Chapter Text
Mesmelaslel
The silence that followed the discovery was a silent scream in Mesmelaslel's mind. She felt neither wind nor sun, only the acrid scent of smoke drifting towards them. Edoras was nothing more than a vast torch, planted in the plain.
The members of the Fellowship gathered into a tense circle atop the hill.
"What is happening?" breathed Boromir, his hand gripping his sword.
"Saruman has fallen," said Gimli, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Who else would dare such an assault if not that treacherous one?!"
Aragorn, his face carved of marble, wasted not a second in lamentation. He turned to Gandalf.
"Is it the Eye?"
"Sauron has long arms, but he does not move so swiftly," replied the Wizard, his own countenance grave and sombre. "But why worry about the source? The fire is real. If we stand here debating, all will be reduced to ashes."
The decision was made in a heartbeat of collective will.
"Then we go," decreed Aragorn.
The small company descended the hill, urging their horses into a gallop, the earth trembling beneath their hooves. The distance closed, and the sight became clearer, yet more terrible. The crackling of flames now drowned out the wind.
Then Mesmelaslel saw the shapes. At first, she thought them great birds of prey wheeling above the walls of the high city.
But these birds were enormous, dark, their wings beating the air with monstrous force. Their necks were long, serpentine, and as they drew nearer, she heard a sound that did not belong to the world of living creatures: a piercing scream that seared body, soul, and eardrums alike.
"Nazgûl!" cried Legolas, his face tightening with dread.
Mesmelaslel could only nod, breath caught. Three black riders, more fearsome than any she had yet beheld, were perched upon winged beasts, their silhouettes towering above the smoke. They spread terror, casting fire upon roofs and battlements that were not merely burning, but corrupting. Fear struck her as a cold, physical wave. She felt her throat tighten, her limbs stiffen, her thoughts slow.
They halted at the edge of the wood bordering the plain, the air trembling under the cries of the Nazgûl. The effect upon Frodo was immediate and dreadful. The Ring-bearer, who had endured so much, could not withstand the proximity of their servants.
Frodo slipped from behind Aragorn, his body sliding from the horse. He fell heavily onto the grass, white as a shroud, his eyes rolling. The Ring upon its chain seemed suddenly to glimmer with a dark light.
"The Winged Beasts are too near!" thundered Gandalf, his face pale beneath the brim of his hat. "They scent the presence of the Ring. It must not be exposed!"
Aerlindiel, despite her own fear that made her tremble, was the first to act. She rushed to Frodo, lifting him into her arms, holding him close to shield him.
Aragorn, swift of thought, gave commands.
"Gandalf, you and Aerlindiel stay here. Hide Frodo, cover him! The Nazgûl must not find him! And you neither!"
He spoke also to the hobbits and to Camassia, who obeyed, already encircling Frodo with anxious care. The hobbit still trembled in Aerlindiel's arms.
"The rest," commanded Aragorn, pointing to the city aflame. "We strike at the front. Dannel, Glorfindel, take the heights. Find an exit for the townsfolk. The Nazgûl are not easily slain, but they may be distracted. Strike down all Orcs that crawl upon the ground."
"My account will finally explode!" muttered Gimli, raising his axe, a spark of excitement and fury in his eyes.
"We shall see, my friend!" replied Legolas, lifting him once more onto their horse.
"We take the main gate together!" ordered Aragorn to Boromir and the two companions already ready.
As Mesmelaslel prepared to charge with Glorfindel, she felt a hand grip hers. Eldarion, his face tense with frustration and the desire to fight.
"Do not order me to hang back, Mesmelaslel," he implored. "I can fight!"
She did not answer with argument or command. She looked at him, eyes shining with new resolve. She squeezed his hand, then looked at Frodo's inert body, cradled by Aerlindiel, and gestured with her chin to the line of Nazgûl circling above the chaos.
"Our fight is for Frodo. If they do not find him, they will depart. But the fleeing Orcs will come for you."
She squeezed his hand one last time, tone absolute. Their mother, Arwen, then intervened, taking Eldarion's hand.
"Go, we will watch."
She released him and leapt back onto Narnwen, charging towards the city to flank it just behind Glorfindel.
The wind was an adversary, driving waves of smoke and embers, blinding Mesmelaslel. Yet the charge across the plain was a liberation. The fear that had frozen her blood upon the hill became a bitter, cold clarity.
They plunged into the lower streets of Edoras, which were now chokepoints of panic. The flames, fed by the thatched roofs of the outer walls, roared like ravening beasts, and the heat struck Mesmelaslel's face as though it were a fist. The air was thick with the shriek of Nazgûl, a sound so high and despairing it rattled the bones.
The first wave of Orcs awaited them just beyond the gate. They were not the disciplined Uruk-hai of Saruman, but a brutish horde, armed with pikes and cleavers, smelling of slobber and mire.
"Swift and sure!" barked Glorfindel, his sword tracing arcs of light.
Mesmelaslel needed no command. Her new sword, drawn from her belt, became an extension of her arm. She slipped beneath a pike, her blade rising to find the joint at the neck of her assailant. Black blood spurted, hot and sticky, and the Orc collapsed like an empty sack. She pivoted immediately. A second, stockier monster raised a hammer. She struck, and the scream of pain was drowned by the roar of the fire.
"Forward!" she cried to Glorfindel, pointing to a group of Orcs attacking a wooden wall, trying to spread the flames.
They surged, Gimli's axe and Legolas' arrows joining them moments later. The fight became a bloody dance of survival.
Then the battle shifted from cleansing to protection.
"Higher!" shouted Legolas, pointing to the adjacent alleys.
Rohirrim families, faces blackened with soot and fear, poured into the main street, fleeing the destruction and throwing water onto the burning houses, hauling horses to safety. They were a torrent of woollen cloaks, panicked children, and elderly with fixed eyes. Unarmed, they were easy prey, and the Orcs realised it immediately.
Mesmelaslel saw three Orcs break from the fray, their guttural laughter preceding their rush towards a woman carrying a child. She dropped her sword and drew her bow, her quiver filled with light arrows.
Wich! The first arrow struck the Orc squarely in the nape. He fell. Wich! The second struck the shoulder; he screamed, immobilised but not dead. Wich! The third hit above the knee; he staggered.
"This way!" she cried to the woman, pointing down a shadowed alley, less touched by the flames. "Out of the city!"
Glorfindel, seeing the urgency, took position to cover the fleeing. Boromir and Aragorn, just behind, began to form a human wall to channel the refugees.
"Dannel, time presses! Reach Meduseld!" cried Aragorn.
The golden citadel, Meduseld, so near, seemed both within reach and yet inaccessible, encircled by a curtain of fire at every turn. It was the heart of the defence, yet also the focal point of the assault.
Mesmelaslel heard the Orcs' startled cries behind her, but they were already distant. She leapt over smouldering rubble and fallen bodies. The road to Meduseld was a long stone ramp, now trapped by flames licking the steps. The wailing of the Nazgûl, ever-present, reached a crescendo almost unbearable. Mesmelaslel forced herself to breathe, to keep her gaze fixed on the path.
Meduseld was a pitiable sight. The outer walls had yet to succumb to the flames, but a thick column of smoke poured from within, betraying a hearth at the heart of the Great Hall. Rohirrim soldiers, disordered, struggled to form a line, broken by panic and by Orcs slipping through unlocked gates.
The square before Meduseld was a tableau of despair.
And amid the chaos, Mesmelaslel saw the source of panic: a fourth Nazgûl. Not upon its Winged Steed, but astride a great black horse, whose very presence was enough to chill the hearts of men. The Shadow bore a long blade, glinting with unnatural malice.
This Nazgûl had chosen its prey: Éomer.
The man, his blonde hair streaked with soot, fought with the rage of a lion. On foot, his own horse having fled or fallen, he crossed swords with the Nazgûl, who from its height dominated him. The cries of the Nazgûl, amplified by its unseen mask, echoed. Éomer staggered, breath short, armour gashed.
Mesmelaslel acted without thought. She dashed through the fray, avoiding Orcs, and threw herself between the man and the Shadow.
"Éomer!" she cried, her voice lost in the wailing.
The Nazgûl, taken aback by the newcomer, paused. The Shadow turned slowly to Mesmelaslel. She felt the void, the abyssal cold emanating from the Nameless One. It was the pure absence of life, the promise of damnation.
Mesmelaslel was not afraid. She was angry.
She did not fight blade against blade. She was agile, swift. As the Nazgûl raised its sword, she leapt, not towards it, but towards its horse. She used the dagger to strike the black beast's thigh with as much force as she could withdraw.
The horse, already trembling under its master's terror and the chaos of fire, reacted to the pain. It reared violently, nearly unseating its spectral rider.
Éomer did not hesitate. He saw the opening. With strength drawn from desperation, he drove his sword into the black horse's flank, just behind the shoulder.
The beast collapsed with a terrible cry, not merely that of a dying animal, but the supernatural agony of its master.
The Nazgûl, unhorsed, fell heavily, its black form twisting upon the stone slabs. The fear it had wielded diminished as it struggled to rise, broken by humiliation. The Shadow did not cry out in rage, but hissed, low and deadly.
"You shall regret this," seemed to whisper the void.
It rose again, but the time lost in surprise and fall allowed the Rohirrim defence to recover. The Orcs around it, bereft of their master's paralysing power, hesitated. The Shadow chose not to linger in the melee. With supernatural speed, it melted into the darkness and vanished.
Mesmelaslel and Éomer looked at each other, panting. The victory was small, but it had saved the moment. He drew her close in a brief embrace that made her melt. But they parted at once, each taking position back to back, felling Orcs within reach.
"Where is the king?"
"They hold the bulk of the army in the valley!"
At that moment, a new roar tore through the air. The roof of Meduseld's Great Hall, already smouldering, collapsed with a terrible crash, sending a wave of searing heat and a shower of burning debris. The front line shifted toward them.
"Rohirrim!" cried Éomer, his voice carrying above the tumult. "Meduseld is lost! Protect the civilians!"
He turned to Mesmelaslel, his face illuminated by the reflection of the flames.
"We must contain the fleeing! Let them not regroup!"
She nodded, and without a word, dashed towards the heights. Éomer leapt after her, rallying the few men who remained.
But the fire was already between them. A tongue of flame, born of the explosion, widened into a burning curtain, cutting off all passage.
"Éomer!" cried Mesmelaslel.
He did not hear her. He was already engaged in a new skirmish. Seeing that she could not reach him without being consumed by the fire, Mesmelaslel turned her gaze to the rooftops of the surrounding houses.
She ran toward a small officer's house whose shingled roof had not yet fully succumbed. Using a makeshift ladder, once intended to quell small fires, she climbed, leaping onto the roof, the wood hot beneath her feet.
The view from above was at once a tactical advantage and a vision of despair. The whole lower city was an inferno. She saw Orcs swarming like black insects, exploiting panic to advance, heading for the fleeing families.
She nocked an arrow. The wind, the smoke, the cries of the Nazgûl faded. Only the taut whisper of the string remained.
Her post was perfect. From there, she commanded the main street and the approach to the western gate, the escape route that Éomer strove to secure.
Mesmelaslel was no Legolas. She could not rain arrows with elf-like rapidity, but she could at least select her targets with care: the Orcs scaling walls, those venturing too close to the families.
For a moment that seemed an eternity, she was alone upon her roof, a dark silhouette against the furnace. Her breathing became a ticking metronome of carnage. Each arrow saved a life, or claimed one. She felt her fingers bleed slightly on the string, her neck stiffen.
Then a deep, familiar voice rose from below, breaking her concentration.
"Watch out, Mesmelaslel! Three Orcs to the left of the attic corner!"
Instinctively, she loosed an arrow, striking one Orc in the throat. The other two escaped.
"Covered!"
Two arrows flew from below, heavier than hers, striking the remaining Orcs with the force of a sling. They fell like sacks of coal.
She turned to see Boromir, hauling himself onto the adjacent roof.
He bore neither his great shield nor his sword, but a quiver and a Rohirrim bow, surely taken from a fallen soldier. He rose, massive muscles taut, his face hardened by combat.
"I thought you liked swordfight better," said Mesmelaslel, breathless, a corner of her mouth lifting in a faint smile.
Boromir shrugged, drawing his massive bowstring with ease.
"The hour is for covering fire," he replied, eyes fixed on the throng of Orcs. "And the Men of Gondor know more than one way to wield a weapon."
She did not meet his gaze, yet a faint smile touched her lips at his boastful tone.
"Hold the position! No matter what happens, they must not pass!"
Boromir nodded.
As Mesmelaslel nocked her next arrow, a sound pierced the cacophony of battle: a scream, nearer, more human than the wails of the Nazgûl, yet equally charged with primeval terror.
The cry came from the Great Hall itself, from Meduseld, whose roof had just collapsed.
"Something is amiss in there!" shouted Boromir, eyes fixed on the citadel's burning entrance.
She wasted no time. Without a word, she slid from the roof in a perilous drop, sword already in hand.
"Mesmelaslel!" Boromir called behind her.
She entered the ruins of Meduseld through a gaping breach, where the double doors had been torn away by the fire. Inside was a hell of smoke, heat, and debris. Soot danced in the thin shafts of light piercing the fallen roof.
She coughed, covering her mouth with her arm, eyes scanning the chaos. The great hearth of the Hall was now a heap of charred wood, yet pockets of combat persisted.
She saw the scene at the far end of the Hall, just behind what had been the throne.
Éowyn.
The Lady of Rohan stood, not trembling nor afraid, but a vision of white and gold fury. She held a sword, clearly too heavy for her, and just as Mesmelaslel arrived, she brought it down with incredible force upon the neck of a massive Orc attempting to slip past. The monster's head rolled upon the stone floor.
Before Éowyn, half-hidden by a charred pillar, sat Théodred, the King's son. He leaned against the stone, coughing violently. His hand, soaked with blood, pressed against his chest.
Éowyn stood sentinel, sword raised, eyes alight with protective fire. Two smaller Orcs hesitated.
Mesmelaslel gave them no time to decide. She surged upon the creatures, sword flashing in the firelight. She struck the first upon the knee, drawing a howl, then used the momentum to drive her blade into the second before it could react.
Within seconds, silence returned, broken only by the crackle of dying timber and Théodred's rasping cough.
Mesmelaslel turned to Éowyn, soot-streaked, hair dishevelled.
"Are you hurt?" she asked, voice hoarse.
Éowyn looked at her, sword still raised, then slowly lowered the weapon.
"I'm not. But he is!" She indicated Théodred, concern weakening her strength. "He must be taken out from here!"
Mesmelaslel stepped toward Théodred.
"I will carry him!"
At that very moment, a sound more powerful than any yet heard tore through the air. Not a cry of combat, nor a wail of fear, but a cry of absolute triumph, the rallying call of the Nazgûl.
Mesmelaslel felt her blood freeze. It came from above, moving away.
"What is that?" Éowyn asked, helping Théodred to his feet.
"The master's call," replied Mesmelaslel, horror in her eyes.
She aided Théodred outside, laying him before the ruins, ignoring the heat, and joined Boromir atop the adjacent roof, eyes fixed on the blackened sky.
The three Winged Beasts Mesmelaslel had seen from afar now circled high above the plain, their cries still audible for hundreds of metres. Behind them, the few remaining Orcs on the ground, demoralised by the loss of their mounted Nazgûl and the unexpected resistance, fled, scattering like insects disturbed by light. The assault upon Edoras was ending. The fire roared, but the battle was done.
Boromir turned to her, bewildered.
"They… they are retreating. But why?"
Mesmelaslel said nothing. Her gaze followed the course of the Beasts. Northward, away from Edoras, away from the flames, and farther still from the throng of the city.
She glimpsed the small hill, the edge of the wood.
"They failed to break the city, but they have scented their real prey."
The Winged Beasts took the direction of the company they had left behind.
Aerlindiel
Aerlindiel could see nothing of the flames that engulfed Edoras. She perceived not the distant mêlée in which Mesmelaslel, their father, and the others had thrown themselves. She was enclosed within a circle of terror, where the only sound that mattered was the faint breathing of Frodo.
Since she had seized her friend, she had not moved. The piercing cries of the Nazgûl, wheeling above the city, reached the hill not as sound but as a pulse of cold and despair.
She held Frodo close, his small, inert body pressed to hers. He was pale, his eyes barely open, his trembling lips whispering indistinct words. The sheer presence of the Ringwraiths, amplified by their winged steeds, struck directly at the Hobbit's mind.
Around her, the tension was a cord straining to break. Gandalf, rigid in posture, watched the winged creatures with palpable concern. Camassia stood at her side, eyes tracking every flight, every path of the Nazgûl. Their friends, Sam, Pippin, and Merry, formed a half-circle of protection, hands on short swords, small faces twisted with fear.
And Eldarion was the most restless.
"The attack upon Edoras is but a ruse! Their true prey is the Ring! If they learn of us, all will be lost!"
"Eldarion is right," Arwen whispered. "These creatures feed upon darkness and despair. The greater the shadow, the stronger they are…"
Aerlindiel pressed her lips together, troubled. Gandalf answer.
"My duty is here, Arwen. If the Shadow detects my active presence in the mêlée, it will announce the Ring-bearer's nearness, and this entire fellowship will be annihilated in an instant."
"But without the Wizard, without your power, the Nazgûl will never be driven back!" Arwen insisted.
"I agree," said Camassia. "They can do nothing against them… I recall no man who has ever bested a Nazgûl, not even Mesme could."
Eldarion paced, eyes fixed upon the direction of Edoras, where the horizon had become a black column of smoke rising into the sky.
Aerlindiel, rocked by Frodo's shallow breaths, felt the need to intervene.
"She is well, Eldarion," Aerlindiel said.
Eldarion flinched as though waking from a trance.
"These winged things…"
"Mesme is strong. Far stronger than the two of us combined, who remain here to debate. She will return… our duty is to watch over Frodo."
The Hobbits joined them, drawn by the murmured words, less terrible than the oppressive waiting.
"Do not worry, Lord Eldarion," said Sam. "Our Lady Mesme is more skilful than a hundred men; we all owe her our lives here."
"And she is with Glorfindel!" added Pippin, his voice regaining cheer despite himself. "He is very strong as well!"
Merry nodded, yet his gaze returned to Frodo.
"Perhaps we should move him, Gandalf. Away from this hill, hidden from view. Should those… birds… turn this way, we would become easy prey."
Gandalf nodded, concentration broken.
"Merry is right," he said. "The wind carries smoke in our direction; we could find a more discreet refuge in the hollow of that little ravine."
Sam and Pippin set about the task immediately, gently lifting Frodo. Aerlindiel returned to their side, aiding with the weight; his body, small as it was, felt heavy as stone. Eldarion joined them, frustration transformed into action. They began carefully descending the slope, seeking a more concealed place.
The tension was unbearable. Every silence a snare. Every distant cry of the Nazgûl heralded the worst for Mesmelaslel and the others.
They moved slowly, eyes fixed upon the horizon, watching for the slightest sign of the Winged Beasts' approach or retreat. Arwen brought up the rear, worry for Aragorn and Mesme etched upon her features. Gandalf, silent and thoughtful, guided them.
Her heart heavy, Aerlindiel pressed forward, thoughts flying to her sister.
Suddenly the silence was shattered, not by wind nor distant cries of the winged creatures, but by a hoarse, near, utterly mortal sound.
A war-cry, a brutal growl.
Before they could turn fully, three emaciated Orcs, escaped from the depths of Edoras, hurtled down the hill, red eyes fixed upon the gathering. They must have sensed their presence, for they veered immediately upon approach.
Chaos erupted.
Gandalf placed himself between the assailants, white sword in hand, and thundered with pure authority:
"Back, wretches!"
The force of the Wizard's voice was enough to trip the first Orc. Arwen and Eldarion, however, did not wait for the effect. They drew their blades. Eldarion, though clumsy, managed to intercept the second Orc, striking its legs. Arwen, more graceful, evaded the third and responded with a swift feint to its throat.
But one Orc managed to slip around the flank, aiming for Sam and Pippin who bore Frodo.
Aerlindiel interposed herself. She was neither strong nor deft, but she had been trained by Glorfindel. She leapt aside, drawing her sword, a thin, nameless blade. The Orc saw her and twisted its target with a hideous grin, raising its scimitar above its head.
With a high, almost animal cry, she ducked beneath the scimitar's strike and vaulted forward. She thrust her sword upward, aiming for the heart, but the blade lodged in the shoulder, staggering the beast.
The Orc groaned in pain but attempted to strike with its elbow. She could only evade, yet as ever since her arrival, her friends covered her. With Merry and Pippin lunging upon it to drive it down with their blades, the Orc collapsed heavily.
Aerlindiel froze for a moment, sword still embedded in the Orc's body, warm blood staining her hands. She had killed. The revulsion was immediate, but she had no time to indulge it.
"Gandalf, we shall hold here, go! exclaimed Arwen. They dare not fight you; that much we know… you are the only one they fear here."
"I cannot defeat them."
"But you can drive them off."
"Yes, go," Camassia suddenly cried. "We will watch."
He paused, regarding Camassia. Aerlindiel felt the air shift briefly as he studied her with hesitation, before adjusting his hat and taking Camassia's staff to hold close to her heart.
"Keep the high ground and your wits should aught come… though I hope it does not."
He mounted his white horse and departed toward Edoras, circling through the woods to avoid drawing attention.
Around her, silence returned, heavier than ever, broken only by the group's laboured breathing.
Suddenly, a small whimper drew her from her daze.
"Ouch… my arm! Easy, Pippin."
It was Merry. During the scuffle, one of the Orcs had slashed his arm. Blood ran freely between his fingers.
Aerlindiel cast her sword aside and rushed to Merry, kneeling beside him, hand already seeking the bandages she carried at her belt.
"It will be alright, my Merry, it will be alright," she murmured, drawing back the torn cloth to examine the wound. "It is not deep, but it bleeds much."
As she applied pressure to slow the bleeding, Frodo, who had remained silent and inert throughout the assault, began to tremble violently in Sam and Pippin's arms. His eyes, barely open before, widened in frozen, absolute terror.
They all heard him murmur, a weak, broken voice, yet imbued with terrible certainty, words that made their blood run cold:
"They are coming."
What followed her words was no longer the distant sound of the Nazgûl, but a more oppressive noise, a cold, howling wind sweeping across the hill. The sooty haze from Edoras seemed to recoil before this unnatural presence, leaving a trail of pure, icy air, devoid of life. Aerlindiel lifted her head, heart pounding in her throat like a drum, the Orc's blood still warm upon her fingers. Fear, the true, nameless fear of the Ringwraiths, was a physical thing, a blade of ice pressed to the nape of her neck.
Through the smoke of Edoras, the air thickened. Two dark figures bore down upon them. One carried the echo of the wail, a spear of terror that pierced the strongest minds, distorting reality and injecting bottomless despair. The other Nazgûl, swifter, clearly led the hunt. The sight of those tattered, leathery wings, flying at unnatural speed, froze Aerlindiel's blood and forced a small strangled cry from Pippin.
Aerlindiel sought Gandalf, hoping he had noticed their arrival, but he was gone. The regret that they had let him depart gripped her with a dull anguish.
It was Camassia who reacted with startling speed. Aerlindiel saw her dart toward Arwen, their mother standing in the vanguard before the Shadows, and she implored:
"Mother, quickly! Take me to them!"
The urgency in Camassia's voice was an order permitting no debate.
Arwen obeyed without question, austere before the imminent horror. At the same moment, Camassia drew her slender, carved staff, a gift from Galadriel, which she had never before used.
It was a staggering sight: her tiny little sister charging directly into the horror without a glance backward.
Aerlindiel watched her go, feeling Eldarion's gaze upon her, torn between panic at seeing his sister exposed and bitter understanding that Camassia was the only one capable of acting fast enough.
Camassia raised the staff above her head. The Nazgûl were now so close that one could hear the beat of their leathery wings. The cold was such that the grass around her seemed to freeze in place.
The words she spoke were incantations in a tongue unknown to Aerlindiel. Camassia's high voice carried an authority that cut through both wind and terror.
The staff blazed. It was no ordinary light, not the glow of a torch, nor the warm flare of fire. It was white, raw and dense, seeming to suck the colour from the world, silencing sound and freezing motion. A blinding void that devoured shadow and darkness, the absolute antithesis of the Ringwraiths.
The two winged beasts, approaching at breakneck speed, froze mid-flight, struck by the shockwave of that pure, incandescent force. Their screams turned into piercing cries of physical agony, high-pitched and inhuman, as though the air itself scorched them, not with heat, but with the absence of shadow. They veered violently, wings slapping in panic, their deadly discipline shattered before this primordial light.
Then, a second source of light erupted, this time behind the Nazgûl, coming from the direction of Edoras. It was Gandalf, returned. The Wizard was mounted, staff raised, radiating the familiar, warm, threatening fire, controlled and contained.
The Shadow found itself caught in a vise. Before this double threat, their will broke. With sinister, hurried shrieks, the winged mounts abandoned their prey and fled into the night, disappearing eastward, leaving a wake of cold and despair.
A silence of absolute victory fell upon the hill. Terror receded as quickly as it had come. Then, tension broke.
"She did it!" Eldarion cried, fear of Orcs forgotten, relief for Camassia merging into a roar of pure joy. He leapt forward to help their sister descend.
Sam and Pippin shouted with all their might, brandishing their little swords in a frenzy of warrior euphoria, releasing the pent-up tension in triumphant cries. Arwen breathed a sigh of pure relief, grateful that her daughter had survived and that the Ring was, for now, safe. Aerlindiel, still kneeling beside Merry, felt a wave of warmth and strength wash over her, cleansing her of the grime from the Orc fight.
The victory was fragile. Danger, though repelled, had left its mark, especially on Frodo. And despite the light and cries of joy, he still trembled. He alone had not been comforted by the departure of the Ringwraiths.
When approached, in Eldarion's arms, who lavished her with praise, Aerlindiel saw that Camassia was trembling. Not with Frodon-like uncontrolled fear, but a nervous shiver that ran through her slight frame, like a lute-string released after extreme tension and pain. She clutched Aerlindiel's shoulders, and Galadriel's slender staff, still glowing, went out with an almost inaudible hiss and fell quietly into the grass.
"I have never been so frightened in my life."
Aerlindiel stroked her hair tenderly, eyes closed.
"You were very brave, Camassia. You saved Frodo."
A few steps away, Eldarion stood dejectedly, head bowed, hands empty. He did not approach. Arwen arrived in turn, pressing his shoulder and looking upon them with tender regard.
"How do you feel, Frodo?"
All turned to see the Hobbit rise, pale but regaining a semblance of normal breath. He nodded without speaking aloud.
Soon, the Hobbits' triumphant cries celebrating the departure of the shadows were drowned out by a more organised clatter. A small band of stout riders, clad in bronze-green armour of the Houses of Rohan, appeared, rounding the hill. They were led by Lord Erkenbrand.
"The king has sent us to protect you," announced Erkenbrand, his voice carrying the authority of a commander. "Edoras is not yet secure. The ashes are still hot, and rats emerge from the walls, but this is safer than remaining outside for you."
He cast a careful glance at Frodo, still trembling, and the wounded Hobbits, before issuing swift orders for formation, then knelt to grasp Camassia's hands, looking her over with concern. Aerlindiel accepted the help without hesitation, keeping Camassia close while sliding her free, firm hand into Eldarion's, who did not withdraw, his gaze remaining fixed on the ground.
Arrival at Meduseld, the Great Hall of the King, was a stark contrast to the victorious silence of the hill. The air within, usually warm with torchlight and laughter, was heavy, cold, and filled with the acrid scent of smoke, blood, and rudimentary cleaning products. The roof was partially missing, and no furniture survived except the bronze throne.
They found King Théoden in the main hall, far from the upper floor where the wounded were tended. He wore not his ceremonial robes but battle armour streaked with dried blood and sooty stains. He stood alone, back bent, expression sombre and exhausted, the weight of war pressing upon his shoulders heavier than any chainmail.
"So, you have returned," said Théoden, voice rough and muted. He did not smile, and his gaze lingered on them briefly, as if too heavy to bear. "You have arrived just in time for constating tragedy."
All looked at each other, catatonic.
"I speak of Théodred, caught between life and death. The price of this victory is paid not by the Dark Lord, but by my blood and the blood of our youth."
"The cost is visible, and the pain bitter. Yet the Enemy has been driven from Edoras. Without the courage of Man, without yours, this hall would be but a silent ruin. What is saved is not mere respite, but life itself," intervened Gandalf.
"And for how long, my friend?" asked the king, raising a trembling hand as if to lift a funerary veil. "Tell me. Is it not the fate of every protector of this world? To accumulate losses until the tide is too high?"
"Your Majesty. Failure is a certainty; abandonment, a shame. We are afraid, yet we fight for every minute of life."
At that moment, the hall doors opened once more, and Mesmelaslel entered, supported by Éowyn. The Lady of Rohan, likewise stained with blood, mud, and the fatigue of battle, bore a gaze that, though rimmed with weariness, was clear and resolute. She wore fatigue like armour. Mesmelaslel, despite visible pain in her leg and bruises, bore a more genuine smile.
Éowyn, releasing Mesmelaslel, moved immediately to Camassia, lifting her in arms with unexpected vigour for a woman fresh from horror.
"Camassia!" said Éowyn, voice brimming with sincere admiration. "I have seen greatness! I saw it from Meduseld! I saw the Beasts flee like dogs struck! You were magnificent, child! You are a Nazgûl-hunter! The greatest victory of this night!"
At the far end of the hall, Éomer, having just entered and witnessing the scene, raised his sword in a powerful salute toward Camassia, a mark of military respect:
"To the Wraith-Hunter! May the White Flash live forever in the memory of Rohan!"
But Camassia, still curled and trembling in Éowyn's arms, did not react. She offered no reply to the salute or the praise.
Camassia
The light in Meduseld's sickbay was measured and sparse, filtered through narrow windows and supplemented by small oil lamps that crackled softly. The room, hastily converted into an infirmary, carried the scent of iron, bitter herbs, and cold sweat. Camassia sat at Théodred's bedside, the only luxury afforded being the relative privacy granted for the moment.
The Prince of Rohan lay upon a simple bed, sheets drawn up to his waist. His shirt had been cut away, revealing the upper part of his chest and his right arm, powerful and marked with scars. He was pale, a marble-like pallor that unsettled Camassia more than the blood itself. The fever, which had surged after his defence of the capital, had thankfully receded somewhat. Yet his breathing remained shallow, a wheezing and uneven sound from a body struggling for a reprieve that his spirit seemed uncertain it desired.
The improperly treated wound, reopened by the battle, was one blow too many for her. Her gaze rested on his chest, barely rising. She remembered the days in Fangorn Forest, when she had kept watch after the first attack. The wound was fresh then, hope was fragile, but hunger, thirst, and the urgency to survive kept them alert. Now, they were safe, at least temporarily, in the King's fortress. Yet she felt more despairful. The external battle was replaced by an internal one, silent.
"You cannot do this to me, Théodred," she whispered, her voice breaking in the quiet of the room. She reached a trembling hand and brushed against his rough, calloused one, the hand that had held a sword to protect her, the hand that had shattered the palantír which had held her captive in Isengard.
"You cannot leave me."
Camassia remembered; he promised they would spend their years together.
It was not a declaration of romantic love, but a vow of shared existence, a promise of belonging that warmed Camassia's soul, which had always felt a stranger, alone in the world. His promise did not merely offer her a place; he guaranteed it, with the authority of his title and the sincerity of his spirit.
Now, he lay there, that promise hanging by the thread of a wound.
"You must pull through," she whispered again, barely raising her voice. "I do not intend to spend my years alone, and you know you owe me this promise. You cannot shirk it now."
She brushed away a single, burning tear with the back of her hand when the door opened silently. The air, heavy with her despair, lightened slightly with Arwen's entrance, Lady of Rivendell, her mother.
She approached the bed, her gaze calm and serene, saying nothing of Camassia's distress, making no mention of the tears. She merely nodded.
Arwen leaned over the bedside table and placed a small linen pouch filled with herbs. Camassia immediately recognised the scent.
"May I tend to his wound, my child?" Arwen asked, her voice soft, barely a murmur, respecting Théodred's fragile rest. "I am not as skilled as my father, but perhaps I can bring him some relief."
Camassia rose immediately, stepping away from the bed. She knew her mother's healing skills surpassed her own. She moved aside, nodding in silent agreement, unable to form a word.
She leaned against the cold stone wall and watched. Arwen attended to the man with reverent silence. She gently undid the old bandages without rousing Théodred. The soaked cloth removed, the wound was revealed: a deep, fiery gash across his side, dark and menacing.
Arwen used the fresh waters of an Elvish vial to rinse the wound carefully, removing any remaining impurities. Then, with infinite patience, she crushed the leaves, blending them with the bitter herbs in a miniature mortar to form a dark green poultice, which she applied directly to the injury. Théodred flinched at the touch but did not awaken.
Every movement Arwen made was full of attentive care. Two silent tears traced Camassia's cheeks, which she quickly wiped with a corner of her sleeve, mirroring how her mother had cleared the wound of impurities.
Arwen completed her work, wrapping the new bandage snugly, but not too tight. She straightened slowly, her gaze settling once more on Camassia.
"This man is dear to you, my child," Arwen said, not as a question. "Why is he so precious to you?"
Camassia swallowed, forcing her voice to steadiness. She stepped forward, placing her hand once more upon Théodred's, as if to ensure he was still there.
"My story with him goes far back… but there was Orthanc," she began, her voice hoarse.
She did not wish to recount these last seven years.
"I thought I was lost… alone, unaware that my siblings had returned with me in those times. But Théodred came for me. He entered Saruman's lands, risking capture or death, not out of duty, but through personal commitment. He heard me when I told him what to do… and trusted me."
Her eyes, which had been dry throughout the recounting, filled again.
"I feared that at the end of it all, I would be alone."
She lowered her head, unable to meet Arwen's clear, steadfast gaze.
"But he, Mother… when I thought I was alone, he was the one who told me… that I would always have a place to return to when this war ended… that we would spend our years together… when I was no one, neither a king's daughter nor of use."
Arwen said nothing. She took Camassia's hand, gently releasing Théodred's, and held her daughter's hand firmly.
Camassia, who always claimed she never cried, allowed herself to weep. She sobbed, seated at the edge of the bed, head bowed, her mother at her side.
The council chamber where her companions waited was austere and lofty; the great tapestries of Rohan, usually vibrant with the history of the Éorlingas, seemed mute under the weight of uncertainty. The table was cluttered with maps and notes. The atmosphere was a stark contrast to the measured silence of the infirmary, tense, electric, heavy with the anticipation of Mesmelaslel, the sister who now bore the weight of an unwritten but known history, an unfolding future waiting to be revealed.
Upon entering, Camassia found the Fellowship gathered. Eldarion, her elder, sat apart, his expression as grave as a rocky peak. Mesmelaslel stood at the far end of the table. Once Camassia was seated, Aerlindiel, her sister seated the closest, offered a gentle, encouraging smile. Silence stretched as Gandalf spoke, opening the session.
"We must gather, for time presses, and the mists upon the road we must take, have finally been lifted."
His voice was firm, without hesitation.
"You know that the key to our understanding lies in what Frodo would have written with his own hand, the completed account of a story that is still ours. This book, which Mesmelaslel here has read, Mesme, if you please."
"My reading allowed me to recall the critical stages of what must come to pass. I think, as Gandalf does, that some improvisation must remain; what I say here should only been taken as counsel, not order."
She paused, letting the words settle. All listened intently.
"My first point concerns the route taken in the past… or future, it matters not, by Frodo and Sam to bring the Ring to its fated place: Mount Doom."
"They went unnoticed, a blessing indeed," Boromir exclaimed, not yet fully aware of all the details. "Only two? But the Great Gate is impregnable."
Mesmelaslel nodded.
"Yes. The book is clear on this. The danger is not the Black Gate itself, but the time lost in circumventing it or finding a breach. Frodo and Sam will not cross the Morannon."
A murmur of hope ran through the assembly.
"They will pass through the gap in the Ephel Dúath, the Mountains of Shadow."
A shiver ran through them.
"These lands are cursed."
"There is a route. It is dreadful, guarded by Mordor's oldest and foulest enemy, and it will be unlocked through the betrayal of a guide they have unwittingly with them. But it exists. They will go through a place called Cirith Ungol, and from there enter the Lands of Shadow."
Camassia felt a wave of relief. She had not remembered this part of Frodo and Sam's story in the book Mesme had read to them before their time travel. Now grown, she realised her sister had greatly softened the tale; the part of the two must have been dark and terrible, for she spoke only of the battles fought by their father and his companions.
Mesmelaslel left no room for questions, moving immediately to the next point, the most consequential strategically.
"I will give no further detail on this route. When the time comes, I will personally guide Frodo along it. Who will accompany us is yet to be decided, but I will not allow our path to be known in advance."
"That is for the best," Gandalf approved.
"So… we let them go through cursed lands. Why not go with them all?"
"For my father must go to Gondor, and he cannot go alone."
All eyes turned to Aragorn, who observed silently in a corner of the small council chamber. Boromir frowned but made no comment.
"We might think that attacking Mordor is our best course, to clear it of all orcs to allow Frodo to pass, but we will not succeed without a free Gondor."
She swept her gaze across the room, ensuring all understood the gravity of her words.
"It is imperative that we liberate Gondor first," she repeated.
"Why, Mesmelaslel?" asked Glorfindel, brow furrowed. "The time we spend freeing Minas Tirith is time that the Ring spends in Frodo's unguarded hands."
"Because Sauron's forces are not yet fully committed. Frodo's account explains that, for now, Sauron will only send roughly half his forces to attack Gondor. The remainder, a colossal army of orcs and servants, remains in Mordor and along its borders, awaiting the order for total invasion."
"Which means that the battle to be fought in Gondor in February will not be the last… it was so in the past."
The room fell completely silent.
"The strategy, then, is as follows," Mesmelaslel continued. "Once the city of Minas Tirith is free, Gondor and Rohan must march together, as in the old days, towards the Black Gate."
"It is a suicidal march!" exclaimed Gimli. "To walk straight into the Enemy with two weakened realms?"
"It is the price of the diversion," Aragorn replied. "It is the only way to draw Sauron's full attention to a credible military threat."
"Only an army, led by the heir of Isildur, claiming to challenge the Power in its lair, can distract the Eye from its true target: Frodo slipping through Cirith Ungol. We must make Sauron believe that the Ring is with us, at the Black Gate, waiting to be used against him."
A shiver ran through Camassia; she finally understood.
"Sauron does not know… that we will destroy the Ring."
Gandalf nodded in agreement.
"We must remember that; he would never believe us foolish enough to do it. He will think we would be consumed by him and try to defeat him with… The strategy is sound."
"And it has proven itself, as we know it once worked… but my father must lead the attack," Mesme added. "For he alone is feared by Sauron, just as Isildur was feared."
Boromir stiffened.
"Our primary concern is Denethor, steward of Gondor."
"My father is loyal to Gondor."
"Loyal, but with a poisoned mind, not only through despair and jealousy of Aragorn, but through his use of the Palantír of Minas Tirith. Sauron has manipulated him, showing the overwhelming power of Mordor, driving him to madness, making him believe in inevitable defeat," explained Mesme. "The first step will be to free him, as Camassia freed the king… but above all… Boromir, you must take charge of the city's defences to ensure a proper defence is organised."
"That was the case before my departure… My brother Faramir is just as capable, even better than me; he will know…"
"That is not all," Mesmelaslel continued, her voice dropping, solemn. "Denethor is wasting his forces and clarity, insisting on building a useless wall and deploying his men poorly… and failing to support the only man still capable of leading Gondor in the present."
"What does that mean, in practice?"
"It means the city of Osgiliath will soon fall. The Nazgûl, leading the assault, will retake it, using their terror to break the will of men. And in his madness, Denethor will order Faramir to attempt to reclaim it. It will be a suicidal mission, a needless sacrifice of men who will be swept away."
Boromir straightened, eyes wide.
"He…"
"He survives in my recollection… but at a heavy price. And that was to prevent Denethor, in his madness, from burning him alive."
She fixed him with her gaze.
"I was not there to stop it…" Boromir pleaded.
Mesmelaslel held his eyes. And then a chilling cold filled the room.
"I was not there! Say it!"
"You were not there."
"I was here with you?"
She shook her head.
"You were no longer there."
He slumped in his chair, his face buried in his hands.
"This future does not have to repeat itself," Camassia intervened. "For many things have already changed."
"Then how can one believe in anything?"
Camassia stood and stepped before him.
"We cannot prevent Denethor's madness if his heart is too consumed, for his fear is real. Sauron has used the Palantír, which shows all possible futures, to show him only the worst… you are alive now, and we will change many other things."
Boromir grasped her hand, pressing it firmly, his eyes bright with moisture. She nodded, jaw set.
"We must all be ready, for the war will begin in February. We must move before that, but Rohan cannot advance for Gondor until called, so as not to draw attention."
"That leaves us just over two months to prepare," calculated Glorfindel. "Your strategy is to wait?"
"Wait and be ready, yes. For when winter has passed… we will have to choose who will play which role… staying all together will not be possible, we cannot go in numbers to Mordor without being detected. I will go as guide, and Aerlindiel will go in support; that is all we know for now… And Sam has made it clear he will come with us and Frodo, which I approve of."
A deadly silence fell over the room. Camassia felt her blood run cold. She would be separated from her sisters. Or should she go with them?
"The choice will be each person's own."
"And what of Gollum? What did the book say of him?"
The question came from Legolas, hanging in the heavy air.
Eldarion
Mesme's hesitation prompted him to speak, to defend her.
"The question is not what the Book reveals of his role," Eldarion interjected, his voice sharp in the heavy air. "The question is what we know of him. And what we know is that Gollum is a traitor."
He left no room for debate.
"He is the one who led Frodo along the path I speak of… but it was by treachery; Frodo and Sam owed him nothing. I will go as a guide, and he will not. Yet… I advocate leniency towards him, for as guilty as he is, Gollum's betrayal is more nuanced, and paradoxically, vital."
She leaned on the table, hands clasped.
"The Book said that there are two entities within him: Sméagol, the poor wretched being who still remembers a shred of goodness, and Gollum, the twisted thing, devoured by the need for the Ring. This distinction is a luxury we cannot afford: if Sauron manipulates him or the Ring consumes him, the result is the same, the loss of Frodo. A poison is a poison, whether subtle or violent."
There was a silence.
"Furthermore… Gollum holds an intense, personal grievance against me. Should Frodo's goodness awaken anything in him, his hatred of me would drive it away… and I do not trust him enough to risk giving him a chance to betray us, even with me present to prevent it."
"What is this great grievance against you, Mesme?" Eldarion asked suddenly.
Mesmelaslel shifted her gaze, her eyes darkening.
"With Father, we have hunted him for long… and we have fought too often together for him not to bear resentment."
She concluded with desperate firmness:
The time for strategy had passed, yielding to the logistics of despair.
Eldarion looked at his sisters. All were deep in thought. He thought of the young Mesme, confronted as a child by Gollum, whom she had called the treacherous one, when he had tried to enter the Elven fortress to devour the infants within. He understood well that the antagonism the creature felt for his sister was mutual. And he would not judge her for it.
As everyone began to rise and move away, Mesmelaslel cleared her throat, her expression serious. She had one last point.
"Father," she said, her voice strengthening, "prepare yourself, for I have one final instruction for you before we depart… for without them, victory, I believe, will be lost."
The council had adjourned, yet its consequences lingered heavily in the cold dawn air of Edoras. Eldarion left the great hall of Meduseld, his heart weighed down.
He paused on the broad wooden terrace, overlooking the steep slope down to the town. The air was sharp and biting, carrying the scent of the plains' wind that chased away the smell of burnt wood and blood. Eldarion drew a deep breath, striving to purge from his mind the images of ghosts and corruption. He gazed at the brightening sky, seeking an anchor in the simple, physical reality of the present.
He was still wrestling internally when he heard firm, steady footsteps ascending the stairs behind him.
It was Éomer. The nephew of King Théoden came from the training grounds, his light armour still dusted, his mail shirt stained with sweat. His sword was drawn, pointing to the ground, a cloth tied around his wrist. He stopped beside Eldarion.
"The wind is perfect this morning for erasing the traces of the night… your council is over?"
"Yes… just recently."
"Is Mesmelaslel free of urgent matters? I had hoped to enlist her. I believe a morning training session would be beneficial, after the siege. One must feel alive."
Eldarion felt a stir within. It was clear that Éomer's affection, or at least a burning admiration, for his sister Mesmelaslel was no secret. There was a simple, disarming sincerity in his question. Eldarion had long struggled to accept Merry, whom he could imagine only suitable for his sister, having known her for so long… but he had also known Éomer in youth, and the man had become king of Rohan, married a noblewoman, and had children… he could not imagine him loving his sister.
Nor, his sister loving him back.
Before Eldarion could respond, the door behind them opened. Mesmelaslel appeared, clad in a simple tunic and supple leather, her training sword sheathed. She was not alone: Éowyn, Lady of Rohan, accompanied her, bearing a long wooden practice sword. They made an impressive pair.
"Éomer. I hope you've kept some energy for us."
"I was just coming for you, and I always find it difficult to refuse a bout with a fine lady."
Mesmelaslel ignored the innuendo with an amused smile and moved towards Eldarion.
"Will you join us, Eldarion?"
She extended her training sword to him. It was dense, heavy wood, designed to mimic the weight of a real blade.
"We shall need it soon."
A flush rose to Eldarion's face. The invitation was impossible to refuse. It was a chance to reconnect his body to the sword.
"An excellent idea. I shall join you."
Eldarion goes to his chamber to change and take his own sword, and join them to the training lawn, where small groups were already at work. Glorfindel stood in the centre, overseeing a group of Hobbits, Sam, Frodo, Pippin, and Merry, as well as Aerlindiel and Camassia. Aerlindiel held a short spear with intense concentration, while Camassia wielded a short sword with diligent study… and considerable awkwardness.
He thought with amusement how she had once mocked him. But he felt mature enough not to remind her.
Eldarion exchanged a glance with Glorfindel. He then positioned himself opposite Éomer for a series of simple exchanges.
As he lifted the wooden sword, disappointment struck bitterly. His body felt heavy, foreign. He had spent years carrying this tall frame in a world of sleep and stasis, and the few days in Middle-earth had not sufficed to re-anchor him. He was tall, strong, more so than in childhood, but the agility and muscle memory of a warrior were sorely lacking.
Every movement was off. Éomer's strikes were swift, precise, and though the Rohirrim displayed no malice, Eldarion struggled to block, pivot, and parry. His arms were slow, his feet hesitant.
A well-placed kick from Éomer, aimed to unbalance without harm, finally toppled him. Eldarion fell heavily into the damp grass, his training sword sliding from his hand. His breathing was short and harsh, and his muscles burned. He was exhausted, humiliated before his sisters and Éomer.
Éomer extended a hand, concern on his face.
"Well, you must be tired from last night."
Eldarion ignored the hand, letting himself sink onto his back in the grass, breathless. He understood his caution, for he was the twin of Mesme, who commanded respect among all Rohirrim despite her gender. He looked at the blue sky, feeling bitterness rise. He heard Mesme telling him to catch his breath and asking Éomer to duel with her.
Glorfindel, training the Hobbits in evasion, approached quietly and leaned near Eldarion.
"That was a fine attempt," Glorfindel remarked. "And a very necessary fall."
Eldarion sighed, humiliation gnawing at him.
"I am inept, Glorfindel. Not merely tired. My body no longer obeys my mind. I am… slow. Why is it so difficult?"
Glorfindel smiled suddenly in a way that made Eldarion flush, more than shame alone would allow. He had not intended to be so candid. He gestured toward the Hobbits struggling to strike a moving target.
"The problem is not the body, Eldarion," he explained gently. "The problem is the memory of the child."
He turned to him, voice firmer.
"At twelve years of age, you had a low centre of gravity, swift and agile, perfectly suited to a child's frame. Your warrior's subconscious remains fixed on that configuration. But you have grown. You possess the stature of an adult, a higher, more powerful centre of gravity, yet the weakness of your strikes shows you do not know how to use it."
He added,
"You are trying to apply a child's reflexes to an adult body. You must first reclaim this great body, feel it, understand it as a stranger, before you can command it as a friend."
Eldarion had never considered it in that light.
"I have always been poor in combat, Glorfindel. Even before," he muttered, the jealousy of a man feeling inadequate. "Now, I envy Mesmelaslel… when she was the one envying me the right to learn."
The Elf chuckled, a bright, clear sound that broke the tension.
"Ah, the grand age of twelve, allowing you to declare 'always'! Was it at twelve that you decided you were inept?"
He shook his head, both amused and stern.
"Your sister spent years failing, injuring herself, crying from exhaustion, to become as skilled as she is today. She worked, she persevered, surely under patient masters too, for she learned from the elves of the dark forest. And you expect to match her by sitting despondent in the grass? Only those who do not train become poor fighters."
The rebuke stung but was just. He shook Eldarion, bringing him back to reality.
Eldarion extended his hand, and Glorfindel returned his training sword. The weight of the weapon was both a reminder of failure and a promise of work.
"You are right. I must return to the basics. May I join the training you offer to my sisters and our friends? I promise to be diligent and not declare myself inept before proving it."
Glorfindel smiled, this time with sincere satisfaction.
He joined the group of Hobbits, humbling himself by repeating the simplest exercises: footwork, balance, shoulder positioning to support the weight of a strike.
Glorfindel proved to be a demanding, sometimes impatient master, treating him as any other student. He made him work for hours on details that seemed trivial. Progress was a slow, stubborn beast.
There were hours of cold sweat, frustration, when the wooden sword felt as heavy as steel. He worked tirelessly on exercises: breathing techniques, absorbing a blow without losing balance.
He often watched Mesmelaslel and Éomer train together. Eldarion could not help admiring them, tinged with shame. Mesmelaslel had not been born skilled; she had chosen to become so through arduous labour, and this realisation fuelled his own determination.
The biting autumn cold shifted to a winter chill. Peaks were already dusted with white, but one morning Eldarion awoke to find the plains themselves blanketed in pristine snow. The city's noise was muffled, and a strange, almost sacred calm enveloped Edoras.
Training was cancelled. Eldarion found himself alone outside Meduseld, watching large, silent flakes drift down.
He was soon joined by Mesmelaslel. She stood beside him, silent, observing the same scene. Snow settled softly in her dark hair, making her appear paler, more ethereal.
"It's beautiful," he said softly. "The first snow. The world pauses for a moment."
Mesmelaslel nodded.
"Yes. A silence we have not had in a long while."
She turned to him, her eyes carrying a hidden anxiety. She scooped a handful of snow and let it fall through her fingers.
"Sometimes," she murmured, "I wish winter would last forever."
"Because it buys us time?" he asked.
"Because we all know what spring will bring," she replied. "The mustering of armies. The moment when we must traverse those paths. I am weary, Eldarion… before the battle has even begun."
"We all are…" he answered. "Myself foremost. But that is the beauty of what we do: we buy a spring for those who come after… as our father once fought for ours."
He offered a faint smile. She nodded, rising.
"Let us find Aerlindiel and Camassia; it is cold."
They returned together to the great hall, where the atmosphere contrasted sharply with the serenity of the snow. The fire crackled loudly, and near the hearth a heated dispute was underway. Aerlindiel stood apart, face closed, hands clenched.
"It's absurd, Camassia!"
Théodred's voice, just risen from his bed and still swathed in bandages, snapped with frustration.
"You will not go alone with him! The roads will be impassable. Should you not remain among your own as long as possible?"
Camassia weathered the storm with quiet defiance, as if equally inclined to roll her eyes and provoke the man further. He ran a hand through his hair in exasperation.
"Where are you going, Camassia?" Eldarion asked first.
He felt Mesmelaslel flinch beside him. Camassia straightened and, only then, looked at them.
"As soon as the harshest month of winter passes, and the half days of January make themselves felt, I shall depart with Boromir for Minas Tirith."
Eldarion felt his heart tighten.
"But… why leave so soon?" Mesme asked. "Alone, no less."
"Not alone, with Boromir."
"Almost alone," said Mesme. "We do not even know if it is safe for you."
"Boromir is right. If we are to free Denethor from his madness, we cannot afford to arrive with the armies of Rohan and Aragorn coming to depose him. He must be convinced peacefully. I can achieve this far better alone. Even leaving in early January, we will have only a few days before the armies arrive."
Eldarion stared, astonished.
But before he could speak,
"I understand… it is your role; I shall not prevent you."
Mesme's words struck him beyond all expectations.