Miriel: Princess of Rohan - LOTR Fanfiction

[Jazzcat]

Miriel: Princess of Rohan arose as the answer to several questions I had about different events that took place in both the books and the movies, beginning at Helm’s Deep and finishing out a year after The Return of the King officially ends. This fanfiction is perfectly canon, fitting in mainly with Tolkien's timeline, but you'll recognize most of the scenes from the Peter Jackson movies!

This is entirely complete, and if you don't want to wait for me to post it all, visit www.talesofmiddleearth.com and download the free ebook entitled Miriel: Princess of Rohan.

 

[Jazzcat]

1. A QUIET EVENING

“Miriel, set the table. Supper is almost ready.”

Obediently the girl called Miriel headed for the kitchen, glancing back with a little smile at her mother. The fire cast a warm orange glow over her mother’s bright face and slim figure as she knelt by the hearth, clad in a simple gray dress that was neatly patched and mended many times over with an assortment of cloth squares in many colors. Her mother wore a clean white apron to protect her dress while she stirred a great pot of stew. A hearty aroma filled the simple and rather plain room, which was furnished only by a bare wooden table and a few hard chairs.

Miriel knew without asking what kind of stew brewed in the pot. It was the same stew their family had been eating for supper as long as Miriel could remember. It was delicious, and Miriel never tired of it; which was good since there was never a change in their diet. It had a little meat and some vegetables, but it was mostly a thick brown gravy that was, as far as Miriel could tell, her mother’s special recipe. None of the other villagers made their stew like Miriel’s mother did, and that made Miriel sure that her mother was special.

Miriel opened the cupboard and pulled out five sets of plates, cups, forks, spoons and knives, and then somehow Miriel managed to delicately balance a little board containing a few hard biscuits and a bit of cheese upon the unsteady tower of dishes. Carefully she carried them out to the square table and quickly set the places for herself and her mother, her father and her two older brothers. All three of the family men were out working in the fields and would be returning shortly, just in time for supper.

When she finished setting the table, Miriel straightened and glanced around the little room as if for the first time, seeing it with new eyes. They led a simple, comfortable, uneventful, happy life - filled with a lot of hard work, to be sure, and the normal concerns about making ends meet, and no sign of changing at any point in the future; but it was a happy life just the same. Miriel went to the fireplace and knelt at her mother’s side. She sat back on her heels and cleared her throat to ask a question.

“Mother, I want to know something about love,” Miriel said quietly.

Miriel’s mother glanced at her daughter. Surprise flickered in her emerald eyes and played behind her merry smile. It was a loaded question that could lead anywhere.

“Sure, anything,” she answered immediately out of habit. Children could ask the oddest things at the times when she least expected it, which she had learned after raising three of them nearly to adulthood. She had long since ceased even trying to guess what the next words out of Miriel’s mouth would be. So she listened with an open mind and no predetermined opinions while continuing a methodical stirring of her brown aromatic stew.

“I’m concerned about finding true love,” Miriel began, settling herself on the dirt floor and looking up at her mother with an innocently appealing doe-like expression in her large silver-gray eyes. “There are nice enough young men in this village, but I don’t really connect with any of them. I want to know how I can find true love. After all, I’m just a plain peasant girl in an insignificant village hidden away in the farthest corner of Rohan.”

“Ah!” returned her mother. She glanced at Miriel with a knowing grin. “I had the very same concerns when I was your age, even living in Edoras, the capitol of Rohan. I know Edoras seems like the center of the universe compared to here, but Edoras is actually quite small and would not be in any way special if it weren’t for the King’s palace: Meduseld, the Golden Hall.

“In my youth, I lived with my family in Edoras. I was the youngest of eight children. As soon as I was old enough, I became a maidservant to Queen Elfhild, the wife of King Theoden. She and the King loved each other very much. The Queen was wonderful, and she was greatly loved by all the people of Rohan. I could not have served anyone so kind or gentle, and I thoroughly enjoyed the years I spent with the Lady Elfhild at Meduseld. She could be wise and queenly, but she was also very down-to-earth, and no one, no matter how great or lowly, ever felt uncomfortable in her presence. She used to confide in me, and I in her. We became close friends.

“I remember one day when she came flying down a stone staircase with a smile like the sunshine in springtime and her golden hair billowing in her wake. She rushed toward me, shouting my name.

“‘Rowen! Rowen!’ she cried, seeming to forget her queenly dignity for a moment in her excitement, and yet never losing her unfailing poise and grace. ‘I’m going to have a baby! I’m about to become a mother!’”

Miriel’s mother paused, smiling tenderly at the memory and stirring the pot while the soft firelight turned her dark hair to bright gold.

Miriel rejoiced inwardly. She could see that her mother, Rowen, was wound up and preparing to tell one of her delightful tales from her days at the palace in the city of Edoras. Although Miriel had heard every story dozens of times, she never tired of them. Miriel lost herself in the enchanted ambience of the Golden Hall: The splendid feasts attended by fair lords and lovely ladies from all over Middle-earth, princes and princesses clad in rainbows of vibrant colors and bedecked in rare jewels set in gold and silver, while jugglers and jesters entertained them and beautiful music filled the air.

Miriel imagined herself in the magical atmosphere among the perfumed throngs, clothed in a flowing dress of deep midnight blue trimmed with rivers of white lace shimmering with silver stars, eating delectable dishes and tasting the delicate wines while minstrels sang songs of faraway lands and valiant deeds of noble knights. They told of myths and legends out of the Dark Years, of heroes and villains and outlaws, of doomed quests and vast treasures hidden away in dark caves, of epic battles with dragons and trolls, and the rescue of many a fair damsel in distress, perhaps locked up in a stone tower by some tyrant lord or held hostage by a terrible beast.

Inevitably, the hero would slay the evil monster and carry the lady away to his castle, where they married and lived happily ever after.

They spoke at length of the downfall of Numenor, also called Westernesse, which was swallowed by the Sea. King Elendil sailed away from the devastated land of Numenor and emerged in the land of Gondor, which bordered Rohan. He was a good king, and peace reigned while he and his heirs sat on the throne. But the last king, Isildur, went away to war and did not return. Gondor was currently under the care of Stewards until the rightful King should be revealed and return to his inheritance.

But Miriel’s favorite tales concerned the other races of Middle-earth. There were the Dwarves, a short, sturdy race of bearded creatures who delved deep under the mountains in search of gold and diamonds and other precious metals. They were cunning folk with stonework and created beautiful jewelry. The minstrels told of great stone halls where the Dwarf-kings dwelt, and endless caverns of crystal veined with silver, and perfectly still underground lakes that mirrored stars and fire but would not show you your own reflection.

Then there were the Elves.

Elves were immortal. Elves were fair. Elves were wise. Of all the creatures of Middle-earth, the Elves seemed to be the greatest. They loved flowers and trees and every living thing. They spent their days dancing among the golden trees called mallorns, flitting among the shadows under silvery starlight and singing. By all accounts, Elves had enchanting voices, and some people thought that you could fall under a spell if you heard one of their songs. When the Elves grew weary of their days in Middle-earth, they were permitted to take a ship and sail into the West, to the land of Valinor, which was the paradise that awaited them.

Few were the legends of these elusive, beautiful, ageless creatures that lived in the forest and easily vanished from sight, but they were by far the best stories. There was the tale of Luthien Tinuviel, the fairest Elf that ever walked in Middle-earth. She fell in love with a mortal named Beren and was lost to Elven-kind forever. Earendil was a mariner, and he sailed away long ago to Valinor with a brilliant jewel, a silmaril, on his brow. The silmaril was set in the heavens as a star to bring hope to those in Middle-earth. Gil-galad was an Elven-king who fought in the first war against the Dark Lord, Sauron. He was victorious, but perished in the fight.

Elves were so rarely seen that many people doubted their existence, believing that the colorful stories had merely been invented. Others thought that the Elves had long since forsaken Middle-earth, and the few sightings had been visions and empty shadows of things as they once were. Rowen, Miriel’s mother, had never met an Elf during her time in Edoras, and she was not sure if Elves were real or not.

Miriel, on the other hand, believed wholeheartedly in Elves. She longed to meet one someday, and, even though she knew it was quite impossible since mortals are forbidden to set foot in the Undying Lands, Miriel wished she could sail into the West and see the enchanted land of Valinor.

Miriel returned to the present. She folded her hands in her lap and waited expectantly.

“I was just as thrilled that Queen Elfhild was with child as the Lady herself was,” Rowen was saying. “I tended her with special care in the months that followed. But when the time came for the baby to be born, the Queen died in labor.

“I was devastated. King Theoden was disconsolate. The whole of Rohan mourned. And the child, a strong, healthy boy named Theodred, entered the world without a mother.

“So I raised young Theodred myself. When he was old enough, I taught him fair speech, manners, and how to read and write, the same as I have taught you. The only things I did not teach him were swordsmanship and the arts of war. I left that special training to others more skilled in the craft, although I picked up plenty along the way and passed the knowledge on to the three of you children.”

Miriel began to wonder where her mother was leading with her story, but she listened intently in case she missed a clue.

“One day when I was running an errand, I met your father, Elidan, in the marketplace. I can’t even explain what it was like, Miriel, but one look passed between us and I knew. I just knew.”

“What did you see?” ventured Miriel, staring at her mother in rapt fascination.

“I don’t rightly know,” sighed Rowen. “I saw myself mirrored in his eyes. I saw the future, and, if I may say so, it even seemed as if I saw the three of you children. I just knew that he was the one.”

“Did Father know it too?” Miriel asked.

Rowen smiled.

“Yes, he did. He asked me to marry him after only a few short days.”

“And you accepted?”

“Obviously, or I wouldn’t be here, and neither would you,” answered Rowen with a laugh, but a shadow passed over her face. “Not right away, though. I had a good life in Edoras, and living at Meduseld was the best thing I could ever have hoped to attain for myself. If I married Elidan, I would give up everything, and leave behind all my royal friends, and the King, and young Theodred, and choose to live as a peasant instead. That was a hard decision to have to make, and a senseless one at that.”

Miriel had heard the story many times, but Rowen had never told it in that light before. Miriel frowned.

“Then why did you choose the peasant life?” she asked.

“Because true love is the most precious thing anyone can hope to obtain in this life,” Rowen replied, smiling down at Miriel. “When you find it, give up everything to obtain it! True love is worth far more than prosperity or riches or gold or silver, or even life itself. Love does not always make sense, Miriel, and do remember that. It took me awhile to realize this, longer than Elidan would have liked, I know,” she added with a little laugh. “And if you can believe it, Miriel, I am happier here than I ever was in the palace, even though this is a much harder way of life.”

Miriel looked at her mother with a renewed sense of awe.

“Some, and perhaps most, of the people living in this village would probably disagree with me,” Rowen continued. She stood up and brushed off her apron as she swept the plain room with a glance. “But I would not give this up for anything. Who cares that I traded the feasts of royalty for beef stew? I found my real treasure here, in this bare little cottage, with a wonderful husband and three precious children. I have no regrets.”

Miriel blushed and lowered her gaze, but her eyes were sparkling. Rowen looked down at Miriel with an odd light in her green eyes, as if she coming to a decision. Suddenly she turned and reached for something on the mantle.

“Speaking of treasure-” Rowen murmured, then broke off.

“What are you doing?” asked Miriel.

 

[Jazzcat]

Without a word Rowen lifted an earthen jar and picked up an object that had been hidden beneath it. Miriel caught a faint sparkle in her mother’s hand before it was quickly covered over by Rowen’s fingers. Suddenly aware that Rowen had something very special, Miriel eagerly scrambled to her feet. Rowen dropped a silver ring into Miriel’s outstretched palm.

“What is this?” wondered Miriel, examining the smooth, jewelless ring curved in the shape of a little star.

“That ring,” answered Rowen a little breathlessly, brushing a stray lock of hair back from her forehead, “was given to me by the Queen just before she died. I’ve been saving it and waiting for the perfect moment to give it to you, and I felt the time has come for you to have it.”

“Oh,” was all Miriel managed to say. “What is it?”

“I was kneeling at the Queen’s bedside, drowning in floods of tears, when Lady Elfhild took it from her finger and gave it into my trembling hand,” Rowen replied. Her distant eyes saw a land and a time from far away as she spoke. “‘Take this and be comforted,’ she whispered to me. ‘It was wrought in Numenor, or so ‘tis said. It is supposed to protect the wearer from any weapons of Man’s making. I will no longer need it now, but I want you to have it in memory of me. Give it to your own daughter someday,’ she added wistfully, and I knew she was thinking sadly that she would never see my daughter. Then she struggled toward me and gripped my hand tightly and said to me, ‘Rowen, Rowen. I wish you love!’ Those were her last words, and then she fell away into sleep.”

Rowen faltered, choked with emotion. Miriel tentatively touched the silver ring in her palm with reverence, and then slipped it onto her finger. It fit, but barely. It was made for a larger finger than hers. It was perhaps a half size too large, but Miriel cared not for that.

“I will treasure it forever,” Miriel declared solemnly. Rowen smiled through her tears. Suddenly there was a popping noise from the fireplace. Instantly Rowen remembered her stew and looked down at it. It was bubbling violently and exploding in the pot.

“Oh my, it’s boiling!” she cried, falling on her knees and stirring madly. Immediately the bubbling subsided. Rowen brushed away her tears and glanced up at Miriel with a sheepish grin.

“I forgot all about supper,” she explained with a little smile. “I have never burnt my stew, not even once, and I want to continue my perfect record! But it’s ready now, so be a dear and greet your father and your brothers when they come in from the fields.”

“Of course, of course,” answered Miriel distantly, for her mind, and her fingers, were still on the precious ring. She moved slowly toward the door and put her hand on the latch, and then stopped. Miriel turned to find her mother watching her and smiling, absently stirring the stew.

“I never knew that part of your story, mother,” Miriel said quietly. “And it all turned out wonderfully for you. But how do you know that my story will have a happy ending? Will I ever find true love?”

Rowen stood up with a knowing smile on her face. She crossed the room and kissed Miriel lightly on the forehead.

“Don’t worry. Love always finds a way, in its own time. Until then, Miriel, know that I love you. Just dance.”

Miriel glanced down at the silver ring glinting in the firelight, and it seemed to her that it held the promise of her mother’s words.

“Thank you,” Miriel whispered, and then she was gone.

••••••••••••


There are some major cliffhanger chapters coming up, and if you don’t want to wait for me to get around to posting it all, then go to www.talesofmiddleearth.com and download the free ebook: Miriel: Princess of Rohan.

 

[Jazzcat]

RED SUNSET

It was the golden hour before sunset, as deadly quiet as the calm before the storm. It was a normal sort of twilight, with the gathering darkness casting a spell of enchantment over the land and a chorus of crickets singing the world to sleep. Night-owls awoke and stood unseen in the thick branches of the trees, preparing for the evening hunt. The last rays of fading sunlight fell upon the small village tucked away in the hills of the land of Rohan. The workday had ended, and the entire village was still and silent, preparing their meals and resting.

But the swiftly vanishing light caught upon a sudden movement. A lone maiden was stealing out her door, clad in a simple dark dress and a matching cloak made of rough gray material. Miriel dashed up the dusty lane with her mother’s words still ringing in her ears, and her light step hardly left a print in the loose dirt. When she reached the crest of the hill where the wild winds blew free and the grasses bent before her feet, the young girl stopped and spread her arms wide, glorying in the swift breeze as she danced upon the hill.

The white flowers sprang softly around her ankles as Miriel twirled and leapt over the sun-tinged hills with her long dark hair flying about her like streamers of gold and shadow. At last, when her exuberance was spent, she flopped down breathlessly in the grass and picked a handful of snow-white flowers for her mother, and she noticed for the first time how the setting sun lit the white balls of dandelion fluff into glowing pixie dust of silver and gold, and the wind waved them back and forth like sparkles of magic that played among the fields. Miriel picked one of the dandelions and blew on it and watched the little white parachutes go floating away on the breeze until they were lost from sight.

Miriel stood up and looked toward the west. She was shocked to see that the clouds burned a deep blood red. A black bank of clouds boiled threateningly on the horizon like sky giants leaping and falling, foreboding a coming storm. The once-gentle wind abruptly changed and blasted fiercely at Miriel, hitting her like a knife and driving before it swarms of dry leaves that clattered across the ground in their wild haste to flee.

Miriel stared at the ominous skies as she climbed to her feet and brushed the grass and stickers from her rough dress. She had never seen such a sunset in her life. Rather than filling her with awe and wonder, as it usually did, her spirit quailed as if she were standing upon the brink of grave danger and facing an unknown dread.

Before Miriel could consider the strange skies any further, she heard a shout behind her. Turning, she beheld three figures wearily trudging up the path that led toward her and the village.

“Father! Brothers!” Miriel cried joyfully, gathering her skirts and rushing down to meet them.

“Miriel, my darling!” greeted her father, catching the girl in his arms. “This is the perfect end to any day!”

Miriel pulled away and gave him a big smile as they headed homeward.

“You worked late again today,” she told him, prancing like a fawn at his side.

“Always,” replied her father lightly, playfully ruffling her dark, windswept hair.

“Everyone else made it home from the fields over an hour ago,” Miriel reproached.

Her father grinned down at her.

“Why do you think we have twice the harvest they do every season? Wheat doesn’t grow half so well when you sit cross-legged at home in an easy chair, relaxing and smoking a pipe!”

Miriel laughed merrily.

“But it is hungry labor,” added her father, sobering. “Is supper ready?”

“As always,” Miriel replied pointedly. “When have you ever known Mother to be late?”

It was her father’s turn to laugh. Miriel turned to her brothers with a sly twinkle in her eye and put her hand behind her back. Suddenly she drew forth three shining, dull-bladed swords that had been hidden in her cloak.

“I thought we could get in a little practice before supper,” said Miriel, tossing each brother a sword.

“Not a chance,” returned the younger of the two. He was a quiet, serious, thoughtful boy who rarely caused any trouble. He quickly tucked the weapon into his belt. “I’m going straight in to eat.”

“You’re just worried that I’ll beat you again, Elidor,” teased Miriel. Elidor made no reply, which was typical of him. Miriel often wondered how Elidor could be so calm and passive when she herself, given the same challenge, would have given a fiery reaction to the insult and jumped up bristling, instantly ready for a fight.

Miriel turned from Elidor and looked at her other brother expectantly.

“What about you, Alastar? Are you greatly suffering from lack of food also?”

“And drink,” sighed Alastar wearily, but he was smiling. “I guess I could spare a game with you. But just one!” he added quickly.

“All right!” Miriel whooped joyfully. She rushed up to the top of the hill, then lifted her sword and crouched into fighting position. Alastar stopped and faced her with his own sword drawn.

“Don’t be long,” their father advised as he and Elidor passed them by.

“It shall be a swiftly concluded battle,” Alastar promised, swinging his sword so that it whistled through the air.

Miriel raised her eyebrows.

“Oh is that so? That’s wishful thinking on your part, Alastar. This fight will be short indeed, but only if you beg for mercy!”

With that she suddenly lunged at him, and Alastar was caught off guard. Alastar barely managed to parry out of the way. The sound of swords clicking together, gay laughter and cheery shouts floated over the village. Brother and sister battled back and forth over the hilltop until both were quite winded. Alastar raised his hand for a temporary truce.

“Peace a minute!” Alastar gasped, leaning wearily on the hilt of his sword.

“All right, I grant you a minute,” consented Miriel grudgingly. She backed away and watched her grinning brother while he caught his breath.

“At least I’ll wear you out so Elidor can beat you later,” panted Alastar.

“What! You? Wear me out?” Miriel cried in mock disbelief. She stepped forward and her gray eyes flashed. “Do you know how hard it is to wear me out? I’m tireless! I’m agile and quick! I could fight all night!” And with that she plunged after Alastar.

“Yeah, but you didn’t work in the fields all day,” retorted Alastar as he ducked and defended himself. “But your footwork is improving. You’re pretty strong, for a girl. I’ll give you that.”

Alastar flashed a mischievous grin and tried to pull a fake slice on Miriel, and then like lightning he struck from the opposite direction. But Miriel leapt aside and with a sudden twist she threw the sword from his hand. It landed softly in a thick bed of weeds some distance away. Alastar looked startled, and Miriel threw back her head and shouted victoriously. She leaped into the air and pranced lightly around him.

“Alright, you win,” conceded Alastar, grinning and lifting his hands in defeat.

Suddenly Miriel stopped and stared down her brother.

“ ‘For a girl’?” Miriel advanced on him, and her sword was still raised. “What do you mean, ‘for a girl?’ I’m just strong! Admit it! I have to be, to keep you two in line!”

“What? You, keep us in line?” gasped Alastar incredulously. “But you’re the youngest!”

Miriel lowered her blade, still smirking playfully. “Everyone knows it’s the girl’s job to make the boys stay out of trouble, no matter how old they are!”

“You’d better watch it!” Alastar cried. He rushed forward and caught her in his arms, pinning her sword harmlessly to her side. Before Miriel could do anything she was hoisted onto his broad shoulder and swung through the air.

Miriel was wildly giddy and full of butterflies at being thus caught off guard.

“Stop it!” she shrieked, and she laughed and hollered to be put down. Alastar spun her until she was dizzy and giggling helplessly. Her long dark hair flew into her face and blinded her.

Abruptly Alastar stopped dead. Miriel’s heart caught in her throat as she felt him go still and cold. Alastar stood staring wide-eyed at the western horizon. His hands loosened from her waist, and Miriel slipped shakily to the ground and impatiently pushed her thick mane out of her face.

“What is it? Are you hurt?” she asked, feeling a sudden chill of dread creeping over her as she looked upon Alastar’s pale face. Alastar had gone chalk white, and he wordlessly pointed. Then Miriel also turned and looked into the sunset.

A lone rider could be seen against the reddened skies galloping towards them. His green cloak was in tatters and the shreds flew wildly around him. His bay horse looked sweaty and exhausted, but still the man on its back whipped it with might and main to move faster. Miriel saw a great cloud of smoke rising behind the hills.

In a single jump Alastar was running full speed down the lane, and Miriel leapt after him. They shot past silent houses and arrived at the edge of the village as the mysterious rider rushed up to them.

“Orcs! Orcs are coming!” he shouted, pulling his foaming horse to an abrupt halt before Alastar and Miriel. “Don’t wait to gather anything. Flee at once! They’re burning and slaughtering, and they’re not far behind me!”

With that the man spurred the poor beast through the town. Bewildered people poured out of cottages to see what the noise was about. The rider repeated his grim warning as he bolted away and disappeared into the gathering twilight.

Miriel felt as if her breath were stolen away. Everyone knew the stories of bloodthirsty Orcs from Mordor and their terrible cruelties to captives, and the people feared them; but it was generally accepted that the greatest dangers lurked in lands nearer to Mordor, such as Gondor. Rohan had been well protected by its own armies of the Rohirrim, filled with strong, bold, green-cloaked riders of Rohan, and unless Miriel was very much mistaken it was a member of that same company that had just ridden through the town looking as if Sauron himself were chasing him down.

Rohan had also been guarded in part by Saruman, the White Wizard, who dwelt in Isengard. Miriel felt quite safe living in the shadow of the great Tower of Orthanc.

But it seemed that somehow all carefully laid securities had been breached and Orcs were running freely through the land. Miriel could see the cloud of smoke in the western sky growing into a menacing black giant that blotted out the stars. She realized with a flash of horror that it was from other burning villages not far away.

Alastar didn’t hesitate for an instant. He dashed toward the stables.

“Miriel!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Get everyone outside! I’ll go for the horses!”

Miriel ran for the house and breathlessly burst through the door. Her parents and Elidor had just sat down to a nice, quiet supper, unaware of the commotion. They hadn’t even heard the rider racing through the town.

“Orcs!” Miriel cried, choking in her fright. “Someone just rode through and said Orcs are on the way! We must go at once!”

Her mother and father leapt to their feet as one and began frantically snuffing out candles. There were no questions asked; the expression on Miriel’s face had been enough. Miriel grabbed their cloaks while Elidor stuffed a shirt of chain mail into a brown cloth bag, crammed along with a few other items he deemed important, and tossed it to Miriel.

“Where’s Alastar?” shouted her father as he buckled a sword around his waist.

“Getting the horses!” Miriel hollered back, stumbling through the darkened house to the door. “Let’s get out of here!”

The family emerged to find the entire village in pandemonium. People were running in every direction in a mindless panic. A lucky few managed to get on their horses, and they galloped off into the night without delay. Two or three of the bolder folks tried to establish leadership and were loudly shouting orders, but they were completely ignored. Mothers tore after frightened children, screaming their names. Fear choked the air.

Miriel couldn’t help but feel that none of this was real. She half expected to wake from the dreadful dream at any moment and find herself in her own bed, drenched in a cold sweat. Miriel pinched her arm and winced in pain.

This was no nightmare.

Suddenly Alastar emerged from the boiling turmoil leading three large horses, the strong, swift beasts that Rohan was famous for. Only one horse wore a saddle; the others were merely bridled.

“Mother! You and Father ride this one.” He tossed the reins of the saddled horse to his father. “Elidor, you take Hanskir. Miriel will go with me on Kaspir.”

Their father, Elidan, immediately boosted Rowen aboard and climbed on behind her. Elidor stared at Hanskir and frowned doubtfully.

“Hanskir’s not saddled,” muttered quiet, serious Elidor, and Alastar whirled on him in a desperate rage.

“There’s no time!” Alastar hissed. “Just get on, and don’t you dare fall off!”

Miriel turned and gazed at the horizon. In the darkness it was hard to see anything beyond the hilltops, but she saw the rising smoke clearly blotting out the stars. Then she saw the crest of the hill vanish, as if a thick black curtain of night were being drawn down over it. The crawling black veil covered the hillside and spread toward the valley, like armies of ants pouring out of their holes and smothering the grass. Miriel’s eyes widened in horror.

“Orcs!” she screamed. “They are upon us!”

 

[Jazzcat]

“Give me your hand!” Alastar yelled, already mounted upon the black horse named Kaspir. Alastar grasped her arm and swept her onto the horse’s back, seating her firmly in front of him. Miriel held on to the long mane.

“Let’s go!” Alastar cried to the horse. Kaspir bolted, but he had little running room because of all the people that choked the lane. Someone blindly slammed into Kaspir’s hindquarters, and the horse reared and plunged, catching the mad terror of those around him. Miriel fought to hold on.

She shouted down instructions and encouragement to the townsfolk.

“Quickly, please! Watch out! Run that way… there’s still time!”

But nobody was listening. Everyone raced around, blind to the big horse and deaf to her words. Alastar was trying to calm Kaspir while threading the stallion through the thick crowds at the same time.

“Where is everyone?” asked Miriel all at once, looking up from the terrified stampede of people and glancing wildly about for some sign of her family.

“I don’t know,” Alastar muttered grimly. “We were separated.”

At that moment a woman clutching a rolled blanket to her chest ran up to Miriel and seized her leg with a grip like iron. Her hair was a matted and tangled mess and a crazed light shone in her dark, pleading eyes.

“Please! Please take my baby away from here!” she cried, thrusting the crying bundle up at Miriel. Miriel hesitated. Tears of desperation shone on the woman’s gaunt cheeks as she looked back fearfully at the approaching enemy.

“Please!” begged the distraught mother. “Take my baby!”

Miriel felt ready to cry herself. This woman was in as much danger as the child, and her only thought was for her baby’s safety. Miriel choked and nodded shortly. She took the warm wriggling baby and held it tightly to her as fiercely and protectively as the poor mother herself would have done.

“I will do everything I can,” Miriel promised firmly.

The crazed light dimmed in the mother‘s eyes.

“Thank you, thank you,” muttered the woman almost hysterically, smiling a little as she stumbled backwards and disappeared into the crowd.

Suddenly a long shriek came from behind Miriel and Alastar and was abruptly cut short. Miriel turned in time to see three houses burst into flame near the end of the lane. One of them was her own. A hoarse cry full of rage exploded from Miriel’s throat.

“Don’t look back!” shouted Alastar desperately. He gripped her waist firmly. “Whatever happens, Miriel, don’t look back.” He gave the horse a swift kick and they dashed upward.

Miriel obediently stared straight ahead, clutching the baby and gripping the straining horse beneath her with her knees, but she couldn’t ignore the screams or the greedy roaring of flames or the sound of swords. Miriel heard unearthly bellows like the snarls and growls of lions or the snapping of wolves, but far more hideous, and she knew it must be the Orcs. The clamor was deafening. Fear and hate blazed inside her mind like a red fog.

Without warning an arrow whistled by Miriel’s head and landed in the dirt ahead of them. Another arrow hit a man on foot, and he fell to the earth a short distance away.

“They’re shooting at us!” Alastar yelled. He let go of Miriel’s waist and jerked at the reins with both hands to turn the horse and send Kaspir surging ahead.

“Don’t look back, Miriel! Just hold on! Run, Kaspir! Fly!”

Alastar found an opening and made for it, shouting at the horse. They burst free of the crowd and Kaspir broke into full gallop, bearing them to the edge of the village. Alastar gave a choked groan and fell silent, but Miriel was crying out in glee and urging Kaspir faster. The deafening noises of war faded behind her. Escape was very near.

Suddenly Miriel felt her back grow cold with the wind. She turned with a startled gasp. The space behind her was empty. Alastar wasn’t there!

“Alastar!” shouted Miriel in terror, gathering the loose reins in her own hands and pulling Kaspir around hard. She glanced wildly in every direction, but she could see no sign of him.

“Alastar! Alastar!” Miriel screamed, driving her horse back among the swells of running people. “Where are you, Alastar? Alastar! Answer me!”

Miriel fought to control her horse, which was plunging in fear of fire and foes as they were caught in a stampeding tide of men, women and children. Kaspir’s flailing hooves caught someone in the head. The victim fell and disappeared beneath a thousand feet. Miriel clutched at Kaspir’s mane and neck and held on grimly to the wailing baby as she was thrown about helplessly.

“Kaspir! Stop it!” she cried to the horse in desperation, yanking at his reins and pulling him to the ground. “Alastar! Alastar, where are you?”

A scattered hail of arrows flew around them. Miriel looked up and saw black shapes silhouetted against the angry orange glare of the fires. It was the first time Miriel beheld the creatures of which she had heard so many dark tales. Little did Miriel know it would not be the last.

The Orcs were more animal than human, for their evil natures had corrupted everything about them, even their bodily forms. Their red eyes glowed in the darkness with a murderous gleam as they relentlessly pursued the fleeing townsfolk.

But Miriel refused to leave without her brother. She called his name over and over and searched among the running villagers. The Orcs were getting very close, and still Miriel stubbornly drove an unwilling Kaspir deeper into the village.

Suddenly Miriel screamed. Cold iron claws gripped her calf and tried to wrench her from the horse’s back. An Orc had a hold on her, and Miriel swept the baby out of reach even as she looked in horror upon an Orc for the first time. Miriel kicked out wildly and caught him in the jaw. He gave a roar of pain and loosened his hold, and Miriel tore her leg away. Kaspir immediately wheeled and raced up the lane, heedless of Miriel’s cries or commands, no longer obedient to the reins. He had had enough. The terrified animal galloped hard and bore Miriel from the midst of her kinsfolk, ignoring the screams of the wounded and the dying, not caring that he trampled them underfoot as he carried his rider out of the fires and clouds of smoke and into the far hills.

Miriel tried with all her might to control the runaway horse. She kicked at him and fought his head. She screamed and shouted. She pulled and yanked at the reins. She nearly dropped the baby in her arms in the midst of her panic, but she remembered him at the last moment and clutched him to herself as she desperately maintained her balance and somehow stayed on Kaspir’s back as the horse tore away from danger.

Miriel gave one last futile pull on the reins, but it was no use. Kaspir blew past everyone and raced alone into the star-pricked night.

At last Miriel gave up trying to turn Kaspir. The blazing village faded behind them as they ran. Miriel looked back helplessly one last time as it disappeared over the horizon, and she had a brief glimpse of the town that had once been her home completely engulfed in flames.

Her vision blurred. Miriel buried her head in the straining sweating neck and hid in the billowing black mane and sobbed brokenly as the cold wind flowed over her. She whispered her brothers’ names into the indifferent darkness. The peaceful silence was almost worse than the attack itself. It gave Miriel enough respite to think, and the only thing Miriel wondered was whether or not her family was still alive.

She didn’t want to believe that they might be dead. She refused to even consider the possibility. But she remembered Alastar’s choked groan, and the cold wind on her back, and clamped down on her imagination. It couldn’t be true. They had to be out there somewhere, alive. Hot tears rolled down Miriel’s cheeks, and she blindly touched the ring that her mother had given her only hours before.

They couldn’t die. They couldn’t leave her here in Middle-earth all alone...

•••••••

There are some cliffhanger chapters coming up, and if you don’t want to wait for me to get around to posting it all, then go to www.talesofmiddleearth.com and download the free ebook: Miriel: Princess of Rohan.

 

[Jazzcat]

THE GLITTERING CAVES OF AGLAROND

Miriel rode hard all through the night. The poor baby in the blanket was disconsolate and wailed hungrily. There was nothing Miriel could do to comfort him or soothe his pain. Miriel felt a deep pang of sorrow for the small bundle in her lap and wondered if he would ever see his mother again. Feeling sorry for someone besides herself helped Miriel attain a certain calm. As long as she had the baby to protect, there was a reason to go on.

After an eternity a red dawn appeared in the eastern skies, and the light of it showed no sign of the Orcs, or anyone else, either. Kaspir was tired and had long since ceased galloping. The great black stallion’s foam-flecked head hung low, and he plodded along at a weary walk.

Miriel tried to get her bearings. She didn’t know where she was or where she was going. She let Kaspir choose his own path, as long as it didn’t lead back into the west, where a great smoke plume was still visible in the distance. Kaspir laboriously climbed to the summit of a tall mountain, which took the better part of two hours, and Miriel stopped him to look around. She could see unhindered in every direction for miles.

Orcs still blackened the land to the west, marching straight through the heart of Rohan uncontested, wreaking havoc and cutting a broad swath of death and destruction. Her village was not the only one left untouched during the night. Everywhere small towns lay in ruins, abandoned and burning. Miriel turned away seething with a fiery hatred pierced by an excruciating sorrow that throbbed unbearably, painfully, in her. She bent over Kaspir’s withers, choked by her unspilled tears and a constricted throat.

At that moment, the baby in her arms began to cry. Miriel clutched at him, glancing nervously behind her as she held him against her chest to still his crying and comfort him with her warmth. The Orcs were far too close for comfort, and poor Kaspir was too exhausted to outrun them in a pinch. Miriel impatiently brushed the tears from her eyes and cheeks. She would have to save her weeping for later; right now she had get the three of them to safety, if there was any safety left anywhere in the burning land.

Miriel looked up and searched the hills for the defense force of Rohirrim that should be riding out to challenge them, but there was none. Her brow furrowed with worry. Surely the news would have reached Edoras by now; the entire army should have emptied long ago. But they were not, and Miriel knew that was a bad sign.

There was nothing to the north, and the eastward way was clear except for the gathering black clouds in the direction of Mordor that seemed to forebode a terrible menace, or a great storm about to burst upon Middle-earth. But to the south, Miriel spotted movement at last. She strained her eyes until she made out a line of refugees slowly threading their way from the city of Edoras, where the King of Rohan dwelt, to the direction of Helm’s Deep, a protected fortress nestled in the side of the mountains.

A desperate ray of hope filled Miriel’s torn heart. Perhaps, by some miracle, her parents and brothers had managed to make it! Maybe they were walking among the other homeless people even now! It was a long shot, but it was the last thing that Miriel could hold on to. She clutched at the grim hope with both hands.

Miriel whipped Kaspir into a trot, and the tired black horse doggedly trudged across the barren land of the Riddermark. They were unhampered by any difficulties presented by the hosts of Mordor, fortunately, but hunger and thirst were beginning to take its toll on the baby, Miriel, and her horse. By early afternoon she was within sight of her goal, and she urged Kaspir on. Miriel had never been happier to see other folks in her life.

A single rider broke from the group and galloped toward her on a bay horse. Miriel saw a green cloak fluttering out behind him, and a shining silver helm crested by a gray horsetail, and she knew at once that he was one of the King’s men. The guard halted not far from her. His fair face became distressed as he beheld her, and he looked upon her with pity.

“Welcome, lady,” he soberly addressed her in a quiet voice. “Join our company. You will be well protected among our ranks.”

Miriel nodded wordlessly and Kaspir shuffled forward, his proud head hanging low to the ground. The King’s rider escorted her. He trotted at her side and asked her a few tactful questions about the night before. Miriel answered in clipped sentences, for her grief was heavy upon her and exhaustion weighed her down. But she felt greatly relieved that she was no longer on her own. She felt less vulnerable, and she was glad to have armed soldiers providing a measure of safety.

The guard confirmed Miriel’s guess that the people of Rohan were making for Helm’s Deep, and he told her that many refugees from all over the land had arrived the day before and all during the night. At this Miriel woke up and sat straighter on Kaspir’s back. When they reached the endless trail of people, Miriel did not rest until she had ridden up and down through everyone, searching the blank, shaken faces for the instantly recognizable ones of her family.

It was then that Miriel first beheld King Theoden, whom she had only known previously through her mother’s stories.

He did not notice her staring at him; the King had much on his mind and his advisors were occupying his full attention as they discussed matters of concern even as they rode at the head of the migration. Miriel dared not intrude any further and allowed Kaspir to hang back while she subjected him to her intense scrutiny.

He was not surrounded with any pretentious entourage or pompous ceremony that Miriel might have expected to accompany a King. Contrary to Miriel’s colorful expectations, the green-clad King Theoden looked more like a common soldier of Rohan than a King, and she only knew him because of his ornate silver crown and the vague description Miriel carried with her, imparted by her mother. Miriel surmised this incognito procession was due to the emergency status of their exodus and she also saw the wisdom of purposefully failing to advertise who the King was, as he would be the enemy’s primary target.

Miriel was naturally curious about the monarch of the Riddermark because of her blood-ties to the palace of Edoras, and she had never before seen him. But he was almost as Miriel had imagined him, with minor differences. His brow was creased deeply with age, though no hint of gray touched his bright golden hair. His eyes were fell and determined. His features were chisled and hard-set, and there was an air of pride about him, and yet there was a softness to his expression that denoted a kind and noble heart. Miriel could not help admiring him, and she could not blame her mother for being honored to serve such a king as he and to have raised his son.

Suddenly a woman dashed up to Miriel and clutched at her leg. Miriel started at the familiar gesture, her intriguing evaluation of King Theoden thus interrupted, and looked down.

“Do you have my baby?” the woman cried, gazing desperately into Miriel’s eyes. Her wild glance fell upon the rolled blanket resting quietly on Miriel’s lap.

“My baby! My baby!” the mother wailed, reaching for her child. “Is he all right?”

Miriel nodded wordlessly and lifted the bundle to the woman’s waiting arms.

The distraught lines of worry vanished miraculously as the woman held her baby, and she gasped with joy when the little one wriggled and gave a thin, weak cry complaining of his hunger and exhaustion. A sudden smile lit her face.

“Oh, my baby!” murmured the mother softly. She was almost in awe as she looked down lovingly and cradled the infant. She turned to Miriel with tears in her eyes.

“Thank you,” whispered the woman gratefully, and Miriel nodded again. Tears were brimming in Miriel’s eyes and threatening to spill over. Miriel’s throat was too tight to speak as she watched the tender parent soothing her child. She couldn’t help thinking of her own mother and wondering if her parents were still alive.

Miriel stared as the mother walked away, gently clasping the blanket-covered child. A spot of warmth touched Miriel’s broken heart.

That was one baby the Orcs didn’t get, Miriel thought fiercely to herself as she turned Kaspir and continued calling to her family members.

It seemed that her village had fared very poorly, and precious few of the inhabitants had escaped to safety. She recognized a small number of folks, less than a score of fellow villagers that she did not know well beyond their faces, but she did not find her brothers.

Miriel was devastated. Resignedly she pulled Kaspir into line and joined the steady migration. Her spirit failed within her. Her mind told her that since they were not here, there was little chance that they had survived the night. But her heart stubbornly refused to give up hope, or to even consider the possibility that they might all be dead, because it was the last thing Miriel had to hold on to. Now and again her searching gaze would stray to the distant horizons.

All afternoon Miriel and Kaspir filed slowly among the other travelers, who were seemingly not weary enough to keep from gossiping. Miriel had nothing to do but sit listlessly on the back of her horse and listen, and she learned many things on that lonely road.

It seemed that four strange visitors had arrived recently in Edoras, and that one of them was a wizard called Gandalf who freed King Theoden from a spell that had rendered him nearly incapable of ruling Rohan. Soon afterwards Gandalf left Edoras in a great hurry, and his departure brought mixed reactions from the townsfolk. Some were glad to see him go, regarding the wizard as a bringer of evil and his coming as a bad omen, while others felt he was watching out for the good of Rohan and defended him verbally. But the latter was the minority.

Another popular topic of conversation, one that Miriel liked less since it struck so close to home, was the invasion of the Orcs. They were not Orcs from Mordor, as Miriel had thought. When Miriel heard the truth, she gasped in shock and clutched at Kaspir’s mane to steady herself. The Orcs were marching on orders directly from Isengard!

Miriel’s blood turned to ice in her veins as she listened intently to the story. The great wizard Saruman, who had long been their friend and ally, had fallen to evil and had joined forces with the dark lord from Mordor, Sauron. The tower of Orthanc, which Miriel had for so long considered a symbol of safety and security, was now under Sauron’s dominion and cast a long, threatening shadow over the lands of Rohan. Rohan and Gondor both were now caught in the middle of two great evils bent on destroying the race of Men.

It was Gandalf who had brought these tidings to the King, for Saruman had been the head of the wizard order and the White Council, and Gandalf knew him well.

Gandalf’s three companions remained behind with the refugees and accompanied them to Helm’s Deep. People had many opinions about the newcomers. There was a Man, a Dwarf and an Elf all traveling together, and from where they had come and what their purpose was in Rohan seemed shrouded in mystery. But the people had plenty of ideas, and Miriel had trouble separating truth from rumor.

The man was called Aragorn, son of Arathorn, who was a great warrior and a Ranger who had wandered in the lonely wilds for many years. It was whispered that he might even be a great lord, for he seemed to hold a hidden power and he had a stately bearing. The folk were generally in awe of him.

The Dwarf was called Gimli, an outspoken, feisty fellow that amused everyone who had chanced to meet him. The fact that a Dwarf and an Elf were together in the first place raised eyebrows, for everyone knew that there was bad blood between the two races. Elves and Dwarves had long been at war and did not get along, but for some reason, this odd pair did.

No one seemed to know hardly anything about the Elf. The common folk were far more concerned about other affairs to bother much with him, but Miriel felt a shiver of excitement amid her grief. She had been right. The Elves really did exist, and perhaps later on, if her luck held, she might even get to meet one!

His name was Legolas. They said he was as Elven fair as the tales tell, and that he was from the woodland realm of Mirkwood, but beyond that nothing else was certain.

Miriel grew weary of the talk and the endless journey; she remembered thinking once that she could never tire of the beauty of the endless hills of the Riddermark, but she certainly had her fill of them for the time being. Her eyes glazed over as Kaspir plodded steadily beneath her, for her eyelids were heavy with sorrow and lack of rest. Miriel nodded off and slumped over her horse’s dark neck, and her aching arms hung limply from either side of her horse while she buried her face deep in the thick mane. She fell into a dead sleep, but she had not been out long when she was rudely interrupted.

“Wargs! Wargs are coming!”

 

[Jazzcat]

Suddenly a wave of terror rippled down the line of refugees as the cry rang out. Miriel shot upright, but she was groggy and searched the world uncomprehendingly while she spat strands of black horse hair from her mouth. Someone scraped against her leg, yelling something unintelligible. Miriel interpreted the words through a sleep-deprived fog. But the terror was unmistakable, and it jolted Miriel from her stupor. Instantly Miriel snapped wide awake and looked around wildly, her gray eyes wide and frightened. People were running beside her, and screams and shouts rent the air. Kaspir shied violently, snorting, and Miriel struggled to calm him.

“Kaspir, no!” shrieked Miriel, pulling at the reins as the frightened stallion whinnied and tried to bolt.

But Miriel was more horrified than her horse. Wargs were hideous beasts that the Orcs chose to ride upon, and they were just as ruthless and bloodthirsty as their Orc counterparts. Miriel wanted to give Kaspir his head and gallop away, but she stilled the impulse to flee blindly. Common sense told her that safety lay in numbers, even though the long train of women, children, carts and pack animals considerably slowed them.

Miriel could see the King and his company of men riding away from the group, dashing out bravely to meet the enemy head-on with their swords drawn. Miriel’s heart was in her throat as she watched them go, for they faced a formidable opponent and she knew it was likely that they would not return.

But Miriel had little time to brood on the fate of the riders. Kaspir was roaring in terror and plunging beneath her and becoming increasingly hard to control. But the lines of people were moving forward, and Kaspir went along with them, for he was too tired to fight back. The King’s niece, Princess Eowyn, had taken command in the King’s absence and was shouting orders. Miriel found Lady Eowyn’s strong voice a calming influence in the midst of her panic.

As she and Kaspir rushed toward Helm’s Deep with strangers from every part of Rohan, she could hear the terrible sounds of the battle not far behind them. The snarling of the Wargs, the roaring of the Orcs, and the harsh ring of metal clashed with the desperate shouts of the defenders. The awful noise faded into the distance as they fled.

Miriel wondered if she would ever see those King’s guards again, and she was worried that no one, soldier or ordinary citizen, would survive very long with such an enemy as Saruman relentlessly pursuing them, for it seemed as if the evil wizard’s one goal was to wipe humanity off the face of Middle-earth forever.

All afternoon they ran hard and swift until Miriel thought she would die from the severe hunger, parching thirst and overwhelming exhaustion. She concentrated all her strength on remaining seated firmly on Kaspir’s back. By the time the great fortress of Helm’s Deep came into sight at last, Miriel had nearly fainted.

The people burst into the Glittering Caves of Aglarond, which lay protected by the fortress at Helm’s Deep, and flung themselves to the floor. Other refugees had made it ahead of them, and Miriel perked up long enough to once again search among the crowds seeking her brothers and her parents. But they were nowhere to be found, and after going through the throngs a second time to be certain she had not missed them, Miriel’s heart sank deep into darkness. Finally she gave up in despair and sat down.

After a time some of the King’s men returned. The attack had greatly reduced the number of surviving warriors. One of the fallen was the visitor Aragorn. Great lord and renowned fighter though he was, it had not been enough to save him from plunging over a cliff and into a deep river, were he was swept away by the swift current. The Lady Eowyn was especially distraught, although she bravely held her head high as she roved among the common folk helping where she could.

But Miriel felt strangely removed from the concerns of anyone else, even the loss of Aragorn. Miriel had plenty of her own sorrows to occupy her mind. She stabled Kaspir and made sure the weary horse had plenty to eat and drink before she left him. Then she stumbled down the dimly lit passages of the caves and numbly threw herself down in a dark corner. The last of her strength ebbed away.

Miriel did not move as the afternoon slipped away under evening shadows. She did not eat or drink anything, and sleep would not come to her. She lay listlessly on the hard ground, staring unseeing at the gray rock walls. Slow, silent tears fell from her empty eyes and splashed upon her pale cheeks. Miriel kept seeing Alastar teasing her while they were happily swordfighting, and his gay laughter echoed with a hollow ring in her mind. It seemed as if that moment was but a distant memory from years long past and buried by sorrow.

Her brothers, her mother, her father, her friends and neighbors – every person she loved dearly in this world was gone. Her village was pillaged and burned to the ground. She was homeless and an orphan. After her ordeal at Helm’s Deep was over, she would have nowhere to go and no one to turn to for help.

Miriel’s hope faded. Her will to live was dying away. She felt darkness creeping upon her and did not have the strength to resist, and she did not care.

Miriel did not care even when Aragorn came riding in, bent over the neck of his horse, still somehow miraculously alive and bringing news to the King. She took no notice when the announcement was given that a huge army of Orcs was marching toward Helm’s Deep and would be arriving by nightfall. She hardly stirred as the panic-stricken refugees rushed in and filled the caves for protection during the battle. She did not start in terror when people whispered together in fear and said they would neither win the fight, nor live to see the light of day.

A voice broke into the dark shroud of Miriel’s mind.

“Have you eaten anything?”

Miriel turned and looked at the fair lady with long golden tresses bending over her. Despite her drab brown attire, Miriel instantly recognized her as the Princess Eowyn. Miriel knew this because Eowyn had been pointed out to her earlier, but even without the benefit of knowing thanks to the insight of a native peasant of Edoras who dwelt near Meduseld, Princess Eowyn had the same carved, proud features of her uncle. Miriel sensed a cold hardness around her that set her apart from the other women. Eowyn was high-hearted and beautiful, but somehow Miriel knew that this princess was filled with the same bravery and reckless courage as a number of the mensoldiers. Judging by the confident way she handled herself and the graceful strength that suffused her movements, Miriel easily guessed that Eowyn had the skills of a warrior to back up her outward appearance and her bold spirit.

Miriel tried to answer, but no words came to her dry throat, so she simply shook her head.

“You must keep up your strength,” Eowyn told her with firm gentleness. She gave Miriel part of a hard loaf of bread and made her drink some water from a skin. Miriel took a few painful swallows and felt somewhat revived. Miriel was grateful for Eowyn’s care, but no food or drink could mend Miriel’s broken heart.

Eowyn noticed the deep Orc-scratches on Miriel’s calf and gently dressed it with what meager supplies she had. Then Eowyn stayed by and ordered Miriel to take a few mouthfuls of bread and a little more water. Miriel reluctantly obeyed and found her spirits returning.

“Thank you,” Miriel croaked.

Eowyn bravely gave Miriel a tight smile as she moved away.

Hours passed and darkness fell. Miriel remained where she was as the tension grew. Death meant nothing to her, except to nearly become a welcome friend, for taking that mist-shrouded path was the only way she could see her beloved family again. Miriel sat alone, silent and despondent. All the fight had gone out of her. It was as if she were almost content to quietly accept her inevitable fate.

••••••••••••••••

There are some cliffhanger chapters coming up, and if you don’t want to wait for me to get around to posting it all, then go to www.talesofmiddleearth.com and download the free ebook: Miriel: Princess of Rohan.

 

[the_cloaked_crusader]

I'll bet you don't want a critique. If you do, say so.

 

[Jazzcat]

Yes, sure, go for it! I'm all monitors.

 

[the_cloaked_crusader]

lol

Just some minor inaccuracies: I doubt if peasants in Rohan used as many utensils as are here described. The whole country was rather rustic. If anything besides spoons for the soup (which is also questionable), they probably used knives alone.

From what I read, almost no one in Rohan had dark hair. I could be wrong on this one, or I could be misinterpreting the meaning where it says hte firelight torrned her dark hair to bright gold.

Also, the Rohirrim did not look on elves as being fair or wise, but as dangerous, evil creatures, not to be trusted--If they exist at all. Since Miriel has never met an elf, it's doubtful she would have a difering opinion on the topic.

There weren't ring sizes.

Parachutes had not been invented; comparing dandelioin fluff to parachutes jolts the reader out of the setting.

The Rohirrim didn't smoke pipes.

Rohirim would have no problem riding bareback. THey are excellent horsement.

Pulling a horse's reins while it rears will only make it go higher.

More later ... I'm going through the story little by little. There are other stylistic problems but I'll hit hte inaccuracies first: A rabid Tolkein fanatic like myself will be much more offended by these than by the overuse of words etc.

 

[qandablogger]

you guys do great work!

 

[Jazzcat]

lol

Just some minor inaccuracies: I doubt if peasants in Rohan used as many utensils as are here described. The whole country was rather rustic. If anything besides spoons for the soup (which is also questionable), they probably used knives alone.

From what I read, almost no one in Rohan had dark hair. I could be wrong on this one, or I could be misinterpreting the meaning where it says hte firelight torrned her dark hair to bright gold.

Also, the Rohirrim did not look on elves as being fair or wise, but as dangerous, evil creatures, not to be trusted--If they exist at all. Since Miriel has never met an elf, it's doubtful she would have a difering opinion on the topic.

There weren't ring sizes.

Parachutes had not been invented; comparing dandelioin fluff to parachutes jolts the reader out of the setting.

The Rohirrim didn't smoke pipes.

Rohirim would have no problem riding bareback. THey are excellent horsement.

Pulling a horse's reins while it rears will only make it go higher.

More later ... I'm going through the story little by little. There are other stylistic problems but I'll hit hte inaccuracies first: A rabid Tolkein fanatic like myself will be much more offended by these than by the overuse of words etc.

Greetings Cloaked One!

Thank you for the review. In answer to the questions:

1. True... I took a little license there. I wrote this a year and a half ago and know much more about Middle-earth now than I did back then!
2. It was rare for Rohirrim to have dark hair, but not impossible. The two countries were related, distantly. The people of Rohan split off from the Gondorians early in the history. Miriel's hair is not black, but more golden-brown. The firelight catches the highlights and sets them off.
3. True enough, but I was counting on peasant folk tales to have some kind of bearing on her feelings regarding Elves. Peasants were rather fanciful and they lived far north of larger civilizations, being closest to Isengard. Being so secluded from the rest of the country, they were left to form their own opinions - or so I figured.
4. No, but the ring was too big still!
5. True
6. True
7. True!!!
8. True. I did take some artistic license with that one. Again, I was counting on the isolation of the village to add some odd quirks to the accepted culture of Rohan.
9. Also true, but there are exceptions to every rule. Elidor was one of them. The Rohirrim soldiers were the ones known as excellent horsemen. Miriel's village was not as concerned with horses as the rest of Rohan. They were poorer and shifted more of their attention to scraping up a livelihood.
10. It is my understanding that when a horse rears up on you, you stand up, lean over the neck, and pull downward on the reins. Correct me if I'm wrong on that, however...

Thanks for the critique! Thank you also to qandablogger for the comment.
Blessings!
Jazzcat

 

[Jazzcat]

THE BATTLE OF HELM'S DEEP

The waiting was interminable. The air inside the glittering caves of Helm’s Deep was so thick you could slice it with a sword. Grief and fear hung over a great mass of huddled women and children like a choking black cloud. Only moments before, the King’s guards had taken every able-bodied male from them, even old men and young boys, leaving wives, sisters, and daughters weeping disconsolately and clutching one another.

Miriel sat apart from the others in her dark corner. She wept for no one now, for her tears were spent. She was worn out from the long journey to Helm’s Deep fraught with worry and terror of the ruthless Orcs. She wondered why she was still alive, and why it was that she, Miriel, and not her brothers or her parents, who had survived the attack. She was furious at being spared, especially since she was the only one of her family left.

She glanced at the Lady Eowyn, princess of Rohan, who was trying to comfort a small, wide-eyed child. Outwardly Eowyn seemed strong and in control, but Miriel knew that the princess didn’t want to be here in the caves. Miriel had seen her arguing with King Theoden earlier, begging to be allowed to fight. But the King ordered her to remain with the women, and Eowyn meekly obeyed.

Suddenly Miriel caught her breath and clutched at the cold rock wall. She felt a great and terrible vibration that filled her quailing heart with dread. She knew without seeing that it was the iron-shod feet of a mighty host from Isengard. Their pounding shook the earth and caused the diamond-encrusted stalactites to tremble perilously on the roof of the cave. As the minutes went by, the approaching earthquake grew louder.

Abruptly it stopped. The air was deathly still except for the comfortless cries of a few small infants. Miriel looked upon the drawn faces of the women and the frightened wide-eyed children. She could see the mother whose child Miriel had carried on Kaspir’s back now gently cradling her baby in the dim yellow torchlight.

Without warning there came a terrible crashing of iron punctuated by throaty roars. Instinct told Miriel that the Orcs were putting on some kind of fearsome display, purposely trying to pierce the courage of even the bravest hearts of men, pummeling the ground with spears and clashing sword on shield.

One trembling young woman threw herself into the arms of Princess Eowyn, sobbing hysterically.

“We are doomed!” the young woman wailed. “We’re all going to die!”

“Hush, hush,” commanded Eowyn. Miriel watched as the Princess comforted the young woman and tried to maintain a courageous calm.

All at once Miriel realized how hopeless this night truly was. The young woman was right. They had about three hundred soldiers defending them, mostly untrained old men and young boys. The Orcs were ten thousand strong. The battle would be bravely fought but swiftly concluded. Orcs would storm these caves and mercilessly slaughter everyone inside.

Miriel did not care if death found her on that dark night. She felt there was nothing left to live for, and she almost wanted to die just so she would be reunited with her beloved family. But as Miriel stared at the mother tenderly clutching her helpless child, and pictured the Orcs bursting in with their black swords drawn and closing in on the terrified woman and her baby, hatred suddenly blazed inside Miriel’s chest.

“I did not carry that child this far through danger and shadow to watch him die in a corner,” she muttered as a spark leapt into her gray eyes. The will to struggle against the enemy was rekindled, not for herself, but for the tiny infant, and for all the people who cowered powerlessly in those caves. That fire which burned in her heart gave her a little strength, and she pushed herself upright.

Then Miriel remembered the odds stacked against her. She thought of the throngs of hideous Orcs lying in wait for her outside. She knew that to venture beyond the caves was almost certain death. But if she remained here for the battle to end, the Orcs would surely come. She could see them leering cruelly and bending over her as she backed against a wall with nowhere to run.

“I would rather die fighting,” she growled to the darkness, dispelling the evil vision with an effort. Her fate was decided, and Miriel stood up. Her only worldly possessions were in the brown cloth bag that her brother Elidor had given her when she had last seen him the night before. Miriel clutched the sack and slipped unnoticed into the shadows. She looked back at the Lady Eowyn’s grim face before she disappeared around the corner.

When she was alone, Miriel ripped open the bag and lifted out the shirt of heavy chain mail which had once belonged to her brother, Elidor. Without hesitation she threw it on and settled it over her dark gray traveling dress. She tore the sides of her skirt to give herself greater mobility. She tied back her long dark hair with a strip of leather. Thus arrayed, she took a deep breath and steeled herself. Then she rushed out of the musty caves.

Once she was out in the open, Miriel paused to breathe the free air. Rain poured from dark clouds in great soaking torrents as though to dampen the spirits of Men. Miriel touched her ring and slid it closer to her hand; rain and nervous sweat were making her fingers clammy and she did not want to lose this ring. Even if it contained not one spot of magic or virtue, it came from her mother, and that made it priceless in Miriel’s eyes.

Miriel spotted a sword lying forgotten on the stones and grabbed it, pausing to run a finger over the sharp steel edge. She was grateful now for the years she had spent learning the art of swordsmanship and everything her brothers had taught her about wielding a blade. She would put all those skills to good use on this doomed night.

Taking the sword, Miriel ran to the wall to see what was happening.

The sight nearly took her fragile courage away. Orcs from Isengard stretched on as far as the eye could see, their dark armor and evil helms emblazoned with the ghastly white hand of the fallen wizard Saruman. Torches burned among them, and above the enemy hung sheer black forests of glittering spears. The Orcs roared and slavered. Rain dripped from their hideous yellow fangs. Vast numbers of Orcs were already raising ladders to the wall, and hundreds more were firing arrows at the soldiers of Rohan.

Miriel wrenched herself from the horrible spectacle and looked then to the King. The defenders stood on the wall, tall and proud. Fell and determined were the faces of young and old. Miriel saw, to her great surprise, a large host of Elves among them. Miriel gasped and a brief smile passed over her lips at hope unlooked-for in this dark hour. Elves and Men had not fought side by side in this fashion for three thousand years since the time of the great kings, Elendil and Isildur, in the first war against Sauron. Yet here were the two races united once more under the same standard.

Miriel paused. Doubts plagued her mind. What could she do to help? She was only one among thousands; a mere maiden and no warrior. But Miriel was determined to try, no matter how small her contribution. She would not to stand by and do nothing while men fought and died to save Rohan.

At the least, she die with a sword in her hand.

Miriel ducked as an arrow whistled over her head. Instantly she roused herself and raced up the stone stairs toward the Elves.

“I’ve got nothing to lose,” Miriel murmured aloud to herself as she ran. “At least I’ll not meet my end in those stuffy caves, helpless and unarmed. I don’t see what good I can do out here, and I can’t imagine anyone making a song about my deeds in battle, but there’s nothing else for it. I’ll do my best.”

As she ran, blood coursed through her body and Miriel was filled with a reckless courage. The fierce wind blasted her face and tore at her dress. Rain pounded in her eyes. But Miriel did not care. She shook her head to clear her vision and sent drops of water flying away like bits of broken glass. Miriel shouted into the night and leapt up the stairs. She was young and strong and alive. She could make a difference!

An arrow zinged at her chest and Miriel gave a short cry, but it bounced back, thwarted by the chain mail and leaving only a short rip to show that it had been there. Miriel paid no more heed to the dart that dropped harmlessly to the ground, but her mind was working. It told her that she should have felt more impact than she had. Miriel clutched at her ring while her legs churned and carried her along the top of the fortress. She would need all the help she could get…

Suddenly a roaring Orc loomed ahead of Miriel, his weapon raised to strike her down as she came. A flash of lightning burned his black armor a sharp, ghostly white against the stormy skies.

Fear flickered in Miriel’s eyes, but anger blazed through her heart and won out.

“Alastar!” Miriel cried as she charged.

Her sword clashed against the Orc’s heavy iron and deflected the blow. Miriel was nearly thrown to the ground from the force of the impact, but she recovered immediately and twisted away.

The Orc was gigantic, more than twice her match in mass and muscle. But Miriel was swift and agile, and desperation lent her uncommon strength. Clumsiness was the Orc’s only weakness, and Miriel took full advantage of it. Twice her sword clashed with the Orc’s before a third quick thrust took him at last. Miriel’s enemy fell sputtering at her feet.

Miriel dashed up the last steps. Fear quickened her heartbeat and heightened all her senses. Colors brightened and smells were stronger. Miriel found she could see everything clearly, even in the darkness. Miriel became immune to weariness and pain as adrenaline coursed through her veins. Wind and rain were forgotten. Her mind sharpened to an almost supernatural level, and Miriel no longer had to think about what she was doing but relied rather on instinct.

Miriel smote another Orc that stood in her way. She reached the top of the wall and dashed along it, glancing down as she ran. More ladders were raised, laden heavily with invaders.

One ladder was coming straight toward her. A few soldiers of Rohan ran to meet it, but they would not make it in time. In a flash Miriel realized that it was up to her to keep this part of the wall clear. She gripped her sword with clammy hands and stood fast, breathless but determined.

The ladder clanged against the wall. With an unearthly cry Miriel threw her sword against the Orc’s and shoved it harmlessly aside. She recoiled swiftly and stabbed at his chest. With a throaty yell he fell limply from the top rung, taking several of the enemy with him as he plunged into a black sea of Orcs.

And then the unthinkable happened. Miriel’s ring slipped off.

She gasped and went after the tiny silver hoop as it went bouncing merrily across the wall, but just as she pounced on it, the ring lodged into a crack in the stones and refused to budge.

Miriel was frantic. She could hear more Orcs climbing the ladder, uttering strings of harsh words in the Dark Tongue that Miriel was glad she could not understand, and Miriel worked feverishly at the ring stuck in the stones. She was running out of time. Rain made her grip impossible, and she tugged and gasped, but the ring was tightly embedded in the wall and would not move. The Orcs were getting closer. Miriel’s fingers slipped off the round surface, and she slapped the stones in frustration and tried all the harder. The Uruk-hai were almost at the top of the wall. Miriel gritted her teeth and bit her lip and pulled…

Just as the first Orc topped the wall, Miriel gave one last desperate tug and the ring miraculously popped loose. She threw it on her finger and grabbed her sword in time for a last-second parry that only just saved her from a premature decapitation. Miriel traded blows with the Orc, and with a sudden lunge of Miriel’s sword the Orc stopped mid-growl and fell, howling, to the ground below, taking a few of his companions with him.

More Orcs climbed upward, snarling in fury at being thus delayed. Miriel knocked another Orc from the ladder before the soldiers arrived. Seeming not to heed her presence the guards rushed in and took over, and Miriel was pushed aside. Orcs came in pairs, but no sooner did they reach the wall than they met their doom.

Miriel blinked. She was no longer needed here. Grasping her sword and clenching her fist to minimize the risk of losing the ring again, she ran on.

Ahead Miriel saw that the Elves had a terrible fight on their hands. Orcs swarmed up the ladders and poured over the wall. Miriel dashed toward them, leveling an enemy that stood in her path, and then all at once she reached the thick of the battle. Without hesitation Miriel plunged in.

Fighting swirled around her. The crash of metal and steel rang in her ears. Desperately her sword flashed as she laid Orcs at her feet. Her cries mingled with those of the Elves and were lost in the hoarse grunts of the Orcs. Above the tumult Miriel heard a deep voice.

“Legolas!” someone called from another part of the wall. Miriel dimly realized that the voice belonged to a Dwarf, the visitor named Gimli. “Two already!”

Miriel leaped aside to avoid an Orc’s stroke and then slew him.

“I’m on seventeen!” Miriel heard another shout back. She drew herself up and slammed her sword across another Orc, listening to this odd conversation with only half her mind.

“Argh!” exclaimed the Dwarf fiercely. “I’ll have no pointy-ear outscoring me!”

If the danger had been less, Miriel would have laughed aloud. But this strange manner of jesting gave her courage. She rose up and clashed with yet another Orc, trading blows until Miriel threw the sword from his grasp and finished him.

“Nineteen!” shouted the Elf Legolas.

Miriel ran to the wall and found on Orc clawing his way up a ladder. She threw him down and killed the one behind him. Miriel grabbed at a passing Elf and caught his tunic.

“Help me!” she hollered.

Together with the Elf, Miriel pushed on the ladder with all her might until it fell away from the wall and crashed to the earth, killing many of the Orcs below as well as the ones clinging to the ladder.

Breathless and exhausted, Miriel stumbled backwards and tripped over a fallen Orc. Clutching at her sword in terror she tried to scramble to her feet, but she was too weak.

 

[Jazzcat]

Miriel glanced about wildly, expecting doom to fall upon her without warning, but she found the wall miraculously clear of Orcs for the moment. Looking up, she saw the short, sturdy form of the Dwarf planted firmly on the wall and silhouetted against the blazing battle. He was standing between two overloaded ladders, whirling his axe and single-handedly taking down each Orc as they reached the top.

“Eighteen! Nineteen! Twenty! Twen-tee-one-uh!” Gimli’s strong voice rang out over Helm’s Deep as he wielded his great axe. “Twen-tee-two! Twen-tee-threeeee!”

“Bless you, Gimli,” Miriel murmured, grimacing in amusement. She rested quietly for an instant until she felt her strength returning. Her ring had slipped almost over her knuckle, but she pushed it back into place. She struggled to her feet as several more ladders landed against the wall. Orcs poured over the top, and the Elves soon had more than they could handle. Miriel dashed in and lent her sword to the cause.

Suddenly a great warrior appeared, battling two Orcs at once, and then giving orders to the Elven archers. Elves and Men alike found new courage in his presence. Miriel had only time to glance at him and recalled the tales from the gossiping refugees. Aragorn son of Arathorn he was called, a visitor to Rohan and a companion of Gimli’s. Beyond that Miriel remembered nothing.

The onslaught of the Orcs grew fierce, and Miriel lost track of both Aragorn and Gimli. Her magic ring succombed to the rain and sweat and slipped off again and was lost under the black feet of the Orcs, and Miriel could not retrieve it. She was forced to fight alone. Pain seared through her body as one of her enemies slashed wildly and caught her in the arm. Miriel screamed even as she slew the Orc.

The battle was momentarily under control again, and Miriel looked down at her forearm and found a deep gash. Blood poured from it and stained her torn dress. A dizzy spell took her and she clutched at the wall to steady herself.

At that instant Miriel became aware of arrows singing away with great speed beside her head. She turned and found herself standing next to a tall, fair Elven archer. His hands moved quicker than sight and his arrows did not fail to find their mark. His long blonde hair blew in the wind, his intense eyes burned into the ranks of the enemy, and his mouth pursed grimly as he sought his next target. Miriel stared at him, but the Elf took no notice and continued firing into the black masses below.

Miriel saw that his arrow stock was running low. He was taking out a large number of Orcs with his lightning speed and deadly precision, far more than any single warrior could have done with the sword. Miriel decided she would be the most useful to the defense if she helped the Elf continue firing without a letup, unhindered by lack of arrows.

But his supply would not last indefinitely.

Immediately Miriel dropped down and groped about on the cold wet stone until she found a score of good arrows. Her ring was among them, twinkling amid the mud puddle where it had been kicked aside by the careless Orcs, and Miriel jammed the erring silver circlet back onto her finger with a muttered “And stay there” before running back with the arrows and cramming them into the Elf’s quiver.

Instantly the blonde Elf whipped around, and Miriel found herself looking into a pair of startling, fierce blue eyes and at the shiny silver tip of an arrow aimed right at her heart. Miriel gasped. She stumbled backwards and fell with a cry, but her gaze ever held that of the Elf’s, even as he, stunned at meeting her thus, lost his intense angry expression and slowly lowered his bow.

Time stilled and the noise of the battle seemed to fade away as the Elf reached out and helped Miriel to her feet. The boiling clouds overhead parted and for an instant starlight shone down on them. Then came the strangest sound of all in this dark hour: The sound of Elves singing. Helm’s Deep vanished and was replaced by a beautiful ageless forest filled with golden trees. Miriel’s pain was gone, and her ragged dress was replaced with a shimmering white gown.

At once Miriel thought she must be hallucinating. The pain and fear and sorrow together with lack of food, drink and sleep must have taken its toll on her overwrought mind. But she did not object; this lovely oasis was far and beyond preferable to the hopeless bloody war and death she had left behind.

Miriel could see Elves in the twilight walking softly through the trees, and their sweet songs drifted around her like a soft wind, stealing away her anxiety. Although Miriel couldn’t understand the fair Elven speech, the words of their lays pierced her heart, and she felt as if she almost knew what they were saying.

The blonde Elf stood holding her hand, arrayed as an Elven prince. Jewels shimmered on his brow. The glade where they were standing was lit by the bright light of a single star. The Elven prince looked upon her and spoke to her softly in Elven tongue.

“A, elo,” he whispered.

“I… it- it’s nice to meet you too,” replied Miriel, just as awestruck as the Elf appeared to be. She had never seen anyone as fair as he, and Miriel was captivated by his Elvish beauty.

But it was his brilliant blue eyes that captured Miriel. Something about his warm, piercing gaze made her heart skip a beat. It was as if they had met somewhere before, or perhaps had known each other forever, and they knew everything about each other without any words being spoken. Miriel could not look away.

“Who are you?” breathed the Elf, seeming as captivated as she.

Miriel moved to say something, but she was interrupted.

Suddenly Miriel was aware of shouting as if from afar. She craned to look over her shoulder and beheld Aragorn emerging from a cloud of blue smoke, running like fire toward them. His sword blazed in his hand, and he was hollering in Elven tongue.

“Legolas! Legolas!” Aragorn yelled, gesturing wildly as he came on. “Na fennas!”

Immediately Miriel was back in Helm’s Deep. Her dress was torn and bloody, and Legolas was a warrior once more. The mysterious woods had disappeared like a thin curtain of silken mist in the afternoon sun as the clouds closed over the brilliant star; the sweet singing became the clash of arms and the throaty grunts of warriors. Miriel shook her head swiftly to clear it; she was sure she had become disoriented and imagined it.

Legolas blinked, then turned briefly back to Miriel. Fury filled his bright sapphire eyes and he dashed back to his place on the wall, leaving Miriel alone where she stood, dripping wet and bloody. Aragorn blew past her without seeing her, screaming at Legolas.

“Togo hon dad, Legolas!” Aragorn cried. Instantly the Elf fitted a shaft to his bowstring and fired below. The entire focus of the defenders had shifted to the causeway, and Miriel went to the wall and looked down. Orcs had crawled up to a small culvert, and now a single Orc ran toward the wall holding aloft a fiercely blazing torch. Miriel’s heart caught in her throat. The Orc moved swiftly with such purpose and absolute certainty that something was definitely wrong. Legolas’s first arrow was embedded in the thick black hide of his shoulder, but still he came on as if he could not feel pain.

Fear shot through Miriel as she watched the drama play out below her.

“Dago hon! Dago hon!” screamed Aragorn. Legolas took careful aim and buried a second arrow in the torchbearer’s neck. The Orc shuddered as if stung, and for a moment it looked as if he would fall.

But with a last desperate plunge the Orc threw himself, and the torch, into the culvert. For a single breathless instant the battle stopped and the world grew dreadfully still.

Suddenly there was a tremendous explosion right beneath Miriel’s feet that ripped the ground out from underneath her. She flew screaming through the air with an assortment of Elves and Men. She landed with terrible force facedown on cold hard stone. The ring, released from Miriel’s deathgrip, dropped from her finger. Then everything went dark.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••

There are some cliffhanger chapters coming up (as if this one isn't bad enough! Believe me, it gets worse), and if you don’t want to wait for me to get around to posting it all, then go to www.talesofmiddleearth.com and download the free ebook: Miriel: Princess of Rohan.

 

[Jazzcat]

FATE’S ARROW

Miriel’s eyes flew open and she couldn’t seem to draw breath. Gasping wildly, she slapped the ground again and again with her bare hands until at last air rushed into her tortured lungs.

Miriel was shocked to be alive. Her ribcage felt too small and her sides were in agony. She was chilled to the bone and she didn’t know how long she had been unconscious. She groaned. The full memory of the blast came back to her, and she pounded her fist in anger.

“Saruman!” Miriel growled. She crammed the ring back onto her finger… and froze.

Suddenly Miriel realized that she had delayed the best Elf archer, Legolas, from reaching the Orc with the torch in time to save the wall. Fury rose in her chest as the full meaning of this crashed down on her. She punched the cold stone again.

“Miriel!” she roared at herself. She crawled to her knees, still fighting to breathe. She peered over the broken edge of the wall, and through the thick clouds of smoke she beheld a sight that nearly stopped her heart.

Orcs poured like rats through the gaping hole in the wall. Aragorn lay unmoving face down in the mud. A few others were strewn near him. Miriel stared in horror. Her blood ran cold as she realized that Helm’s Deep was rapidly falling because of her mistake.

Before Miriel had time to kick herself for straying from the caves, she heard a hoarse shout behind her. Turning, she saw Gimli also looking down on Aragorn. Orcs were running straight toward the fallen warrior, and in a moment they would be upon him.

That was too much for the Dwarf. With a cry of “Khazad!” Gimli leapt from the wall into a thicket of spears.

“Gimli!” screamed Miriel. For a terrible instant she could see nothing. Then there was another shout and two Orcs went flying. Gimli appeared boldly swinging his axe and making a great dent in the ranks of the invaders. A score of Elves ran forward to assist him.

Elves!

Suddenly Miriel remembered Legolas. Turning from the wall, she glanced about wildly, shouting his name.

All at once she saw him. He was lying not far away. His great bow had fallen from his cold limp hand, and his gray cloak lay tattered and crumpled over his motionless body.

“Legolas! No!” Her shrill, desperate cry burst forth and was abruptly cut short.

Miriel’s hands flew to her throat. She sank down, choking and sobbing, and she fell to her knees.

“Oh no,” Miriel whispered brokenly. “Oh no. This is all my fault. Oh Legolas, you… you can’t be dead!”

Miriel collapsed and wept. Time stopped and rain poured mercilessly from the sky and mingled with Miriel’s tears. The sounds of the battle seemed far away. Darkness closed over her torn heart as all hope faded. Aragorn and Legolas were dead. The wall was being overrun. Helm’s Deep was about to fall.

The end would come swiftly now, all because of her.

Abruptly Miriel felt the rain lessen. A few last drops fell soft against her cheek. Miriel stopped crying and looked up at the sky.

The dark clouds parted briefly, and a single star came into view. Its brilliant rays shore aside the night like a flash of lightning. Miriel shielded her eyes from the blinding light. Then the clouds covered over the star and the vision was gone. The rain began afresh. Miriel looked sorrowfully at the Elf lying on the stones.

Suddenly Legolas moved! His head whipped around. With a quick jump he was on his feet. Miriel shrieked and clung to a piece of broken wall, afraid to take her eyes from him. Legolas seemed dazed but otherwise unhurt.

As he stooped to retrieve his fallen bow, Miriel felt her senses returning. She took several deep breaths and swallowed hard to still her pounding heart, and then she hastily climbed to her feet. Miriel grabbed a fistful of arrows and rushed at the Elf.

“Legolas!” she cried, at his side in an instant. “Come quick!” Miriel jammed the arrows into his quiver and dragged him to the stone stairway. “Aragorn and Gimli are down there. Go! Hurry!”

Legolas instantly sized up the situation with a single glance. Moving like lightning, he seized a cast-off Orc shield, stepped onto it and used it to surf down the stone steps, firing arrows as he went. Reaching the bottom, Legolas gave a swift kick and sent the shield into the throat of one Orc, and then he drove an arrow into the neck of another with his bare hands.

Miriel picked up her fallen sword and ran along the wall. She had to get far, far away from Legolas, and the Elves defending the wall needed her help. Seemingly endless supplies of ladders were being raised, and Orcs surged over the wall in great numbers. Every spare sword was needed to keep it from being overrun.

Miriel charged in with a fierce yell and fought bravely. Several times Orc weapons glanced off her chain mail, narrowly missing her. A lucky slice caught her in the shoulder, but Miriel would not back down. One after another the Orcs fell beneath her cold fury and sharp blade. The Elves shouted encouragement and constantly warned her of any threats unseen behind her, and Miriel did the same for them. They forged an instant bond and fought as one. Together they cut down the black forests and kept the storm at bay.

But Miriel’s strength was fading. She could not battle Orcs all night at that mad pace. As her fatigue grew, her feet and her reflexes slowed. And then she made an awful discovery: Her traitorous ring was once again missing! Fear clutched at her throat. At any moment an Orc bigger and stronger than she could pounce on her without warning and kill her.

Suddenly an Elf gave a shout, and Miriel turned and beheld a gigantic Orc with a great sword nearly upon her. She raised her own sword and they clashed, but her weapon bounced harmlessly off that of her enemy’s like an ocean wave shattering against a rock. Grimly Miriel tried again, but with the same result. Terror shot through Miriel and froze her backbone, and a numbness gripped her mind as she realized she could not overpower this Orc.

Miriel cried out with the last of her strength and swung, but her foe roared and met her sword in midair with a mighty ring. He gave a vicious strike and threw the sword from Miriel’s quavering grasp. She heard it clatter on the stones a long way from where she stood.

Certain now of victory, the Orc moved in for the kill and sliced downward on the unarmed maiden, but Miriel ducked out of the way and leapt aside. The black Orc aimed a stroke for her neck. Miriel leaned backward to avoid being decapitated and stumbled over a fallen shield. She shrieked and fought to remain on her feet, but she slipped on the rain-slickened stones and fell hard to the ground, moaning in pain.

Her enemy rose up and loomed over her, terrible and leering, his hideous claws dug deep into the hilt of his sword. He raised his weapon for the final blow.

This was it. This was the moment Miriel had known would come when she left the caves. Miriel steeled herself for the end, staring at her doom with cold gray eyes hard and fell, but crystal tears glistened on her cheeks. Now that the moment had come at last, Miriel found that she didn’t want to die. Even though she was helpless to do anything but bravely accept her fate, every fiber of Miriel’s being cried out:

No. I want to live.

The Orc cackled harshly and stood over Miriel, like a giant panther gloating over a trapped young gazelle. Then his sword came crashing down upon her.

But the evil laugh abruptly changed to a roar. The sword stroke went wide and the Orc himself slammed down on Miriel. Cold and unmoving was her enemy now.

Miriel gasped. She was shocked to be alive and unhurt, but she was pinned to the ground under a mountain of heavy armor. As she tried to wriggle free, a fair Elven face appeared over the body of the Orc, and then Miriel felt the black weight being lifted away. The Elf pulled Miriel to her feet.

“Are you hurt?” he asked courteously, glancing over her gashed arms and bloody face. Miriel numbly shook her head. She was dazed and shaking all over, but after a moment she began to recover her composure.

“Yes, yes, I’m all right now, thank you,” she managed.

“Haldir! Haldir!” someone shouted, and the Elf ran back to the wall. Miriel realized that this Haldir had just saved her life.

Miriel found that she was indeed hurt all over. A glint of silver caught her eye. She scowled, but she pushed herself up and laid hold of that rebellious ring which seemed to be causing her more trouble than good and slipped it into place on her finger. Then she sat up and granted herself a moment of rest to recover her breath and survey the situation at hand.

She could be of little use with a sword in her present condition; she was exhausted and sore and more dead than alive. But she realized that she could still help the Elves fight the Orcs with their unerring bows. One Elf had just saved her life, and she would do her best to return the favor.

Crawling now on her hands and knees, Miriel sought good arrows, even those of the enemy, and shoved them into the quiver of the nearest Elf. Back and forth she ran, ducking arrows that whistled back over the wall, shouting encouragement, and refilling the Elven quivers with fistfuls of good arrows. A fresh hail of darts rained down upon the Orcs, and the Isengarders were forced to fall back and regroup. Miriel observed the results of her work and smiled grimly. Off she ran to continue her quest.

On her third trip, someone slammed hard into her side and threw her to the ground, and at the same moment, her ring dropped from her slick, clammy finger and rolled mischievously away and disappeared with a wink of silver beneath a scuffle of soldier’s feet and iron-shod Orcs.

Suddenly something exploded in her left elbow. Miriel was thrown forward and fell headlong with a shrill cry, writhing in helpless agony on the wet stone and clutching at her elbow. She grabbed blindly at it and felt the solid shaft of a cruel iron Orc arrow embedded in the joint. For a long time she lay screaming as blood poured from the wound.

Through her tears and a thick haze Miriel could see streams of Orcs scrambling up the ladders and onto the wall, and sooner or later one of them was bound to come upon Miriel and finish her. Pain paralyzed her limbs, but wild panic seared through her mind and forced her into motion. She pushed her right arm out in front of her and used it to drag her body slowly, inch by inch, across the waterlogged stones.

The fight was nearly upon her, and an Elf fell to the ground a short distance from where she labored across the wall. His sea-green eyes were wide and staring, brimming with horror and agony. His wandering gaze roved across the darkened stormy skies and locked on Miriel, and his pale lips parted, but no sound came out. Miriel lay beside him, poised as if to move on, but his transfixing gaze paralyzed her. Suddenly the Elf stiffened and reached toward her, but his hand fell before it stretched beyond half the distance between them and he lay back with a shudder, breathing his last.

Miriel screamed in terror and redoubled her efforts. She had to get away from there, fast.

Someone stumbled over her calves in the darkness. She twisted away to avoid being crushed by a falling Orc. The sleeve of her dress tore apart on the rocky ground and shredded away, leaving her unprotected forearm to rub raw on the stones until it was skinned and bloody. All she could see in her mind’s eye was that last haunting image of the dying Elf reaching for her, and her overworked imagination twisted that moment so that the Elf was grabbing her arm and taking her with him…

Miriel gave a low cry and resisted and pulled away from him. At last she managed to crawl out of the way, sobbing bitterly. Miriel pulled herself under a small ledge that afforded a little shelter from the battle and the ceaseless torrents of rain. There she lay, gasping like a fish flung onto the shore.

A thick black fog threatened to take her mind, and Miriel longed to slip from this dreadful reality into the comforting unconsciousness and escape. Every excruciating moment was filled with an hour of thought.

What use was there now to remain alive? It was only a matter of time before the Orcs took Helm’s Deep. The battle merely delayed inevitable doom. For Miriel, only pain and death awaited her. Her family had met the same fate. Wearily she leaned her head back and mentally prepared to follow them.

But Miriel could still see the black shapes of the Elves through half-closed, tear-filled eyes. They were bravely fighting against the stormy skies, firing arrows and wielding swords, and a thought came to Miriel that she couldn’t lay aside. These Elves could have abandoned Middle-earth and Helm’s Deep to its fate and sailed into the West, to the Undying Lands, where all wars ceased and only peace remained. Why had they chosen to fight and die for another race that had been long sundered?

She thought of Haldir, the Elf who had saved her life, and suddenly she wondered if it was right to abandon them all, Men and Elves both, when there was still a small chance that she could make a difference.

In her mind, Miriel saw the face of that helpless child she had rescued and returned to the loving arms of his mother. She remembered her steely resolve when she had left the caves in the beginning: That if she was going to die in the end, then she would die fighting.

 

[Jazzcat]

But she was tired… so, so tired; the kind of tired that she felt no amount of sleep could cure. The horrible pain and darkness at last overcame her. Miriel collapsed and fell into oblivion. She dropped down, down, down into an endless black void. Pain did not exist there anymore. She felt her spirit winging away from her, almost joyfully. It seemed glad to be leaving the world of the living and falling away into the smooth dark depths, into an unrippled crystal sea of the unknown.

Suddenly Miriel saw the golden Elven woods as if it was descending upon her from afar, and she wondered if she was dead. Miriel beheld the graceful Elves floating through it and singing under the light of the great star, as they had done since the beginning of time. Above the lovely chorus of songs came one clear voice, and it was speaking directly to her. Miriel could not understand the language in her mind, but her heart seemed to know the musical words well.

Brono, bara gwend,
No thalion, annui maethor!
Tolo dan na ngalad,
Na en rammas! Na en dagor!

It was a gentle urging and a command at the same time. Miriel felt that the voice was telling her not to give in. Without knowing quite how it happened, her tongue was loosed and Miriel found herself also saying something in Elvish. A desperate cry issued forth from within the deepest part of her soul.

A Elbereth Gilthoniel!
Mornada i venel a andelu i ven.
Le nallon, sî di-nguruthos!
Lasto beth nin a thau nin!

Abruptly Miriel stopped chanting. What was she saying? What did it mean? How did she suddenly know how to speak this strange language? She wasn’t even certain that it was the Elven tongue.

As these questions raced through her mind, the star turned its brilliant rays onto Miriel’s face. The light was clear as diamond glass, and yet shimmering white. Peace flooded through her heart, and with the sparkling light came strength and a measure of courage. Gentle winds breathed softly in her face and hair.

Then the star released her. The Elves and their bright forest faded into the dark, stormy night. Miriel opened her eyes and found herself once again cowering beneath a stone ledge on the broken wall of Helm’s Deep, nursing her wounded elbow. Screams and shouts of men rent the air, and the crash of ringing steel echoed in her ears. The Elven warriors were still fighting off the Orcs that climbed over the wall.

Somehow the intense agony began to lessen. Moving as little as she could, Miriel reached down and tore a long strip from the hem of her dress. She sat up, tears running down her face, and managed to bind the wound tightly. She grimaced in pain, but she gritted her teeth against it. She had to fight to the bitter end if they had any chance of saving Helm’s Deep.

Miriel clenched her jaw and pushed herself to her knees, trying in vain to keep her elbow motionless. With a final effort Miriel was on her feet. She swayed drunkenly and caught herself with her good arm as she nearly fell. Unconsciousness was very near, but she fought the darkness. She staggered determinedly out into the rain.

Her left arm was rendered useless and utterly painful, but Miriel dropped to the ground and gathered arrows as best she could with her right hand. She bit down hard on her lip and tears streamed down her face as she struggled on.

Suddenly she heard a shout from the King.

“Aragorn! Fall back to the Keep! Get your men out of there!”

Miriel’s eyes widened in shock. She didn’t dare believe her ears. Aragorn, alive?

She spun and looked over the wall in disbelief. Aragorn lived! He was covered in mud and blood, and his matted hair hung limply over his forehead, but his eyes were bright, his spirit was undaunted, and his sword flashed like lightning in a black storm of Orcs. Miriel shook her head. This Aragorn led a charmed life.

Aragorn stopped abruptly and shouted in Elven tongue to Haldir.

“Am Marad! Am Marad! Haldir, am Marad!”

Haldir nodded and issued the order to fall back, and then turned to fight a large Orc. The deadly sword fell on Haldir. Miriel saw Haldir shudder even as he struck the enemy down, and she realized with a shock that the Elf was mortally wounded.

Haldir spun away, dazed and unheeding, as another Orc materialized and raised his sword to strike a deathblow. Miriel screamed into the darkness as Haldir fell under the black blade.

Roaring with grief and anger mixed into an unbearable emotion, Miriel groped for a sword and rose up. Half running, half stumbling, Miriel charged with a hoarse yell and plunged her blade into the back of Haldir’s murderer. Blinded by rain and tears, Miriel made her way to Haldir’s side. Aragorn was already there, bent with sadness over his friend. Miriel stood by helplessly as Aragorn touched his heart and placed his hand over the cold, still chest of the Elf.

Suddenly Aragorn rose up with dreadful fury and slammed his bare fist into an iron Orc helm. Then he grabbed a siege ladder and leapt from the wall into the terrible swarm of Orcs below.

“Aragorn!” shouted Miriel, even as an Elf running past her gripped her right arm and pulled her away. Reluctantly Miriel left Aragorn and ran alongside the Elf. She joined the soldiers as they burst into the Keep. Other defenders were already there, bravely fighting to keep the gate together. Miriel seized a heavy table and laboriously dragged it to the door. A dozen hands took it from her just as the King came running in with Gamling at his side.

“Brace the gate!” cried King Theoden. He brandished his sword and dashed to the front of the door with Gamling right behind him.

Miriel found some spears and tossed them to another soldier. The great door was splintering and breaking, and it seemed to Miriel that it was only the sheer will of the men that kept it together. Miriel felt helpless, for she could only pass on bits of wood and other materials she managed to find.

Yet it was only a matter of time before the gate fell. Miriel clenched her jaw. If they were only prolonging the inevitable, then prolong it they would. She lugged a pair of heavy battle-axes to the door and gave them to the determined soldiers.

Just then Gamling emerged from the boiling turmoil of men, pulling the King away from the gate. King Theoden seemed to be wounded, but he leaned heavily on a wall, refusing to be taken farther away from his soldiers. He stood and bravely issued commands and encouragement.

Suddenly Aragorn burst into the Keep with Gimli and Legolas behind him. All three were cut and spattered with mud. They looked terrible, but their eyes blazed as they grabbed more wood to shore up the door. Miriel turned and pried a loose beam from the wall. Screams from the women in the caves echoed as if from far away. Theoden King and Aragorn were trading words and shouting orders, but Miriel paid no attention until the gate was temporarily secured. At last she turned her gaze upon the grim faces of her King and the Lord Aragorn.

“So much death,” murmured the King softly. He seemed resigned to his fate, much as Miriel had been not so long ago. His voice was devoid of hope; his aged features pale and drawn. “What can Men do against such reckless hate?”

Miriel sighed audibly. The King had a point.

But Aragorn stood tall. His blazing eyes did not falter. As she gazed upon Aragorn, Miriel was surprised at the great power she saw, or sensed, in him. A white jewel gleamed like a star on a silver chain around his neck. Miriel knew without knowing that this Aragorn was a lord equal to King Theoden. His courage and determination to defend Rohan at all costs surpassed even that of Rohan’s own king. Aragorn took a step toward King Theoden.

“Ride out with me,” Aragorn said, his voice rising. “Ride out and meet them!”

The King stared doubtfully at Aragorn as the pounding of the Orcs raged on outside.

“For death and glory?” he asked quietly, almost sarcastic in the face of the impossible odds.

“For Rohan! For your people!” returned Aragorn hotly.

The air grew deathly still as the two lords stared at one another.

“The sun is rising,” remarked Gimli, breaking the tense silence.

All those present turned toward the window as white light poured freely into the dark Keep. The rays pierced Miriel’s heart and filled her with sudden hope.

Whether from the coming of the dawn or Aragorn’s undying and contagious courage, or both together, the face of the King hardened once more.

“Yes, yes!” declared Theoden King as all trace of doubt vanished with the departing evening. “The horn of Helm Hammerhand shall sound in the Deep,” he said. He turned and faced his men as his voice rose, hard and fell.

“One last time.”

The spell on the air was broken. Miriel dashed away from the door and sprang for the horses. The soldiers were right behind her. Suddenly Legolas was sprinting lightly at her side, but Aragorn passed them both. They burst into the stable and threw saddles onto the great horses of Rohan with all speed.

The bold steeds caught the excitement that caused the very atmosphere to crackle with electricity. They snorted and reared with impatience. They pawed at stone and wood and roared like thunder, setting the rafters ringing with their cries.

Miriel could not calm the horse she had chosen, a tall, well-built gray. She wished Kaspir were not so worn from the long journey, for she did not trust this new horse. The gray stallion plunged into the air, breathing like fire. Miriel spoke softly and pulled at his bridle, but to no avail. She felt fear rising in her chest, fear of riding this huge, unpredictable beast into battle. Her voice rose high and shrill as she tried to get the saddle into place.

“Stay! Stay!“ she cried desperately. She tugged on the reins with her good hand, but she could not hold him and put on the saddle at the same time with only one free arm. She gave the leather straps on his head another sharp jerk. “Horse… stay! Stay down!”

But the gray stallion paid her no mind; he reared and slammed Miriel hard to the floor. Miriel shrieked as the arrow in her elbow jolted her with fresh pain. Sharp agony pierced through her and tears clouded her eyes.

Miriel gave up. What was the use of trying anymore? She was a detriment to the battle when she was fully healthy; riding out in her current condition was certain death. Death was the only thing that awaited her now. It was a mere question of how she would meet her end. She pulled her knees into her chest and curled up in a corner, crying in anguish of body and spirit.

Suddenly someone else was there. Miriel looked up through her gray shroud of tears as a hand fell lightly on the stallion’s forehead.

“Tiro nin, Thor; sidh, naur-mellon,” spoke Legolas softly, breaking into a stream of Elvish too soft and musical for Miriel to rightly hear. But the sound of his voice blew away her tears as if with a fresh breeze, and the gray horse stood watching the Elf, seemingly mesmorized, with his ears pricked as he listened intently. The fire yet burned in his dark eyes and his great shoulders trembled, but his fury was under control.

Miriel marveled. It was as if Legolas had placed a spell over the massive stallion. He stood quietly – not wholly docile, but quiet, and his bold eye followed the Elf’s every move.

At last Legolas’s chant ended. He sang softly while he quickly saddled the horse, and the stallion craned around to watch Legolas’s movements with an earnest curiosity. His ears flicked and he whuffled softly when he saw the Woodland Elf tightening the familiar leather contraptions and straps over his back, and the horse did not object.

And then Legolas went to Miriel. With surprising strength he lifted the girl swiftly to her feet. She looked down at his hand on her arm and noticed, to her amazement, a silver ring on his finger that was curved in the shape of a star. It looked just like the one she had lost on the wall. It was an odd thing to consider under such dire circumstances, and Miriel looked up at Legolas, who had not let go of her waist.

Legolas paused, and his piercing blue eyes met Miriel’s gaze and held it.

“You should stay here, my lady,” murmured the Elf quietly, looking sympathetically at Miriel’s tear-streaked face and torn, dirty dress. He perceived also that she was in pain, although he could not tell where the wound lie. He didn’t notice the arrow in her arm. “This battleground is no place for a maiden.”

 

[Jazzcat]

Not long ago, perhaps even only a moment before, Miriel would have agreed. But when Legolas mentioned that the fight was not hers simply because she was a girl, something stirred in her heart. Her resolve came flooding back and hardened to iron.

“Neither are the caves,” retorted Miriel. Then, seeing a protest rising from the Elf, Miriel drew herself up, forcing him to release her, and she stared Legolas down sternly. “I will not remain here while you men go out and fight. We are greatly outnumbered. It is likely that we are doomed, and if that is the case, then I would rather die in battle than cowering helplessly in a corner.”

“Lady…” he began.

Miriel interrupted him sharply. “I’ll not stay here and die!”

Legolas sighed. He saw that he could not prevail on her, and he did not have time to argue with her further. Taking her by the waist, he lifted her and set her on her horse.

“You are very brave, my lady,” he said gently, grasping her hand. “Thor is a good horse, as swift and fearless as his namesake, the eagle. Ride behind me, and I will do my best to protect you. Fight hard!”

Miriel swallowed and nodded, and the tall Elf vanished. His words awakened new courage from a reserve buried somewhere inside of her, and she and Thor moved forward to find themselves in the midst of a great company of green-cloaked riders. She grasped the hilt of a sword grimly in her good right hand and kept a ginger hold on Thor’s reins with her injured left as she took her place behind Legolas, who was riding on a white horse.

The Elf looked back at her, and Miriel nodded in return. She stiffened and prepared herself for the battle, which would soon be at hand.

The sound of the Orcs pounding mercilessly at the door made Miriel’s heartbeat quicken with mingled fear and hate. Light poured unhindered through the window into the dismal grayness of the Keep and fell on King Theoden and Aragorn, who stood together at the head of the riders. Then Miriel was aware that the King was speaking.

“Fell deeds awake,” Theoden King growled, drawing forth his sword, which sparkled like fire in the sunlight. “Now for wrath! Now for ruin! And the red dawn!”

Suddenly the Orcs burst through the door, an evil black flood of Uruk-hai that had only time to stop short when they saw the mounted warriors waiting for them.

“Forth Eorlingas!” cried the King, springing forward upon the enemy with Aragorn at his side as the great and terrible horn of Helm’s Deep blasted the air. Out swept the defenders of Rohan into the brightening sunlight, slaying Orcs off the causeway like a swift west wind. Miriel shouted with them and wielded her long blade. Ahead of her the other riders cleaved a great path through the dark tide.

Suddenly Miriel heard a wild whinny, and turning she beheld a white rider on a great rearing horse. So bright were the newcomer’s garments that it seemed as if he were clothed with the rising sun. Even though the white rider was alone, his coming brought a strange spell over air and land. Miriel halted Thor against her will, and she found she could hardly move, but she was not afraid. A murmur of excitement rippled through the bold defenders of Helm’s Deep, and the Orcs stopped, struck with a sudden fear.

“Gandalf,” Aragorn whispered in awe.

All at once the lone rider was joined by a massive company of soldiers on horseback that swept down the hills toward the black masses of Orcs.

“To the King!” they cried.

Most of the Orcs turned to face this new threat and pointed a hedge of spears at the oncoming riders led by the White Wizard. But as the riders neared the Orcs, the sun blazed out suddenly over the hills and shone in the eyes of the enemy. Terror seized the Isengarders as the light blinded them. Some fell on their faces, others cast aside both sword and spear, and a great stampede of Orcs streamed away from Helm’s Deep as the riders came upon them, slaying left and right.

A few remaining Orcs roared fiercely at the King and made one last desperate charge. With a shout Theoden King and Aragorn met them with their swords.

Miriel gloried in the fight and sent Thor blazing fearlessly among the enemy. Her foes fell one by one. Exhilaration filled Miriel’s chest, and the joy of battle was upon her. Her wounds and weariness were forgotten as her sword rose and fell. She beat down Orcs as one might lay a field of blackened wheat low beneath the scythe. The sun glittered off her bright blade as if it were encrusted with diamonds, and her dark hair escaped from its bonds and flew about her face as if it had a life of its own.

Thor galloped madly beneath her and bore her from the bridge and into the hills. Together they burst free of the fighting, and Miriel found they were running alone. She laid a firm hand on the neck of the brave stallion and pulled him up. As she stood alone on a ridge with the new sun breaking behind her, Miriel looked out upon Helm’s Deep.

The Orcs were fleeing in a great terror and madness in all directions, driven away in dark swarms by the Rohirrim. Miriel turned and looked back the way they had come. The King and Aragorn and all the green-clad riders were racing to join the White Wizard, and together with Eomer’s men they rode to finish the battle. One rider alone cantered toward her. It was Legolas.

Time seemed to slow down, and Miriel realized that the fight was over. A throbbing hum built in Miriel’s ears as the excitement faded, and the fire in her chest burned low. Legolas was shouting something as he came on, but Miriel could hear nothing but the pounding hooves of his white horse. She leaned forward, struggling to catch the Elf’s words.

Suddenly Thor shuddered violently beneath her. Miriel was caught off guard and shrieked as she was tossed in the saddle like a rag doll, but she clutched desperately at the flying mane and tried to hold on. Roaring madly, Thor rose high in the air and plunged. Miriel lost her grip and was thrown clear as the powerful gray stallion crashed to the earth. Miriel hovered over the land for a long weightless moment, and then the arrow in her elbow slammed into the ground. Miriel screamed in agony; a long, horrible cry that sounded over the battlefield and echoed in the hills.

Blackness stole over her mind, and Miriel fell deep into a painful unconsciousness. She knew this was the end. Dimly she was aware of the voice of Legolas calling her as if from far away. She was being carried and borne gently onto the Elf’s white horse. Then wind rushed over her, and they were riding fast.

“Hold on, my lady, hold on,” Legolas was whispering desperately in her ear. Then the world ceased to turn, the running horse turned to stone, the bright morning sun was blotted out, and Miriel knew no more.

********************************

There are some cliffhanger chapters coming up, and if you don’t want to wait for me to get around to posting it all, then go to www.talesofmiddleearth.com and download the free ebook: Miriel: Princess of Rohan.

ALSO! Elvish translations are in the Ebook in one of the later chapters.

 

[Jazzcat]

LEGOLAS

Miriel’s eyes slowly opened. Her vision was blurred and she couldn’t make out anything. Miriel wondered yet again if she was dead. And then memories of swirling voices came back to her.

“Valar, but she’s just a young maiden.”

“How did this happen? What was she doing out in the battle?”

“She should have been in the caves.”

“Discuss this later! She’s going to die here if we don’t see to her wounds. Get her to…”

There was a gap in Miriel’s mind. And then she recalled something else that made her blood run cold:

“Hold her down. I’m going to pull it out…”

This statement was followed by firm hands restraining her and jolt of agony, as if her arm were being torn off at the shoulder and red lava being poured through her body, and a scream Miriel knew as her own, and then nothing…

As the mist cleared and reality took hold, Miriel found herself staring at a dark ceiling. She blinked, but she did not have the strength to move. The excruciating pain in her arm was replaced now by a dull lingering hurt, and looking down she saw that the arrow was gone and clean bandages were bound thickly over her elbow. Memories of the battle came rushing back to her disoriented mind. She was amazed that she was still alive.

Leaning back, Miriel rolled her eyes around the twilit room and beheld a shadowy figure standing in the corner by the window. The stormclouds had evidently cleared away, for the moonlight poured into the room unhindered, and it would have been lovely at any other time and place, for Miriel’s mind was too full of the evils that had taken place of late to fully appreciate it. A full moon was rising, and the silvery light shimmered in the Elf‘s long blonde hair. His face, the part of it Miriel could see, was drawn with sorrow and weariness. For a long moment he was silent, and Miriel watched him in utter fascination, and sympathy shone in her gray eyes. He was worn with cares from the battle and the loss of his kindred weighted heavily on him. He sighed softly as he stared out into the night.

Once in a while an old raindrop, weary of clinging to the windowsill, dropped to the ground below and landed with a light plink. Other than that, all was quiet.

Miriel tried to sit up, but she moaned as fresh pain shot through her elbow. Instantly Legolas was at her side, his fair face full of concern; but Miriel had not heard his light step or seen him cross the floor. She blinked and wondered if she had blacked out momentarily.

“Don’t move yet,” the Elf coaxed gently, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. Miriel struggled for a moment, and then quieted under the firm pressure and settled back wearily.

“Alastar,” Miriel muttered groggily.

“Are you in pain?” asked Legolas as if he hadn’t heard her.

Miriel sighed and closed her eyes.

“No, not really. I just like to yell.”

A relieved smile played on the Elf’s lips, and a measure of worry dropped from his creased brow. Miriel thought he looked very peaceful.

“Chew this,” he ordered, and she felt something soft and firm touch her lips. She opened her mouth obediently and discovered a mystery herb being pushed into her mouth. She ate it slowly and winced and made a face.

“It doesn’t taste very good,” she remarked.

“No, it doesn’t,” Legolas agreed regretfully. “But believe me when I say that the recedence of your pain will be worth the mildly sour flavor.”

Miriel nodded and swallowed it down, but she did not feel like speaking.

“It was a very reckless thing you did, lady, joining the battle,” Legolas remarked.

“Thanks,” replied Miriel dryly, otherwise ignoring the comment. Then she looked around the room. “Where am I?” she asked in a small, weak voice.

“You are in Helm’s Deep still,” answered Legolas. “Gandalf was here, and so was Aragorn. We tried to mend your elbow as best we could.” He grimaced as he looked upon her arm, as if the wound were his own. “Speaking of which, I have something for you.”

He took her hand and slipped her own silver ring, shiny again now that it was washed free of mud and grime, onto her finger. Miriel stared at it uncomprehendingly, but she had enough sense to look at Legolas’s hand and saw no ring there.

“Keep this,” Legolas was saying. “And try to be more careful with it. That is no mere trinket; indeed, it has great worth, which I can only begin to guess at. But I will say that while I carried it for that brief time, it saved my life more than once.”

Miriel realized that somehow Legolas had found her ring and taken time to pick it up and put it on. This brought back a lot of bad memories for Miriel, including the image of the dying Elf’s last moments; reaching for her as she painfully crawled away from the danger zone. She shut her eyes hard and scowled to force the past away from her conscious thought. She rubbed her aching forehead; there were voices from her family members that she would never hear again echoing in her mind. She shuddered and bit her lip. She needed to focus on the future or she would find no will to go on.

“What of the battle?” Miriel finally asked as her head began to clear. She moved her elbow cautiously and found that Legolas was right about the herb; there was a mild jab of pain, but it was nothing she could not handle. Miriel looked at Legolas; her question seemed to have brought him back from his own reverie.

Legolas abruptly grinned and turned sparkling eyes on the maiden.

“Can’t you tell? Here we sit, chatting quietly in the tower while Orcs roam freely about the fortress.” He laughed merrily.

“No, truly!” snapped Miriel, in no mood for jest, especially forced jesting on her account. Mirth seemed out of place on this dark night. She sensed that Legolas was a deep well of laughter and gaiety, but in this instance, he appeared to be trying too hard to cheer her up, and it annoyed her. Legolas took one glance at Miriel‘s steely gray eyes and sobered.

“The Orcs were finished the moment Gandalf arrived with the Rohirrim,” he hastily amended. “The black hosts of Isengard fled in terror at their coming. But one of their final desperate shots was at you.”

The memory came rushing back to Miriel, and she gasped as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown over her.

“What happened to my horse?” cried Miriel suddenly.

“Alas! Brave Thor fell to the evil dart,” Legolas replied. Miriel lowered her eyes, and Legolas hurriedly continued. “But a little higher and that arrow would have struck you down, and far greater would have been our loss.”

Miriel looked up. Tears glistened on her pale cheeks like tiny stars.

“Thor,” she whispered, and was silent for a while. Then she stirred again.

“Helm’s Deep is safe,” she murmured softly with a weak smile at Legolas.

Legolas looked upon her tenderly.

“Thanks in part to you, my lady,” he replied.

A spasm of pain twisted Miriel’s fair features, and her face went dark.

“How can you say that,” she whispered, choking, “when I nearly destroyed Helm’s Deep single-handedly? You and Aragorn almost died because of me, and the Orcs succeeded in blasting the wall because I delayed you from shooting the torchbearer, and many lives were lost when the enemy came through that great hole. Men… and Elves… died because of me. I caused terrible losses and great suffering and came but a hair’s breadth from causing all of Helm’s Deep to fall. Because of my actions, Mordor and Isengard almost took Rohan, just like that.” She shuddered. “Oh, would that I had never strayed from the Glittering Caves of Aglarond!” And Miriel broke off sobbing.

“Baw! Don’t say that!” cried Legolas hastily, putting his fingers over her lips. “Don’t talk that way.”

“But it’s true,” moaned Miriel miserably. “It was no place for a bungling maiden like me who has not been properly trained in the arts of war-”

“In battles such as these, every warrior makes mistakes,” interrupted Legolas vehemently, irritated in his own right. But all trace of annoyance was eclipsed by the admiration that shone through in his next words. “But if you had not fought alongside us, Helm’s Deep might have fallen but for the arrows you gathered for our archers. Aragorn and Gimli would have perished if you had not pulled me to the stair in time. And then there was your brave defense of the wall...” Legolas stopped and refocused his vision on Miriel. “No, my lady, your efforts were vital to the survival of Rohan. If anything you did came to ill, all the good paid the score far above and beyond.”

“I don’t see it that way,” Miriel retorted between violent sniffles.

“Nevertheless, it’s the truth. And here we sit in peace, and the standard of Rohan yet flies free over the Riddermark as testament,” answered Legolas, growing gentle again.

Miriel was too weak to argue with the Elf, and he seemed to sense it. Her sobs quieted under Legolas’s hand. Miriel’s gray eyes flickered with a dim silver flame of hope, but her brow furrowed as she remembered something from the night before.

“Were you very mad at me for holding you up when Aragorn shouted your name?”

Legolas winced and looked uncomfortable. He was silent for a while. When he turned at last, he spoke haltingly and avoided her glance.

“I was not angry with you, my lady. I was furious with myself.” He sighed. “I let my concentration waver, and because of that moment the wall nearly fell. Forgive me, my lady, for staring angrily at you. It wasn’t your fault. I take the blame for not reaching the torchbearer in time.”

Miriel gazed at the Elf through tear-clouded eyes, and suddenly she smiled.

“You comfort me, Legolas of the Elves,” Miriel said. “And there is nothing to forgive. But still-”

“Speak no more of it,” Legolas interrupted. “You need to rest.”

“There is one other thing I’d like to know first, Legolas,” put in Miriel hastily.

He sighed, but relented. “What is it?”

“Did you see the Elven forest when you took my hand?”

Legolas smiled, and a soft glow filled his face. “Yes, I did. I saw a great host of my fair kindred singing through the golden trees of Lothlorien under the light of Earendil, the Evening Star, most beloved of the Elves. Indeed, I saw it.”

“You seemed as a great prince then,” said Miriel softly.

“And you as a queen,” Legolas returned instantly.

Miriel’s eyebrows jumped in surprise, but she did not reply. There was nothing she could say to that. Instead she changed the subject.

“I saw that forest again, when I got this.” Miriel indicated her bandaged elbow. “I might have died from the sheer agony if it weren’t for that star, or for- for her.”

“Her? Her?” cried Legolas, leaning forward in excitement. “Did you see Elbereth?”

“Elbereth?” wondered Miriel, speaking the strange name softly. “Elbereth? That name was in the song, my song, the one I couldn’t understand!” She pondered quietly. After a moment Miriel turned back to Legolas and answered his question.

“I don’t know. I didn’t see her, I don’t think. I don’t even know who this Elbereth is. But I heard a voice. She spoke to me, in the Elven tongue. Whatever she said, her words made my wounds bearable and gave me the strength I desperately needed to finish the battle.”

“It must have been Elbereth,” declared Legolas reverently.

They did not speak for a long time. A gentle breeze blew in from the window. Pale silver moonlight lit the room with a soft shimmering glow. Not a single sound could be heard, not the restless whinny of a horse or the calling of the night owl, or the shrill squeak of a bat. All the world was quiet, as calm as the sea after a great and terrible storm. At last Legolas stirred.

“Sleep now, my lady.” He pulled a warm blanket over Miriel and stood for a time quietly looking down at her before returning to the window.

Gratefully Miriel closed her eyes. She couldn’t remember how long it had been since she had slept a full night, free of worry and shadows. The bed was the softest she had ever been in before. The thick blankets kept out the evening chill, and her pain was receding rapidly. She stirred and settled into the pillow.

“Legolas?” wondered Miriel presently.

He turned with a smile that held a hint of amusement at her continued questioning. “Yes?”

“Why do I have my own room?” She looked around at the stone chamber – not rich or luxurious by any stretch, but surely better than many alternatives. “There must have been scores of wounded Men and Elves, and I imagine they are crammed into some… I don’t know… tents, perhaps, or other lodging far less comfortable.”

Legolas laughed warmly, halting any further comments that threatened to issue forth from Miriel. She gave him a puzzled frown, wordlessly asking him to explain himself.

“That is beyond your concern, or mine,” he answered her. “I assure you that the soldiers are being well cared for and every effort is being made to see that they are comfortable.”

“Perhaps, but why should I not share their hardship?” Miriel demanded. “That isn’t very fair, especially when-”

“You are here because you are a maiden,” Legolas interrupted her yet again.

Miriel scowled. “Because I’m a maiden? Now wait just a minute-”

 

[Jazzcat]

She pushed herself up on one arm, only to be met by Legolas‘ firm hand on her chest holding her down.

“That is enough,” he said to her sternly, but his eyes betrayed gentleness despite the unbending iron in his voice. “The decision has been made, and the orders came from higher up. It is not for you, or me, to argue. The least you can do now is show a little gratitude.”

Miriel was far too weak to struggle with the Elf, so she gave in and leaned back with a sigh of resignation.

“I am grateful,” she mumbled.

Legolas’s mouth twitched into a little smile. “I know you are. Now for the second time, get some rest.”

Miriel saw no alternative but to mildly accept. She did not object when Legolas arranged the blanket around her again, and she smiled appreciatively at him instead, placated by the knowledge that he was not the one responsible for her being moved into these quarters and given better treatment than the common soldiers, which Miriel felt she neither wanted nor deserved. The smile was returned, and for a brief moment, Legolas‘s lingering hand rested softly against her cheek. She let her face drift sideways into his palm, and her jangled spirit was soothed and stilled. She obediently closed her eyes as Legolas left her and returned to the window. She was just about to slip into peaceful dreams when suddenly another thought came to her. Her eyes popped open, and she lay staring at the Elf.

“What about you, Legolas?” she asked at length.

Legolas turned and regarded her, puzzled. “What do you mean, my–um, my lady? Forgive me, I do not know your name.”

“I’m Miriel,” she replied quickly as if it were of no importance, impatient to get the answers to her own questions.

Legolas was apparently in no such hurry. His inherent grace as he glided across the room took the edge off Miriel’s own haste as if casting a spell over her. She studied him in puzzlement and mused to herself. How could one so powerful and deadly in battle possess such fluidity in his agile movements?

“Miriel,” Legolas repeated slowly, returning to the bedside and kneeling beside her. “Mae govannen. Gil sila erin lu govaded min, Miriel.”

Miriel blinked, her thoughts returning fully to the present. “What?”

“It means, ‘Well met indeed. A star shines on the hour of our meeting, Sparkling Like Jewels,’” replied the Elf with a smile.

“Sparkling Like Jewels? Is that what my name means?”

Legolas nodded and took her hand. The intensity of his gaze was almost too much for Miriel’s heart.

“Now, Lady Miriel, you were asking me a question.”

“Oh yes,” she said, remembering. “What about you? Where will you sleep?”

“Elves do not sleep,” answered Legolas with a grin. “We can rest our minds even while we remain in the waking world. Therefore I will keep watch.”

“I see,” Miriel murmured in awe, her gaze drifting toward the window. Then she looked up sharply. “What about food? Have you eaten anything?”

Legolas cast his eyes to the floor sheepishly and shook his head.

“Then what in Middle-earth have you been doing the whole time this battle has been over?” cried Miriel, astonished. “Surely even you perfect Elves have to eat once in a while!”

Legolas chuckled softly and nodded affirmatively.

“Then I’ll ask you again what has kept you from the table,” said Miriel with a sharp edge in her voice. She felt strangely angry with him for not taking care of himself.

“I have been– er– busy, my lady,” replied Legolas, avoiding her gaze.

“What do you mean, you’ve been b–” Suddenly light dawned on Miriel, and she stared at Legolas in wonder. “You haven’t left me since we arrived, have you.” It was a statement of mild reproach rather than a question.

Legolas looked straight at her. Miriel caught her breath, but she steeled herself and struggled to sit up, biting her lower lip against the pain. Legolas instantly protested, but Miriel stopped him short with a sharp glance and determinedly pushed herself up until she was sitting, supported by her one good hand rigidly planted on the bedsheets behind her. She sat eye to eye with the fair blonde Elf.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done for me, and for your constant vigilance, Legolas,” she told him gently. “But I’m fine now, and Helm’s Deep is quite safe by your own account. Leave and get something to eat. You need to keep up your strength.”

Legolas shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay here while you sleep and make sure you’re all right.”

Suddenly Miriel lurched forward and seized the collar of Legolas’s tunic and gripped it with surprising strength.

“Leave me,” she ordered fiercely. “My part in this war is over, but you will be needed again ere the end. More dark battles lie ahead, and your path will take you deep into danger and shadow.” She gentled just as quickly and continued with a more even temper: “But for tonight, Legolas, eat a good supper and celebrate this victory with the King of Rohan and your friends.”

Legolas smiled. “You are very poetic, Lady Miriel.”

“Elves aren’t the only ones capable of fair speech,” retorted Miriel, staring at him seriously. She raised her dark eyebrows threateningly. “And don’t you try to change the subject, Legolas. Supper. Now.”

Legolas was obstinate. Miriel gazed at Legolas and drew him closer. She softened and quietly stopped the protest she instinctively felt was coming.

“I won’t rest until you do,” she whispered, smoothing back a stray lock of his gold Elven hair. She looked deep into his blue eyes. “I’m quite beyond death, I assure you. I’ll be fine, Legolas. Now go.”

Legolas stared at her for a long moment, studying her. Miriel was enchanting. She had the innocence of a child, the fire of a storm and the beauty of a queen. She could be both merry and deadly serious, fragile as a new butterfly and brave as a roaring lion, terrible as thunder and gentle as a spring rain. Fear had no conquering hold over her, and although Legolas sensed that she was still in great pain and suffering from some deep sorrow, Miriel concerned herself with the welfare of others before herself. Miriel was like no one Legolas had ever met, Elf or mortal, in all the long years he had walked in Middle-earth.

At last Legolas slowly nodded, and Miriel released him. He arose and bowed swiftly, and then he was gone.

Miriel lay back wearily and collapsed on her pillows. She was exhausted, but sleep eluded her. Thoughts of Legolas filled her mind instead. His mere presence was a healing balm to her wounded soul. She drew much-needed strength from him, and for his care, she appreciated him to no end. But there was something mesmorizing about him. His piercing blue eyes could flash like lightning in terrible anger or overflow in shining rivers of happiness, or be as calm and peaceful as the deep sea under the moonlight. His smooth brow was young and yet old at once, full of wisdom and years but undimmed by the gray lines of time. His fair locks trailed down and cascaded about his shoulders like silken waterfalls. Expressions passed over his face like wind on the mountainside, ever changing, and each mood seemed to hold greater intensity than the last. Miriel turned toward the window and watched the bright stars glittering like diamonds in the night skies.

It was thus in deep contemplation that Legolas found her when he returned to the tower. Miriel glanced up at him and smiled.

“That was quick,” Miriel lightly remarked. “Are you certain you got enough food?”

“Of course!” Legolas replied, grinning merrily. “I eat swifter than ordinary mortals. I’m an Elf, you know.”

Miriel’s eyes sparkled as she smiled back.

“Elves,” she muttered, shaking her head. And then she sighed contentedly and fell fast asleep even as Legolas sat down near the window.

********************************

There are some cliffhanger chapters coming up, and if you don’t want to wait for me to get around to posting it all, then go to www.talesofmiddleearth.com and download the free ebook: Miriel: Princess of Rohan.

ALSO! Elvish translations are in the Ebook in one of the later chapters.