Strangeness and Charm

To be woken from slumber is bad enough, but to be startled from slumber was a wholly different experience. It was accompanied by fear and panic and a desperate search for what it was that pulled you from the dreamland. The skinwalker stirred in her hand-carved wooden bed and carefully pushed herself up from the lumpy mattress. It was hard for her to sleep comfortably on the pine needle-stuffed cloth when she had experienced what a bed of feathers felt like. She could smell the fire burning in the main room, listening to the crackling of the kindling in the flames. It was an oddly comforting sound of destruction.

The furs proved warmer than she needed and were kicked off to the end of the bed. She had nearly fallen back asleep when the sound of the animals crying out brought her to her feet. A blade was equipped and the instant after an orc cry sounded through the silent night. It was only then that she accounted for the above average heat; she had not only heard the flames devouring the branches in the fire pit—the whole forest had been set aflame. The heart in her chest raced as the front door was chopped down. She saw the axe first and out of reflex cut off the arm attached to it, black blood spraying her. Two more orcs stumbled into her home and she sparred with them, deflecting both of their attacks before successfully letting them run each other with their own blades. She moved quickly to properly clothe and equip herself before leaving.

Outside, Asta had leapt over the fence that used to keep her safe and reared before kicking at another orc. It fell to the ground and her hooves crashed into its skull. In the enclosement Faenorë saw nothing but corpses and understood her only chance at survival was to flee. Even as she worked to calm down Asta, five more orcs emerged from the north carrying torches and iron blades. They spotted her immediately and she knew there was no more time. Heaving herself onto the horse, the animal sped out away from the flames and enemies alike.

There were a dozen things she wanted to take with her. Old things and new things and things that, for her, existed out of time. But in her last moments in front of the small cabin the roof had already begun to catch fire. Even now, moving through the forest, flaming branches fell all around them. More than once the horse spooked and reared so far she almost fell off, but Faenorë used every last bit of magic within her to calm the animal and bend it to her will.

For the most part it was disorienting riding through the forest at night. Even worse, given the lack of saddle and riding gear that she was used to Asta wearing. There hadn’t been time for anything, though; not even time to properly understand what was happening. But as she neared the edge of the forest and the beginning of the plains, she grasped that it was over. The battle that Boromir and his men had subjected themselves to had all been for nothing. Her home was lost. I am lost.

When at last she broke free of the forest Asta slowed and turned to face the place they’d been forced to abandon. The sight stopped Faenorë’s heart. Half of the woods were ablaze; from the Wild Men’s corner far to the North all the way to where her cabin sat in the middle of the Drúadan. Orange destruction was creeping over the treetops like a blanket, moving slowly but steadily. These lands had been officially reclaimed. The impulsive side of her wanted to leave Asta and run right into the thick of the fire to kill every last orc that she could; but her desire to live outweighed the desire for immediate revenge.

At last she tore her eyes from the sight, trying and failing to bury the ache in her chest as she turned to the South. I am south-bound or I am dead. She could try to work her way back to the forest of Mirkwood near the Misty Mountains, but what guarantee did she have that Beorn was there, or even alive? None. Gondor was her last hope once more. Boromir’s pity was the last chance she had. There would be no fight to reclaim her homeland, for by the time the battle ended there would be no more land to claim. The trees and the grass and the plants were patient and would grow back, but she would likely be dead long before. Orcs had a tendency to poison the lands they took. The lands, and all those unfortunate enough to be near them.

“Forgive me, Asta.” She whimpered into the darkness, wholly and completely broken. The horse whinnied, pacing back and forth anxiously at the distant sound of drums and beastly cries. The woman’s arms wrapped around the animal’s neck and she lingered for as long as she dared before pushing south.

The smell of smoke plagued her all the way to the city, at times blocking out the moon itself. Each league that brought her closer to Minas Tirith only proved to fill her with more dread and despair. She could not recall ever falling victim to such sadness. Even after the attack that destroyed her community, no part of her understood things enough to be crippled by it. But now it permeated her like a chill after autumn rain, and it exhausted her. Strange that such emptiness could feel so heavy.

When she at last approached the grand doors of the White City, it took all her strength to lift the horn of Gondor to her lips and sound out the low call for help. There was a shuffling and a series of distant calls before the doors were heaved open. At least eight men stood at arms ready for anything, but hesitated at the sight of a single person.

“Please.” She sounded small, defeated. “I’ve no place else to go.”

“Lady Faenorë?” A voice broke through the silence. One of the men stepped forward; a face she had no name for. He knew of her, though, and that was all that mattered. At once he beckoned her into the city and exchanged words with the other men before promising to lead her someplace where she could seek refuge. He relayed the story of how he believed she had saved them all during the battle of Osgiliath when she sent the Nazgûl away.

“Forgive me, I have not the heart to speak.” She said distantly, eyes glossy as Asta walked slowly beside the armoured man. He nodded and remained silent for the rest of the journey through the labyrinthine paths of the city. When at last he stopped it was before a familiar door. The room she had claimed the first night she stayed in this place. The first time orcs had threatened her home. No, my home is gone.

“I will take your horse to the stables, m’lady.” The soldier said, offering her a hand to dismount. She weakly took it, spending a few moments with Asta to try and convince the horse that everything would be fine (although the consolation was much more for herself than the animal). “Word will be sent to Lord Boromir of your arrival. Are you in need of a healer?”

Faenorë shook her head, waiting until the man turned away with the horse to thank him. He bowed slightly before disappearing around the bend, leaving her to retreat into the only familiar place left for her in the world. The room was as she remembered it; but it harboured an air of emptiness—something she could relate to. Her hands glided over the stone and gripped the carved wood, trying to familiarize these things. On the terrace the night was quiet at first, but the longer she listened the clearer she could hear it.

The sound of fire, the destruction of her home. When her eyes adjusted she could see the smoke against the night sky and at the bottom of the horizon the mountains were breathing orange light. So greatly was she averted to the flames that she had refused to light the candles inside the room. For her, the heat was still too near. A few tears etched lines down her face as the door opened. She did not need to look to know who it was. He crossed over to her in rushed steps, hovering only a few feet away.

“They have taken everything from me.” She finally admitted as he loomed closer. Her eyes were frozen on the distant remnants of the forest, the scene that his eyes soon found. “With fire and iron they have destroyed every home I have ever had.”

His hands were gentle but his expression was hard. Thumbs wiped the tears away and forced her to look away from the sight in the mountains. She watched as he studied the black blood on her clothes and hands, his jaw clenching. Her whole body was weak, legs swaying even when he looked up at her.

“I swear to you,” He said in a low but deadly voice “The orc king’s head will roll at your feet when I am finished with him.”

She wanted to tell him No, don’t go back there. Don’t ever go back there. She wanted to make him understand that you’re the only thing in the world that I have left. But the words would not come and she was just so tired that as the tears came again she collapsed against him. He was more of a refuge than stone walls could ever offer, and the notion of it terrified her to the core. No part of her was ready to be so dependent on one person; to have one’s happiness tied up in another being. To make a home in someone else.

All her life she had been taught to be her own roots, her own sun, her own bed. She knew all the skills required to fend for herself and took comfort in things that could, for the most part, remain unchanged. She had made a home in unmovable mountains and deeply planted ancient trees and a sky that never crumbled. She had taken comfort in the endless plains of grass and wildflowers that came back to her even after a winter of death. But to rely on, to bind oneself to something as fickle and unpredictable as another human being…Have I not already walked this path? Has this lesson not already been learned?

“This room is yours now.” He spoke gently but the sound of his voice rumbled through her chest. “If you are in need of anything, only ask and it shall be yours.”

“I do not belong here, Boromir.” She grimaced, easing away as he frowned at her. “Your people shy away from me and see me as a savage. I do not belong here at all.”

“But you could if you wanted to.” He countered with confidence, taking her hands in his. “It is true you were a stranger in this city, but your name floats through these walls like the stories that surround you. Were you not weary of me when you found us in the forest? And yet here we stand. With time my people will come to know you, admire you, and… love you.”

To that, she could not reply. Of few things she was certain; that his arms were a place of comfort, that his hands fit hers like the sky fit the sea, and that her lips had no other match than his. He gave her a reassuring smile, pushing her wind-swept hair behind her ears and laying his hands on her cheeks. She gently held his wrists, sighing heavily and closing her eyes.

“Sleep, my lady. The sun will rise, a new day will come and the ache will lessen over time.”

She nodded once before pulling on his tunic until their lips met. It was a blissful release from the hollowness within, and it was over all too soon. He released her and crossed the room to the door, bowing before leaving her alone. The longer she lingered on the stone terrace the heavier her lids became until at last she could stand no longer. Her tired limbs and aching heart gladly welcomed the comfortable bed. The weapons and leathers and furs found their home on the floor and she crawled beneath the soft sheets and warm blankets, curling up against the pillow with only one thought pushing through the sorrow: I should have asked him to stay.



The morning brought a familiar face and something even more pleasant; the promise of a warm bath and fresh clothes to don. It was the same woman who had tended to her before who drew the bath and presented her with the clothes. At first she was hesitant, seeing only a dress, but the clothes had definitely been made with her in mind. It begged the question of how long ago Boromir had planned for her to stay. The dress was a simple cut; beige in colour with dark brown embroidery around the neckline and sleeves. Two slits ran all the way up to her thighs, which were covered in soft cotton pants. They were a bit big, but the woman pulled two strings to tighten the waistband.

Faenorë thanked the woman, whose name she found out to be Eglantine, and welcomed the notion of breakfast. She disappeared after that and left the shape shifter in silence once more. Mornings were meant to be quiet, but even from behind a door she could hear the gentle stirrings of the city. Distant voices and horses feet clopping on stone and the clink of metal sliding against metal. It was loud, here. But a welcoming sort of loudness—maybe the kind one could get used to. She was used to the breathing of the eastern wind and the rustling of leaves and the soft braying of her animals. They are all dead, now. All save Asta. Perhaps I should have died with them.

Two knocks against the wooden door spurred her from the trance and she hesitated before going over and opening it. Faramir stood before her, arms full of books and a covered tray. She quickly took some of the books from him as he set the other items down on a table nearby. On his face a sheepish grin had taken over his features while he straightened out his clothes.

“I thought you might want something to read. These were the ones you were looking over last time, I believe. Oh, and breakfast!” He uncovered the tray and revealed hot porridge with a swirl of honey on top, sliced peaches, and a goblet of some fruit juice. She couldn’t help but emulate the smile he was giving her. Just being in his presence somehow alleviated some of the weight on her shoulders. To appease both the man and her growling stomach, she pulled a chair up to the table and started on the porridge.

Faenorë listened quietly as Faramir rambled. He spoke of the city and a recent orc raid he did on the borders of Ithilien (at which point he needed to pull a map out of one of the books to point out where it was), how Osgiliath fared since the last attack, and also how the children she had performed for last time demanded her return. The last point, though, only reminded her of the charred remains of the place she had called home. It struck an ache in her chest that she wished away.

“Faramir…you are knowledgeable of the kings and histories of this world, are you not?” Faenorë asked meekly. The steward’s son nodded once. “Would you…Do you think you could teach me?”
She felt like a hypocrite, caring about the very things she had condemned only weeks before in a furious lash out at Boromir. But he was helping her for what felt like the thousandth time and, as much as it scared her, she cared for him. Deeply. If knowing these names and battles and kingdoms was somehow important to him, she wished to know all about it. The task would help to occupy her mind.

Faramir was happy to oblige, shuffling through the books gently and selecting one with many drawings and maps within. While he spoke she braided parts of her hair and fastened them with wooden beads. He spoke many names that she had trouble remembering; but some stood out like Isildur and Anárion and Numenor. The third age was differentiated from the second age and he spoke of the Elven-king Gil-Galad; of the Last Alliance between men and elves in the fight against the rise of Mordor. She learned of the Golden age and the decline of Gondor and the eventual ending of the King’s line. The closer they came to the present, the sadder the tales became. The more darkness seemed to have spread.

“Do you think…” She hesitated, trying to find the right words as Faramir straightened out the books on the table. “There are many more orcs now, in peopled lands at least, than there have been for some time… Is it possible that something far worse is coming?”

“Do you mean another of the Ainur? One of Morgoth’s line?”

The notion made her fearful but before she could respond at all the door opened. Boromir stood before them in rich robes of crimson red and gold and bowed to them both. At this Faramir took his leave, though not before Faenorë thanked him for the company and the history. When the two were alone he turned to her and allowed a small smile to grace his features.

“Will you walk with me?” He gestured an arm towards the open door and she nodded, tucking the hair behind her ears. They walked out into the open streets of the city, here and there being stopped by a soldier or commoner to answer some query. When the people greeted him, though, they greeted her as well (albeit with more hesitation). It caught her off-guard even after the tenth time. How did they know her name? The feast from last time, no doubt. I wonder if they hide fear behind their well-wishes.

As they walked she got a taste of the true Minas Tirith. It was rich with life and a culture of hard work and just rewards. There was a fairness here that she could appreciate. An order to the labyrinth of stone and wood. It was as they stopped by different shops and families and outposts, though, that she realized her home and Boromir’s home were more similar than she had originally believed. Just as she would tend to the animals and muse amongst the trees and find peace in the cover of branches, he tended the townspeople and found a home in the shaped mountainside and took solace in the view of Pelennor fields.

He led her to the blacksmiths Angor and his young apprentice Malbreth. In the shop hung numerous blades and shields and fine armor, all of which seemed fit for a king. Some of the work was inlaid with precious stones or gold that caught the light like a calm water’s surface. Angor even allowed the shape shifting stranger to try the forge—she was far better at using weapons than she was at making them. They visited other shops as well, like the butcher where she told Boromir of the trick she used that made the meat keep for longer with half the work.

A number of times she stood at his side while he discussed things she did not entirely understand with others. The fractions she did, though, made him sound much more like a clan leader than an army leader. He had the calmness and empathy and patience and love that a clan leader was meant to have. And she could see that love reflected in the people’s eyes; this whole city would not have picked any other to lead them.

He bid her wait by a fountain while he paid a visit to a sick man’s house. She abided, staring idly at her rippled reflection in the water until she was approached by four small girls. They were all golden-haired and clothed in similar blue and white dresses.

“How do you twist your hair like that?” One asked. Faenorë raised a hand to her hair before remembering the braids she’d set in them.

“I just…Well I could do it for you if you’d like.” The lot of them agreed avidly and the first girl sat in front of her on the stone edge of the fountain’s pool. Faenorë gathered the bright locks in her hands and began to weave the way she’d learned how to so many years ago. She could barely remember the inside of Beorn’s cabin. It was massive, at least to the eyes of a child. She recalled the ever-present smell of smoke and wood and the sweet honey at meals and the way he sang in his sleep. She recalled the way the roof felt too close some nights and she would wander out into the pasture to nestle up with the sheep; and how Beorn would always be beside her in the grass when she awoke.

Your mother used to make your hair this way, sweet one, he would say. Your mother would have wanted you to know this song.

As she braided the girls’ hair one by one the song came out in a gentle tone. It took time for the words to return to her but the tune was nearly a part of her. They did not seem to mind at all, each of them focused on touching and feeling their hair when she was done. Only when she was finished did the mother of girls come to claim them, and Faenorë braced herself. A smile was offered instead of a cautious look, though, and with a nod of her head she was off into the emerging crowd of people. Faenorë then caught Boromir watching from afar, a brightness in his eyes that set a fire in her heart. When he approached her all she could think of, though, was the forest and Beorn’s house and the wildness that flowed through her veins.

“You have done nothing but help me, Boromir, and for that I am thankful.” She stammered out, mind unable to catch up with the speed of her speech. “But I cannot tear my mind away from the wilderness. The branches are bound up in my blood and—”

He took her hand in his and nodded as if this was something he had expected. Instead of begging her to stay or insisting she would find her place or promising things he couldn’t possibly know for sure, he simply started to lead her somewhere. She wanted to call out a thousand times to ask where they were going, what the purpose of it all was, but something in her knew it would be worth the wait. And it was.

When they finally stopped, all sounds of the city were silent to her ears. They stood in a narrow stone corridor off the side of an alleyway on the highest level of the city. Boromir pushed open a wooden door and motioned for her to go through it. On the other side stood a sight that nearly brought tears to her eyes: tall white trees as far as she could see. They were topped with small green leaves and a pale fruit of some sort. Beneath them the ground was blanketed in tall grass softer than the finest silk, and through the middle of the meadow ran a small stream that whispered against the pebbles. Immediately her hands moved to touch everything, to reunite with the feeling of nature.

“This place is yours to roam.” He announced from behind her. She turned and walked over to him. “Whether you wish to leave or stay, this city is yours. My allegiance is yours, Faenorë.”

“I wish to stay.” She said without hesitation, eyes stinging with tears as she wrapped her arms around him. He returned the gesture just in time for her to claim his lips, no part of her able to contain the joy of having both her worlds together in once space. When they broke apart he held her hands in his, smile mirroring hers as he made a final request.

“Beregond is to be wed this afternoon. Will you join the ceremony?”

“Of course.” At that she turned to face the sunlight, musing at the warmth and the crispness of the air and the way the grass kissed her fingertips as she waded through the sea of green. She did not doubt that a pass into the mountains could be found up here; and the notion of a secret place to hide that stood so close to the city only made her feel more safe.



“My great-grandfather swears he saw an ent, once.” Iorwen vowed as she worked a brush through Faenorë’s hair. She had hair as dark as midnight and eyes darker still, though her skin was as pale as the moon. As a maid to the nobles of Gondor she was asked to help Faenorë prepare for the ceremony. At first it had made Faenorë nervous—she had only just grown somewhat used to Eglantine—but when Iorwen spoke it felt as if they had met before, in another life. Old souls reuniting with ease.

“His faction got separated from the army during a battle and they ended up amidst the old forest of Fangorn. My father will still retell the story, if he’s got enough ale in him. He wasn’t there but he tells it like he was. Trees as tall as anything with booming groans that rustle leaves and feathers alike. Branches stretched out like hands and feet that could squish you into jelly if you made ‘em mad enough.”

“I don’t think there were any ents in the Drúadan. But the trees, they spoke sometimes.” Faenorë recounted wistfully. “It was frightening at first, but it was almost…comforting after a time. A reminder that I wasn’t alone.”

“It must have been scary, all on your lonesome out there. I wouldn’t last a day.” Iorwen admitted without shame as she began to twist the skin walker’s hair into beautiful intricate braids. “I’m useless without a good night’s rest on a feather pillow and soft sheets.”

“Trees and mountains and wilderness is all I’ve ever known.” She shrugged, watching in the mirror as her hair transformed into something rivalling what the women of Gondor had sported the night of the feast. To the large braid at the back of her head Iorwen tied in a vine of small white flowers with bright yellow centres.

“There.” The girl smiled, stepping back to admire her work as Faenorë did the same. While she danced fingertips against the soft petals Iorwen unwrapped a paper package, tossing the fabric within until it unfolded into a stunning gown. It was Gondorian style, a deep emerald green accented with golden trim and embroidery. It took Faenorë a moment to understand that this was the clothing she was meant to wear. With some encouragement, she allowed the girl to help her into the dress and lace her in. It was disorienting at first, feeling so constricted in the chest, but she could not deny the sight of her reflection.

“One last finishing touch.” Iorwen placed a golden circlet atop her head that was adorned with twisting vines, small flowers and white jewels. I look like a queen, not a savage. Although she brushed her hair often and bathed frequently, it was not uncommon to find lines of dirt beneath her nails or leaves twisted into her hair or dried blood on her skin. But now, she was glowing.

Part of her began to worry profusely that she didn’t at all look like herself—that Boromir was trying somehow to change her. To tame her; something she refused to let happen. But there was nothing to validate such worries; he had only ever accepted her completely. Embraced her wholly. When the fear eventually subsided she was left with wonder and hope. Even in the dress she felt powerful, and knowing that she could easily slip her skin at any moment helped to calm her.

“Lord Boromir awaits you at the stairs to the sixth level, M’lady.” Iorwen gave a small bow and meant to leave but Faenorë took her hand at the last moment.

“Will—Will you come with me?” She stammered out. “I do not know the way.”

It was so vulnerable to need someone for help. It felt like bearing one’s soul. It was the trust that made it difficult and wonderful at the same time. With a smile Iorwen agreed, linking their arms in a fashion that greatly confused Faenorë; but one she accepted all the same. Many people were headed in the same direction; all, she presumed, heading to the ceremony. All the city must be attending. Or at least most of it. Beregond must be a man of importance here. But as they approached the sixth level there was only one man of importance that her eyes were searching frantically for. Iorwen caught her attention and nodded to the walls across the stairs to where a familiar face waited. He was clothed in dark green and black with golden accents that mirrored the ones of her dress.

“Iorwen, I would very much like to return the kindness you have shown me.” Faenorë said earnestly. “If ever you require help, come find me.”

With that they went their separate ways, Faenorë summoning all the courage of her animal counterparts and striding over to the group of men that were gathered around her Captain of Gondor. When she approached it was Boromir who noticed her first, the rest of the men turning to follow his gaze. Their shock made her nervous and she worried that she was wearing something wrong or standing the wrong way, but the look in Boromir’s eyes set her at ease. With a quick farewell the men left them and he took her hands in his.

“Boromir, this is—I appreciate what you’ve done, but—this is too rich for me. I am less than a commoner, I’m a foreigner.”

“Faenorë.” He placed a hand on her cheek, laughing at her rambling. “You are just as the queens of old Gondor—strong, fierce, independent. But you can be caring and patient too. You are dressed as you are—noble. And fair.”

To that she had no response and could do nothing save take the arm he offered. They merged into the crowd, exchanging greetings with others as the lot of them made their way to the grand courtyard on the sixth floor. It overlooked the entire city and Pelennor fields, even the lands of Mordor beyond. The sight was equal parts breathtaking and terrifying, but her senses were quickly overtaken by the banners and flowers and decorations that had been put up in honour of the wedding. Boromir led her to their place near the front and they waited as the courtyard slowly filled with spectators.

Beregond was wedding a lady by the name of Gilraen, and as Boromir told it they had long been in love. The entire ceremony was strange to her, though she found beauty in the exchange of words. But words were hard for her sometimes, she was better with actions. She couldn’t imagine standing where Gilraen stood, a thousand eyes watching every move and a thousand ears listening to every word. The two of them could have been more natural, though. When the words were finished an older man in white robes came forth and spoke—perhaps blessings of some sort—and then Beregond kissed his wife. Everyone began to clap as the couple moved down an aisle through the crowd, every now and then flowers being thrown at their feet.

When they reached the end of the aisle the crowds began to trail after them in a march through the streets in celebration of the union. At some point instruments joined the procession and a joyful song followed them around. The music stayed even when they circled back to a large hall—far bigger than the one she had been in last time. Inside the stone tables were covered with food and drink. The falling sun cast a glow into the room that all the wax candles could not hope to outdo. The group of men who had the instruments made their way to the back of the hall and made a more permanent set up while people chose their seats (although it seemed as though they had a very good idea as to who should sit where).

When everyone had settled in the feasting began; something she knew she could at least do properly. The food was spectacular and the atmosphere was intoxicating and the ale was fantastic and her whole being was buzzing with the fact that Boromir was here and Boromir was hers. It comforted her to have Faramir on her other side as the men across from her joked loudly with the steward’s sons.

“Luckily for Beregond the old traditions died out long ago.” One of the men said, gulping down ale.
“Old traditions?” Faenorë asked before taking a mouthful of turkey. She looked to Boromir who finished swallowing before turning to face her.

“It was custom, in the olden days, for the man to prove his worth as a proposal. The necessary debt, as it was called, was something to be captured or some task to be fulfilled.”

“Finding a gemstone or making a weapon or reciting old poetry.” One man offered.

“The women of Gondor are held in high revere; it was a tradition that guaranteed both parties were ready for the commitment marriage requires.”

“What if she wanted something grand, like a ship? Or a handcrafted house?”

“Then she would be unwed for a very long time.” The older one joked, causing all of them to break out in laughter. Boromir turned to her, his hand finding hers beneath the table.

“What is it you would wish for?” He asked, causing all eyes to fall on her. The sudden attention made her want to withdraw and hide, but instead she was forced to think of an answer. If she could demand anything of a man, what would it be? What did she want most?

“I thought it would be the orc king’s head, but there would only be another one to replace him.” She said with a sudden solemnness that sobered the men. “There was a necklace…from my mother. She said it was magic. I left it in my house when I fled, but it is likely burned or buried or deep in the caves with the orcs. I—I suppose I’m not very good at this.”

The sudden arrival of a big burly man with an intimidating beard pulled the anxiety right out of her and replaced it with caution. He narrowed his eyes at her and crossed his arms over his chest, standing silently for a moment before finally speaking.

“Lady Fae, if I said there’s a blockage up on me rooftop what’s causing water to come inside, and if I said ain’t no soldier wants to help on account of the blockage being so close to the edge of the wall and whatnot, could you help?” At her confused response he pulled up a stool and sat before her. His arms were covered in tattoos that she didn’t understand, but his voice was not at all rough. “I just know that something small could get up there and knock the twigs and leaves out so the water runs right. A raven or maybe a raccoon. Now I wouldn’t ask if you didn’t think you could do it safely,”

“I can. Do it safely.” She said, amazed that the conversation had nothing to do with her being strange or foreign or a nuisance or a witch. He grinned ear to ear—a gesture that was very much contagious—and bowed deeply while thanking her before leaving her as briskly as he’d appeared. It was the first appearance of many, as different townspeople came to her with questions or queries or just general well wishes. A few even offered condolences regarding the atrocity in the forest and the loss of her home. She remained awestruck at Boromir’s side, wondering if this was what being in a community was like. Is this the family I have been missing all my life? Is this what it feels like to have people you can rely on? People who protect one another? Is this what it’s like to have a proper home?

Each drink made her more open to the people’s questions, and soon enough she found herself offering up hunting tips and schooling the soldiers on the way of the wild. She gave them detailed rules for tracking and navigation, but when younger children came around she started recounting tales of her misadventures and journeys. The music played on and the drinks kept coming and Boromir’s hand lay on the small of her back as she spun stories of goblins and wild men and wolves and wargs and the time that the trees were alive.

There was a brief lull in the festivities when Beregond took Gilraen’s hand and led the people in a dance. It was something Faenorë had only ever read about, and although the notion of it seemed silly, it also looked beautiful, in a sad and slow way. She watched the couples for a long time, gauging their steps and trying to find the pattern to the way they moved. Animals had no dancing. No music. And neither did Grimhelm or Beorn. She soon found herself being pulled off the bench, Boromir leading her towards the throng of moving people that confused her so.

“Follow my lead.” He said with amusement before guiding her into position. They began to move and she watched the other women, carefully mimicking their movements. It was easy enough once she realized it was only a few different steps repeated again and again. After that, she calmed and was able to actually enjoy the movement. The music was soft and his body was close and she could not believe that in the span of a day she had lost almost everything yet gained it back tenfold. When the song ended she stumbled, wanting more but understanding that it was over. With a smirk Boromir brought his lips down against hers, not seeming to care that they were in the middle of a gathering of such multitude.

Her cheeks were red hot when he left her, promising to return soon. She was all-too aware of the eyes on her and fled the hall for a breath of fresh air. The beating heart inside her chest was swollen with joy. She sat on the edge of the courtyard’s wall and overlooked the now dark landscape before her. It was only with low grumbling that she realized she was not alone.

“Outsiders…Troublesome…You seek my destruction, harpy!” Denethor’s voice boomed and struck a fight or flight response within her. She was half-tempted to slip her skin and find somewhere he couldn’t reach her, but she then saw he was very much intoxicated and increasingly unsteady. “You will poison my boy and leave him…destroy him…as she…destroyed me…”

“You cannot place your fears on me.” She said with some hidden courage. The broken man frowned sternly at her and braced himself on the wall. The sight of him suddenly made her sad. How deeply must he have loved his wife to have become the man he was now after she had died? “Hating me will not bring her back. And I will not abandon Boromir.”

“He…He must lead the people. The kingdom…there is only us. Only us. He cannot lead with a…without a heart…”

“Denethor.” Faenorë braced the man’s shoulders to straighten him up and saw that his cheeks were stained with water and his eyes were puffy. “These burdens are not yours alone to bear. Do not worry about your sons. They will endure.”

He seemed to awaken at this and stood up a little taller, but without another word he left her in the darkness and went off towards the throne room. She stood a little longer by herself—half in awe that the conversation hadn’t ended in a death sentence—before returning to the celebrations. She was in the midst of searching for a familiar face when a woman grabbed her arm.

“Faenorë.” Her hair was slightly wild and the clothes she wore had seen better days, but she had an honest face. A desperation had taken hold of her features, though, that made the skin walker contemplate a retreat. “I—I do not know if the people have told you to stay away from me, but I beg of you, listen. The others do not believe me, they say I am a crazy old woman. But I fear what I have seen, she-wolf. If I could only make you see…”

The woman reached up to touch her cheek, but the moment they made contact an image flashed into her mind’s eye. It was blurry at first but became clear all at once: it was Boromir. He lay cold and still amongst flattened leaves and dark ground. Three arrows protruded from his chest. He was dead.

“Did—Did you see it as well?” The woman cried as Faenorë backed away. The image hurt somewhere deep within her. Was this a premonition or just black magic? “Please, my lady. You have to save him. Do not let him die.”

She flittered away after that and left Faenorë with a heart now swollen with fear. There was little she knew about magic, but it would not surprise her that some soothsayers were true. The feeling of a hand on her back made her jump, and realizing it was Boromir only pushed her to wrap her arms around him. She needed to feel the breaths he took and the beating heart in his chest and his arms around her.

“I said I would return.” He laughed as she wiped her face of all fear. With a brave face she managed a nod and resorted to cementing his hand in hers. She vowed to be his shadow, to never let him out of her sights if she could help it. He would not die on her watch. She would give her life to be sure of that fact. He kissed the side of her head and led her back to the table and the laughter of everyone helped to put her at ease.