jerks back when she hears rustling grass behind. Estella snorts at her father’s approach.
“Father-”
“You’ve been rather fond of sitting here and staring into the sky lately,” his voice carries the weariness of age.
“You know I have supper in this spot. Do you intend to deprive your daughter of the sunset?”
“And yet never have I seen you sobbing from afar. And you return with wet and reddened eyes at night. And that tight-lipped silence when I ask why. Have the folk from Dwimordene cast a melancholic spell on you, or what?”
Yes.
Anna dips her gaze to the prickly pale grass that swathes her crossed legs. Her imagination wanders to how that crown of blonde hair would feel on her lap. Blue eyes looking back. Those gentle fingers tracing her jaw. Anna screws her eyes shut and shakes her head.
“Father, would you send me back to the Elven woods again? Whether for duty or-”
She stops when the answer appears to seize in his throat. Thunder rumbles in the distance.
“A darkness arises from the west,” he counsels her, “crows and whispers and what of smoke burning across the Westfold.”
Her eyes widen. Fists clench, as if against the hilt of a sword.
“I pray it not be so, but if one day that shadow arrives here unchecked,” he warns, “it would occur you be thrown north across the Limlight against your will.”
Elsa
When I looked upon your words, your dream of us being children again - the thought seized upon me like a wolf upon sheep. I rode Estella across the Wold, fearful of that thought catching root in my heart. Yet regardless how far or how fast the wind took me across the plains, I could never outpace you from my mind. How, Elsa? How much I long both to be rid of your memory - so much it hurts me that we are apart. Yet I still clutch your letters close to my heart.
Instead, I braid each word around my fingertips. Such that I may sense your beauty in each horse’s mane I brush. Each blade of grass I touch. Each ray of sunlight that filters though my hands on a summer’s morning. My duty to Rohan will be how I remember you. Will you remember me so? Through your unceasing loyalty to the Glade?
You ask if there are red-haired girls in Rohan. There aren’t many. My mother has said that my hair appears redder these days. I can only fathom it be so from the spark of desire you have lit in my heart. One kindled into flames by each word you write. Burning red-hot like coals. From the longing I stoke within me with each thought I think.
Of you.
-Anna
Anna,
I was ready to flee across the Limlight after reading your letter. To forsake my duty just to see you again. To know you are real. You are safe. And yet my father warned of a shadow that rises from the west - and that each Elf must do their duty to protect our lands. So pale has my face been of late, thinking of you. That he thinks you have woven some ancient Rohirrim spell around my soul. Oh, how I curse these petty animosities the old folk cling onto. If they hadn’t held onto them like aging relics, perhaps I would’ve already seen you more than twice.
And yet - I wonder if you did indeed ensnare me with that magic in your eyes. In your breath and in your touch. Will you tell me so? I seek not to unravel their bonds - but only to fall deeper under your spell. Is your red hair where you’ve gotten your powers from? For you have fanned a fire within me that could never be quenched even if the mighty Anduin empty its shores upon my head.
-Elsa
P.S.: Watch for smoke from the west. If what my father says is true - I don’t know how I’d live with myself if some harm befalls you.
A week passes under the looming shadow from the west. Crows depart into each blood-red sunset. Father stacks armor by the door beside sharpened spears and swords. The day arrives all too quickly. And when she spots pillars of smoke from the west, east, north and south. Anna’s throat closes when she realises what it means.
“Make haste! Make haste!”
The village bell sounds. Ominous clanging echoes the mustered men’s fate.
She spots the blackened swarm spilling over the mountain pass. Like marching ants down a molehill towards the honeypot that is her village. Burning torches and black-faced malice bearing down on the fleeing crowd before them. Anna’s father rides beside her. His voice steady beneath the duty that’s befallen him. The duty that shackles him to his inevitable fate.
“Ride south, make for Edoras - stay with mother,” he orders. Grim and sullen.
She can’t make out his eyes beneath the burden of his bronze helmet. But if she could, she imagines the same dutiful tears he cried when he lashed her.
“Father, I-”
“Go!” he snarls, spear aloft to the sun, “this is the last duty I command unto you.”
Without another word, he rides off with brother and the village men. Bristling spears and gleaming armor like pebbles before the avalache of hatred rushing towards them. Her hands rattle on Estella’s reins. Ghastly weeping and hoarse groans from the women befall her ears while searching for her mother amongst the trail of tears.
Forth Eorlingas! She hears the faint cry. She dreads the silence after.
“Don’t look, don’t-” Anna utters into the wind, desperate to keep the silence from turning her head. She repeats herself after catching up with her mother. Shawl soaked in tears and lips muttering words of threadbare devotion to a lost husband and son. In a moment of folly, she forsakes her promise and looks. Strewn armor and mangled bodies by the mountainside. Crimson scrawled into the pale grass like ugly wounds. Her heart freezes at the crows already making their descent. Before it pounds even harder at the darkness continuing its tidal wave of hatred towards her.
“Keep moving!” Anna urges the women and children forward. It’s slow-going, weighed down with whatever provisions they can carry. Horses and carts lumbering down the steppe path. Smoke rises before them. Her mother trots to the crest of a hill, and the sudden jerk of her shoulders gives away their worst fears.
“My child, don’t leave me,” she utters. Before that forlorn look on mother’s face sears into her memory forever. An orc scout party flanks the path. White hand banner and ghastly blackened teeth raises a shriek of terror from the villagers. She clenches her jaw when the jolt of fear threatens to dismount her. Estella barely responds to her urging. A single word snaps her from the stupor.
Duty.
“Farewell, mother,” Anna cries, voice cutting through the air like the ring of her drawn sword, “Make haste for Edoras!”
“No!”
She kicks off after the band of orcs alone. Swinging hard as she strikes the lead orc dead. Estella tramples another. She yanks her reins and wheels away from the rest. Their grunts fill her heart with terror and their gnashing teeth sound like bloodhounds rife in pursuit of manflesh. An arrow flutters through her hair. “Go! Go!” Anna urges Estella. She leads them away from the villagers. Bloodstained sword glinting like radiant copper in the noon sun. The urgent swinging elicits a feral response from the orcs. And a white-hot point of fear in the pit of her chest. Estella neighs loudly. Another arrow darts through her hair. She flings herself against the mare’s neck. Pleading with the gods, imagined and real - for safety. In between the sputtering, incoherent prayers for mercy - she hears Elsa’s name.
A thud hits her back. And leg. No pain. The black feathered shaft sticks through her calf like a skewered bit of lamb. She can feel the point in her back now. Digging into her ribs. That scant leather armour must’ve stopped it from going further. Before another whump in her back robs the air from her lungs. And she feels like a great furnace bellow deflating itself. No pain.
“North, north!” Anna spurs Estella onwards. Foamy bright scarlet trickles down her mane at the urging. No pain. The words become a prayer to deliver her from the tearing, gnawing in her flesh. Her body sheds its last strength into the dry winds. Slumping forward into the saddle. And right before her eyes flutter shut - she catches sight of the unblemished Rohan plains. Smiling as the wind puts ripples into the blonde sea.
Anna dreams of a pair of teapots in a wooden hut. And a book. Tales of the Riddermark. Perhaps this has her name in it.