My Winter

A/N The poem in the beginning of the story belongs to me.
Ch.4 …The Brave Never Bend…
Darkest Before Dawn
Darkness is thickest
Before a light is seen.
The world falls down
At the sight of light.
The shroud of night
Falls heaviest before dawn,
As the stars fade
Into the breaking day.
Your soul consumed
By angst, anger and anguish.
Just when hope arrives,
Darkest before dawn.
~Aragorn’s POV~
The ride from Minias Tirith to Ithilien was proving to be harder than it had been in previous years. The snow was heavy on the ground from a winter storm the night before. Still, I pushed my men on this morning, wanting to reach Ithilien by dusk. As a new day broke across the fading twilight, my company was already following the stream of Morgulduin southwards towards Ithilien. The stream had frozen over and the forest around it was pleasing to the eye; trees bare of naught but a sheer coat of ice on their limbs and a sea of white as far as the eye could see. For almost a moment, I could pretend that the world was still in mourning over its Evenstar.
Eomer brought me back from my thoughts as he spurred his steed, Firefoot, closer to me. Over the past few years, we have grown close as friends. The King of Rohan has yet to take a wife and often spends many nights reminiscing with me about adventures of old in the Golden Halls or in Gondor. He, along with a handful of others, are the only people who keep me from goingzy wzy with grief.
I look up to meet the gaze of my friend and sigh when I see the worry that mars his face. Eomer has grown in past years into a competent ruler with a fair hand and wise head. As such, he sees it as his personal responsibility to make sure that those closest to him are happy. I know I am to receive another of his mothering lectures and ready myself for the on slaughter of concern and worry.
But the words do not come. Instead, his icy blue eyes simply stare into my own hard gray eyes and search for something. I am not sure what he is looking for, but in the lifelessness of winter he will not find any life in me. I have told him time and time again that it is not worth the energy to try and pull me out of my perpetual state of mourning. My protests often fall on deaf ears.
“You are growing more distant with each passing year, my lord. I worry for your welfare as well as tof yof your son. He knows only the warm touch of a nanny and naught of his own father,” Eomer spoke slowly, choosing the right words to use to broach such a delicate matter.
I sigh. Eomer has become much more vocal in recent months about my detachment from Eldarion. I know that I keep my own son at a distance, but I truly believe it is for the best. This way, he does not have to know about the failures of his father and the love I cannot offer him. It is selfish, I know, but such is the sacrifice of nobility.
“I appreciate the concern, old friend, but this detachment will be good for Eldarion. He will learn early on that the world is a harsh and cruel place. Therefore, he will grow up without expecting anything from anyone and will not be hurt when others let him down,” I reply with what seem like rehearsed words.
“Nay! That excuse will not care anymore, my lord. It has been five years. Five years since you cared what your son did with his days. Five years since I have seen you offer him any sign of paternal affection. The prince knows more warmth from his father’s friends than his father himself,” Eomer hisses softly, “The king I knew charged head on into a fray of orcs and Uruk-hai with the hopes of raising a family in a safe world. You have your hope, but where is it? I do not see it in your eyes or in your demeanor. You are cold and detached from all, save your friends. Even with us, you are nothing but a mere shadow of the great man you once were.”
“The future I fought so hard for is not complete without my wife, my Evenstar,” I reply in a dangerously soft voice, “I risked my life time and time agjustjust for the chance to claim my birthright and to live with Arwen by my side. How was I rewarded? With four years of brief happiness and then sentenced to a lifetime of grief and sadness. The day Arwen died is the day my belief in hope vanished. I do not seek to feel alive again. So I would suggest you stop wasting your time looking for a man that does not exist anymore.”
With a nudge of my stallion, I took off across the snow. I urge Brego on faster and faster, hoping to outrun the pain that my conversation with Eomer had unearthed. I could vaguely hear the cries of my men as they race to keep up with me.
Suddenly, a noise caught my ears. I pull Brego to a stop and sniff the air. A foul smell assaults my senses and I realize it is the stench of orcs. Quick as lightening, I spur Brego into a full-on gallop towards the smell.
As we ride, a flurry of snow begins to fall across the barren landscape. It obstructs my vision, so I pull on Brego’s reins to slow down. As we trot through the snow, I am aware of Eomer and his men slowly down behind me. We keep our horses on a slow trot through the slushy ground until we stop at the banks of Morgulduin.
I draw my sword and pull my fur-linen cloak closer around me. Jumping down from my horse, I quietly stalk to the very edge of the river bed and look at the naked trees on the opposing bank. Eomer creeps next to me and together we wait for the snow to abate before we move on.
As the snow falling begins to lessen, I am able to make out black shapes standing out beyond of ridge of snow we are hiding behind. They appear to be standing around something in a circle; a kill, no doubt. Softly, I place a tentative foot on the ice. After ascertaining the ice’s stability, I give the signal for my men to follow. Like a pack of lions on the hunt, we move soundlessly and quietly behind the pile of snow towards the circle of Orcs. As we look out, I am taken back by the sigh that greets my eyes.
What I had assumed to be a group of ten or twenty orcs has slowly diminished into a barely-able group of five. Two figures are moving across the ice, performing twirls and spins that I imagine have captivated more than one of my men. It seems as if every time they bring their odd boots into contact with the bewildered orcs, it falls from an injury. Black blood has begun to stain the pristine ice, contrasting sharply against its white exterior.
I am mesmerized by the two figures. They move with the grace of the Eldar, but bear the bodies and faces of the race of Men. They seem to be almost dancing across the ice, weaving a story with their precise movements and calculated steps. It is a most beautiful thing to watch, something such defiled beings as orcs should not be witness to.
Remembering the orcs, I shake my head from my reverie and give the signal for my men to shoot the remaining orcs down. With the deadly accuracy only seasoned warriors can have, a volley of arrows rain from the sky. The arrows reach their target in the bodies of enemy and I watch with grim satisfaction as each of the remaining orcs fall.
Standing up, I walk softly out from behind the ridge of snow and call for my men to do the same. The stench of deatngs ngs heavily on the winter breeze and it is all I can do to not turn around and leave the mess to my men. But I am curious about the strange ice dancers and wish to see if they are alright.
As I round the bend in the river, I am first to see the figures finishing their dance and coming to a halt on the ice. Their clothes are stained with blood and grim. I notice one of the figures, a blonde-haired woman, is speaking rapidly to her companion. I do not think they are aware of my presence, so I give a slight cough to announce my entrance.
Both of the figures turn to face me and I am taken back. The figures are indeed female, as I had previously thought, but it is the face of the taller woman that strikes me first. Her wind-blown dark blonde hair was cut so short that from a distance, she could have been mistaken for a man. Soft brown eyes stared back at me from behind thick, curvy lashes. Tiny lines of age were evident on her weathered face, but they seemed to only enhance her high cheekbones and small, rose-shaped mouth. I know that I have met this woman before but it is not until she speaks that I know from whence I met her.
“Estel,” she spoke softly, a look of disbelief spreading across her face. She looks me directly in the eye, a sign of a brave and courageous soul. Few of my own men will look me in the eye, so it is unusual that this mere slip of a woman would do so. As my eyes meet hers, I feel naked within her gaze, my soul bare and vulnerable. I work quickly to put up my defenses, but it is too late. She has seen the coward that lurks behind a crown.
I did not think much of my dreams about the strange woman who spoke so oddly. I had assumed more sleep and less sex were needed in my night hours and had simply forgotten the woman that had awoken something long buried in me. But here she was, in the flesh, standing mere feet from me.
Suddenly, her face becomes a few shades too pale and for the first time I notice the arrow that is protruding from her shoulder. I realize the blood that has soaked her tunic is not that of orcs, but her own. Cursing myself for my stupidity, I am there to catch her as she faints on the ice.
In seconds, her companion is beside me, asking questions that seem foreign to my ears. This woman, this Rosemund from my dreams is real and lying unconscious in my arms. I feel the heat coming from her labored breathing and her rapid heartbeat races wildly against my chest. For a moment, I simply breath in the fragrance of my dream woman. She smells of newly-fallen snow and jasmine.
Pulling myself back to reality, I call for Eomer to gather the men and her hysterical companion as I lift the woman effortlessly into my arms. I am almost around the bend of the river when I feel a small body pressed against my right leg. I looked down and see a little girl looking up at me. Light blonde curls fall around her doll-like face and white skin. Her eyes are a light brown, the same eyes as the unconscious woman in my arms.
“Is Mommy going to die,” the little girl asks softly. I would expect a child so young to not understand the real meaning of life and death. But looking into the haunting eyes of this little girl, I knew this was not the case. The little one hadn den death before and knew its presence intimately.
“Your mother is going to be fine, Anya,” a voice replies from behind me and I turn to see Rosemund’s fair-haired friend come from behind me. She sweeps the little girl into her arms and cradles her against her chest.
I suddenly feel the wind picking up and look to the morning sky. Gray clouds are slowly rolling in from the east. The sky has grown bleak and dark. All the signs of a snowstorm.
“We are about a few hours north of Minias Tirith. You will ride with us so that we may find a healer for your friend,” I say with underlying authority to my men, but mostly to the strange woman in front of me.
Her blue eyes quickly grow round with anger and confusion. Slowly, as if measuring her words, the stranger replies, “I will ride with you not because you decree it so, but because my sister-in-law’s life is on the line. I don’t know what happened, but this certainly isn’t Vancouver. After we reach this Minias Tirith, I want answers and I want them from you.”
Before I had a chance to retort, the short woman turns on her heel and walks towards our horses. I stare down at the lady in my arms. Her face has grown pale, almost to the point of being white. A blue tint is beginning to form on her lips and I know that to stay any longer in the cold weather would mean death for her.
As I begin to walk towards the horses, the wind picks up all around the lake. An eerie feeling seeps into my bones as the swift wind whips around me. Shrugging off my cloak, I wrap it around the shivering woman in my arms.
As I pick her up once more, a soft voice reaches my ears. It is so faint that most would miss it, but being raised by elves has honed my hearing. The voice is whimsical and light, like the wind. Straining to hear what it is saying, I catch the last part of its mantra.
“…so it begins,” the light voice says with a laugh. Then, as quickly as it came, the voice is gone, replaced by the howling of the winter wind.