Chapter Text
Fira took one last look at the cabin that had been home, nestled in the woods as autumn came on. It had been her birthplace and home. But now its uses were better used by someone else. There was no one now. And now she must make her way on her own. With one last nod as salute she went away, passing quietly through the town as evening dropped. It was time to move on.
She wandered long without any set destination. She had left the only fair place in all the Lone Lands.
The Lone Lands... She grimaced. They stretched out before her, barren and desolate. Hills rose and fell like the backs of weary beasts, their slopes covered in dry, brittle grass that crumbled beneath her boots with each step. The ground was parched and cracked, as if the earth itself had forgotten the touch of rain--Fira was fairly certain it had. A faint wind swept across the plains, carrying with it the dust of old, abandoned trails and the scent of nothingness. It whipped about her sending her hair on its own path.
The sky above, though vast and open, felt heavy, its gray clouds hanging low as if weighed down by the sorrow of the land. Here, nothing flourished. The once vibrant greens of summer had long since faded, leaving behind only the muted golds and browns of grass long dead, clinging to the soil. Shadows clung to the valleys between the hills, giving the landscape an even more forlorn appearance as the sun cast a pale, indifferent light upon it all.
Now only Weathertop stood, in the distance, like a silent sentinel, in defiance of the land. Like a tall compass it rose up, guiding her. It was her favorite place in all the land despite its grim appearance, except her former home. Always it seemed to hold an ancient strength in its stony presence, for it had witnessed many battles and secrets, standing as a reminder of what had once been and as hope of what might yet come again.
Yes, she knew these lands well, for her father had shown her every hill and dell.
Her father. She sighed and picked up her step, grass flattening beneath her feet, stone traversing her course unpredictably. She would go on.
She helped the odd traveler, or anyone she met, and wandered on.
Over dry hillocks and beside crags she traversed until she struck the east road--the only true path through the Lone Lands. Looking to her right and left she decided she must, at last, make for a destination. To the north was her old home, to the west was Bree, to the east was Rivendell, to the south…. Fornost.
She shuddered. The ancient fortress of the Witch-King.
Her father had warned her to never go there, and she hardly needed telling.
She recalled herself and debated. Bree was usually a safe bet and her father’s lord was often there. Rivendell – she would be safe with the elves and unquestionably given a home.
While she was deliberating, she forgot one of her father’s most crucial lessons – to be vigilant even if everything seemed calm and safe.
She was abruptly attacked by orcs, and though she fought well, she was overwhelmed before a minute, and a thump to her head knocked her out.
For a month she was prisoner and mentally chastised herself. At sixteen she should know better. What would father say?
Be careful. You’ll find a way out. Watch and wait. Look for patterns in your surroundings.
The answer came to her as she thought.
That evening, there was a large disagreement in the camp that took her guards from her. Pushing the wall of her unfloored cell with all her might, she was thrown to the side in her success, scuttled out what had been the bottom and fled her captivity.
She was close to Weathertop, a place she loved and knew and ran for it. The hill-mountain was a jagged peak of cold stone, where the wind howled through the crags, swirling around its slopes in biting gusts. The path up was difficult but sure, winding through rock that had been smoothed by centuries of weather. The rock itself was cold to the touch, as though it had absorbed the chill of countless winters. As Fira ascended, the wind picked up, tearing at her cloak, tugging her hair in wild directions, and sending a shiver through her bones. It was late evening as she neared the top. She’d rested only when she’d made it half way up the small mountain. She ate and drank and applied a healing salve to the worst of her wounds. The worst, while ugly, was not infected. The orcs had treated it with something sickly yet it had mostly healed the wound. Fira rested an hour then made her way softly to the top, being more cautious now.
As she neared her destination a screech pierced the air that froze her to her core. Better the orcs than this! Her spirit quailed. But others were fighting as well and she couldn’t abandon them. Grabbing a stick of brush and setting it alight, she held the fire in one hand and her father’s sword in the other and leapt into the fray, stopping a sword just in time. A Morgul blade. She was facing off with a Nazgul. She plunged the fire into its face and it departed with all speed.
A ranger was there and elves, if she was not mistaken. Despite her wounds from the orcs she fought through the sweat and blood as she battled. One wraith managed a cut upon her leg. Fira fell, but on one knee she fiercely defended, blocking and stabbing with her brand,
“Lacho calad! Drego morn!
“An Atarinya!” she cried fearlessly. ‘For my father’.
The wraith screamed, fleeing, and the ranger seemed to truly note her then even as she parried a Nazgul and fell. An elf dispatched it with all speed and then they were alone.
They had at last forced their assailants back; the wraiths retreated, screaming into the night.
Fira tried to stand but stumbled back into the crumbling stone wall. Then dry gagged, coughing for air. A fever coursed through her veins as infection took hold.
The ranger was at her side in a moment. “Îdh,” he said calmly ‘peace’, examining her wounds.
“Lord Aragorn –” she gasped, and he looked into her face intently at the use of his Dunedain title, his eyes intent and kind, like her father’s. “My father –” she drew a difficult breath.
“Shhh,” he tried to sooth.
“He fell,” she shuddered, and passed out, even as an elf slipped a hand beneath her head, taking her hand in his own.
"It appears to be exhaustion primarily, but it seems she's a recently escaped captive. I saw a wraith catch her leg; I couldn’t intercept in time." Elladan regretfully shook his head.
"Poor, brave, thing," breathed Aragorn, as the weight of who she was and what she’d gone through settled.
He looked on the young face which seemed past the immaturities of early adolescence but not quite an adult. He brushed his hand against her cheek, "Nigh' sixteen," he murmured.
“She certainly helped,” murmured Elrohir; she’d dispatched two or three of the Nine, and he turned back to the camp and remained alert as the other two were tending the unconscious woman.
"Stars, this is a deep gash."
Aragorn filtered through all of the information as he worked alongside Elladan
Young, orphan – daughter of a Dunadan, escaped captive, wounded by orcs and a Morgul blade. Her garb was plainly ranger, made of tan, gray, and green, for the lone lands. She was his charge now. If she was from here, her father would likely have been Bregolan. He had married a half-elf of Lothlorien, Aenneth, whom he’d met in his travels. He only knew that she had died and that they’d had one child. Aragorn didn’t even know her name.
The moon rose a little, but they were meticulous even as they hurried with their healing.
At last satisfied with their work for the invalid, they journeyed on in the night, anxious to get away from the mountain top.
Three hours later Fira finally awoke in Elladan's arms.
"Where's the third?" she whispered.
His eyes were kind as he answered. "He went ahead to alert our friends of our situation."
"And what are you doing?"
"Taking you to Rivendell," the elf answered easily, with a gentle smile.
They paused, since she was conscious, to eat and drink for her sake.
It had been hours and Aragorn changed her bandages. “Your father was Bregolan?”
A tear escaped and she nodded. “A worthy man. He would be proud of you.”
A few more tears escaped “Thank you, my lord,” she whispered.
“Please, call me Aragorn. You are my charge now. I owe that to your father and to you; but – I do not know your name.” He spoke softly and calmly as he went about his work, putting her at ease.
“Fira.”
He nodded, gazing at her gently. “Rest, Fira.”
Her eyes slipped closed and her breathing soon became even with sleep.
Aragorn was filled with sympathy as he finished rebandaging her wounds.
What a day. Escaping orcs only to run into Nazgul. That would put anyone out, he thought.
Two hours more they went on, Elladan never wavering in his step despite his burden, and negated Aragorn’s offer of carrying Fira for awhile.
“I do not tire as you, brother; it is no trouble.” The elf’s steady footfalls also reduced her chance of being jostled, causing pain.
They stopped once more to drink and rest. Aragorn checked only her larger wounds this time. Fira was briefly awake, and gazed at the canopy of trees above with stars peeping out of the night sky.
"Were you a prisoner?" Inquired Elladan.
"Yes. The lone-lands are crawling with orcs and goblins." She shook her head. “I should have been more careful. It’s not like my childhood home anymore.”
“Do not be hard on yourself, Fira,” said Aragorn, kindly but firmly. “Your father clearly taught you; but it takes years of practice to remain undetected in an infestation like the lone-lands, unscathed.
"I am happy to see you escaped." The ranger said softly, now sitting next to her on the ground, while holding her hand. It was a comfort through the pain - which the man seemed to understand.
She squeezed his hand feebly, whispering "thank you."
He nodded and kept his post. Sleep took her again, and the two companions kept their voices low.
"This is ill news.” Murmured Elladan of the orcs.
Aragorn only gave him a grim look and a nod of assent.
Elladan took Fira up again for another hour until they ran into Elrohir coming back. Fira, still asleep, was not aware of the golden-haired elf who returned with Elrohir, but as he placed a hand upon her forehead, her dreams calmed, and her fever lessened.
Glorfindel passed his hand over her wounds. There were many, but the Morgul blade had not pierced her, so there was only a faint shadow.
“She is resilient, but we should not delay. I will carry her now. We will go swiftly.”
So the company of five set forth, acquiring two more leftover from Glorfindel’s group, and at daybreak finally made it to Imladris.