Drianna

The thick fog had rolled in off the Sea during the night.  Banked up against the harsh walls of the Ephel Duath and the snow laden flanks of the Ered Nimrais, it poured its energy through the narrow gap between the Emyn Arnen and the ridge where Minas Tirith stood guard over the Anduin. 

Then north it fanned out, enveloping Cair Andros in its gray embrace before dissipating to ragged tendrils of mist over the Dead Marshes.  It was a day most residents of Minas Tirith stayed indoors close to the fire, their shutters barred to keep out the buffeting gale and its chilling dampness. 

But high above them on a windswept marble terrace the figure of man sat in an ornately carved chair, staring into the formless fog, oblivious of the wind tearing at his sodden embroidered cloak or the steady drip of moisture from his now lank, gray-brown hair.

He was utterly still save for his right hand, compulsively turning over two small objects between his thumb and forefinger, as if waiting for some insight to emerge from them.  It had been thus since the unexpected arrival of the golden hawks just before sunset the day before.

Initially Eradan’s expedition north had followed according to the plan he had envisioned, one company reinforcing Cair Andros, the second scouring the Emyn Muil, while Eradan and his trusted lieutenant Zerephath continued north along the west shore of the Anduin.

He had not expected much of the effort, other than to show a visible response to the mysterious ambush of the trading party and the small patrol that set out to make the initial investigation.  There was a good chance they might return empty handed, but even with that they would have demonstrated the Steward’s willingness to respond to such banditry.

But he hadn’t anticipated Eradan’s decision to cross the Anduin and had in fact left him written instructions the day he departed expressly forbidding such a venture without his permission.  By the time the chain of messengers had delivered the news of his insubordination, his impetuous son was long gone into the empty wastes of the Brown Lands.  Despite his best efforts with the fastest horses, he knew then that it would be nearly a week before his orders to return could reach Eradan.

As it turned out it had been less than a week when the first unsettling reports had arrived.

The chain of messengers from the advance party in the Brown Lands had ceased.  Tentative patrols from the rearguard at the Undeeps found nothing.  No horses, men, weapons, signs of life or death, not even the imprint of a hoof or boot.  Mardil had immediately ordered Raladon’s company out of the Emyn Muil to join the reserves at the Undeeps in a reconnaissance in force north to the last known position of Eradan’s strike force. 

But it was of little use.  There they’d stood, thirty leagues from the river, alone on a barren windswept plain, caked in dust, having no idea what direction Eradan had taken next in the endless empty land surrounding them.  Reluctantly, they returned to the Undeeps, following Mardil’s orders not to risk the loss of more men if they had no trail to follow.  Still, despite the unsettling news from Raladon, he had still held out a lingering hope that some word would return from Eradan.

But the only word that arrived came so on the wings of a hawk, requesting the representation of Gondor at a meeting in Rivendell to discuss a matter of utmost importance.  Mardil had wearily tossed the message aside. The effort to designate an emissary and the organization of such a trip over hundreds of leagues to such a cryptically described meeting was swallowed up in the wall of gloom that had begun to settle over him.  Then late the same day the second hawk arrived, recounting the annihilation of Eradan’s cavalry group in the debacle at the forest’s edge.  Additional details made clear the link between the two messages.

He had brooded on into the night.  News of the expedition’s fate across the Anduin was still limited by strict orders, though it was inevitable that word would leak out.  His eldest son was lost, likely dead.  The fragile Stewardship he had begun after Earnur’s fruitless sortie into Mordor was now at risk.  Not only the citizens of Gondor, but others, both friend and foe, might question the continuance of the kingdom and its strength.  True, there was a younger son as a potential heir and Steward, but he was slight and bookish by nature, disinclined to the rigors of command and decision making in these difficult times. 

He had wrestled with the idea of a massive show of force, a response the likes that Eradan had initially conceived in a burst of emotion and pride.  But that would empty the countryside of all protection, leaving a too inviting target for whatever lurked in Mordor and those who still harbored centuries long grudges to the south.  They might return with the heads of orcs and the bodies of their fallen heroes to find a burned and pillaged land.  That would be no victory.

And that was the trouble.  He could see no clear way to win, could see no clear way at all.

And so he sat as he had for hours, now feeling the knot in his stomach tighten as the first signs of dawn lightened the murk around him, signaling that the day would soon be upon him and the burden to say something, to do something, would be at his door.

Back, off the terrace, from the rooms of the Steward’s residence behind him he slowly became aware of a noise, which began to separate itself into voices, one sharp and angry, the other lower pitched, slightly defensive, struggling for authority. There was the unmistakable crash of pottery on a stone floor, the rough slam of a door nearly wrenched from its hinges.  He heard footsteps behind him, not the cautious tread of a house servant, but an insistent, pressing, purposeful stride, a sense of almost insolent entitlement bearing down on him like a pack of dogs on a cornered rabbit. 

“How could you!?” her voice behind him was a hard slap of rage and scorn.

Mardil sagged in the chair, his forehead now cradled between the thumb and fingers of his right hand.  It was a voice that married well with the sound of the footfalls that preceded it.  

“You knew his nature! How he never ran from a fight, no matter what the odds!”

Now she was standing in front of him, between his chair and the railing, gloved hands clenched into fists on her hips.  Tall, almost rangy, clad in black hunting boots, fur lined deerskin leggings and a short, pocketed tunic, she was spattered with mud from an all night ride over sodden ground from her wilderness encampment high in the White Mountains. Someone had leaked the information to her, but that could wait til later.

Mardil raised his tired, red rimmed eyes to hers for the first time.  She was striking as always.  A great tumbling mass of hair, blond ringlets with an inexplicable bright red streak starting just right of her small widows peak then streaming back, gradually blending in the wild tangle.  Upswept eyebrows, the left brown, the right with a patch of sienna lined up with the streak in her hair.  But it was her eyes that dominated this morning, a pale silvery blue, that today glittered like two points of cold steel between the ridges of her high cheek bones.

He’d known that look for a quarter of a century, since the day she was born.  The last of his three children, she was fifteen years younger than Eradan.  She’d been just five when her mother died, caught in a flash flood on the River Serni during a visit to family in Lebennin.   He had been occupied by grief and the affairs of state, particularly after Earnur’s fatal journey east.   By default, his spirited young daughter had attached herself to Eradan, emulating his self-reliance, prowess with weaponry, and natural leadership abilities. 

In turn, Eradan had been taken with her, wangling duty assignments close to home, secretly taking her on his tours of military encampments and outposts, and making time for her with grizzled trainers who marveled at her quick reflexes and unerring aim.  By the time she had reached her late teens she was long absent, hunting deep into the White Mountains, accompanied only by experienced local trackers and guides.  In the years since, she had shed the trackers and guides, making her own way for weeks, often months at a time, in all seasons, often garbed in expertly sown pelts from the unwary mammals that might have crossed her path. 

There were few suitors for the hand of Drianna, daughter of the Steward.  Absent the mother to provide her with some balance in a world dominated by the affairs of men, she became a competitor of men with her prescient intuition, lightning intelligence, and disdain for weakness.  Few, other than Eradan and her father, cared to spar with her, whether it be words or blows.  Indeed it was only Eradan with whom she was fully at ease and now he was gone.

Now her rage at his loss was directed squarely at her father.  Yet in a way her anger and her challenging tone, and utter disregard for his position were just what he needed since none else would so address him at such a time.  He grasped the arms of the chair and slowly emerged from its stony embrace, rising to his full height, never breaking eye contact with her.  They stood inches apart, Mardil half a head taller, his own anger rising at all that had happened, his emotions thawed from the frozen prison of guilt that had him captive through the night.

“You are right in what you say and in my heart I knew this risk.”

“And yet you sent him when there were others who could have gone!?”

“To be a leader is to take risks.  Your other brother takes no risk…would you have him wear the robes of state when I am gone?”  Mardil turned away and stood at the railing.  The fog still swirled beyond, though the winds has eased their buffeting as the mistral from the sea spent itself over the Dead Marshes.  Drianna was silent for a moment.

“No, I think not, daughter.” Mardil replied, answering his own question, then continued.

“Yet just as he would not suffice for Steward, neither would one who is reckless, whose emotions cloud his judgement.  For many a year I have striven mightily to temper Eradan’s great strength and leadership ability with prudence.  It was my hope to avoid the great loss of the recent past that Earnur’s pride brought upon the line of kings now ended in Gondor.  And I have failed in that task”

At that admission she was subdued, better aligned with him now for what had to be done.

“He is not dead” she declared with a quiet conviction. “I do not feel it”

“Nor I.  Read these.” Mardil emptied the contents of his right hand into hers.

Drianna., as all children of the Stewards, benefited from the finest education.  Though it had been long since she sat at the feet of the scribes and historians, she had forgotten little.  The script was clear to her. 

“Who will represent Gondor” Drianna ‘s eyes met his.

“It would have been Eradan.” Mardil replied, glancing away, walking to the rail.

She knew enough of the affairs of state and the history of Gondor to appreciate his dilemma.  The eldest son, if worthy, was the natural designate.  Absent that, it might fall to one senior in the affairs of the kingdom or a respected military officer.  But the line of the kingdom was ended.  Much of Earnur’s coterie of advisors had retired or passed on.  The leaders of the great battles of the recent past were gone or doddering and frail with old age.  There were new officers, strong and loyal, but few that had been tested.

Drianna quietly approached him, standing beside him at the rail, staring into the mist that was beginning to brighten.

“It will surely vex them, this not adhering to the ways of men” Drianna offered , suppressing a wry smile at the corner of her mouth.

Mardil was silent, hands resting on the rail beside her, collecting his thoughts.

“A certain decorum is expected at Rivendell.  Much of what we have in this world is due to the long efforts of Lord Elrond and other elven powers.”

Now it was Drianna’s turn to be silent.  What she really wanted was to pack a fast horse and head north, across the great river into the Brown Lands, trusting on her instincts, needing no one, confident that she would find her brother, no matter what stood in her way.  But that same rash impulse they shared had ultimately led to his demise, or at best his capture and imprisonment.  If she was to have any say in his fate, she would have to exercise a self-control she did not feel nor had much experience in mastering.

She turned away from the rail to face him.  Mardil’s eyes were already set to meet hers.

“It will take some preparation, whoever is to attend.  We must anticipate what may be asked of us.”  Drianna declared, struggling to maintain an even tone.

“And what should we ask of them, even if our representation is…shall we say… unexpected?” Mardil replied gently, but firmly, his eyes moistening, the rigors of the night on his face softening. 

“To…no…they will not care for just one life…”  Drianna turned away.

“True enough…they will not.  Nor will they expect you to come from such a distance to plead for one life, no matter how dear to you…or to me….”

“Then…?”

“We ask only what we can do to purge this evil from our midst.  And then do it”

“I would kill this thing myself and be glad to die doing so”

“In that passion He surely has trapped many more than your brother, Drianna.”

“How I hate this.   No knife or bow or the quick hands I have can remedy what has befallen.  This long journey just to talk, among those I least know, which in the end may prove a pale substitute for what I feel.  Yes, it is a privilege to be asked, even more so to attend, but I would be lying if I were to say my motives ran far from Eradan”

“Then you will go…” Mardil said quietly, not meeting her eyes.

“I…well…yes…” Drianna replied, a bit stunned, in part because she was so readily getting what she had wanted, but also for the first time in many a year, understanding the humbling feeling that it might be more than she could control.

“There is still time for another.  I have yet to send the hawk in reply.” Mardil replied gently.

“Do you…”

“Do I think you will represent us well? That you will sit with the mighty and powerful of the age and acquit us ably?”

The fog was beginning to break.  The strong spring sun was rending the fabric of the mist.  Gaps of blue were opening above them.  A brief flush of early sun washed over the terrace between the retreating lines of cloud.

“You are the best that I have and more importantly the one who I trust the most.”

Drianna’s eyes widened.

“Suffice to say that not all those that remain from Earnur’s day have confidence in the governance of the Steward.  Now…there is much for you to learn in the next two days.”

Mardil turned, his back to the rail, now facing the residence.  He signaled and three courtiers, waiting unobtrusively these past moments, hurried across the still damp marble terrace.

“You will prepare Drianna for her journey as I have instructed.” Mardil ordered.

“You…?”

“Yes I saw to it that you would hear of Eradan’s journey across the Anduin.  I had to anticipate that he might not return.  I could not know your reaction to what might be even darker news.  A risk…like others…one must take them in my position.  Now…you have things to do…as do I.”  Mardil placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed her on the forehead.  “We will talk again before you go.”

The courtiers led her away.  She turned one last time before entering the residence.  Mardil was still there smiling, his eyes had never left her.