Xanderian sat on the luxurious carpets before the great fire in the Scholars Hall, her knees tucked up like a little girl as she studied several aged maps of Evendim and fair Annuminas. The cavernous room was inky black all around her, only broken by the deep red glow of the fire.
She huddled closer to the roaring flames and glanced around at the shadowy chamber around her and smiled. The isolation and silence pleased her. It had been her habit more and more of late to seek refuge in these resplendent halls of learning, as they reminded her of girlhood days that she had once forgotten. The scent of old leather and crisp parchment, the lingering mist of sweet tobacco smoke and the sharp tang of fresh ink reminded her all the more of days spent in other halls or learning.
Still reeling from the emotional chaos of the last few days, as the sun had set she felt the powerful need to retreat here to complete her planning and to reflect on where she stood and where her road was taking her. She hugged herself in the chilly library and moved closer to the fire, considering not for the first time how strange it was that shadow was encroaching from all sides yet she felt happier and more confident about her future then at any time in her life.
She felt filled with hope, yet so much seemed still unresolved…
What was the Southron brigand, who may or may not have slain Ingfled’s brother doing lingering around the Pony inactive? What orders was he awaiting after Xan had slain the Man from Rhun? She could not believe the threat was passed, but what shape was it now taking?
The relic thieves had suffered a blow when the threesome had destroyed their camp in Naerost but they were rebuilding and all signs pointed to ancient Annuminas and the plaza of Menelband as their source. Soon they would depart to learn more in Evendim and show both Fillegedhiel and Cyndwin the glories of old Arnor, but what truly awaited them there?
Xandilif says that Cily is in danger, bearing a weapon filled with dark intent, and that somehow the Dourhand slaver Mans had returned to their lives. What that would portent, and what connection if any Mans of Kheledur could have to the Southron or the relic thieves remained to be seen, but the huntress did not believe in coincidence.
She sighed, putting all those thoughts and odd contradictions aside and took a few more careful notes regarding topology and possible foes, painstakingly copied another stretch of coastline from the map into her weathered journal and then gazed again into the fire, her mind’s eye drawn far afield as the chamber cast her mind into a reflective mood.
She gazed at her Fille…curled up asleep next to her warm forge, her dark head resting upon her own crossed arms. Her legs were drawn up as they always were while she slept, seeking to take as little space as possible, to remain unseen like a little girl hiding beneath her bed. Her dreams were still fitfull, haunted by dark weapons and Xanderian’s own rage and the elf felt a pang of regret for having shaken the girl so badly…but then she herself had been shaken. She saw Haywood’s weary eyes upon the woman and felt his affection and deep concern for her. She also felt the edges of a secret that the smith kept from the girl out of fear for her, seeing flashes of a dark woman with desolation in her eyes and death in her heart. She restrained the need to look further into that mystery, trusting in Haywood to do the right thing for the girl.
She gazed upon Cyndwin, asleep with the innocence of a child in the chambers she shared with the elf in the Pony. As she slept, one hand pressed proudly to a warrior’s cuff freshly inked into her arm in the custom of her people, still healing. Xanderian watched her dreams of riding the open fields of the Mark with her fair-haired brother…but the dream soon turned to nightmare as the boy fell into shadow and young Cyndwin could not reach him, even as he screamed for her aid. Listening to the cries of Cyndwin’s brother she heard other voices mixed into the screams, those of Fille and herself, and longed to take her tightly in her arms and wake the girl…but knew she had to wake herself to be truly safe from such visions.
She gazed upon the Lady Arahen, standing proudly upon a hilltop in the barren Mournshaws, gazing down in frustration at the wood trolls that infested it. The lack of order and security saddened the Noldor, as it always did. She felt the powerful weight of untold years upon Arahen and the burden of the expectations of her ageless kindred. She felt as well her love and concern for her pitiful squire and Xanderian sent feelings of security and devotion to her Lady to reassure her. So much had changed since she had first knelt before the Daughter of Orodreth and their bond had grown all the stronger through midnight whispers and shared peril.
She looked at her adopted sister Ingfled, and paused lightly over her dreams, so full of hope and promise despite all the girl had been through. The fact that the girl was so unspoiled in the face of repeated tragedies filled the elf with pride, and encouraged her sense that all things would turn out right. She also felt the girl’s growing affection towards Sir Egg and smiled to herself. Ingfled deserved only happiness from this moment on, she thought…and hopefully Egg can deliver some to her. If not, well, no one would ever find his body.
Shaking her head she dragged her eyes away from the fire…too many others to glance at, too many to try to tend when she was feeling barely competent to tend herself. She considered looking for Xandilif or Cily…but then opted not to. Best to leave that as it is for now…she was too afraid she would not be able to control her anger with her sister over what she said to Fille. The Banshee had meant well, or so Fille says, but still there was no reason to fill the woman’s mind with so much foreboding. No reason at all, and she would not forgive anyone Fille’s pain.
Slowly she rolled up the last of the maps and put away her books in her satchel, mounting the stairs and opening the great doors of the library ahead of her. Dawn was just breaking the sky, painting Bree a soft lavender, the sun half hidden by clouds.
She smiled and whispered to herself. “I am what stands between them and the darkness. I am all that does so. I have walked in the shadow…I have bathed in it. I have let it fill me like a vile poison, let it caress me like an impatient lover. The only reason I still exist after so much must be that I was saved to shield others from all that I have seen, all that I know. I stand between those I love and the shadow and do so proudly…I have made this oath before and it abides still. I will not let them fall. I will not let any of them fall. The Banshee does not understand that, but she will.”
The doors shut behind her with a deep hollow boom as sunbeams streamed all around her, caressing her face. “She will.”
