Headstrong Heart: Just Fine

“You need to come home. Mother is not well and she is asking for you.”

“I need to finish updating this ledger, brother. I will be home when I have completed my task.”

“The numbers can wait until morning. They are not going anywhere.”

“Hálchon, I will only be a bit more.”

“The sun is setting; I don’t want you walking home by yourself. The streets aren’t…”

“Brother. I will be fine. Go home to supper before it gets cold and Mother has something more to yell about.”

“Have you eaten today?”


“What have you eaten? I didn’t see you.”

“I ate some…nuts. Nuts and berries that one of the delivery boys brought for me.”

“So even the delivery boys can see that you’re not eating?”

“Hálchon, you’re making such a fuss over nothing.”

“Halvel, this has got to stop. Come home and eat dinner with your family.”

“I have to finish these for the quartermaster if we want the Cognac to make it out of port by noon. He won’t be able to get the supplies in time and then we will be late getting in to Pelargir and they need these supplies.”

“I am glad that we have decided to assist in the rebuilding, Halvel, I truly am, but with the most sincerity I can muster, here…they can do without the fish for a few hours.Things happen at sea, you above all should know that. You must rest. Eat. You hardly ever sleep.”

“I am fine, really. I just need to fix these numbers. I will be home soon. Go. She’ll yell and she shouldn’t with how ill she’s been…”

“If you are not home by the end of dinner, I am coming back for you.”

“If it grows too late, I will sleep here.”

“That isn’t proper, Halvel! You cannot sleep here on the ship with the men.”

“I’ve slept on a ship before. I will be fine, Hálchon. Go home.”


The stars hid behind thick clouds when Eris walked along the dock in search of a sign. Her boots click-clacked on the worn boardwalk and few others hung about near the worst of the wreckage in the fading light of the remaining day. But she had to see it. She had to touch to water to know for certain that her life was on the bottom of the bay.

Corsair ships, black and pointed, protruded from the shallows. The dark wood of the south mingled oddly with the lighter woods of Gondor; lighter by nature and by paintbrush, the Gondorian ships glowed beneath the waves lapping against the pontoons keeping the little wooden bridge afloat. They had died in the first fighting, those Gondorian ships. They boosted their southern sisters like a shelf.

Eris did not know how she knew which dock to go to any more than she knew which door handle to try when she was seeking a hood and cloak and a bit of food or which alley to turn down to avoid the patrols. Head down, eyes up, she navigated Pelargir well enough; she had found respite in its port before.

At the end of the plank bridge, she stepped onto the farthest wharf. The transition from wood to stone was always jarring for her. Stone did not hold water like wood did and the disconnect took a moment to shake off. Step, step, down to the very edge of the dock, as far from the solid slab of land that the city rested upon as she could get without diving in. Oh, how she wished to dive into the cool depths of the bay. How long would she have to stop breathing for her to be reunited with her hull? Would the mastheads still stand tall? How soon does the floor of the sea start to reclaim the magic of a worthy vessel with barnacle and weed?

Attached to the stone wharf bobbed a lower wooden platform. It nearly rested on the water itself and in rough weather, the waves wet the planks between the gaps leaving them treacherous. Today, the sea ebbed calmly against the higher jetty. Eris stepped down the rope and plank ladder with ease and then at the edge of the water, she knelt on one knee and touched her palm to the surface of the water.

Flashes from black powder and lightning. The splintering of hulls and shattering of stone. Eris felt herself wince as she felt the water lap over her fingers filtering it for its secrets and searching for her answer. Concussive battering against stone and metal. Shallows empty except for the broken hulls and skeletal masts of ships.

Deeper, farther than she had expected, rested The Golden Apple, or at least what remained of her. Remnants of blackened sails floated in the underwater current along the snapped and scorched ends of the ropes and pulleys. The fire had burned great holes in the hull. Its ironic crackling still echoed in the sea as the waters remembered the hiss and fizzle as the ship sank.

The urge to yank her hand from the pain of the memories nearly overwhelmed her, but she did not pull back. Eris grit her teeth, closed her eyes, and kept her hand in the water until she felt full of the loss of her friend, her love, her ship. The only thing constant on the ocean blue, the only thing controllable and contained was a ship, her ship, and now it was gone. She had to understand that it left this world without her and there was nothing she could do.

“Oi! Whotchoo doin’ da’n there, lassy?”

The voice shook her from her mediation and she stood quickly. The dockhand regarded her suspiciously.

“Rememb’ring that which I’ve lost,” she told him sincerely. “I’m sorry. I’ll go.”

The man’s stern expression softened with pity. “Yes, civilians ought nah be da’n here. ‘S dangerous ’til the builders c’n fix whot’s broke in the fightin’. Best be gahn.”

Without lifting her head, Eris nodded and climbed the ladder. The dockhand stared at her as she rushed past him. She paid him no mind.


Paying no mind to the dockhands loading a merchant ship, Halvel strode down the wharf of Dol Amroth. Her aunt made it clear that she was no longer welcome in Minas Tirith and her presence would only be a burden to her now that her uncle and cousin were gone. It seemed cruel somehow that her life had brought her full circle for Gelluines would only buy passage down the Anduin. “Only to a proper place with your own family,” she had said. Halvel did not have it in her to fight and if truth be told, she was more than ready to leave the walls of the White City.

“Hálchon!” she called when she spotted her brother on the deck of one of their remaining fishing vessels. “Hálchon, come down here!” She waved to catch his attention and tried to suppress her scowl when he glared down at her from the rail.

“What are you doing here?!” her brother exclaimed. He paused to give a few orders and then he waved her toward the gangplank.

Reluctantly, Halvel wove her way to the edge and only boarded when Hálchon beckoned her up the boarding ramp.

“What are you doing here?” Hálchon repeated when she joined his side. “I thought you were needed in the Houses of Healing?”

“I lived out my usefulness there,” Halvel said stiffly. “And Aunt Gelluines did not wish to continue paying my upkeep. I cannot say that I blame her with uncle and cousin Tondaer gone.”

Passing his writing tablet to another man, Hálchon held out his hand for her to walk in front of him. He herded her to the aftdeck. “Tondaer treated you well during your stay? He was a good man.”

Halvel nodded and rested a hand on the rail. “He did. It is a shame that he was lost, but as a first circle guard…it is a miracle that any survived at all.”

The severity, the solemnness that overshadowed her normally fiery spirit caught Hálchon’s attention, but he only studied his sister’s profile.

“You could go back to Bree, you know.”

When Halvel did not respond, Hálchon continued, “He wrote you. I must apologize for reading it on your behalf, but you can understand how surprised I was to receive a letter addressed to you from your husband. You really should have written me before, Halvel. You could have come home, could have avoided all the-”

“I didn’t want to come back here, Hálchon. Surely you know that. And I cannot return. You wouldn’t understand.” Halvel stared ahead. “Part of me wishes I had died, brother. At least I would have had a place to belong.”

Nodding, Hálchon turned to lean on the rail with both forearms. “You will always belong here, Halvel,” he assured her gruffly. “But you were never happy here.”

“Did you report the destruction of The Apple to the dockmaster?” she asked abruptly. A passing gull drew her eye briefly.

“No. But I will. I believe he marked it down as missing in action or stolen. I hadn’t bothered correcting the logs yet.”

“It was not necessarily stolen,” Halvel said elusively, “but it was off course. We left it in Pelargir. I heard the Corsairs attacked the harbor. Surely it is lost.”

Hálchon grunted softly and said, “I will have to write Gaelyn. Perhaps you should do it.”

“No,” Halvel answered quickly. “You. I-I cannot.”

“You should,” Hálchon urged gently. “You have been given a second chance, Halvel. Take it.”

“No. You. I will inform the master of the docks. We cannot have the ship on record as stolen.” She adds in a murmur, “Eshe has enough to worry about.”

“What?” Hálchon turned to lean on his elbow and face her and raised a brow when Halvel waved a hand dismissing his question. “I’ll just take it that the good captain is no longer in our employ?”

“She was arrested,” Halvel explained wearily. “I do not think she did anything wrong, but she disappeared during the evacuations. A guard turned up dead. At best she is at large.”

Hálchon shook his head and looked out across the sea. “She better leave this family alone now. If I find her, I will see to it that she does not meander on anyone ever again.”


“What do you mean, he is not here?”

The man wore robes of deep scarlet and midnight black and his long hair was tied in two inch sections down to the middle of his back. Though they were mud-splattered and his face was travel-worn, he had a regal command about him that made even Lichen pause.

The conversation with the head of house at the guild hall of that blasted adventuring crew was short and frank. In a delightfully dramatic twirl of his worn cloak, the man turned from her desk and stormed out of Ravenhold in a huff. Only when he reached the cobbled road that led back down to the market square did he pause and rest a hand on his lower back as he turned to look up at the beautiful hall.

“Blast,” he muttered to himself and he looked out over the little village of Durrow-on-Dunwash with a sigh. No use complaining more, he decided. Straightening his robes with a tug on his lapels, the man set off for the Broken Cask, the tavern and inn that blasted woman mentioned as a place he could look for a room and a meal. He could only hope it had a hot bath and a library, though he doubted it. Such plebeian establishments rarely had such touches of civilization.

The Light at the End

Once the men started to trickle in, the flow of blood did not stop. Despite her duties, Halvel tried to not look. But it was hard not to feel like her head was swimming when she held together the flesh of a man’s chest in an attempt to staunch the flooding tide. When the tiles of the bathhouse grew crimson and treacherous. When they brought in her uncle with part of the axle of a catapult sticking through his ribs.

His left leg was crushed, too, but it was easier to pretend that was something else once the blanket covered the mangled limb. Out of sight, out of mind. But the thick piece of hardwood protruding from his torso could not so easily be ignored. The surgeon spoke words to her (condolences? instructions?) and her uncle tried to speak, but even as Halvel strained to hear him, the sound did not penetrate the high pitch screeching in her ears. No one else seemed to hear it and the surgeon barked his orders again and a strong page hurried around to drag Halvel out of the way to let the man pass.

“He is too badly injured!” she finally heard and realized the page was shouting in her face. “Nothing can be done!”

Halvel realized that the young man spoke in response to a babbling voice begging to help the bloody mess that stared at her even now with disdain. After a few moments more, she realized the voice was her own and it stopped.

“My lady, we must help those with a chance!”

Numbly, Halvel nodded. She stepped forward to fix the blanket covering her uncle, but before she could turn away, cold fingers caught her wrist.

“Traitor,” she thought he said, but it could have been, “Water.” It did not matter, though, for his grip relaxed and as he died, she pulled herself free.


When the giant ram broke through the Great Gate, Tondaer of House Belegorn fell to his knee. Beside him, the solider turned to flee, but the bodies frozen with fear blocked him and soon he cowered with the others. Things happened in the courtyard beyond, but Tondaer could not tell what. The fell cries of the Black Captain did not chill him; they rent his spirit from his body and he felt as though he were nothing but pain. Agony.

The terror that had nearly ripped him apart hardly melted from the First Circle guard when the doors pushed open to spew the servant of the enemy.

Roars and screams.  Shadows and light. Tondaer gripped his sword and tried to gain his feet. Then, as though the morning rose like any other, a cock crowed. Then horns. Horns sounded in the distance and the terror lessened enough to allow him to raise his head.

The Witch-king was gone. The world seemed light again and Tondaer rose to his feet with renewed hope. Rohan had not forsaken them.

He joined in battle those who awoke from their nightmare to fight. He slew one, two, ten. It did not matter. He did not count.  Then he turned toward the gate.

They have trolls, he thought and somewhere inside him, he laughed. He raised his sword and stood to face the brute bearing down on him. Pain, sharp and penetrating, radiated from his back and as he fell, the servant of Mordor had already moved on to be slain by a knight in bloodied starsilver armour.


She knew. She was gone, laid to rest at the bottom of Argillond and she would never see her again.

From learntarot.com

Always, the cards can only reveal so much, and though the tower fell behind her making way for the new world to be built upon the remaining foundations of Men, she could not have known that her own fortress would crumble around her as well. She had worried and wondered, but she could not have known.

And now, walking as a prisoner of men that live in stone, Erislos Thanat looked back at the smoke of Minas Tirith’s burning and she was glad that they would suffer, both houses of power and greed. And she longed for the sea beyond the bloodied fields of war and knew that nothing would ever be the same.


Headstrong Heart: Impetuous

Dear Gaelyn,

I wish to apologize for the brevity of my last letter. When pen touched paper, my thoughts scattered and I could not put a sentence together that made sense. I did not wish to hold up the other letters, nor did I wish to leave you without, so I made do with what I had.

I wish I could say all that I want to, but even now, more developed words fail me. Form and function do not fit the multitude of emotions that course through me now. I want to write volumes and volumes, but as the shadow over Minas Tirith darkens, all I can say is this:

I was falling in love with you and I left not because I did not love you, but because I did. I was just too proud to say it.

I did not understand it and had not meant for it to occur. When you told me that you could not do it anymore, I was not prepared for how difficult it was to breathe and could only be thankful that statues did not need to do so to exist. I had been so long in a mode of protection, shielding myself from the shame and the loneliness of my home city, that I did not recognize that I snuffed out any response other than the one I was used to presenting. Formal. Business-like. Matter-of-factual. And I could not dispute the facts: you were not ready.

Now that I sit here in my uncle’s spare room far away from home, from safety, and from you, do I realize what a fool I was to leave Durrow. And not because Durrow is so far away from this place that so soon will be under siege. But because I miss you and have missed you since the day I left. I wish I had another day to play with Atrian and see your smile. Even if it hadn’t been for me, if I had been able to turn this feeling back into friendship, it would have been wonderful to see once the pain went away.

And now, I fear I will die with that pain. I will not evacuate; I have been helping the healers and somehow, as insignificant as my hands are, I find they are needed here. It is funny how our worlds turn out sometimes, is it not? I have searched most of my life in an attempt to find a way to make myself useful despite the delicate nature of my sex. And now, my usefulness will likely be my doom. But I am all right with that. I have found my peace with death and I know that I am doing what I can to defend the kingdom. I only hope that our efforts here buy time for the rest of the Free peoples to gather what strength they can to defend their homes.

Find your happiness, Gaelyn. Thank you for the happiness you have given me.




No Light in the Coming Dawn

When Eris stepped inside the back door to the kitchens of the Belegorn, she did not expect to find Halvel sitting at the counter on a tall stool better befitting a tavern than the lower estate. The woman looked prim and defiant as always and Eris lifted her hand to greet her, intent on keeping it at that as she walked by.

“I have your ring,” Halvel said and pushed the thick gold band sitting on the smooth counter. “Thamben did not flee. He said to give it back.”

Eris stopped. Turning slowly, she looked hard at the ring. The silence stretched between them until Halvel cleared her throat.

“You do not look pleased.”

Halvel flinched back as Eris strode forward and picked up the ring. Gathering herself again, she smoothed her skirts over her thighs and spoke again.


Eris turned the band over and over, staring down at it with a deeply furrowed brow.

“My lady, do you know what this is?” she finally said as an answer. She held the ring up to the light of the trio of candles burning beside Halvel. The ring was ribbed as if it were a band of rope instead of precious metal, braided strong to withstand the tug of the gales at sea. On its smooth face where the signet of a house would be, the relief of a woman with a fish’s tail instead of legs surrounded a spiraling trumpet shell.

“It is your family’s seal,” Halvel replied. “He did not wish to leave his family behind-” she started to explain, but Eris held up her hand.

“I am glad that he did not run. He would have regretted it later, and not just because of honour. War makes demons of us all.” Eris clasped the ring in her fist and turned to go to the room she would have shared with the kitchen maid if it had not been for that war.


“My lady?” Her voice was tired and resigned.

“Why do you stay?”

“They have the Apple. A pirate without her ship is just a rat.”

“Your family-”

“They sail for Gondor. I will be here to greet them, won’t I?”

“You don’t have to stay.”

Eris found Halvel’s eyes in the heavy darkness of the kitchen. The woman’s shadow stretched across the floor and covered the toes of her boots.

“There is someone I wish to stay for. If I leave, I betray this person’s trust. And things are not as dark as they seem, my lady Halvel.” She walked into the shadow and held up a card.rws_tarot_16_tower

“When foundations crumble, new things can be rebuilt. Minas Tirith is sinking in its own despair, but the old must die before the new can be born.” The band of light from the candles beside Halvel fell upon Eris’ lips and she smiled. “Even if we cannot see the light, it is always there waiting for the clouds to part.”


Weather passes. The clouds that hung over Durrow? Not a portent or a sign of her failure. Just the snow that would warm the earth and prepare it for spring.

But still, she couldn’t help but blame herself for finding solace in Rheb’s arms when her husband fought for his life in Angmar. For the life of his men, as well. What sort of woman was she that could forget to worry about one for the warmth of another so easily? What sort of wife?

In her heart, she had faith that Oendir would return, but her guilt turned her thoughts astray. Made her think that if she were a better wife, his burden would be less. That if she didn’t dally with youth, there would be more strength for him to pull from.

But it isn’t dallying, she protested in the dark as she lay alone in bed. My feelings are real. I am real. The trust we have for one another is real. 

She missed the rich voice carrying the melody as she harmonized to sing the children to sleep. She missed the debate over the necessity of venison in Solstan’s diet at the dinner table. She missed the laughter filling their home when Neilia stood on his feet to dance. She missed the reassuring smile across the room that they would share to remind one another that everything would be all right.

She was not used to sleeping alone, so she curled around his pillow and breathed in the scent of the woods and waited for him to come home.


Exhaustion allowed Anyatka to sleep. In her dreams she saw the body emerge, heard the laughter that wasn’t his laughter echo off the walls of the tomb. She saw Bree burning as the bodies rose even as their neighbors fell around them to join with the gaunt lord’s army of wights. Over and over again she saw her family fall.

ScreenShot00470Sleep. She wanted to sleep forever. She wanted to join Morty’s spirit wherever it was, however she could. It didn’t matter. As one of his great hounds sitting at his heel, as a serving girl bringing him his wine, as a gardener tending to his blossoms. She would stay out of the way, she wouldn’t interfere. She just didn’t want to be there in Bree-land, in the Barrows anymore. She could feel herself stretching between those who wanted her to be something there, those who asked her to stay. Eirikr and Abiorn, Eruviel, Anders… They pulled on her every which way and she felt herself tearing in the wind that wanted to rip her to pieces…

Give up your body, a voice said in the dream. Join him, find him again and find peace. You don’t belong here.

Somewhere in her mind, separate from the dream, she remembered his wish for her happiness. She remembered how he blessed her love for Anders. Suddenly, a sharp pain caused her to wince in her sleep and she whimpered quietly.

Lies, so many lies. To make himself free of guilt for leaving you, for abandoning you and all who loved him…so selfish, selfish those lies.

Anyatka whimpered again but could not wake up from the voice whispering in her dreams.

Go to him. Prove your love and bring him back lest the darkness spread. 

I can show you the way.


Headstrong Heart: A Message

Dear Godric,

I wished to let you know that I have landed and made my way to Minas Tirith. Unfortunately, it is not a good time to be in Minas Tirith and my uncle was not pleased at my arrival. He has sent me to the Houses of Healing to assist the healers as they prepare for war.

I must admit that having something to do with my time is a relief. I do not have to think about the encroaching shadow or the oncoming war. I tear and sew (I was never very good at it) and help prepare for worst. 

Do wish the others well. I am hopeful that the darkness that has settled in people’s hearts here does not reach its tendrils into Durrow. I hope that you and the others are safe.

Give my regards to the other Wayfarers. Tell Gael


Halvel of House Remlor


Dear Rosie,

First, I need to apologize. I am so sorry to abandon you and my work at the Broken Cask. I know that my assistance was minimal, but it was a relief to have you there when I was in Bree-land. The loneliness that one experiences when you lose all your friends is very different than the loneliness that descends when you simply have none. 

I have found myself in Minas Tirith, and though I had intended on coming here to live with my uncle, Tomlin, I did not expect to arrive the way I did. I suppose I am lucky to have arrived without something much worse than a bruised eye and broken lip. My uncle was not pleased that he had to present me to others in such a manner, but there was little I could do about it. At least the story of a corsair ship accosting ours earned me some admiration among some of the ladies left in the Houses of Healing.

There are times when I miss you and Glory terribly. I miss Atrian. And Gaelyn. But nothing can be done; it is over and I am gone. I should not have made the choice so rashly. It just hurt so badly when he said he could not anymore. It hurt more than I realized it could. 

If what they say is true, soon it will not matter. Few believe we will survive this storm. If that is true, please tell me that you will be safe, Rosie. Flee into the forest or west to the mountains. The shadow lies over this city and grows each day. It will make the waiting easier to think that you and Glory will be safe. 

Write if you can; I do not know if anything will get through any longer. Know that you are in my thoughts. 

Your friend,



Dear Gaelyn,

Please know that I am safe in Minas Tirith. My uncle has taken me in and I am working at the House of Healing making bandages and doing simple things where I can. 

I hope Atrian is well. Give him my love.


Letters of Marque: Sure Thing

“Have you ever been in here before?” Halvel asked. Her soft voice broke through the monotony of the creaking hull and Eris could barely see her in the dark of the hold.

“Once. Twice. Mutiny, you know. Judd did me a favor when he did not simply toss me overboard.”

“And now,  you are here again.” The skirts of her dress rustled as she adjusted her position to tap on the bars of the holding cell. “Is it difficult?”


“Being trapped by that which you love?”

Eris took so long to answer, Halvel wondered if she ever would. The Southern men that made up Eris’ crew sat in a similar cell across the water in an escorting ship, sundered from their captain. The Gondorians, long ago it seemed, had found peace beneath the rhythmic waves.

“No. Better to go down in the belly of The Apple than the belly of a shark.”

“Really? Without seeing those you love once more? Without telling them goodbye or that you are sorry for any transgressions?”

Eris’ smooth chuckle filled the hold.

“Every journey starts with an end. Each time a son or a daughter sets sail, it may be until the next beginning. We know this and say farewell accordingly.”

“So your family?”

“Will understand.”

“That includes friends?”

“Friends…” Eris hesitated. “Friends from home understand as well.”

“And the friends you have made in your travels?”

“Friends in my travels.” Only the creaking of the hull spoke for minute. Eris smiled to the dark. “They are few and far between. And if they are truly friends, I believe they, too, understand.” She chuckled again. “But they are few and far between.”

Halvel sniffed, though Eris surmised it was probably from the damp and not from any feeling of superiority. “It sounds lonely.” A statement hung in the air unspoken: I understand.

The women sat listening to the waves against the outside of the hull.

“It’s not that bad,” Eris said finally. “You learn the ones that stick with you; those are the ones worth remembering. But they don’t need remembering, you see. Because they are always there.” She tapped her temple. “In your thoughts.” She pressed her hand over her chest. “In your heart. Who’s in your heart, Lady Remlor? If I may ask.”

“My mother and my brother,” she answered quickly. Not quite so quickly followed, “My father.”

“Aye? Not that new husband, though? I suppose that’d be why you’re here and he’s there.”

Eris could picture Halvel stiffening, adjusting her skirts around her ankles on the coarse straw, and then taking the deep breath that preceded her huffing reply.

“I do not see how that is any of your business.”

“You know, had I known you sought freedom from the city, I would have taken you wherever you wished.”

“I did not know you at the time. I still do not know you.”

“True. Sir Flappy Knight found The Apple for me after you had left. If your brother had not made the arrangement to ship north, I doubt I would be here right now. He would not have wished to keep me on.”

“Sir…Flappy Knight?”


“Really, you call a Swan-knight Sir Flappy Knight? Hardly to his face.”

“I like the look he gives me. It’s amusing the way he pouts.”

“Someone you call friend, then.” Eris smiled to hear one on Halvel’s lips. “One of the few?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps. Does Sir Hathlafel keep friends?”

“Sir Hathlafel helped you recover your ship?” The incredulity in her voice made Eris smile.

“He did. It’s much easier when a man has access to manifests and the power of the Keep behind him, it seems. Was under my nose the whole time. Folks just didn’t use her name…bad luck, if you ask me. She didn’t deserve to be hid all that time.”

“Why in all the deep blue sea did he help you?”

Eris tilted her head to the side even though Halvel probably could not see.

“You would have to ask him. Do you know him well?”

A rustle told her the lady shook her head. “No. Only of him. Who does not know of him?”

A smile crept upon her face. “Few, I’d wager. He does make a name for himself, doesn’t he? Nature of the cards.”

“What’s that?”

Eris just smiled wider, but it quickly faded as several sets of footsteps thudded over their heads. “One’s fortunes, my lady. The stars that shine brightly may blink out one day.”

Halvel probably did not hear her. The woman’s profile stood out as a black shadow against smoke. “Did you hear that? Are they coming for us?” she whispered thinly.

Eris closed her eyes. She listened to the waves. The tread of the feet above her.

“Yes,” she answered calmly. She stood up and brushed the straw and dust from her breeches. “Prepare yourselves. The captain is coming with an offer.” Her lips curled and in the darkness, her teeth flashed.

“We may see through this yet, my lady. Just stay by me and we will see.”

Letters of Marque: Intention

“He gave you command and this is how you use it?”

Halvel sat across from Eris with her arms folded across her chest and an angry scowl marring her pretty features. She had not resisted the men when they grabbed her and roughly manhandled her onto The Golden Apple. They plunked her into the hot seat in front of Eris’ desk and, on Eris’ orders, freed her wrists. Eris let her stew for a while as they pulled away from the Gondorian ship and only when the distance between them felt safe did Eris step inside her cabin and settle down in her chair.

“I took back the command that was rightfully mine, my lady.” Eris offered Halvel a smile and spoke in her even, velvety voice. “Your father had hired a thief when he hired Jelani–Judd–and it was your brother’s choice to lose my ship or gain a captain. I have the papers to prove The Apple is mine.”

“That is not what I am protesting and you know it!” Halvel snapped briskly.

Eris regarded Halvel quietly. The woman’s golden brown eyes flashed with indignation and her olive cheeks glowed with her outrage.

“My lady. Would you that your brother’s crew starve in their work for him? The sea is an unpredictable mistress; sometimes she is bountiful and others she is demanding and only those willing to make sacrifices will survive her wrath.”

“You speak in riddles!” Halvel exclaimed, the anger rising in her voice. “I will not have you-”

The lookout’s shout of alarm cut her off. Though the door was thick, his words were clear:

“Ship off starboard bow! Black sails, black sails on the horizon!”

Eris cursed fluidly in her native tongue as she stood to rush on deck. The men leaned against the starboard rail straining to see the dark blotch of a ship far out at sea. Taking her position on the upper deck, Eris drew out her spyglass to study the approaching ship.

“What do you see, Cap’n?”  Eris turned to look at Tendaji and flashed him the look of concern.

“Black sails, southern make. Hoist my family’s flag…”

“Another ship, Captain! Several by the look of it!” called the lookout.

As one, Tendaji and Eris turned to stare at the second ship popping up as if from beneath the waves themselves.

“A fleet? From Umbar,” Tendaji murmured beside her and she could only nod.

“Shall we fly, Captain?”

Eris turned and gave him a soft smile. Her eyes fell on Halvel who had followed her out of the cabin. The woman stood like a marble statue as the ship grew larger.

“Hoist the flag,” Eris ordered Tenadji evenly. The men around them strained to hear her soft voice.”If they be our brothers, they will sail on. If they be not…”

Captain and first mate shared a look of understanding and then as one, the sailors took their positions to wait for the black storm on the sea to overtake them.

Letters of Marque: Authorized to Board


“Cap’n. Stores’re more’n low. Cookie says soon we’ll be eatin’ dry biscuits and tha’s about all fer here on out.”

Captain Erislos Thanat looked up from the map spread out on her desk and stared at the crewman who came to deliver the news. Beside her, her first mate Tendaji remained stoic.

“How soon until we make port?” she asked in a carefully calm tone.

“Not soon ‘nough. Bellies will go hungry a’fore then says Cook.”

Nodding, Eris lifted the top card of the stack sitting near a small lockbox on the corner of her desk. She studied it for a moment and then nodded.

“Next ship, no matter the sail, we fly the black flag.”

The sailor, a sturdy man by the name of Broul, flashed a look at Tendaji, but the first mate did not meet his eye.

“Yessir,” Broul said as he turned to relay the message. “We’ll get ready, sir.”

Once the man left, Tendaji stepped behind Eris and put both hands on her shoulders. His confident fingers worked the tension in her muscles and she leaned back against his torso.

“We are ready,” he said simply. “We will not let you down.”

“I know,” she answered with a quiet confidence she did not fully feel. “We must do what we must do.”


The ship was small and fast. It flew over the waves on its way south, but it could not outrun The Golden Apple. In fact, it did not try to; the unsuspecting Gondorian vessel slowed its speed to allow Eris to catch up.

When they hoisted the black flag, they could see the shouts of the men on board the other vessel and Eris had to laugh at the deception. They were too close to be outran now and their line bit into the deck and rails like fishhooks. Heave! Ho! Lure them in. Board and plunder.

It was carrying mainly passengers from the northern ports to the south. Pelargir waited for its cargo and crew, but two less would make it to port after they unsuccessfully fought to defend their ship. Tendaji did not lie when he said that they would be ready. Within minutes, the survivors knelt along the deck, hands at the backs of their heads, eyes cast down. All but one.

“Now, here’s a pretty dress for this lot,” Broul said as he tipped a woman’s chin up with the flat of his sword. “Pretty lass, too. No sailor are ye, I’d reckon.”

The woman leaned away with an angry glare in her eye. She remained silent in her fine traveling cloak and fancy black leather traveling boots. Eris noted how she refused to look at the man, but also refused to lower her eyes and she couldn’t help but smile.

“Leave her be,” Eris commanded. “We’re not here for that.”

Leering, Broul lowered his sword and continued walking down the deck in front of the other prisoners.

“Now, thank ye kindly, good folk of Gondor,” Eris said as she leaped onto the rail and snagged the rope she used to swing onto the victim ship. “Yer goods will be well taken care’ve in the practiced hands of me crew.” She touched the broad rim of her feathered hat and coiled to swing back to the Apple when the pretty woman in the pretty dress spoke in a clear voice.

“I know who you are. I know your ship.”

Eris paused and looked over her shoulder at the woman whose shoulders bent back cruelly her bindings were so tight.

“It is The Golden Apple and you are Captain Erislos Thanat. You have to be.”

Eris’ blood ran cold. Every inch of skin tingled with alarm.

“Who are you?” she asked against her better judgement. “From whence you came?”

“You won’t get away with this,” the woman said, her sable hair gleaming in the sun. “My brother won’t let you do this to our name.”

Realization dawned on her. Eris smiled with the recognition and then, within a heartbeat of the thought, frowned.

“Why are you here and not with your new husband in Eriador? Did he send you back?” She did not feel nor acknowledge all the eyes on her.

“No. I chose to return.”

“But not to the City of Love and Delirium. Why go back where you are a black scar on such perfect stone?”

Halvel’s cheeks flushed. “No, not to Dol Amroth. But I will send notice. He will not let you continue to tarnish our family’s–“

Eris laughed. The force of it resonating on the open sea caused the noblewoman to stop mid-sentence and gape at her.

“Broul, take her aboard,” she ordered, still smiling. “It looks like we have ourselves a guest.”


Most Men find the air beneath the Mountain stifling at best. It hangs upon you like a damp cloth and if you breathe too deeply, it is easy to forget that eventually you have to breathe out again; your lungs will never be full.

The rush that lifts you when you finally see the stars again is weighty and light at the same time. The air fills your head all at once and your shoulders relax as if the weight of the dark is finally lifted, but then the great expanse of sky floats there to remind you that all the troubles you forgot in the long dark are still waiting patiently for you.

We grow nearer every day. The river separates us from the trees and then we will arrive at their house and there can be no turning back from that moment. I can only move forward from here.

So I put one foot in front of the next. I follow her shadow on the ground before us. The sun will set on another day and we will wait for its light to lead us come morning.


There is nothing wrong with me. So I cannot hear the spirits as easily any more. So?

I am happy and I am choosing to be happy and I will not let things get me down. I will visit him this Thursday, I think. My dagger will protect me from any wights. Sadron will be glad to have someone to talk to.

He is not gone. He is only sleeping.

I will take care of him still.


I am used to being alone. How could I have expected anything different here in Bree? It was too much for him and far too fast. I should have known better than to hope things would be easy.

Regardless, I will not let this set me back. I am strong and I am intelligent. I can find a way to make a life for myself here.

I don’t need anyone. Only myself.

Good morning, Bree. Here I come. What have you to offer me?


It was only a kiss.

And a manifest.

And a card or two.

Men aren’t worth the time, really.

Neither are women.

It was only a kiss.

Nothing’ll come of it.

It’s just news.

And a ship.

My ship.

Just a kiss.


Once upon a time, the fields of Fornost were lush and green. Settlements dotted the landscape and folk greeted the armies of Arthedain with cheers and garlands. People farmed and crafted and smithed and life was good among the gentle downs.

Life was good.

Then they came from the north and the east and they destroyed the land and its people.

He fell fleeing to the south with his people, one of a dozen fools to think they could stand against the might of Angmar. They never should have tried to find peace in a land torn by war for generations and generations. They should have known they were to fall among two enemies that day.

I saved him. I saved his spirit from being consumed by the darkness. I saved his spirit from being cursed to wander those broken plains alone.

One day, I will summon him again to me. One day, I will be free of this prison of metal and stone and all of the west will tremble.


I think of it often. The crossroads that lead to the four directions: east to hidden wilds, north to cursed lands, west to dangerous territories, and south, back south toward civilization. It is such a lonely place to be, and then he remembered that crossroads when we drew near all those months ago.

If I had the power then that I do now, maybe things could have been different. Maybe I would not have struggled against Faethril, and instead I would have been able to control her anger and use it for good.

Would I have been able to live forever, then, if I had those powers at my disposal? Morty would not have had to be alone. He always ended up alone, and it was because we would always leave him. He had to watch people die around him and he had to bury them again and again. Even if we did not leave him by choice, time would have left him alone.

Is that why? Is that why he let himself go? Esthyr said she found him just lying beneath his oak. That his roses had all died. That he was no longer there inside the shell of Morty Mossfoot. Morty was dead, he was gone, he wasn’t there anymore and he left all of us, Esthyr and Hawk, too.

If I had any doubt in my mind that he was dead, his letter indicated as much. While we were waiting for the horses to be saddled, I remembered the letter Esthyr tucked into my sash and that letter said “They’re probably going to die along with me.” He meant my roses, and he was sorry that they were going to die along with him. That poor little bush that had lived through so many transplants and nights of salted waterings was finally going to die because he did.

But my roses did not die, and I have to know what that means.


Holding his child, Halvel could not help but wonder if one day Gaelyn Fletcher would wish for another. He was proud of his son. Any fool could see the love behind the pride when he looked upon Atrian, and though it terrified her at first, it still warmed her heart to see the man bearing the little bundle into the little cabin. And then, he let her hold him.

The noises little Atrian made! Would she learn what each one means? How could she, when all her life the cries of other people’s children hardly moved her or, at their worst, annoyed her? She knew Atrian was part of the deal and she knew Gaelyn would not hold her to their wedding, even if they had consummated the marriage. Did she want this new life of mother and wife that came to her so suddenly?

And then Atrian smiled at her.

Or perhaps he had gas. But it looked like a smile and his big eyes found her face and when she smiled, he seemed happy. When she looked at Gaelyn, he seemed happy, too.

Life is simpler here, she told herself as they walked along the forest path on the way to Ravenhold. She carried Atrian as Gaelyn pointed out new things and the birds sang in the trees around them. Life was simpler, and she told herself that she would do her part to make it home.


Emmelina Lilybrook stared at the piece of folded paper in front of her. She sighed and rubbed the back of her neck. Opening the letter, she squinted at the words. She poked them. She traced the first letter of the signature: a line across the top and a line down the middle, like a gallows. It wasn’t Anya’s writing, and she didn’t think it was Abiorn’s since his name started with the same sound as Anya’s. That “T” wasn’t an “A”. She at least knew that much.

“Hey,” she asked one of the girls as she sat at the bar in the Mantle. “Do yeh know how ta read?”

“Some,” the girl answered. “You getting love letters?”

Lina shrugged and held out the bottom portion of the letter. She kept the top folded over onto itself. “Wha’ does that say?” She pointed to what she assumed was the name.


“Tor? That’s too long for ‘Tor’ and what’s he doin’ writin’ me anyways?” Lina jerked back the parchment and frowned at the offending letters.

The girl shrugged. “How’m I supposed to know that? Want me to read it to you?”

“No, no,” Lina said. “Thank yeh, though. I’ve a friend who knows ‘er letters.”

Shrugging again, the girl turned back to her small meal and said, “All right. I’ll be here if you change your mind.”

Lina nodded as she started toward the entrance. “Thanks!” Waving dismissively with one hand, she tucked the letter into her bodice with the other and set off for the South Gate and Durrow.

The Gentle Touch

With the exception of Neilia, I have never thought much about those I love dying. Men die, or they leave, and either way there is always loss for those that remain. My Hobbit friends have passed gracefully (for the most part) due to old age. And Elves…their spirits never die, I’ve heard. They pass on to Mandos’ halls and find their place among their people.

War changes dying. It is brutal and unnatural and it rents one’s spirit into pieces. No healer alone can mend the wounds war brings down upon the land.

I am Neilia’s mother and it is my job to protect her with every fiber of my being. I tell myself that by coming here, to Dol Amroth, I am protecting her by shoring up the war front and making Gondor stronger.

Gondor must hold. Dol Amroth must hold.ScreenShot00474

It is remarkable how a city so known for its disciplined army is so full of undisciplined citizens. The infighting and treachery and treason make it nearly impossible to know who to trust. Oendir always said he did not like the Knight-Captain Aureldir and now he’s played a role in the death of Rivalthor and the other knights recently slain in cowardly assassinations. And while the others had pegged Rivalthor as the villain, he release of his fiancee had made me take a step back.

Unfortunately, it was too late.

Why didn’t I say anything more? A note on a document that I feel half the company does not even bother to read. It was not enough. Did my own dislike for the man allow my tongue to stay silent? Did I truly believe Rivalthor was sending us into a trap? Or was it simply because they do not listen, and I grow weary of the looks that do not hide that they think I’m crazy?

I digress. I often digress recently, though rarely aloud. Oendir is beginning to learn when my mind is going though outwardly I am silent. He remembers to ask when he comes out of his own worries and notices mine. I do not hold it against him that he dwells so often in his own thoughts. He is not used to having another around to consult after Gisla left him, and it will take time for him to remember I am always here.

I try to lessen his burden. He is a good man and he deserves some peace from the constant anxiety that plagues him. He doubts himself too much, but it is the company that should be doubted. Each of them has their own agendas and views on the way things should be. Many of them are willing to do whatever it takes to see them through, all in the cause of the greater good. Funny, isn’t it? We sound so much like the city I despise.

So at the end of the day, I will tell Oendir that he is strong and I will rub his aching foot and I will love him until the end of time.

I will always be at his side, whether I am a Wayfarer or not.


I was not sure what to expect on my wedding night. Gaelyn spent more time with me alone than any other man before. I never felt judged or pressured or threatened in his presence. There is an ease about him that I cannot help but be drawn to. He did not pressure me or make demands of my body. I told him things no one else knows. Embarrassing things! He only laughed and smiled and asked me more about myself as though he was actually interested in me and not my family’s money or the scandal or my shame. Is this what is like to be a person again?

Gaelyn is an admirable man. He seems to understand the politics and the thoughts of the city without being drawn into them directly. Perhaps it is his charming smile or the way he grins when he says something he knows is witty. He smiles as though he is so very pleased with himself, but not in that pretentious or off-putting manner. It is more the smile like he knows that you know that it is all a game and it would be easier if everyone just came clean, but he doesn’t mind if they keep playing because he wants to keep playing.

It is a game to him, the ways of Dol Amroth. He does not take things lightly here, nor does he let them become a burden. That balance is refreshing. It cleanses my heart and gives me hope for a future.

A future with Gaelyn Fletcher.

I am now Halvel Fletcher.

No “Lady,” no house. No more shame for blood that I cannot change. No servants or handmaidens. Remlors are fish merchants. What are Fletchers? It remains to be seen.

I want this marriage to work, don’t I? I had tried not to think about it, because Gaelyn was always clear that he would support whatever decisions I made after leaving the city. I did not have to worry about that until we were safely away. But now that I am married and am here with him, I want it to work. I want to wake next to him and see the true wreck that is his hair in the morning. I want to gaze into those green eyes and feel like I am held as an equal. I want to feel his hand in mine and on my skin.

I was afraid of a man’s hands before, but not anymore.


I made Abiorn go camping with me. He was incredulous and suspicious, but once I convinced him that I really wanted to go, he started packing right away. He started going on and on about the woods around Durrow and how he was going to show me a lot of neat places, but I did not want to stay near the southern Bree-fields. I wanted to go north, past Bree, past the graveyard. I wanted to go to Starmere Lake.

It had been months and months since I had been there last. Probably closer to over a year. Anric took me there once and we swam all day long in the crystal clear lake. We yelled and laughed when our voices echoed off the surrounding cliffs. He was different there. At ease with himself. And it had been beautiful.

I wrote to Anders to let him know I would be gone for a few days. Though we left a note for Eirikr and Eruviel, I did not think that we would be gone long enough to need it. I just wanted to see that place again.

I thought about writing to Morty, but decided that writing him would not be appropriate. And I didn’t want to write him. I felt like he did not deserve to know, but then all the way up to the lake, I worried about how he would fret if he went and found the house abandoned. I always worry about what he feels.

Starmere LakeIt was beautiful still. A little bowl of solitude and freedom nestled into the Brandy Hills. Abiorn and I set up camp and swam the first day, but the second day, I let him swim out to the islands by himself while I set up my easel and stirred my paints. All around me, I could hear the nature spirits on the wind come to investigate the bear-man and his sister. They stayed near all day, whispering and dancing around me as I worked.

When Abiorn returned, he found me angrily stabbing at the canvas with my paintbrush. Tears flowed down my cheeks, but I did not know it at the time.

Abiorn came to me and put his hand over my own. He urged me to put down the brush and then pulled me into a giant bear hug.

What is it, Anyatka? he had asked in his simple and straightforward manner. How can I help? Do I need to bite someone’s hand off?

It was absurd and I laughed, but still I cried. I did not know what made me ache until the pain turned to anger. I was not an angry person; I did not recognize the emotion even as it made me ruin the bristles of my favorite brush. So Abiorn just hugged me and the light faded as the sun dipped behind the cliffs and I tried to figure out why I was so sad I could hardly even paint.

Eventually, I calmed down enough for Abiorn to release me and cook some fish he caught for dinner. As the smoke rose from the pale slabs of delicate flesh, I realized what it was.

I was angry with Morty.

I was angry with Morty for lying and using me and making me fall so desperately in love with him that still I longed for his smile. I was angry with Morty for liking Anders and approving of the new match like it was easy to get over me because I was just another girl. I was angry with Morty for having a child with Ansithe and never being able to entertain the thought of having a child with me, like I was not good enough to bear his line. And I am angry with Morty that he does not deserve me, he never did deserve me, and he does not want to do anything to try to deserve me.

I know that many of these things were out of my hands over a thousand years ago. It is not my fault that he is what he is and I am what I am and I tell myself I should be honored to have his attention for the short time that I did. That if he did pledge his heart to me for this lifetime, he would suffer the pain of my death and that is not fair of me to ask him to do. But life isn’t fair! If we were given this time to be together again, why should we waste it apart?

The sun had long gone to bed when I was able to look at my painting again. The palate was dark; I did not realize I had chosen to capture such a beautiful day in such somber tones. I raised my hand, anger that even in my art he was present giving my virgin powers strength: a gust of wind rose to knock the easel to its side and it caught the canvas like a sail. It flew into the darkness and just under Abiorn’s shout of surprise, I heard the splash.

Tomorrow, I said to him. Tomorrow, we are going to go foraging. I need new paints. 

Nodding in shock, Abiorn stared at me, but I did not mind. I would come to understand this new feeling, this gift that Morty gave me. I would master it, this Anger. And I will be stronger for it.

The sun will rise tomorrow, and I welcome its heat.

What Keeps Us Awake at Night

All I want in the world is to know who I am and where I come from and to find a place without all the lies. I am so tired of lies and half-truths and people thinking that those things can somehow make things better. They can’t.


I will be fine. This will all be fine. I am a strong, loved person and everything will turn out perfectly fine and I will not think about it at all.


Why do things always get so complicated? Things aren’t that complicated when you live by yourself in your own little world. Sometimes, I wish I would have never left my own little world, but then again, I would have never met him and knowing him makes it worth it, especially after all those people just think that I’m a freak after seeing me change.



This city makes me miss Dale. How is that even possible.


Day and night, it’s always the same. Wake up, lie down, roll over. When did my life become so boring? Makes me want to go steal a coinpurse just for old time’s sake.


I’ve never felt so confident in all my life and all I did was make a little breeze. It is empowering! Yet…he does not know this world of spirits and sorcery and I know I will not need it if I were to become his wife. Why do I feel so empty at the thought of leaving my training now? Is it another link to him, the magic of his presence, the mystery of his life and power? Will he always haunt my thoughts and dreams?


When everything you knew about a person is veiled in a lie, how do you go about trusting him again, even if it is your own father? Is it all worth it when it’s just a damn charade to get an old man his kicks? Living here has made me live a normal life and for the first time, I like the thought of waking up with a husband that worked digging fields and not ruins. What if I want my own life and not the life he is forcing upon me?


The simplicity of this place is astounding. We get up. We find food. We cook it. We mend our clothes. We sweep our floors. He swims in the pools and waterfalls around the lake. Nothing is more beautiful than he is beneath the falls when the sun sinks behind the purple mountains and the colours of the light catch in his hair. We eat. We make love. He is happy. For him, for him, I will be happy for now.


I will shake this from me. His actions are not my actions and I am as good as any man. Hard work and intelligence will lead me to where I wish to go. If only the people saw it the same way, this city would be the better for it. I will continue to hold my head up high and convince Mother that I do not need a man to make my way. I won’t be sold to him for his title.


Who’s a girl gotta do to get some revenge up in here? Anyone? Anyone?