[piosenniel]

Amanaduial's post

The dark, cloaked figure marched grimly on through the drizzle of the early morning which was rapidly turning into a full blown thunderstorm. Not downpour though, with this wind, he thought abstractly. Maybe…sidepour. He smiled grimly to himself and continued to squelch on through mud until his feet met the more even land of a path.

Atharen looked down at the path and smiled wanly, before raising his eyes to his right, squinting against the rain and the wind. After a few moments of battling with the rain, he gave up, having been rewarded only with a face full of water instead of a glimpse of the city he looked for. But no matter; he could find his way to Minas Tirith blindfolded. Or, failing that, through enough rain to drown a small oliphaunt. Atharen made it his business to visit the citadel at least once every two years – he had friends there, and one of his mother’s uncles now lived there with his wife and daughters. Atharen smiled slightly, recalling that detail – Merien always gave him a fine welcome. A lady, she was, a fine lady; even though she was the daughter of a soldier and a seamstress, the young woman proved that it was not only high birth that could make a lady...

Distracted in his musings and memories, his hearing muffled by the rain, the man did not hear the hooves until they were quite close, and then they seemed amplified, the hooves of a mighty stallion. Whirling around, he pulled the two dirks from his belt and his back in his hands (the sword had the irritating habit of sticking somewhat in the rain, and until he could get warm and dry, getting it out would probably be rather ill-advised if he ever wished to get it back in again), and stood against the approaching horse, left hand in front so the blade was easily visible, the right held to one side, ready to help with the attack if need be. A crack of lightning striking the tableau would have given it a rather menacing look…

…if the horse had not been a rather small, plump mare, upon which was seated a young woman. Because of the rain now coming in sheets against his face, despite his deep hood, Atharen did not realise his mistake until it was too late; the horse reared, panicked, and it’s rider fell with a cry. The ranger sprung lightly to the side as the horse’s hooves started to come down, ducking underneath them and coming to rest by it’s left side, one dirk held to the throat of the fallen rider…and his eyes widened in shock as he realised who the rider was a young woman, in her twenties he guessed, her blonde hair streaming with rainwater, sprawled on the ground. Hastily sheathing one dirk, he held out a hand to the woman, bending slightly. “My lady, I apologise – I did not realise.”

The woman glared hostilely at the ranger and got to her feet herself, gracefully considering she had just fallen. She was some inches shorter than Atharen, but her hazel eyes were fierce. She looked at the ranger with a mixture of scorn and fear, and seemed to be scrutinising him; a man who looked only a few years older than herself, his blonde hair darkened by the rain and falling in bedraggled curls to his jaw, his skin pale from the cold with a scar standing out on one cheek. His eyes kept her gaze and after a moment he felt prompted to make a move; it was freezing cold and wet, and Atharen wanted to make it to the city before the full light of day was upon the city - already the first tendrils of light were appearing over the horizon. “This is a dangerous road for a young woman to be riding on at such a late hour.”

The woman gave a small, angry snort before turning and re-mounting the mare, who glared at Atharen quite as hostilely as it’s owner. “It is not dangerous unless madmen with two swords are lying in wait to terrorise young women.”

Atharen blinked at the comment, then smiled slightly despite himself. “I was not lying in wait. I was attempting to get to the city of Minas Tirith, coming from Rohan, although the weather has not been overly kind.” The woman was watching him again, and she was getting wetter and wetter still. What’s more, she was unarmed. Ever since he was young, Atharen had been raised to be courteous, and had always resented and acted against the way men often tried to treat his mother in the Inn when her brothers were away. In this case, it was partly his fault that the woman had been waylaid, so it would only be polite to…

“May I escort you back to Minas Tirith, lady?”

She stared at him. “Why do you think I am going to Minas Tirith?”

Atharen smiled slightly, but not patronisingly, the night-shadows on his face making his eyes seem even darker and more mischievous. “At this time of night, I hardly think you’d be going this way and travelling anywhere else. Please, you are unarmed, and this is not a safe road – after all, there could be all sorts of madmen with a pair of swords lying in wait.” He grinned and waited for her reply.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 4:50 AM January 28, 2004: Message edited by: piosenniel ]