Work Text:
Arwen felt the wind pull tears from her eyes. She had been riding to Rivendell for hours at a pace not seen since the horse lords first came to Middle Earth. Asfaloth strained beneath her grip, spurred onward by the horrors chasing them. She held her hand against Frodo’s brow. He was ice and sweat, and even at a rampaging gallop Arwen could feel his heart pounding out of his chest. She had no time.
Arwen groaned and knocked her pieces over. Glorfindel sighed and reset the tafl board. He pointed at the board for the hundredth time that day.
“I want to practice with the swords,” Arwen sulked.
“Beat me first,” Glorfindel said, as they restarted the game.
Arwen saw a series of fallen trees blocking her path. Asfaloth strained against her pull to the right, swerving into the dense forest. Branches whipped Arwen, and she felt the sharp twinge of split skin on her cheek, following by the warm prickling of fresh blood. She looked left and saw a dark shape flying parallel to her. At this speed it looked like a huge spider, ripping branch and trunk from its path.
“Young lady,” Glorfindel said, “if you can’t beat me at tafl, how can I teach you sword-play?”
“You’re too good,” Arwen rubbed her temples.
“Am I?” Glorfindel asked, “or do you keep making the same mistakes?”
Arwen pulled her eyes away from the dark shape. She needed to focus. A short dip almost caught her off guard, but Asfaloth managed to clear it in a single leap. Stones and twigs flew from his hooves, and Arwen thought she smelled burning. Her mind was ablaze with fear. She could feel the hands at her back, reaching to grab her. She felt a flash of fury light in her heart. She could fight these monsters. She should vanquish them here and now, and no longer let them inflict their cruelty on the world. She felt her hand reaching for her sword.
Arwen looked at the board. She needed to get the lord piece out of the castle and to safety. Yet every time Glorfindel outpaced, outnumbered, and out-manouvered her. She bit her lip.
“Do you see it?” Glorfindel asked.
Arwen saw a dense undergrowth rise up in front of her. A hiss filled her ears, and a wave of horror filled her as she noticed an iron gauntlet reaching past her shoulder. She drew her sword, and against Asfaloth’s better judgement she charged the undergrowth, slicing branches from their path. Dark riders shrieked in frustration as bushes forced them into single-file, yet Arwen knew this would not hold them for long.
“You think you need to fight your way out,” Glorfindel said, “I can teach anyone to wield a sword, Lady Arwen. A warrior isn’t a sword. Neither are they a mount, a shield, or any weapon. Tell me, Arwen, what does a warrior need?”
Arwen felt her ragged breath shudder her body. Sweat was pouring down her face, and her legs ached. Each hoofbeat hit her body like a rock. Her arms were wrapped tight around Frodo, nails digging into palms. The hobbit looked close to that awful nothingness that is not life nor death, a wraithdom Arwen knew was an unspeakable curse. She felt a prayer escape her lips to her ancestors, to the spirits beyond the night sky, to anyone who would listen.
“What does a warrior need, Arwen?”
A wraith crashed through the brush ahead of Arwen. Even at this distance Arwen could see the horse’s foaming nostrils and dilated pupils. Asfaloth shoulder’s tensed with fear at this vision of monstrous cruelty. Arwen leaned forward and placed her hand next to her steed’s jaw, whispering soft reassurances in his ear. She gasped in pain as the unfamiliar angle crushed a bone in her foot.
“What does a warrior need?”
The wraith shrieked in fury before turning on a spot and exploding into a gallop. More dark riders joined in a moment, tearing after Arwen like the night chases the day. Arwen whimpered as she felt the broken bone in her foot collide against Asfaloth’s flank. Pain narrowed her vision as blinding flashes of white heat pierced her leg. The forest began to slope downwards, along with the unmistakable sounds of rushing water. Arwen could have cried at those sounds, or the pain, or the relief at the end in sight.
“What do you need?”
Arwen saw the river bed. She saw Glorfindel, and the tafl board, and the open courtyards of Rivendell, and life, life, life in all its possibilities. Dark shapes moved in the corner of her vision, but still she looked ahead, Frodo pressed close to her pounding heart. She felt the tafl pieces in her fingers, solid as the reigns held against Asfaloth’s neck. She hurtled down the valley, a bolt of white more swift and blinding than a storm over the western sea. She could no longer tell if the screams filling her ears were her own or her pursuers. A sudden silence came over Arwen, and she heard her own voice answering a year-old question.
Many stories have been written about Arwen Undómiel’s flight to the ford. You will have been told of her bravery, pursued for a day by the host of dark riders. You will have been told of Asfaloth’s swiftness, the miraculous rescue by river spirits, a story of drawn swords and pounding hooves. You may know this story, but you have not been told one part. In truth, no story could convey what Arwen saw on that day. No story could speak of this vision which, if you were to imagine it, felt as singular and terrifying as the blazing sun.