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Title: Honor and Valor
Authors: Sicily Bean and Kaye Thorn
Rating: T
Genre: Romance/Action/Adventure
Category: Lord of the Rings
Pairing(s): Faramir/OC
Cast: Faramir, Denethor, Boromir, et al, & Anwaiel (OC)
Notes: We had an amazing bit of inspiration when Kaye came over for her spring break. This fic has now been officially revived, and we hope you enjoy it! The first two chapters are cleaned up, and the following chapters will be posted as fast as we can write them out. A million apologies for taking so long!
Summary: It is still quiet in Middle Earth, but evil has begun stirring again in the deep, dark places of the world. In Mirkwood, the spiders and Orcs are becoming more persistent than ever, and Thranduil's warriors are doing all they can to fight them off. During an ambush on a party of Elves heading for the Grey Havens, Faramir and his Rangers come to their aid, and he meets an Amazon-like warrior named Anwaiel, saving her after she had been shot in the arm by a poisoned arrow. Anwaiel is like no other Elven woman he has ever met before, her soldier nature almost completely erasing her beautiful feminine side. But something stirs in Anwaiel the moment she lays eyes on Faramir, and she finds herself getting to know him more and more... and discovering what she's been missing all her long life. Is he the missing piece in Anwaiel's soul?
Disclaimer: We don't own anything of Tolkien's. Just our character and pieces of the plot.
Chapter One:
Elf and Arrow
"Shh, tithen sell nín," the father said soothingly. He too was saddened by the news they had just received from the scouting party. "You will survive. She knew the dangers of the forest, and was foolish to bring you with her. I don't know what I would have done if I had lost you too, Anwaiel."
"But why, Ada? Why?" Anwaiel wailed, still clutching her father for dear life.
Mitheryn, her father, had no answer. He did not know why the spiders had attacked his woman and child, but the creatures did not discriminate between the sexes or the ages of the forest Elves in Mirkwood. All were subjected to the spiders' appetites and wild cruelty if they wandered into the beasts' territory.
From what Anwaiel had been able to tell him, they were coming home north from a feast, when they accidentally stumbled into a web. Anwaiel managed to break free, but her mother, Nimuiel, was still trapped in the sticky threads, as the clik clak of massive pincers rapidly approached. Nimuiel had told her to run home as fast as she could and to not look back. Otherwise, the spiders would come after her too, and her father would be alone, left to die of a broken heart. It was one more of the terrible things besides a sword that could kill an Elf. Anwaiel ran and ran, hearing her mother shrieking in terror and the horrible swishing of leaves as spiders skittered toward the struggle behind her. The little girl arrived in the village screaming like a broken horse, and the scouts immediately went out as they heard her sorrowful cries. They had come back a couple hours later, grimfaced, and explaining that Nimuiel had not survived the attack. Her lifeless, bloodless body had been found strapped to the web where she'd become entangled hours earlier.
Mitheryn could do nothing but hold his daughter close. Though he was a tough, well-respected warrior amongst the local and royal military, he found nothing could penetrate his defenses like Anwaiel. His beautiful little daughter looked so much like her mother. However, one thing he had never known how to do was raise a child. He had left that to his wife, while he made the living for the family. Now, he was faced with raising his daughter, when all he knew how to be was a soldier – not a parent. To make it worse, he had no other relatives to help him – he was completely on his own with her, and with nowhere to turn.
Centuries passed, and little Anwaiel grew up, always under the watchful eye of her father. Mitheryn had had no idea how to raise an Elven beauty, so he had raised an Elven soldier instead. Anwaiel never knew what it was to be a child, much less a girl, constantly exposed to the grim life of a warrior. She trained hard and well, wishing to earn her father's trust, respect, and good will. She gained the esteem of many of her peers, including an honorable mention by King Thranduil's son, Prince Legolas. She was also admitted into the local military when her father grew tired of the battlefield and worked with strategies rather than sword or bow.
Anwaiel, however, was not without fault. In the beginning, she made many mistakes because she had a noble, gentle heart. She could not kill anything unless it was an Orc charging at her. Mitheryn decided to forge her heart anew, to fortify it with mithril rather than flesh. Over the centuries, Anwaiel's softer side completely disappeared, replaced by the stern demeanor her father had had in his prime. No longer was she gentle and shy, but hard and cold, merciless to her subordinates when her superiors were nearby.
Still, the world was growing darker, rumors persisting about Sauron's return and everyday more Elves leaving for the Grey Havens. It was one evening when Mitheryn came home that Anwaiel knew something was wrong.
"What is it, Ada?" she asked as he sat down beside her on her bed. "You look troubled."
Mitheryn sighed, taking her hands into his. "I entered a request for you to join the caravan heading for the Grey Havens tomorrow morning."
The words rang loud in Anwaiel's ears, and she stared at him, horrified. "What have I done to deserve this?" she demanded hotly. "You are sending me away when it is time for me to show my true skill? Why have you done this?"
"Ana," he said, trying to calm her down by using her favorite nickname. "You have been approved by the unit and there is nothing I can do. You are to be part of the escort."
Anwaiel sat fuming, her heart pounding with emotions she had never felt in her life, injustice overwhelming her. What have I done to deserve going to the Grey Havens? "Are you suggesting that I am not good enough to fight the battles to come? That I am not qualified to be a warrior of our King?"
Mitheryn was becoming desperate. If he could not convince his daughter to go... "I do not want to lose you as I lost your mother," he said quietly, turning to face her directly. "Ana..." He reached up to touch her cheek.
Anwaiel's anger burst out, and she slapped her father's hand away, shoving him backward as she stood swiftly. It was impossible to think. She went toward the door, but stopped when her hand was around the handle.
"I will go tomorrow morning, Ada," she hissed. "But they will have to kill me before I set one foot aboard the white ship. I have yet to achieve my destiny, and I will not go until I have fulfilled it!" She swung the door open and strode out, slamming it behind her.
Mitheryn just lay there, gazing at the door. Goodbye, Anwaiel... You are a disgrace to me. I thought you were a soldier, not a housewife. It seems I couldn't break it out of you. You are not the warrior I hoped you would be, and you never will be. Farwell, abominable humiliation to my name!
The next morning dawned cool and overcast, something that did not please Anwaiel or calm her growing restlessness. She was the first of the caravan to be ready, sitting in front of the city gates as they were obscured by the morning mist. She watched as many members of the group appeared and began to prepare for departure. The fidgety children shouted and upset the horses as they waited, the elderly complained about the trunks of precious goods and meat in the wains, saying it would attract Orcs or they were uncomfortable. No one took notice of the strong young Elleth as she stood alone, a look of serious contemplation on her face. In the tumult of activity, she could not help thinking about what her father had said the previous evening.
'I do not want to lose you as I lost your mother.'
Yes, well, he won't, Anwaiel thought bitterly. Why does he insist on sending me away if he knows I am capable of defending my lord and land? I have been recognized by Prince Legolas himself; I don't think my father even noticed. She sighed. Am I so unacceptable? Am I so dismal that my father would send me away with the women and the old wise ones?
A nervous voice intruded upon her thoughts, and she looked up to see a harried looking Elf standing in front of her. He handed her the lead of a long limbed Elven courser and bowed slightly.
"Híril nín Anwaiel, we are ready to leave. The caravan and commander have requested that you conduct them to the Grey Havens, knowing your reputation and family."
She blinked, a bit surprised. "I would be honored," she replied, a flicker of a smile crossing her fair features. "Let's move out."
The caravan moved swiftly and carefully as possible over the days, the occupiers of the palfreys and wagons keeping as close as possible to the guard. The mounted soldiers flanked the long procession, while the others hid their numbers upon the fringes of the forest. It was effortless to lead her amenable companions or deal with the occasional dark creatures, which were promptly dispatched by Anwaiel or one of the other archers. On the fourth week, her uneasiness sharply increased and she hurried the pace as they approached the southwestern trees, the origin of all Mirkwood's evil and war. As her father had once told her, an ugly bare hill protruded from the leaved canopy in the distance, the menacing Dol Guldur. Eventually they went by completely, but it loomed behind them as a constant shadow. Near the Anduin, their path turned southward and the forest was longer able to protect them; they were exposed to the open sky and grasslands. At times, she thought bitterly of Lothlórien across the river where their kin dwelt, but would not allow them to pass, denying the refugees route to the Dimrill Dale. This concern was often overlooked as she dwelled on thoughts of the white ship on the other side of the Hithaeglir.
The next leg led through the dry withered plains of the Brown Lands, a desolate place that strangled their hope until they followed the bright banks of the Anduin. Their path soon changed into rocky hills of deep thorn, ivy and writhen trees that filled the Emyn Muil. The strangeness of the land crept into the essence of the woods and the Silvan Elves found no joy in returning to forested land, even as they halted for a rest. Anwaiel's nerves stayed on edge as the last horses came up behind the wagons, and she unusually snapped orders to the others. She would not be at ease until tomorrow, when they would ford the river with rafts and logs, for it was rumored that Orcs (and Uruk-Hai) had long infested Sarn Gebir.
The Elves had just dismounted their fretting horses when their worst fear came true.
At that moment, Anwaiel's sharp ears picked up a whistling noise and she flung herself onto one of her archers, flattening them both to the ground. A split second later, she heard the unmistakable thud of an arrow into the tree where the archer's head would have been a moment ago. She heard the screeching and howling of more Orcs, and she saw them start firing from inside the forest undergrowth, their eyes distinctive in the dim light of evening.
"Glamhoth!" Anwaiel yelled to her warriors, springing to her feet. "AMBUSH! Archers, get the others to safety! Warriors, to me!"
The twanging of bowstrings echoed among the rocks, and arrows whistled into their midst. Screams and shouts rose from the caravan, while several soldiers fell instantly. She whipped out her bow as more Orcs came pouring out of the forest in a surprise attack, her heart thudding in her chest. We are too few, she thought, letting arrows fly into the horde. We need help, and quickly!
More of the foul creatures swarmed at the Elves, driving them southeast in a murderous charge, picking them off one by one. The caravan fractured into fleeing groups, until Anwaiel could no longer control anyone, anything around her. Her soldiers fled as well, cutting paths with swords or arrows, their split small numbers no match for the Orcs at their heels. Shrieks of Elves and horses rent the air with bloodcurdling finality as the miles passed and hope died in their hearts.
Faramir of Gondor was a man of combat, especially in these dark times. He was brother to the Captain-General Boromir, and the younger son of Denethor, the Steward of Anárion's royal house. He worked hard to please his father, but it seemed that his brother would always have the favor. The two brothers were very close, fighting side by side when caught in battle, celebrating victories together, and sharing a weariness of their father. Boromir was not blind to Faramir's attempts to satisfy Denethor, but nothing seemed to make the slightest difference.
Faramir was traveling with his Rangers back from an Orc mission, which had sent hordes of the enemy fleeing north. When he cleared a thicket, his ears picked up the sounds of a struggle in the fields ahead of them. He stopped, signaling his companions to halt. They had also heard the screeches of Orcs and the surprising sound of voices shouting orders in Sindarin.
"Sounds like they're in trouble, Captain," said one of the Rangers, coming up to stand beside him, listening to the pieces of commands that were being given further up river. "Should we take a look?"
Before he could answer, a shriek of pain tore through the air above all the other sounds, making them all jump out of their skins in shock. "That was no Orc!" said another of the Rangers, eyes wide, ears alert to the Sindarin curses being screeched into the wind. "It was a warrior by the – Lord Faramir!"
Faramir had sprung into action, pulling out his bow and running as fast as he could in the direction of the pained curses. The others followed in dutiful pursuit, unsheathing their weapons and preparing for battle. Faramir suspected what creature of Middle Earth had screamed, but wanted to see it with his own two eyes. It was not a male that had cried out – it was an Elven woman. He had no doubt, as he had heard their cries before. He pelted toward the continued sounds of struggle and agony, shouting orders to the Rangers to provide reinforcements to the warriors and archers now visibly in combat with the Orcs. He burst through into a small clearing, and stopped short. He had found the source of the sound, all right – but that was not what made him blink in surprise.
The being before him was of the Silvan Elves, by the pointed ears and characteristic stealthy grace. The Elf clutched a black arrow that had pierced the weapon arm, and fell hard onto the earth. The hood fell away, revealing a long, wavy sheet of sun-kissed golden hair... and the fair features of an Elven maiden! Her face was contorted in pain, eyes shut tight, clutching the arrow in her arm, as she pelted Sindarin profanities into the forest. She wore a uniform of Thranduil's militia more suited to her female form, as it was made with softer leather than the hard armor the Elven men wore.
Faramir's sharp ears heard the crunching of leaves behind and in front of him. He whirled and shot true at the Orc behind him, then pierced the head of another as it came for the Elleth. He saw the bow that had let the cursed Orc arrow fly into the girl fall to the ground, and knew the creature would never fire it again. He rushed forward, kneeling by the girl's side.
"Are you all right?" he asked, taking her upper body into his arms, supporting her.
She gasped with pain, eyes fluttering open and looking up at him. Faramir could not help being mesmerized by her orbs; they were sharp and beautiful in a blue-gray color that pierced into his very heart. It was something he had never seen in all the races of Men or Elves. He could tell that, strangely, this girl was the leader of this Elf band, by the decoration of her uniform that signified a slightly higher rank than the others.
The girl could hardly speak. "P-poison!" She panted, wincing as her arrow wound pulsed. "I am A-Anwaiel..."
"Say no more," Faramir said. He picked her up, holding her close, looking around for one of his Rangers. One of them came running into the clearing, as though telepathically summoned. "Get this girl, Anwaiel, to a safe haven to have her wound healed. I will follow shortly."
The Ranger nodded and took Anwaiel gently into his arms. "I will, Captain Faramir." He started making his way through the trees, flanked by three more Rangers as escorts.
"I thank you, Lord Faramir!" Anwaiel cried back to him as she disappeared from sight.
Faramir smiled, and flew back into the fray, determined to end the battle quickly. His mind was full of the image of Anwaiel, and he was determined to see her again. It was obvious to him that she was not an ordinary Elf; he had never heard of a Silvan female trained in the art of war and he was curious to know more about Anwaiel, a soldier of Mirkwood.
--"Shh, tithen sell nín." means "Shh, my little daughter." (Sindarin)
--"...naneth! Athol, naneth!" means "...mother! Come back, mother!" (Sindarin)
--"Híril nín." means "My lady." (Sindarin)
--"Glamhoth!" means "Orcs!" (Sindarin)
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