þá gástas of forþgewitennesse



Biting cold winds blew harshly outside Blōdflæd's small house. It was dark and the only light came from the flickering fireplace and several candles dotted here and there around the room. It was quite pretty, the orange light of the flames flickering into the darkness of the night. There was not much decoration inside anymore - for she had been getting rid of her belongings here in Bree during the summer, for she had planned to go back home to the Maerc. But, she hadn't. She stayed here with The Black Steel. She'd been hurt and fighting alongside the company had helped her grow strong again. She'd led them through dire situations and somehow they'd come out on top... barely though.

Accusations of murder, which had turned out to be true, almost broke the shieldmaiden. It wasn't her fault that the others had killed the wrong women. She didn't really blame the others, either. Lheuwen had been trying her best in the situation and she was not used to the burden to leading the people of the Black Steel. Bregeswith... She just did her job, really. Plus, she wasn't as heavily associated with the Black Steel as the rest, coming and going most of the time. Carmillia... She was the one that had scouted ahead, the woman's words herself when she'd told Blōdflæd about the mission to kill the Hag. She'd said that she saw an old woman in the house, but she wasn't sure if it was the Hag. She'd wanted to wait longer to confirm whether or not it was the Hag, but with the pressure on her shoulders, she and the rest of the group made the wrong call, although they didn't know it at the time. Blōdflæd wondered if she could have been able to realise that the old woman wasn't the Hag, but she quickly put those thoughts to rest, as it was in the past now and there was no use in dwelling on something she wasn't there for.

She'd done her best redeeming the company for the murder, although she'd struggled through most of it. She'd dealt with unnatural things before, but this was different. It felt like it could not be beat. They'd almost lost Thorbeck to the shadow creature and she'd thrown herself in the firing line when the shadow creature attacked the bridge. Yet, somehow, they'd defeated it. The cackles of the Hag that she'd envisioned wouldn't go away anytime soon, however.

Now, all was quiet. Lheuwen was leading a band of some of the company to meet someone who'd sent them a mysterious letter. Fiontann was busy running things, as usual. Athlenah spent more time than Blōdflæd herself at the training hall. There was no immediate threat and it made the shieldmaiden uneasy. Peace had always made her feel that way - no matter how hard she tried, she could not settle for a peaceful life; she always had to be fighting something.

She'd thought she was fed up with it, after losing those most dear to her in the great war that took her from defending Helm's Deep for the armies of Isengard to rushing into almost certain death at the Pelennor. She'd only survived out of pure luck and strength of will, only to find those that she'd fought for had perished. However, the more she spent sitting at home, with no sort of threat, no danger hanging over her head, the more she realised that she missed it. Going back to the Maerc, like she'd planned to do in the summer, wouldn't help that. Only staying here with the Black Steel would.

Upon that realisation, Blōdflæd had another epiphany. She missed when she was younger, just about to reach twenty, when she and Lieta had led the company on adventures together. It was rough and they'd got captured, maimed and broken, but the sense of adventure that had filled their hearts was what had really made her happy. She'd tried to lead the company on a venture of Gondor to rekindle that spirit, but the sparks didn't catch alight.

Blōdflæd's mind wandered astray for a few moments, thinking to Lieta again. It was hard to think about Fiontann's adopted daughter, who was the same age of Blōdflæd. She was dead now, though. Killed, by a friend who was cursed. Fiontann hadn't touched her room, let it rest as Lieta last left it when they'd set out on that adventure that she never returned from. In the recent fire, the bed had gotten singed and the books burnt. Yet, the builders had left it alone. With the lingering smell of charred furniture, the blackened room felt more like a ghost of the past than ever now.

Perhaps it was time to move on from the past... Blōdflæd looked at the bare walls around here. Perhaps Lieta's memory should not be a burnt room, now. Perhaps Blōdflæd shouldn't try to live a peaceful life anymore. Perhaps, it was time to move on.