Chapter Text
The next morning greeted Rhosynel with sullen grey skies no different to the night before. Plodding down the rickety narrow staircase of the Prancing Pony, Rhosynel may have been tired, but it felt oddly dreamlike, as though she was repeating steps she’d done before. Doing her best to shake off the sleep, she headed for the bar, and what would hopefully be a nice hot breakfast.
“Morning miss!”
Blinking at the bright greeting, Rhosynel found the Hobbit, Nob, perched on a bar stool.
“Mornin’,” she greeted round a yawn, “did you even sleep?”
“A little, miss, we Hobbits don’t need as much sleep as you big folk.”
Having travelled with Hobbits, Rhosynel sincerely doubted the validity of his words. His next words, however, were far more important.
“Would you like some breakfast?”
“Oh yes please.”
With that Nob was quick to depart for the kitchens, and Rhosynel made herself comfortable at a table. It didn’t take the Hobbit long, no doubt there was a chef already working on preparing breakfasts for the scant visitors to the inn. So all too quickly, Rhosynel had a plate heaped high with sizzling sausages, thick cut bacon, an egg with yellow gold heart, and several slices of thick crusty bread which seemed to have been fried, a side of fried tomatoes and mushrooms, and the breakfast was complete.
It was also enough to feed two of her.
“Thank you, Nob.”
“Of course miss,” he replied cheerfully, “just so y’know, I headed on over to where lady Avalômi is staying, she said she’ll come by after her patrols.”
“You didn’t get too wet, did you?”
“Not at all miss.”
Managing not to raise a brow at the blatant lie, Rhosynel resisted looking to the gloomy windows, and the rain which still fell steadily.
Tucking into the hearty breakfast, Rhosynel contented herself to eat, aware of another patron or two wondering down into the breakfast room themselves. It seemed that Gandalf and the Hobbits were yet to rise, leaving her wondering as to just how long they’d remained awake telling Butterbur all that transpired.
Instead, Rhosynel contented herself to watching the door, and considering her route home. The quickest would be to follow the Greenway straight to Tharbad, but if there were ruffians in these parts, would they be likely to watch the road, or would they be spread out across the wilderness? She’d already decided that danger would be avoided at all costs, but until Ilmara returned –hopefully any day now– Rhosynel would be riding blind as to unseen dangers.
Perhaps the road would be safest.
A knock at the door had Rhosynel perking up, pushing aside a little under half the remains of her breakfast, eyes fixed on Nob as he went to see who it was. The Hobbit greeted them warmly, and shifted aside.
The person that slipped silently inside without fanfare, immediately caught her attention. Their hood stayed up, but she caught glimpses of long dark hair, a square jaw, pale skin. Black clothes, cloak, hood, boots, all mud covered, and showing signs of wear and tear, but then also meticulous fixings.
Rhosynel knew a Ranger when she saw one, even if the clothing was starkly different to those of Ithilien. But what caught her eye the most, was the weapons. A long sword on their hip, a short bow, and a knife in the top of one boot. No doubt more weapons were hidden on their person, she just couldn’t see them.
Nob gestured her way, and the cloaked face turned to her.
Rising to her feet, Rhosynel offered what she hoped was a welcoming smile, rather than a wary grimace. The Ranger thanked Nob, and approached, reaching up to brush back their hood.
It was an effort for Rhosynel to keep the stunned reaction from her face.
Well over six feet tall, moving almost with a stalking motion, Rhosynel had the sudden sense that to this Ranger, she was naught but something to be considered, dismissed, or hunted. Like a big cat stalking a mountain goat, Rhosynel found herself frozen in place, eyes fixed on the Ranger.
The full weight of her gaze pinned Rhosynel in place. It felt as though a weight had landed on her chest, forcing the air from her lungs in a low wheeze, leaving her more than a little alarmed. It wasn’t even like her eyes were a particularly stunning shade, it was just heavy.
But there was an unnerving resemblance to Aragorn. The same chin, the same eyes, the same way of assessing and dismissing everything in her surrounding in rapid order. This woman was beautiful, in the same way that a sculpture of marble was beautiful, and yet… there was very little warmth in her angular face or cool grey eyes.
“Royal Messenger,” the woman greeted slowly, “Rhosynel, was it?”
“Ah, yes,” Rhosynel barely managed to say, “Estel sends his regards.”
At the familiar name, the woman’s austere expression softened. “I am glad to here he’s not forgotten his roots.”
Settling back into her chair, Rhosynel watched as the woman hesitated a moment, but then slipped into the chair alongside Rhosynel, with her back to the wall and her eyes on the room.
“I think he’d like to forget, whenever I call him Strider,” Rhosynel replied, earning a raised brow. “You’re… Avalômi, I take it?”
“I am. Estel asked me to take over his guardianship of Bree, during his bid to destroy the Ring,” Avalômi replied, “if he’s King, he was successful, I take it?”
“The Ring was destroyed, yes, but it was done by a Hobbit named Frodo,” Rhosynel answered, “the Fellowship made it to Amon Hen before… they were forced to take separate paths. Frodo and Samwise successfully navigated their way to Mordor, and cast the Ring into the fires.”
“And Estel?” the Ranger pressed, “how did he become King?”
Rhosynel exhaled harshly, considering just where that story was to start.
“He… assisted in freeing Théoden King of a fell influence, led rallies and battles at Helms Deep, before the Grey Company joined him through the paths of the dead, and he reached Minas Tirith in the nick of time to prevent its destruction,” Rhosynel listed. “Then he convinced the Lords and Captains of Gondor to perform a suicide march on the Black Gates, in a bid to provide Frodo with more time to succeed, which he did. Then it was a case of smooth talking the Lords, assisting in reconstruction of Minas Tirith, and pulling every string he had to get additional help to arrive.”
Avalômi’s dark brows had crept higher and higher with every word. “That is quite a challenge he overcame. I take it he did not achieve all of this alone?”
“Captains Boromir and Faramir, the sons of Denethor, were rather helpful in smoothing things over.”
“Interesting, he and Denethor never saw eye to eye.”
“Denethor was dead, by the time Estel actually arrived,” Rhosynel admitted with a grimace, “it’s a lot easier to claim a throne when its guardian is no longer defending it tooth and nail.”
That garnered a contemplative hum.
“Regardless, he’s sent me all the way up here, specifically to give you this—”
Reaching into her jerkin for the letter, Avalômi’s hand lifted sharply, only to halt herself and force it back down. Tension had lanced through her body, and Rhosynel instinctively relaxed her posture, slowed her movements, carefully and pulling the letter free. She’d expected Avalômi to be wary, but skittish and paranoid was a surprise. It was tempting to draw this out, but no, Rhosynel would put her out of her misery quickly, holding the letter without preamble.
She looked down at the parchment like it was an adder, poised to strike.
“It’s too fancy right?” Rhosynel said, earning a considering hum, “I told him he needed to tone it down a bit.”
Pristine white parchment, an ink black wax, with silver highlights on a tree. The pale folded parchment stood out like a sore thumb in the Prancing Pony’s gloomy and worn interior. Even if it did seem to match the marble of Avalômi’s skin, the onyx of her hair, and the steel grey of her eyes.
She was more than a member of the Grey Company, she was related, somehow, to Aragorn, Rhosynel was sure of it.
“I’ll leave you be, while you read it,” Rhosynel said, carefully rising to her feet, “but should you need a missive writing or to be sent back to Minas Tirith, or anywhere in between, please don’t hesitate to ask,” she added formally.
With a nod from Avalômi, Rhosynel moved towards the bar, settling on the stool and finding that Nob had been keeping an eye on the pair.
“She’s so intimidating, right?” he whispered.
“A little,” Rhosynel agreed, accepting the cider he passed her, “but with good intentions, I feel.”
It was true enough, Avalômi was cool to the look and in speech, but she’d been curious, relieved to hear of Aragorn’s success, had lent in when Rhosynel spoke of the battles. She was concerned for the once-Ranger’s well-being. No doubt she’d known him well, having been trusted to watch over Bree in his place…
Thankfully it seemed this Ranger wasn’t going to hang about in writing a reply, as Rhosynel had been sat at the counter and speaking with Nob or Butterbur for little under thirty minutes.
“—so Agatha managed to find her own place t’rent,” Butterbur was explaining, “though poor George was left without a purpose once she’d gone.”
“That’s a shame,” Rhosynel said, privately disagreeing.
“Oh on the contrary miss,” Nob spoke up, “he’s taken up pottery.”
Rhosynel very nearly snorted her cider out her nose.
“Aye, seems to have a real talent for it too,” Butterbur agreed enthusiastically, “we’ve been getting new tankards and dish wear from him—”
Rhosynel noticed his eyes flicking over her shoulder, but had no chance to react, as at the same time a hand landed on it.
“Gah!” she yelped, whirling around and knocking the hand free. She hadn’t worn her swords to breakfast, which was probably a good job, as Avalômi, was holding her hand up, looking somewhat apologetic.
“Apologies, Royal Messenger,” she said, cautiously. “I’ve written up a response, and wished to thank you for bringing news this far north,” she said crisply, “I’ve done my best to formalise a report, but should he wish for clearer assessment of Fornost Erain he shall need to send his own men.”
“Fornost Erain?” Rhosynel repeated in confusion, “I’m not familiar…?”
“Dead Mans Dike!” Butterbur interjected.
“Oh that. What’s he want to do with that place?” she asked incredulously.
There was a pause from Avalômi. “Did, did you not read the letter…?”
“Messengers do not read the letters of others,” Rhosynel replied slowly, the very idea of doing so feeling strangely uncomfortable. “They are personal, and not for our eyes.”
Avalômi didn’t quite sigh in frustration, but she came close. “Estel wishes to reclaim Arnor, and establish a seat within Fornost, but to do that he’ll need professionals to assess the land and the few remaining structures,” she explained, in possibly the longest sentence Rhosynel had heard from her yet, “not the amateur perceptions of his aunt.”
Aunt.
That explained the resemblance.
“I will pass that on to him,” Rhosynel replied, “but it’s most likely that he doesn’t wish for a full assessment, merely a… brief look. I say this because he’s asked me of all people to see what condition Tharbad’s in.”
A startled huff of laughter left the Ranger.
“He’s also asked my future husband to look into rebuilding Osgiliath, and for my future bother-in-law to rebuild Emyrn Arnen.”
“Estel is certainly not hanging around.”
Rhosynel breathed a laugh at the joke, only to jolt in alarm as a voice yelled out.
“Miss Rhosyn! Miss Rhosyn!”
The loud cries for her had Rhosynel lurching to her feet, hand going for her absent sword in anticipation. Avalômi had also reacted, hand dropping to her sword and half drawing it before Sam burst into the common room, moving so hastily that he almost tripped over his own feet.
“Oh miss Rhosyn! You must come and se—Ah!”
Snapping her hand out, Rhosynel stilled Avalômi’s reaction.
“Fuck, Sam,” she cursed breathlessly, “you scared the shit outta me. What’s wrong?”
His wide eyes were darting from her to Avalômi, and back again. “I, I’m sorry miss, ma’am, I just… You gotta come see.”
There was a noise of possible frustration from the Ranger, her sword being snapped back into its sheath with a sharp motion. “Apologies, Messenger,” she said crisply, “but I must perform my rounds. Give Estel my regards.”
“I-I will,” Rhosynel managed to say, blinking as the letter was all but thrust into your hand, “it was nice to meet you!”
The call after the Ranger’s back was acknowledged with a mere hand raise. The surliness reminding Rhosynel far too strongly of when she’d first met Aragorn. It seemed the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree…
“She was scary,” Sam piped up.
“A little intimidating,” Rhosynel agreed readily enough, “now what is it you wanted to show me—oop!”
Rhosynel was left with very little choice in the matter, as Sam caught a hold of her hand, and began dragging her along. Despite his short stature, the guy was strong, towing her in his wake as he headed for the main door.
Stepping outside, the chill of late autumn rapidly sank into her flesh and bones, and while the rain had eased to a drizzle, it rendered everywhere grey and indistinct. A haze or mist seemed to permanently rest over the little town, and Rhosynel couldn’t help but wonder when the muddy streets had last been dry.
Despite the alarm Rhosynel felt, she could only look to Sam in confusion as he dragged her into the stables.
“The horses? What’s wrong with them?”
Her words trailed off, looking to Gwaedal and Shadowfax, then over, to the five ponies—
Wait, five?
“Look! It’s Bill!”
It was, it was very much, Bill the Pony.
The last time Rhosynel or anyone of the Fellowship had seen of him, was outside the Gates of Moria. He’d been turned loose and sent on his way, out into the wilds to contend with weather, orcs, wargs, and worse. But now here he was, looking scraggly and scruffy, but very much alive and well.
Despite her shock, Rhosynel laughed, moving forwards to inspect him.
“Is he alright? I can’t tell much ‘bout horse, you see,” Sam was asking, already standing at the pony’s head and petting him fondly.
“A little over grown, perhaps, but no worse for wear,” she confirmed. “Here, tell you what—” Casting about, it didn’t take long for Rhosynel to find grooming supplies, handing a brush to Sam. “Lets give him a groom, see if we can find the pony hidden under all this fur.”
Despite how nervy Sam had been around the Gondorian ponies, he didn’t hesitate to follow her lead, watching how she ran the brush with the motion of the fur, and was quick to start mimicking her. A soft huff left Bill, head starting to droop.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He likes the brush,” Rhosynel reassured, “press harder and he’ll lean into it more.”
There was a quiet exclamation as Sam did just that, and Bill did as predicted.
“I think he missed you.”
“I missed him,” Sam replied empathetically, “I didn’t think I’d ever seem him again. Even before I ended up in Mordor… I didn’t think I’d be back here, let alone with Bill…”
“You are,” Rhosynel replied quietly, brush smoothing across Bill’s dusty coat, the repetitive motion familiar and reassuring. “You made it through everything, you survived it. No doubt tomorrow we’ll set off again, and you’ll be a step closer to home, and seeing Rosie again.”
There was a pensive expression on Sam’s face. “Home… Feels strange to say that. It’s not been home for a long time.”
“Home’s what you make it, not where it is.”
There was a pause, and then Sam looked up to her with what could only be called a sceptical expression. “Did’y read that in a book?”
Rhosynel’s indignant splutter had Bill’s head tossing in alarm.
“Maybe,” she shot back with a grin, “why, what does home mean to you?”
“Somewhere t’grow,” he replied with very little hesitation. Either he’d considered it before, or it had been on his mind a lot recently. “Somewhere t’feel safe, where you can relax, know it’s yours, know it’s safe.”
Safe.
That seemed to be important for Sam, mentioning it twice almost unknowingly.
He’d gone a long time, without safety.
“No offence t’Aragorn, but I don’t know how inclined I am t’return to Gondor or his fine city,” Sam admitted, eyes on his hands, rather than looking up to meet her gaze. “Maybe… maybe in a few years I’ll feel different, but till then…”
“You want to be home and safe.”
A quiet nod.
“He wouldn’t blame you for that Sam,” Rhosynel reassured, “he knows some of what you’ve been through, he’d not ask you to visit unless you felt up to it.”
“Will you let him know? An’ let him know I’m sorry?”
“I will, don’t worry,” she answered quickly, “but you not visiting doesn’t mean you can go without writing to us, understood?”
“Of course!”
He sounded so offended by the idea of not writing, that Rhosynel breathed a laugh, and felt relieved to see a smile on Sam’s own face.
The rest of the day had been spent in the common room of the Prancing Pony, keeping herself amused by watching the Hobbits talking with the locals as though they were old friends. It seemed the news of ‘folk that could handle themselves’ had spread through the town, resulting in numerous people turning up at the Pony to ask questions, and learn news of further afield.
“They certainly are celebrities,” Rhosynel mused quietly to Gandalf, as he settled at her table. “You’d almost think Baggins was a household name in these parts.”
“Bilbo is of a well-to-do family.”
That explained so much.
But the Hobbits seemed comfortable enough, although she could tell Frodo was tiring quicker than the others. It seemed the citizens of Bree were curious as to the progress of his book, something that he was having to deflect patiently, and repeatedly.
Tilting her head back, Rhosynel peered out the window.
“What time did you want to set off tomorrow?” she asked the wizard, eyeing the dense clouds and smattering of rain striking the windows. “After breakfast?”
“I think that would be wise,” Gandalf agreed.
“In that case—” Rhosynel downed the last of her drink. “—I’m off to bed, see you in the morning and don’t leave without me.”
“I shall resist the temptation.”
Laughing lowly at the –possible– joke, Rhosynel pushed to her feet, and wove through the patrons, heading for the Hobbits at their table. Of course Pippin was the rowdiest, telling tall tales which were more truthful than last time, with Merry interjecting with his own anecdotes. Sam was quieter, still somewhat wary of all the tall folk and strangers, while Frodo was starting to get the telltale shadows about his eyes which told her how drained he was becoming.
“I’m turning in, lads,” Rhosynel greeted, “don’t stay up too late yeah? Gandalf wants to set out at the crack of dawn, so you’ll need to be up early if you want a decent breakfast.”
The scandalised noises were confirmation enough that they disliked the idea, but at least her threat –and lie– seemed to make them realise just how late it was starting to get.
“I don’t imagine we’ll be far off,” Frodo spoke up.
“Very well, goodnight.”
A small chorus of good-night's from the Hobbits, and even a few from various patrons, and Rhosynel headed upstairs, sharing a conspiratorial grin with Gandalf as she passed.
It was quieter upstairs, although the echo of voices and exclamations seemed to follow in her shadow as she padded down the hallway to her room. It was dark and a little cold, not having been prepared by Nob or a maid, but Rhosynel was more than adept at starting fires, and soon one was crackling away in the fireplace.
Settling on the edge of the bed to braid her hair, it felt odd to think that she’d be leaving tomorrow, turning south and heading home.
Tying off the ribbon, Rhosynel’s fingers strayed to the leather necklace about her throat.
It had been two months since they’d passed through the Gap of Rohan and left everyone behind. Two months since she’d last seen Boromir. Ilmara hadn’t returned yet, but by now she was probably winging her way north, probably heading to Rivendell only to give an annoyed chattered on discovering she wasn’t there. Would one of the elves tell her to head for Bree? Probably.
Either way, all too soon she’d be heading south, nothing but her, Gwaedal, and the open road. Nothing but a month’s worth of riding standing between her and Boromir.
Flopping onto the bed, Rhosynel heaved a sigh, tracing the carved leather in the imitation of feathers.
Only to lurch upright at a knock on the door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me,” Frodo’s familiar voice greeted answered, “can we come in?”
Confused as to why Frodo wished to speak with her after spending all day together in the common room, Rhosynel missed a key word, one that would have made her hesitate more before answering.
“Of course, come in.”
The door opened, and in piled four Hobbits.
A startled noise left Rhosynel, starting to rise to her feet as they bee-lined to her, and the bed, pillows and blankets in hand. But she didn’t move quick enough, as they promptly clambered up alongside her, making themselves comfortable, and outright hemming her in.
“What on Arda are you doing?” Rhosynel protested in alarm, fighting the urge to fling herself free of the commotion, “you have your own rooms!”
“Yeah but the bed warmers haven’t been set up,” Pippin countered.
“And it’s far too cold to sleep without hot water bottles,” Merry agreed.
“Which reminded us of how we coped in Moria,” Frodo admitted.
“We can leave, if you’d rather, miss,” Sam finished off, looking possibly the most bothered by their invasion. “I’m sure we can ask Nob or Butterbur for them to be filled.”
His suggestion was met by protests.
“Oh come now Sam,” Frodo exclaimed with a laugh, “one last slumber party, for old times sake!”
Rhosynel’s objections immediately died in her throat, heart softening and eyes watering at the gesture. There was no way on Arda she’d protest about being smothered in her sleep, not now, not with Frodo smiling.
They were chuntering contentedly to themselves, passing blankets back and forth, plumping pillows, and arranging themselves neatly about her. With Merry and Pippin tucking in to one side of her, and Frodo and Sam on the other, Rhosynel smiled to herself, and all too willingly allowed herself to relax, safe in the knowledge that they were all in arms reach and keeping out of mischief.
That they were safe.
The rain seemed set to continue, drifting and shifting with the breeze, sometimes it fell straight down and was caught by their hoods and cloaks, other times it was blown sideways into their faces and squinting eyes. But it wasn’t torrential, and was perhaps the best weather Rhosynel had even seen during her visits to Bree.
Butterbur had sent them off with a great deal of lamentation, but also with a warning.
Strange goings on were happening in the Shire too, not just Bree.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Sam protested, as their group –plus Bill– filtered through the gate, and onto the western road, “funny things happening all about, it seems.”
“Not to mention the shortage of pipe-weed,” Merry added, “they’ve never ran out before, not even after than nasty winter a few years back.”
“No doubt this is Lotho’s doing,” Pippin grumbled. “He’ll be to blame.”
“But perhaps not the cause,” Gandalf mused, silver brows furrowed, “or do you not recall that Saruman spoke of the Shire with familiarity?”
“Would he come so far west?” Rhosynel asked in surprise.
“If he had cause to.”
That wasn’t a very reassuring answer, leaving the six of them with frowns of concern and worried thoughts.
“Ah, well, we’ll get it all cleared up, with you two tagging along.”
“Me?” Rhosynel asked Pippin in surprise. “I’ll be turning south far sooner than you’d like,” she hastened to explain, “as much as I would dearly love to visit the Shire, I need to get home.”
“To Boromir, you mean.”
“Same thing,” she dismissed Merry's semantics with a wave of her hand, “but you’ll have Gandalf with you.”
“I am going to see Tom Bombadil.”
“Who?”
“Tom!” Pippin exclaimed, “he’s a jolly old fellow and his boots are yellow!”
That wasn’t much of an answer, even less so as Merry interjected. “He saved us from barrow-wrights!”
“Whoa, whoa, hold up,” Rhosynel protested, incredulously looking between the four Hobbits. “Did you have an entire adventure, without me?”
“Come now miss,” Sam spoke up sympathetically, “we didn’t know you existed at that point.”
“That is no excuse.”
Gandalf rumbled a low laugh, puffing at his pipe as he listened to their banter and arguments. “Regardless, I have much to speak with him on, so alas I’ll not be joining you to the Shire. But we shall need to press on, before the gates are locked.”
As the two horses and five ponies were nudged into a trot, Rhosynel heard Merry mutter quietly under his breath.
“What gates?”
The winding road led on and on, leaving Bree and its rain a distant memory, as the sun broke through the cloud cover, weak but clear and crisp in the manner of autumn. It did little to warm their faces or ease the chill of their damp clothes, but it was still welcomed for their ride.
It seemed the landscape was appreciating the turn of weather too, as Rhosynel caught glimpses of rabbits, even a distant dear. Although every bird call of buzzards and hawks high overhead, had her whipping about in excitement to see Ilmara.
Only to feel disappointed instead.
But eventually, the day drew later and later, a fine veil of mist starting to settle across the rolling hills to the south, and the distant forest on the horizon.
“It’s here I shall take my leave,” Gandalf spoke up, voice pensive, “and here you, Rhosynel, should turn south.”
It was less of a suggestion, and more of an instruction.
“Oh, well,” she floundered briefly, “uh, before we part ways, I have something for the five of you.”
The Hobbits immediately perked up at the suggestion of a gift, while even Gandalf hesitated with a curious expression.
“It’s not much, but I thought maybe it would be something to remind you of me, and something for you to write with,” she explained, sliding down from Gwaedal’s back.
Reaching into her bags, she carefully withdrew a leather tube. Usually it was used by Messengers to carry scrolls safely, but Rhosynel had discovered it was the perfect size and shape for something else.
“Ilmara’s been shedding, these past few months, and I saved a few of her feathers,” Rhosynel continued, carefully and gently withdrawing a storm grey feather, and holding it out to Frodo. “It’s not much, but I thought you could turn them into quills, and write to me, maybe?”
Another feather for Sam, a third for Merry, and one more for Pippin. That done, Rhosynel turned to Gandalf, and carefully withdrew the final feather. Pure white, with an inconspicuous seam where the old feather shaft had been imped to the new gyrfalcon feather.
While the Hobbits were exclaiming in delight, Rhosynel could only watch in mild alarm, as Gandalf’s expression… crumpled.
“A Lothlorien feather,” he said softly, reaching out and gently taking the offered gift. “You would give this to me?”
“I would,” Rhosynel agreed quietly, “you’re a friend, and it only seems fitting.”
Without preamble, Gandalf also dismounted, reaching out and clasping her hands in his, pale grey eyes shining faintly.
“Thank you, Rhosynel,” he said so genuinely that her eyes started prickling, “I know we’ve not always seen eye to eye, very rarely in fact, but I too, would count you as a dear friend. You’ve proved yourself time and time again, and I have no doubt you’ll settle into your new roles with ease, no matter how you may fight it tooth and nail.”
Huffing a laugh, Rhosynel sniffed in a bid to keep from crying too.
“Y-you will write, won’t you?” she managed to ask.
“Before I leave for Valinor, I shall, and I shall take Ilmara’s feather with me across the Great Sea, so some part of her will forever remain in the Undying Lands.”
Rhosynel promptly started crying.
Dragging a sleeve of her tunic across her face, she could only nod and sniff, relived at the thought of Ilmara long outlasting herself, even if it was only in part. Gandalf smiled in sympathy, squeezing her hands and patting her shoulder so fondly that for a moment she could imagine what it would be like to have a grandfather.
“Oh come now, don’t cry miss,” Pippin protested, hastily sliding from from his pony and trotting over to wrap her in a hug, “no one can replace Gandalf, but we’ll still be here. Whenever you miss him you can come visit the Shire and we’ll tell you all the stories about him!”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
Gandalf’s protest went unheeded as Merry was quick to join in. “Oh what about that time with the fireworks?”
“Or when he invaded Bag End with dwarves?” Sam added.
“That was one time.”
Sniffling and snorting at the wizard’s objections, Rhosynel lent over, wrapping Pippin in a hug, pressing her face into the curly mop of hair.
“I’m gonna miss you guys too,” she mumbled, “I’m gonna tell Strider no other Messenger is allowed to visit the Shire but me.”
“We should very much like that,” Frodo spoke up, looking down at the feather in his hand with something like grief, “you, Ilmara, and Gwaedal will always be welcome in the Shire.”
“T-Tallagor?”
“He’s up for debate,” Merry replied wryly, only to slide down and join her and Pippin. “I fully intend to visit Rohan, and I’ve told Éowyn she’s not allowed to marry without me there, same for Éomer. So I’ll see you soon enough.”
A strong hug from him only had Rhosynel’s resolve weakening further, feeling like she was cutting off a limb, in saying goodbye. Maybe no one would notice if she didn’t come back for a few more months, right?
No, no they’d notice, hell, she wouldn’t be surprised if Boromir turned up at Bag End specifically to drag her home.
“Y-you guys are all invited to my wedding,” she choked out, reaching over to hug Sam as he approached, “you and Rosie should come.”
“Now now miss, she doesn’t even know I exist yet.”
“Liar,” Frodo said fondly, “she’ll be wondering where you ran off to and waiting for your return, I guarantee it.”
Bundling Frodo into a hug, Rhosynel could feel how thin he was, but also how strongly he squeezed in response.
“Look after yourself, Frodo,” Rhosynel said, planting a kiss to his curly black hair, “I hope you find somewhere to recover.”
“Goodbye, Rhosynel,” Frodo said so quietly only she could hear him, “I’ll miss you.”
Somehow, his farewell felt the most final.
Gandalf had soon taken his leave of them, and Rhosynel was quick to follow suit, no matter how she didn’t wish to leave the Hobbits.
But the rolling hills of the barrow-downs were smooth and easy to follow, with the Hobbits having warned her of the dangers within. As such, she kept Gwaedal at a steady pace, hoping the remaining sunlight would deter any ghosts or ghouls from encroaching on her travels. With the speed of their flight, the danger soon passed, and Rhosynel was faced with the clear and rolling plains of Cardolan ahead.
Alternating between canters and walks, the ground was covered swiftly and with great ease, the sun defying winter to bless her with a fraction of its warmth. Days were short, nights were long, but Rhosynel pushed on, camping only when needed, and painfully aware of Ilmara’s missing presence. It would have been good, to have a second pair of eyes, but Rhosynel would cope well enough.
What she struggled with, was bidding what she felt was a final farewell to Frodo, Rhosynel couldn’t deny that the sadness lingered in her heart and his eyes. But in the face of the beauty about her, it became easier to bear.
The Hobbits would visit, she’d visit them, Frodo would find his peace, and the world would go on.
In the meantime, she was heading home.
The open road may have been where she belonged, but truthfully, her heart belonged to Boromir, and the sooner she returned to him, the happier she’d be. The road was a sweeping curve, stretching on and on to the horizon as it led to him, a vista of freedom and wilderness that made Rhosynel feel more free than she had in months.
The Ring was destroyed, Sauron was gone, and the future was bright.
Beneath her, Gwaedal tossed his head, mane flaring in the breeze which swept across the rolling grasslands. He was eager to run, to stretch his legs after such slow paces these past few months, she shared a similar sentiment. Too long without runs, too long without true freedom, and far too long without Boromir.
Turning Gwaedal south east, she nudged him into a canter once more. This pace wasn’t sustainable for long, but that wasn’t the point. Rising slightly in the stirrups, she urged him, faster, and faster still. Until the pair were galloping across the rolling landscape of Cardolan so fast she felt like she was flying.
As though hearing her thoughts, a piercing keen cut through the air.
Head whipping up, Rhosynel’s practised eyes immediately picked out a familiar shape dropping through the air towards them.
“Ilmara!”
The excitable call earned another keen, and without instruction the Limroval whipped about them, starting to fly just head of her and Gwaedal, elegant storm and pearl wings shifting and flitting on the wind, leading them across the landscape in a familiar sight.
Rhosynel had missed this.
“To Boromir! Ilmara! To home!”
Another keen, and Rhosynel couldn’t help but laugh, exhilaration filling her veins.
The wind lashed through Gawedal’s mane, and her own wild tangle of hair. Her eyes streamed, skin almost burning from the flight of their passage. Far above was Ilmara, soaring easily on the thermals with wide wings, as Gwaedal’s hooves rapidly covered the ground. As though sensing her attention, the goshawk gave a shrill cry. In response Rhosynel could feel a cry of her own bubbling in her chest, clawing to be released, until she finally gave a great yell of delight.
The three of them thundered across the plains, spurred on by one another’s exuberance. No second guessing, no looking back, only revelling in the path laid before them.
Ahead, the river Greyflood appeared on the distant horizon.
The familiar ruins of Tharbad loomed into view, she could make out the remains of the great bridge that had spanned the Greyflood. In a poor state, there'd be no way of crossing the ruins. Perhaps once, when it had first been broken by the flood waters, an individual could have picked their away across on foot. But Elessar had asked her to sketch it, to perform a rudimentary assessment, and Rhosynel was woefully unequipped for such a thing, even if she was more than willing to try.
But there was something else that caught her attention.
High above, Ilmara gave a chatter of greeting, and shot on ahead.
More confused than anything, Rhosynel slowed Gwaedal to a canter, then a lope, then a trot, going so far as to raise in the stirrups, squinting to the ruins. She could make out a picketed horse, and someone moving about.
Ilmara swept down towards them without fear, and Rhosynel blinked as the person lifted an arm in greeting to the Limroval, exposing more of their silhouette. Tall, broad, carrying a sword, and with a distinctly round shield on their back.
She’d know that figure anywhere.
The yell that left Rhosynel was barely human, little more than a shriek of delight.
Flinging herself from Gwaedal’s saddle, she was almost running before she hit the ground. Bounding across hillock and pothole, sprinting with all the haste the Rovacoll could provide.
“Boromir!”
At her yell, his head turned, and even at her distance she could see the broadness of his smile and the warmth within it. Immediately he too was running, bounding towards her with great long strides, shedding his shield and pack as he went, as though to let himself run faster.
Even as his arms spread, Rhosynel didn’t slow, all but flinging herself into Boromir’s embrace with enough force to make him stagger.
Boromir was laughing, a delighted sound which had Rhosynel’s heart swelling with joy. Spun about, his arms crushing about her ribs, his face pressing into her neck even as she clung to him.
Rhosynel couldn’t tell if she was laughing in delight or crying in joy, but it didn’t matter, not when Boromir was here, in her arms once more. She didn’t know why he was here, didn’t know why he’d ridden out to Tharbad, didn’t know how he’d managed to convince Elessar into letting him leave. None of it mattered.
He was here. He’d ridden out to meet her. He was here.
As though thinking the same, Boromir’s arms tightened about her waist, holding her close even as he drew back slight. Pressing his brow to hers, eyes of storm and starlight filled her vision. One hand lifted to cup her jaw, thumb smoothing across her cheekbone, the silver ring cool on her skin.
“Hello again, my Lady,” Boromir breathed, “ready to go home?”
As far as Rhosynel was concerned, she already was.
(Rhosynel and Ilmara by the wonderfully talented Merillies: Tumblr/Ao3)