Arrow's Flight: The War of The Pretender

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Arrow's Flight: The War of The Pretender

Postby Rholarowyn » Mon Nov 06, 2006 9:47 pm

Gentle Readers,

Our meetings and our partings mark the passage of time. Several years may pass before the consequences are known and ours is just such a story; a tale that takes place after such a meeting and parting, followed by the passage of years. We invite you to journey along with us as we discover what happens after two lives are reunited.

We, Rholarowyn and Bardhwyn, would like to hear your comments and responses to our story but we would ask that you do so in this thread:

OOC:: Yesterday's Arrow's *and* Arrow's Flight
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Last edited by Rholarowyn on Tue Nov 07, 2006 8:14 am, edited 4 times in total.
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Rholarowyn
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Postby Rholarowyn » Mon Nov 06, 2006 10:58 pm

In the past, with warfare at hand, the Horn of Gondor would have cried out, it’s magnificent voice reaching far to the edges of the land. Those loyal would have answered with their swords, their skill, and their lives. Once victory had been attained, Ecthelion’s Tower would stand tall and proud, glistening in the morning sun, while the encouraging songs of silver trumpets filled the air, calling the weary home. The banners caught high in the breeze would reach out, embracing those who had defended the White City and her land once again. Despite the horn being silenced many years ago, returned to Denethor cleaved in two, a call had gone out. On this gloomy morning it was being answered by a female rider crossing the fields of Pelennor who's only acknowledgement from Ecthelion’s tower was the sound of its banners flapping haphazardly in the high winds.

As Rholarowyn approached the mithril embossed steel gates they opened wide allowing her entrance. Yet, she was forbidden to ride through mounted, a sentence rendered upon the shamed of Gondor. From the saddle she stared into the courtyard, but only for a moment. A sudden tear threatened to escape. She blinked hard, forcing it back. Kicking her leg over the saddle she landed squarely upon the hard ground. The silence from the guardsman was just as loud as the silence of the streets as she passed through. Two Gondorian soldiers, who’d escorted the woman from Rohan, followed behind on their mounts. Once inside, and remounted, only the echo of horse’s hooves slowly striking the stone road announced her presence. The shuttered windows of homes and merchant’s stores lined the familiar route as the official party worked their way up to the upper most parts of the city.

With their horses stabled, Rholarowyn was taken to the station of the Tower Guard, where the only acknowledgement from a once familiar voice was the gruff command, “Take her to her quarters!”

To her quarters she was led and once inside her new escort barked one sentence.

“The king will be notified shortly of your arrival, be ready.”

Her door was then shut with a jolt of authority.

Inhaling then exhaling a long slow breath, Rholarowyn walked to the bed and removed her plain traveling cloak followed by her sword, placing both neatly beside each other upon handmade bedcover. She then walked over to the window, pushed the smooth velvety curtain aside, and looked out towards the lower part of Minas Tirith. It’s cold, white stoned stared back, offering no comfort. There was no comfort in exile. The last two years had taught her that.

The curtain slipped through her fingers veiling the bleak view. Her hand then sought a letter tucked deep in her tunic, a letter she’d received less than a week ago. Rholarowyn’s fingers carefully unfolded and then held the royal sheet while her eyes slowly followed each and every word written by the King’s own hand.

A sudden knock at the door caused her to look up.

“My Lady?...Lady Rholarowyn?”

The female voice was familiar, and soothing.

“I’ve come to help you get ready,” the servant softly added.

Swallowing hard, the woman closed the letter, tucked it back into her tunic, and made her way to the door.

Once opened, Rholarowyn found herself the recipient of a motherly embrace from Lyala, a servant left over from the days of Denethor’s reign. She grasped her long time friend, and buried her face into the servant’s shoulder as the knot in her throat tightened.

Lyala continued to smile as she pulled herself back, but left her hands upon Rholarowyn’s shoulders. “You look good…considering.”

The Gondorian woman forced a weak smile.

“Not to worry, come, let’s get you cleaned up and fed.”

It was her trust in Lyala that kept her going through the important steps that followed.
The walls, the halls, and the people, were all familiar yet the separation only grew wider. People would stop, stare, and whisper. Rholarowyn’s very presence no longer brought solace or hope. Now it brought avoidance, withdrawal, and distain. Lyala kindly manner was the only consistent assurance around her.

They returned to the room a few hours later, Lyala waited as Rholarowyn entered and then followed behind. Softly she closed the door and watched as Rholarowyn stopped, having fixed her eyes upon the bed. There, replacing the traveling cloak and Rohirrim sword was a new official Gondorian uniform.

Rholarowyn swallowed hard as her eyes examined each article of clothing that had been carefully arranged. The black boots stood at attention at the front of the bed. Directly above, laid out upon the bedcover were a bluish grey shirt and a pair of black pants. To the right, a silver and black knee length tunic graced a rough hewn hanger suspended from a wooden peg in the wall. Rholarowyn slowly approached it, reached out and her fingers traced the small White Tree insignia near the heart of the tunic.

“This is at the King’s request.” Lyala said softly coming along the right side of the woman and placing a kind hand upon her shoulder.

Side by side the two remained until finally Rholarowyn pulled her hand away and reached for the cord on the front of her shirt. Slowly, she began to unlace it. With each subsequent layer of clothing removed, another skin was shed by the exiled creature until nothing remained but the woman and her soul. Upon this frame a new skin was laid down and with each new layer added her warrior’s heart was renewed.

“You’re ready now.” Lyala finally whispered. “I’ll go tell the guard.”

With the click of the shutting door, the Gondorian shieldmaiden made her way back to the window to look over the ancient city once again.

‘What is it I want from you?’ her inner voice finally pleaded, but the white towers and buildings, darkened by a cloud threatening sky, slowly turned away.

The moment ceased when there was another knock at the door.

“Yes.” She barely uttered not shifting her gaze.

“May I enter?”

His voice was deep and friendly.

“Bandoril?” she asked turning away from the desolate view. “Yes, please…”

The door opened and in stepped a family friend from the past. His dark shoulder length hair and trimmed beard were now peppered with grey though his clothing revealed his status was unchanged. His rank and position was still Captain of the Pelargir Guards.

He paused, closing the door behind him, and then took in the sight of shieldmaiden dressed in official Gondorian attire. When his brown eyes met hers they remained, holding her gaze with regard. Finally, that one lone tear of Rholarowyn’s yielded to release.

Bandoril stepped forward softly placing his hand along side her cheek. There it remained even after he’d gently wiped the tear away with his thumb. “I know,” he said quietly, waiting. After some time, her green eyes, still filled with emotion, looked back into his.

“I know…” he reassured, “but soon things will be as they should.”

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Postby Edmund the Scholar » Fri May 11, 2007 8:19 am

Rholarowyn,

Are you going to continue this story? I'd like to read more!
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Postby Spirit_of_the_Willow » Fri May 11, 2007 8:25 am

I'm sorry to report that Rho has decided not to pursue her writing for the time being. Life intruded as it does for us all.
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Postby Edmund the Scholar » Fri May 11, 2007 8:29 am

Sorry to hear it. Hopefully things settle down soon.
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Postby Rholarowyn » Fri May 18, 2007 7:58 am

Hello Edmund, it's been a while since I've been on the boards, however, it's nice to meet you. :) This was going to be a rather long, involved, and complex story that Bardy and I were working on which became too much for me along with real life. Having said that, I am aware I've not closed the thread. I miss writing Rholarowyn. Perhaps I will continue with a different story or something more fun and less intense in the future. If I do, the title of this thread will change since Bardy and Willow were planning to carry on with a different version of this story here in the Scripts. I hope they do! :D

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Image

So True the Arrow, So Steady the Hand

No word in your quiver goes errant,
no thought from your bow is misspent,
no image falls short of your target,
so true are the arrows thus sent.
Your heart with a steady compunction
pulls the bowstrings few others could ply,
your story does more than just function--
your steady hand helps my heart fly!

Thank you Parm for your wonderful poem. :heart:

Sharing another adventure with Eari in the Scriptorium: Once There Were Words
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