Chapter I: Minas Tirith
twelve years later.....

Caelan, the daughter of Caemor, stood on the battlements of the glimmering white city of Minas Tirith. The sun’s light was just beginning to touch the surface of the expansive country of Gondor. A swift breeze played delicately with her auburn hair, and a clear banner of Gondor adorned with the silver tree fluttered wildly above her. She leaned on the stone wall, her Prussian eyes surveying the vast lands. In the distance, first light fell upon the city of Osgiliath and Caelan’s eyes rested on it as her thoughts drifted. She felt a presence behind her and turned to find the mocking emerald eyes of her childhood friend Boromir.

‘What brings you here so early, my lady?’ he questioned, and smiled as she embraced him, glad for his company.

‘You must have forgotten how much I love the sunrise,’ she answered after pulling away. The wind pulled at a few stray auburn hairs that danced before her soft eyes. ‘Though I must say I did not expect to find you so wakeful.’

He sighed, a deep, melancholic sound that seemed to issue from his very depths. In his heart, Boromir could feel a shadow growing; a shapeless evil that carried through into his deepest thoughts. His unrest was plaguing his sleep, and he was finding it difficult to ignore the foreboding that weighed on his mind. But he would not worry his childhood companion with these dark thoughts. Caelan carried many burdens on her shoulders, and Boromir would not allow himself to be the cause of yet another. He forced a smile and joined her at the stone battlements, his gaze straying to the fields, forests; the natural beauties that gave Gondor such a spectacular appearance.

The two remained in silence for sometime as the crimson sun beat down upon them. Presently a voice calling their names commanded their attention, and they turned to meet Boromir’s young brother Faramir, who appeared drowsy, but otherwise glad to see them.
‘I have been seeking you,’ he said directly to Boromir, who nodded in response. ‘Something told me that if I could find lady Caelan, there you would be also, and it proves true.’

Caelan laughed. It was a soft sound like music and the brothers found themselves smiling. The sweet lady’s good humor had the ability to conquer both of them. She motioned for Faramir to join them at the wall, and he came and stood to her left, his arms resting on the stone wall, and his head resting on his hands. ‘What are we looking at?’

Boromir shook his head and Caelan giggled, though neither of them answered young Faramir’s question. Faramir did not as them again but lingered there; his eyes were not fixed on any given point, but his thoughts did remain on the two beside him.

Ever since that day the three had met, they had been inseparable. Caelan had been there for the brothers when their mother, Finduilas had died. She had cried with them and held them. It had brought them all closer. Boromir had taken on the responsibility of looking after the two, being the elder, while Caelan made sure the brothers stayed from rash actions. Young Faramir, being six years his brother’s junior, and three years behind his lady, added his innocence and naïveté, so the two elder where never entirely burdened with the harsh thoughts that accompany coming of age.

‘What shall we do today?’ Faramir questioned, watching his two companions for their reaction. Again Boromir made no definite response but simply shrugged his shoulders. In truth, he wasn’t even listening. But Caelan smiled and jumped back from the wall.
‘We should ride!’ she exclaimed, grasping her skirts and prancing around like a small child.

‘Where?’ Faramir responded, now excited. Boromir sighed again but tried to act as excited as his two young companions.

‘To wherever our horses feet shall fly!’ Caelan answered, and without hesitation she ran through the streets, down the many levels of Minas Tirith until she reached her father’s house. The two brothers were left slightly dazed in her wake, but they shared a friendly exchange and headed back to the citadel, preparing to dress in their traveling attire. When they entered the throne room, the stooped, shadowed form of Gondor’s Steward could be seen to the right of the throne, his sword upon his knee, his grey eyes narrow.

‘My sons….’ His voice was sallow and emotionless. Boromir felt Faramir stiffen beside him, and it tore at his heart. He knew why. Boromir, being the elder, was beloved of his father, and the pride of his people. But where he was skilled with swordsmanship, young Faramir was gentle, compassionate, and capable of great reasoning. In part, Denethor could not believe that Finduilas had died of her sadness. He placed the blame on young Faramir’s incapable shoulders. ‘Where have you been these early hours?’

‘We stood on the battlements in the shadow of Ecthelion, viewing the northern borders in the sunrise,’ Boromir responded with and air of frustration. He never knew quite what to say to his father. He loved him. But his love for Faramir was in a deeper, a harder sense, and it hurt him to see how little Denethor seemed to care for him.

Denethor seemed perplexed by this answer, for his brow furrowed and his jowls quivered. ‘Indeed,’ he responded and rose from his seat. ‘And where might you be going?’

‘How do you know that we are going anywhere?’ Faramir broke in, and their father’s intense eye rested on him for what could have been a millennia. Faramir finally broke the gaze and shrunk back behind Boromir.

‘We are going to explore the land outside the city,’ Boromir responded, and he bent slightly at the waist and turned to depart.

‘My sons,’ Denethor spoke again, and the two seemed compelled to linger. He approached them steadily until he stood before them in the entranceway to the throne room. ‘Why do you rush from my presence?’

Boromir thought for a moment, carefully choosing his words. ‘We are meeting someone.’

‘May I be so bold as to ask whom you intend to meet?’ Denethor pressed. Both sons knew what he was getting at. Faramir had previously mentioned his friendship with the woman Caelan, and their father could not bear to think of his sons with a woman of her standing. There would be no meeting her.

~*~

When Caelan entered the small building that was her home, she was met by her aging father, Caemor. He was a stout man, bent, with silver hair and emerald eyes. He was smiling fondly as she entered, and Caelan embraced him.

‘Wither are you going?’ the man asked. His eyes sparkled as Caelan pulled from the embrace. Caelan shrugged; in her mind she knew not. Caemor knew his fair daughter better than any other, so he did not protest. To her alone had Caelan confided her love of the Steward’s sons. He alone knew her spirit. If this strong shield maiden set her mind to something, she  would pursue it with all her heart. Caemor watched the form of his daughter disappear into her room and a glimmer of remembrance grasped his mind. She was so much like her mother.

When Caelan returned, she wore her riding clothes; dark earthen-toned skirts of brown and green which were slit to her thigh, concealing soft velvet leggings. She bore a small, curved dagger reminiscent of the Rohiric craft, which she strapped to her thigh to hide it from unfriendly eyes. ‘Father,’ she spoke softly, and again his kind eyes smiled. ‘If I do not return on the morrow, do not fear for me.’

In her heart Caelan knew that her father would never stop worrying for her safety, but he did not outwardly show it. ‘The Steward’s sons will accompany me.’

‘Then I have nothing to fear,’ replied the aged man with a half-hearted laugh. He embraced her once more as she went to leave, and Caelan bid him a brief yet fond farewell as she made her way to the stables.
When Caelan reached the stables, she glanced about for her two friends. They were nowhere to be found. She lingered for a while, but when neither made their presence known, she assumed that perhaps some greater errand was detaining them, and decided that if she left now they could meet her on the outskirts of the city when they were able to meet her. Finding this to be to best possible solution to her problem, she made her way to the last stall in the stable, where stood her white mare, Mïrriel. The horse whinnied fondly at Caelan’s approach, and she gently caressed the horses sturdy neck. She whispered to it briefly and then adjusted her saddle and reins. The horse did not struggle as she mounted swiftly and urged her through the streets. She passed many people as she went, all who watched her silently with the slightest hint of dismay. She minded not. Quickly Mïrriel pranced through the open gate and raced into the countryside. Caelan allowed her thoughts to wander; the city, though beautiful in its grandeur, was beginning to stifle her. Caelan had always had a wild heart, and never took well to restraints. She thought about Boromir and Faramir, her two dearest friends in all the world, and began to wonder what had possessed her to place so much love and trust into two men when most maids of the city befriended others of their sex.

As she came upon a small body of water, Caelan dismounted and stooped to drink, cupping her hands and allowing the cool water to flow, for a moment, between her pale fingers. It was then that music met her ears, though it was unlike any music she had ever heard in the halls of Minas Tirith. There were voices, and their song was beautiful, with highs and lows, though it was sad and dissonant. She stood up and placed her hand on Mïrriel’s side, and the horse did not stir – her attention was drawn north. In the distance was a company of fair elves. They’re leaving, she thought, entranced by the song. It was the first time that Caelan had truly seen such a large company of elves before. She had seen one once, who had come to the halls of Denethor from the North for diplomacy, but these were so close, and so fair. Without thinking, Caelan made up her mind to follow them for a time, and she mounted her ivory mare.