Súlimë 3, 2969
The fire crackled low as Linnea sat at the table with Brynja in her lap, the child tugging idly at the edge of her green cloak, and Freowyn peeled an apple by the window, her gaze flicking now and then to the tension in the room. Celenneth lingered near the door, arms crossed, braced as if against a wind.
"I need to speak with you both," she said.
Linnea's head came up. "What is it?"
"Elrond's summons isn't something I can set aside. I've decided to go to Rivendell." She looked between them. "And I want you with me. All of you. Brynja too."
Linnea's arm tightened around the child. "The road to Rivendell is long, Celenneth. And dangerous. Why take her into that?"
"Because I can't leave her. I can't leave any of you. If Elrond's message carries the weight I think it does, I'll want you at my side."
Freowyn set the apple down, her face thoughtful and a little sad. She glanced at Brynja, then back. "I understand why you'd take your family with you. But my place isn't on that road. I'll not follow you to Rivendell."
"Freowyn—"
"Brynja has strong parents in the two of you," the older woman said gently, "and I've treasured every day I've helped raise her. But this is your journey, not mine. And she's weaned now; she doesn't need me the way she did." She smiled faintly. "You gave me something I never looked to have — the chance to be part of a child's life, if only for a while. That's a gift I'll carry always. Take care of her. Take care of each other. That's all I ask."
Celenneth stepped close and took her hand. "I can't thank you enough. For all of it."
Brynja chattered to herself, oblivious to the weight of the moment, and Linnea held her a little tighter, and Freowyn's gaze lingered on the child, wistful. "I'll see you all again someday, I hope. But for now, the road is yours."
They rode out into frost-laden hills, Celenneth at the front reading the horizon, Linnea behind with Brynja bundled and secure before her on Eorlin, the chestnut mare stepping careful and sure. The air was crisp with pine and the faint promise of snow. Brynja squealed and gripped the saddle-bow, and Linnea adjusted her scarf, murmuring, "Hush, love."
They made the journey a slow schooling for the child. One evening under a gold sunset Celenneth knelt and set a small bow in Brynja's hands, and Brynja's laughter rang out as her first arrow sailed wide and buried itself in a patch of moss. "Almost," Celenneth encouraged, adjusting her grip. "Steady, this time." Brynja squinted, tongue between her teeth, and loosed again — closer, and both women cheered. Another day, in a quiet glade, Linnea crouched with her over wild garlic and fiddlehead ferns. "These are good to eat," she said. "But always look close — some plants have dangerous cousins." Brynja nodded solemnly, brushing the leaves, while Celenneth kept her watch on the treeline, her vigilance never quite at rest.
The tension of the road boiled over one evening beside a running stream. "We cross here," Celenneth said, arms folded. "The ford's shallow enough. It saves us near a day's backtracking."
Linnea frowned as she unpacked. "That stream looks gentle, but the rains upriver make it treacherous. What if the current's stronger than it seems? Would you risk Brynja being swept away?"
"We'll manage. I'll cross first and make sure. We've lost too much time already."
"And if it isn't safe? We're not two rangers on a mission, Celenneth. We have a child to think of."
"I know that," Celenneth snapped, her voice rising. "But we can't always take the safest path. Every day we delay leaves us more exposed."
Linnea stood, steady and firm. "This isn't about what's fastest. It's about what's best for all of us. We can backtrack to the proper crossing. One day, Celenneth. One day for her safety."
The words struck home. Celenneth stiffened. "Don't question my care for Brynja."
"Then show it," Linnea said quietly. "Make the choice that protects her — not just the one that pushes us on faster."
For a long moment the space between them was taut. Then Celenneth let out a sharp breath and her shoulders eased. "Fine. We backtrack. But if trouble finds us for the delay, we'd best be ready."
Linnea's expression softened. "We will be. Together."
As they neared Rivendell the very air changed — cooler, and stilled to something almost otherworldly. Golden-leaved trees lined the path, and moss softened their horses' hooves, and the wind brushed past like a whisper. Celenneth drew rein at the crest of a hill, and her breath caught as the valley opened below: the spires and arches of the Elven haven rising serene out of the mist. Linnea pulled up beside her, wide-eyed, and even Brynja leaned forward, pointing at the shimmering leaves. "It's beautiful," Linnea murmured.
As they descended, a welcoming party came out to meet them — Elves in silver and green, calm and ageless — and at their head walked Glorfindel, his golden hair bright as sunlight. "Celenneth of the Dúnedain," he said, warm and resonant. "Lord Elrond has been expecting you."
She dismounted, reverence and resolve mingled in her. "We've come far."
His gaze moved to Linnea and Brynja. "Your companions are welcome. Rivendell is a sanctuary for all."
Linnea slid down, gathering Brynja close, looking round her. "It feels safe," she said softly.
"Come," Glorfindel said. "You must be weary." And they were led in, and the weight of the road seemed to lift from them — though for Celenneth the shadow of the summons stayed, and whatever waited here, she would meet it with the two of them beside her.1
Súlimë 20, 2969
Under one of Rivendell's great arches Celenneth stood with Linnea and looked out over the valley, and even her composure gave way to awe. Twilight bathed it in gold and silver, the cascading falls shimmering like threads of starlight, the lanterns hung in the trees blending their warm glow with the haven's ethereal light. Brynja wriggled on Linnea's hip, reaching for the dancing lamps.
"I love its strangeness," Celenneth murmured, tipping her head back to the towering spires and their intricate carvings.
Linnea's voice was hushed. "It's like stepping into a song. So different from the Woodland Realm — so open, so full of light." She thought of Thalion's halls, dark and majestic beneath their canopy, cloaked in mystery; Rivendell seemed instead to embrace the stars, its beauty not hidden but sung aloud. An Elf passed, his robes flowing like water, his steps leaving no trace, and offered a serene smile; Linnea returned it, suddenly aware of her own dusty boots and frayed cloak. Another knelt to play a small silver harp, drawing a delighted squeal from Brynja, who reached to brush the strings and coax a faint sweet note. "They seem to belong to another age," Celenneth mused.
"They do," Linnea said. "Like they live outside of time." She sighed, shifting the child. "It's beautiful here. Peaceful. But I can't help feeling out of place."
Celenneth set a hand on her shoulder. "We're travelers here. But they welcome us."
The Hall of Fire lay in Rivendell's eternal twilight, and Elrond sat at the head of a low table, calm and commanding, the crackle of the hearth the only sound beneath the far whisper of the falls. Celenneth stood before him, composed despite the weight of the moment.
"Celenneth of the Dúnedain," Elrond began, steady and measured, "you have come far, and I thank you for it. But I bear tidings that will not be easy to hear."
She inclined her head, her hands tightening. "Speak plainly, Lord Elrond."
His gaze softened even as his tone carried its gravity. "Balin, son of Fundin, has fallen. He perished in Moria, seeking to reclaim its halls. Darkness rose against him and his kin, and though they fought valiantly, they were overwhelmed."
The words struck her with a quiet force. She drew a sharp breath, her jaw setting against the loss. "Balin was no fool," she said, low but steady. "He knew the risk. But he was determined. He believed Moria could be restored."
"He spoke of you with trust and respect," Elrond said. "Gandalf sent you to him for good reason. He valued your wisdom, and your strength."
Her throat tightened on the memories — Balin's laughter, his unbending spirit, the way he had spoken of his dreams for Khazad-dûm. "He was a good friend," she said quietly. "And a better leader than most credited."
An Elf stepped forward bearing a long cloth-wrapped bundle, and Elrond gestured to it. "There is more. The mithril Balin once entrusted to us has been wrought into armor — a gift in his memory, and a token of gratitude for your service." The cloth fell away to reveal a breastplate of gleaming mithril, its surface etched with swirling designs that caught the light like water under moonlight. Celenneth's breath caught as she stepped near.
"Light, and yet strong," Elrond said. "A protection worthy of one who walks in shadow to guard the light."
She reached out and brushed the cool metal, and for a moment the grief in her eased, replaced by a fierce resolve. "I will wear it," she said. "And honor Balin with every step."
Elrond inclined his head. "Let it serve you well, Celenneth of the Dúnedain. The road ahead will test you — but you are not alone."1
Later, under an ancient elm by the murmuring streams, Linnea sat with Brynja asleep against her chest, and a little way off Celenneth stood speaking with one of Elrond's counselors, her bearing easy and sure. Watching her, Linnea felt a realization settle heavy in her: Celenneth was more than a ranger. Here, among Elves who treated her with quiet reverence, it showed plainly — she was a protector whose deeds rippled far beyond their small family.
When Celenneth returned, Linnea hesitated before she spoke. "I didn't understand until now how much others look to you. How much you carry."
Celenneth's brows rose, a faint smile touching her lips. "I do what needs doing. Like anyone."
"No," Linnea said, quiet but firm. "It's more than that. And I'm starting to see — there'll be times we can't hold you back. Times we'll have to let you go."
Celenneth crouched beside her. "You've never held me back, Linnea. You gave me a reason to come home." She glanced toward the valley where the stars were kindling over Rivendell's spires. "And you've made me see something. We're nearer Bree now than we've been in years. If we're ever to visit, it may as well be now."
Linnea blinked. "Bree? After everything Elrond called you here for?"
Celenneth smiled gently. "The road will always call. But Brynja won't always be this small. And you've given me more than a duty — you've given me a home. Besides, what Elrond needed of me was mostly what I already knew; whatever comes next, he can summon others for it."
Linnea's gaze fell to Brynja's small hand curled against her, then back to Celenneth. "If we go, it's not only for Brynja. It's for us. For finding something solid."
Celenneth's hand covered hers. "Then let's make it solid. Together."
Súlimë 30, 2969
The gates of Bree creaked open, and the familiar smell of damp earth and woodsmoke rushed out to meet Linnea like a welcome. She sat straight-backed on Eorlin, her green cloak stirring in the breeze, and beside her rode Celenneth, her auburn hair taking the sunlight in fiery strands. Brynja, three years old now, sat before Linnea and giggled each time the mare shifted beneath her, drinking in every sight and sound with an eagerness that drew smiles from even the busiest townsfolk.
"Here we are," Linnea said, bright. "Bree. Home sweet home."
Celenneth chuckled — the mithril rings of her new armor glinting at her collar beneath the ranger cloak. Less taken than Linnea by the old town's rustic charms, she was warmed all the same by her partner's plain delight. "You speak of it like a kingdom," she teased.
Linnea beamed and guided Eorlin onto the main road. "To me it might as well be. There's the Prancing Pony — you'll find no better ale north of the White Mountains. And that bakery, just past the inn, where I used to sneak out to smell the bread before dawn. Smell it, Brynja?" She leaned to press her nose to the child's dark hair, and Brynja giggled and twisted to peer down the street after the yeasty scent.
They rode deeper into town, and Linnea felt the stares and murmurs follow them — some who knew her, others simply marking the two cloaked women and the lively child between them. Without Freowyn's familiar presence, the three of them seemed both more exposed and more striking in their difference.
She dismounted in the market square and swung Brynja down and set her firmly on her feet, and the child promptly wriggled free and toddled toward a stall bright with ribbons and painted toys. "Careful now," Linnea said, laughter in it, and Celenneth stepped close, ever watchful.
"Linnea Riverwain!" A middle-aged woman bustled from behind a stall, flour on her sleeves, and Linnea turned with a sheepish grin as she recognized Miss Calder. The older woman's eyes went over the Rohan cloak, over Celenneth's fine armor, and landed on Brynja, who had just discovered a spill of colored ribbons. "Bless me — is it really you, girl? Gone for years, and back now with a baby—" she caught herself, taking in Brynja's size "—a child, I mean, and a ranger out of a story at your side. What's come over you?"
Linnea flushed. "Hello, Miss Calder. It's a long tale. This is Celenneth." She gestured with open warmth. "My partner."
"Scandals and wonders," Miss Calder muttered, not unkindly, peering at Brynja. "And this is your daughter?"
"Yes. This is Brynja." Linnea smoothed a dark curl from the girl's brow. "Curious about everything. I had to keep her close on the ride."
Miss Calder's astonishment softened to something fond. "Well. You've explaining to do, but there's time enough for that." With a last glance at Celenneth — who returned a polite nod — she went back to her stall, calling over her shoulder, "Welcome home, Linnea."
Linnea let out a breath, her cheeks still hot. Celenneth only gave her a faint, reassuring smile — and then Brynja tugged at the ranger's cloak, and Celenneth stooped and scooped her up so she could see the stalls from a better vantage, and the child squealed and patted her shoulder as though claiming a prize mount.
They wandered the market, traders crying their wares, children weaving between the carts. A shopkeeper watched Brynja reach for a strand of Celenneth's hair. "Lively one," he remarked.
"Curious as a fox," Celenneth agreed, gently freeing her fingers. "And stronger than she looks." Her voice was warm and proud, and Linnea felt something glad and full at how naturally Celenneth wore this gentler side, so unlike her composure on the road.
A knot of children caught sight of Brynja, and one boy, freckle-nosed, pointed shyly. "Is that your baby?"
Celenneth straightened, her voice kind and thoughtful. "She's my daughter, yes."
Another gaped. "But you're a ranger. How can you be a mother too?"
A rare, gentle smile curved Celenneth's mouth. "Being a warrior doesn't mean I can't love or care for my child. It means I fight hard to keep her safe." She drew a soft green ribbon from a nearby basket and handed it to Brynja, who cooed and waved it like a banner. And Linnea stood beside them, her eyes bright, grateful for so perfect an answer.
A bold girl waved. "She's cute. What's her name?"
"Brynja," Celenneth said. "And she's curious about everything."
Brynja twisted to look at the girl, giggling, the ribbon fluttering, and the watching children smiled, and the last of the strangeness melted into an easy fascination. For Linnea there was comfort in the old familiar streets and in Celenneth steady at her side; for Celenneth, a belonging in Brynja's laughter and Linnea's warm grin; and for Brynja, Bree was a whole new world to be discovered — one leaf, one ribbon, one kind face at a time.
Víressë 2, 2969
The wind swept low over the weathered hills around Bree, carrying damp leaves and distant woodsmoke, and spring lay full on the rolling fields as Linnea guided Eorlin along the rutted path toward the village she hadn't seen in years. Bree looked much the same — stout homes with moss-covered roofs under the shadow of the Chetwood — but the sight of it twisted something deep in her chest. Memories rose in the golden evening haze: her father's booming laugh coming up the South Road, her cousin Miri chasing chickens through the square, the warm smell of Aunt Merla's herb-laced bread. But they were brittle memories now, cracking under the weight of what came after — her father murdered, herself taken by bandits, the brutal days that followed. Bree had stayed untouched by all of it, peaceful and unchanged, as though the world had not shattered the day she was dragged from that road.
Celenneth rode silent at her side, her sharp gaze sweeping the calm streets from habit, the silver-edged embroidery of her green-and-gold cloak catching the low sun. At the crest of the last hill Linnea drew rein, staring down toward her uncle's house, her heart slamming, her knuckles white on the reins.
"You're quiet," Celenneth said gently.
Linnea forced her grip to loosen. "I wasn't sure how I'd feel, coming back."
"And now?"
"Like I'm chasing ghosts."
Celenneth nodded slowly, as if she understood more than could be said. "We don't have to stay long."
"No." Linnea squared her shoulders. "I need to do this."
The small stone house stood as she remembered, its moss-covered roof sagging but sound, herbs spilling wild from the crooked garden beds — rosemary, lavender, creeping thyme, all half-feral now. Bread-smell drifted from the chimney, and for a moment Linnea was twelve again, barefoot and laughing as her father lifted her over the garden fence. She swung down, and hesitated at the old gate with her hand on the worn latch. Celenneth dismounted, set Brynja on her feet, and rested a hand lightly on Linnea's arm — a silent offering of strength.
"Thank you," Linnea breathed. "Let's hope they still think of it as home."
She strode up the path and knocked, and the sound echoed like a long-forgotten bell. For a taut heartbeat there was silence — then the creak of hinges, and the door opened, and a wiry, graying man stood framed in it, his weathered face etched with hard years. His eyes went wide, his breath catching as though he might stagger.
"Linnea?" His voice cracked. "Is it — is it really you?"
"It's me, Uncle Harvin."
He braced against the doorframe, then turned and bellowed into the house, "Merla! The girl's come back!" Footsteps thudded, and her aunt emerged, sharp-featured and lined with age and hard practicality — and then her breath hitched and her flour-dusted hand flew to her mouth, and for a moment that brisk exterior cracked into something raw. "Linnea?" she whispered.
"It's me. I'm home."
Merla surged forward with a strangled cry and wrapped her in a fierce, crushing embrace that smelled of rosemary and smoke and something achingly familiar. "Stars above. We thought you were gone." Then she pushed back to grip Linnea's face and search it, and whatever she found only deepened her frown. "You're too thin," she snapped, retreating behind briskness like a shield.
More footsteps, and cousins tumbled into the room — Loran, broad-shouldered and lean now, staring as at a ghost; and Emily, sharper still and bold as ever, shoving past him with something close to anger in her eyes. "You're alive? After all this time?"
"I am. I came back."
A younger child half-hidden behind Merla's skirts pointed. "Is that a child?"
"I'm Brynja!" the girl announced, loud and clear, beaming up at them, and Merla's sharp eyes narrowed on her. "And who's this?"
Before Linnea could answer, Emily folded her arms, her voice cutting. "Where have you been, Linnea? Years. Not a word. Did you even think of us?"
Linnea held her ground. "I'm sorry. It wasn't safe to."
"That's enough for now," Harvin said, rough but steady, with the quiet authority that had kept his household in order for decades. He gestured to the long table by the hearth, where a pot of stew simmered. "Let her breathe. We'll eat first. Then we'll talk."
But the eating did not soften it. Merla paced by the hearth, her gaze cutting to Linnea with every turn, and the questions came like blows. You could have sent word. Travelers come through Bree all the time. Where the hells were you.
"It wasn't safe," Linnea said, and then, because there was no going back, gave them the truth of it. "They ambushed us on the South Road. Bandits — we never saw them coming. They killed my father first. He tried to fight, but there were too many." Harvin's breath hitched; Merla staggered back a step. "They took me after he fell. Dragged me into the forest. I escaped —" her gaze went to Celenneth "— because of her. She stole me out of their camp, right under their noses."
"Stealth was the safer choice," Celenneth said quietly.
The room fell still. "And after?" Harvin rasped.
"We ran. Through the wilds, always moving. We settled a while in Edoras, in Rohan. But Celenneth's road took her away often, and Brynja was too small to travel it."
Merla's eyes snapped to the child. "And who is she to you?"
Linnea drew a breath and exchanged a glance with Celenneth. "She's our daughter. We found her in the wild north — abandoned, barely a week old, wrapped in nothing but an old cloth. We heard her crying. There was no one else. We fed her, carried her, kept her warm through the dead of winter. We raised her. She's ours."
Harvin's voice was rough with grief. "Her mother must have died."
"We never knew," Celenneth said, her gaze gone distant. "There was no one."
Merla clutched at her apron. "And you kept her. In the wilds." Then, softer, her eyes shining with a sudden desperate yearning: "Let me hold her. Please. She's family."
Linnea hesitated, her heart pounding — then stepped forward and set Brynja on her aunt's lap. Merla's breath shuddered as she gathered the girl close, brushing the dark curls, tears standing in her sharp eyes — but her face was torn, and something harder moved under the grief. "She belongs here," she whispered fiercely. "Not out there."
"She belongs with me," Linnea said.
Merla did not loosen her hold. "She could have a real home. Here."
"She has one." Linnea's voice went cold. "With us." And when Harvin, low and stunned, asked how they had come to swear themselves to one another, Celenneth answered plainly. "We swore a life-oath. In every way that matters, we are bound." Emily recoiled; Merla stared, grappling with a thing she could not accept; and Brynja, feeling the tightening arms, began to fuss and reach for Linnea.
"And now?" Harvin asked at last. "What happens?"
"We're going north," Linnea said. "To find her people. Her rangers."
"You're leaving," Merla breathed, and then her face twisted cold. "She should stay here. She's family — she belongs—"
"With us," Linnea said, taking the child back into her arms. "You don't get to choose that."
It was Celenneth who ended it, when Emily said, bitterly, that if they meant to run again they should at least leave Brynja behind.
"No." The word rang out clear as a drawn blade, and the cottage fell silent. She stepped forward, calm and commanding and terribly certain. "Brynja belongs with Linnea. With us. You'd have her grow up here, tolerated, whispered about behind her back? Raised without her mothers, as though she hadn't already chosen us?" Her voice gentled without losing its edge. "We are her family. We made her family — with love, and with choice." Brynja stirred at the sound of her, reaching without waking, and Celenneth brushed the dark curls, the fierce protectiveness plain on her face at last. "She comes with us."
Merla begged them to stay at least until autumn; Harvin gruffly allowed they needn't rush north. For a heartbeat the thought of resting burned in Linnea like a cruel temptation — and then Celenneth's steady hand brushed hers, and she found the truth again. "We can't," she rasped. "We're already late." And when Emily demanded late for what — another adventure? — Linnea's fury broke loose. "We're not risking her life. We're saving it. From a world that doesn't want us." — "We want her," Merla cried, pale and stricken. "No," Linnea said, and the old pain cracked her voice. "You want what you think she should be."
The fire hissed low into the silence. Merla staggered a step. "So you are leaving."
Linnea's heart broke all over again, but she nodded. "We have to."
"Then go," Emily sneered. Harvin let out a ragged breath and said nothing — could not. And Linnea looked once into her family's stricken faces, aching with every word she could not take back, and turned to the door, and Celenneth's steady hand came to rest on her back and guided her out, and the door closed behind them with a heavy, final thud.
The cold wind bit as they reached the edge of Bree, the dark road stretching north like a scar. Under an old oak Linnea's legs gave out, and the sobs came up out of her at last, harsh and shaking, and she crumpled onto the frost-cold grass clutching Brynja to her chest. Celenneth dropped down and gathered her in.
"I tried," Linnea gasped. "I thought—"
"I know." Celenneth's own voice trembled. "I know."
Linnea buried her face in her cloak and wept out all the grief and rage and loss she had held back for years. "They hate us."
"They don't understand," Celenneth said gently, brushing her tangled hair. "They can't." And when Linnea whispered that she was so tired, Celenneth pressed a fierce kiss to her temple. "Then rest. I've got you."
Footsteps came crunching over the frost then, and Celenneth's hand went to her belt-knife — but a breathless voice called out. "Wait — please." Loran stumbled out of the dark path, coat half-buttoned, hands raised open in peace. "Don't go yet." He stopped just short of them, his face crumpling. "I came to apologize. For everything. I should have said something. Should have done something."
"You tried," Celenneth said quietly, and surprise, then something like respect, flickered across his face.
"I should have tried harder," he murmured. "They were wrong. About you. About all of it." He asked where they would go, and Linnea told him north, to find Celenneth's people, to try. He nodded, holding back his own tears, and his gaze lingered on the sleeping child. "She's lucky."
"We are," Linnea said, her voice breaking.
He took a hesitant step back, unwilling to break the fragile moment, and knowing he had to. "Safe travels. Stars guide you." And with one last glance he turned and vanished back down the dark path, toward the cold world he could not change. Linnea sank against Celenneth again, weeping — but differently now. "He cared."
"Yes," Celenneth said, holding her close, her fingers steady in Linnea's hair. "You're not alone."
"I know," Linnea whispered. And for the first time in years, she truly believed it.
Much later, the tears spent, they sat on a low rise above Bree, the firelight of distant homes flickering warm and strangely far away.
"They're not who I remembered," Linnea said at last, her gaze on the stars. "Or maybe I'm not. I always thought of Bree as home — the place I'd come back to. But now it just feels small. Like I've outgrown it. Outgrown them." She swallowed. "They'll always be family. But to them I'm still the girl who disappeared. Not this." She gestured at herself — the travel-worn cloak, Eorlin tethered nearby, Brynja asleep in her lap.
Celenneth rested a hand on her shoulder. "It's no bad thing, to grow. To change. To find a new home, even if it's not the one you expected."
"Do you ever feel that way?" Linnea asked, trembling. "That the road is the only place that makes sense?"
A faint, knowing smile. "Sometimes. But I've learned something else, too." Celenneth brushed her fingers against Brynja's small back. "Home isn't a place. It's the people you choose. Wherever that is — it's enough."
Linnea's breath hitched. "I'm scared," she admitted, barely above a whisper. "That one day I'll stop feeling like I belong anywhere."
"You'll always belong," Celenneth said, with quiet certainty. "With me. With Brynja. Wherever we go, we'll make our place."
Linnea let out a shaking breath and leaned into her warmth, careful of the sleeping child. "Thank you. For standing up for me tonight. For everything."
"I meant every word," Celenneth said, steady as stone. "You've become someone remarkable, Linnea. Don't let them make you forget it."
The silence that settled between them was a strong and comfortable one, and the stars stretched steadfast overhead. She had outgrown Bree — but she had grown into something far greater, and with Celenneth at her side she knew she could face whatever came next. Together, they were home.
Víressë 14, 2969
The three of them sat close by the fire in the house they had taken for the season in the Angle, the hidden Dúnedain country north of Bree. Brynja lay curled in Celenneth's lap, small fingers tangled in her cloak, and Linnea rested against the arm of her chair, her eyes soft with thought.
"Celenneth," she said after a while, "you've never told me much of how you were raised. What was it like, with the rangers?"
Celenneth's gaze went distant, though a faint smile touched her. "It was different," she said, resting her chin on Brynja's dark curls. "The rangers aren't like families in towns. They don't speak of love. They don't say I'm proud of you, or I care. But I knew they did."
Brynja tilted her head up, frowning. "They didn't say I love you, Mama?"
"No, little one," Celenneth murmured, brushing a curl from her cheek. "But love isn't always in words. It's in how they saw me warm on the coldest nights, even giving up their own cloaks. In how they shared what little food they had without complaint. They didn't say it — but they showed it, every day."
"And the training?" Linnea asked.
Celenneth gave a low, knowing laugh. "Hard. Grueling. They didn't coddle me. The moment I could hold a bow, they saw I could use it well — tracking, hunting, climbing, fighting. It was all life or death to them. And in the wilds, it was." She paused, lost a moment in memory. "I was thirteen when they sent me on my first solo run. A map, a knife, two days' food. Find a marked place, and come back with proof I'd been there."
Linnea's brows lifted. "Alone? At that age?"
"They shadowed me without letting me know — I wasn't truly alone, though it felt it. Thirty miles through the wild. I was terrified. I made it, barely. And when I came back they only nodded, and told me to clean my boots."
Brynja's small fingers tightened in her cloak. "That sounds mean."
Celenneth smiled and kissed her forehead. "It might seem so. But they did it because they wanted me to survive. They needed me strong. And when I was in real danger, years later, those lessons kept me alive."
Linnea rested a warm hand on her arm. "They may never have said it. But it sounds like they loved you, in their way."
"They did," Celenneth agreed softly. "And I'll always be grateful. But I want Brynja to know she's loved every way there is — in words, in deeds, in all of it."
Brynja gazed up at her, wide and serious. "I know you love me, Mama."
Something in Celenneth's chest went full and tight, and she pulled her daughter close. "Good. Because I do. With all my heart."
The fire crackled into the quiet. Then Linnea spoke again, steady. "I was serious about what I said before. About finding the rangers who raised you — Brandor and Orlec. If they're still out there, we could look. We could go anywhere in the North that matters to you."
Celenneth blinked, surprised. "Linnea, you don't have to—"
"I want to," Linnea interrupted, firm but kind. "You've spent so much helping me reconnect with my past — with Bree, with my family. Let me do that for you."
Celenneth exhaled slowly, her gaze softening. "You'd truly do that?"
"Wherever you think they might be. Wherever feels like home to you. We'll go."
For the first time in what felt like an age, Celenneth let herself hope. "They moved often. But there are places they'd return to. Old camps near the Weather Hills. The forests east of Lake Evendim." Her mind was already running the routes, recalling half-forgotten trails; for so long she had thought that chapter of her life closed, those ties cut. But now there was a chance.
Linnea squeezed her hand. "Then we start there."
Celenneth drew a deep breath and nodded. "We'll find them." And for the first time in a long while the road ahead seemed clear — not merely a journey through far lands, but a journey toward belonging, and memory, and perhaps a home. Together.1
Víressë 18, 2969
The morning dawned crisp and bright, and Brynja stood at the edge of the grove near their house, bundled in a sturdy cloak, her curls peeking from under the hood, a small bow — carved by Celenneth just for her — clutched in her hands. Celenneth knelt to settle the little quiver over her shoulder. "Remember," she said, patient but firm, "this isn't a game. We follow the tracks, stay quiet, keep our eyes open. If anything feels wrong, you come to me at once."
Brynja nodded, solemn. "I understand, Mama."
"Good. Let's see what we can find."
They went into the wood, Celenneth moving light and deliberate, Brynja mimicking her though her small boots crunched noisily on the leaves. "Look here," Celenneth whispered after a time, crouching over a patch of soft earth. "See these marks? What made them?"
Brynja squatted beside her, brow furrowed. "A deer?"
"That's right. And see how they go this way?" She gestured on into the trees. "That's the trail we follow." They moved on, and now and then she stopped to show her daughter a plant or a sign of wildlife, and Brynja drank it all in, reaching to touch the bark of trees or pluck a stray feather from the ground. Where the tracks faded near a shallow stream, Brynja knelt at the water's edge. "Did the deer stop to drink here?"
"Likely. And it may still be near. Do you want to try and find it?" Brynja nodded eagerly — but a rustling in the underbrush froze her, and Celenneth's hand came gently to her shoulder. "It's all right. Stay behind me." The rustle grew, and then a rabbit bolted from the brush and darted past them, and Brynja let out the breath she'd been holding.
"It was just a rabbit!" she exclaimed, half-laughing.
Celenneth chuckled and ruffled her hair. "The forest is full of surprises. You handled that well." They spent the rest of the day at it, Brynja's confidence growing with each small find, and by the time they turned home her cheeks were flushed and her quiver rattled with treasures — feathers, smooth stones, even a tiny shed antler. "Did I do good, Mama?" she asked at the grove's edge.
"You did very well." Celenneth lifted her into her arms. "You're a natural." Brynja beamed and wrapped her arms tight around her mother's neck.
Brynja sat cross-legged on the rug by the fire, cheeks still rosy, recounting the day with her whole body while Linnea leaned back darning a tear in one of the child's cloaks. "And then Mama said we were following deer tracks — BIG deer tracks, like this big!" She stretched her arms wide.
Linnea raised an eyebrow, biting back a laugh. "That's quite the deer."
"Yes! But we didn't see it, it was too sneaky. But I found other things! Like this feather!" She held up a small grey feather, eyes shining. "Do you think it's from a hawk? Mama says it might be."
Linnea set the cloak aside and leaned to inspect it. "It could be. It's a very fine feather, Brynja."
"And then we were at the stream, and I was looking for more tracks — because I'm very good at finding tracks — and we heard something in the bushes!" She paused, eyes widening. "It was SO loud, like rustle rustle, and I thought it was a monster!"
Linnea gasped, playing along. "A monster? In the forest?"
"Yes! But Mama said to stay behind her, and I did, because I'm brave. And guess what it was?"
"What?"
"A rabbit!" Brynja threw her arms up. "So fast, like whoosh, right past us! I wasn't scared. Not even a little." She hesitated, then grinned sheepishly. "Okay — maybe a little. But only at first!"
Linnea laughed and pulled her into her lap. "You're braver than I was at your age, that's certain. Did you have fun?"
"Yes! Mama showed me everything — tracks and plants and even where a deer might sleep. And I found lots of treasures!" She held up a little pouch and shook it so the contents rattled. Then, softer, snuggling closer: "Mama said I'm a natural. Can we go again soon?"
"I'm sure she'd love to take you," Linnea said, warm. "But next time, maybe I'll come too."
Brynja's eyes lit. "Yes! Then we all go together!"
Linnea held her close, her gaze drifting to the door where Celenneth had just come in, her own smile mirroring Linnea's. The retelling was full of embellishment, but the joy in it was true — one of the small, precious things that made the three of them whole.
Víressë 22, 2969
The fire crackled soft, and Linnea leaned back in her chair watching Celenneth where she sat cross-legged on the rug, idly mending the fletching of an arrow. Brynja was long asleep, and the quiet of the night wrapped around them.
"You never talk much of your life before," Linnea said. "The places you've been, the things you've seen. I'd like to know you better."
Celenneth's hands stilled. She glanced up, a faint smile tugging at her. "I don't often think on those days. They feel like another lifetime. But if you want to know—" She set the arrow aside, her gaze going distant. "I spent a little time in the Shire once. A quiet, lovely place — soft hills, green fields. You'd think no trouble could find its way there. But trouble has a way of sneaking in where it isn't wanted."
"What kind of trouble?"
Her eyes glinted with amusement. "The kind with sticky fingers and too much curiosity. It began when I was passing through the Westfarthing, headed north. I didn't mean to stay. But a hobbit farmer — Harbold Took — asked my help. He'd glimpsed someone skulking his fields at night, and things had gone missing. Chickens, mostly. But odd trinkets too — an old brass lantern, a silver pipe, even his wife's best ladle."
Linnea chuckled. "An amateur thief."
"So I thought. But then I found the tracks — not hobbit-sized, nor human. Small, clawed, leading into the woods. Harbold swore it must be a fox. I wasn't so sure." Her voice took the rhythm of a storyteller. "That night I set a trap — nothing cruel, just enough to catch the mischief — and waited in the shadows with my bow ready. Near midnight I saw it. A creature no taller than my knee, with long bony fingers and glowing yellow eyes. It moved like a shadow, silent and quick, and snatched up one of Harbold's prize hens."
Linnea leaned forward. "What was it?"
"I don't know," Celenneth admitted, wonder in it. "I'd never seen its like — no orc, no goblin, nothing out of any tale I knew. When it sprang the trap it let out a screech loud enough to wake the whole Shire, I thought. Harbold came running in his nightcap, waving a pitchfork and hollering about his hens — and the thing tore free and vanished into the woods, leaving the poor man baffled."
"And you let it go?"
"I followed it," Celenneth said, quieter. "The trail led to a hollow ringed with ancient oaks, and a little burrow full of shiny things — glass, spoons, a few coins. And there in the middle of it sat the creature, cradling Harbold's hen like a treasure."
"What did you do?"
"I watched. It didn't seem evil — only odd. Lonely, perhaps. I left the hen for Harbold to find, and led the creature's trail far from the Shire before it could make more trouble." She smiled. "The Shire has a way of surprising you. Even the smallest corner of Middle-earth can hold a mystery."
Linnea studied her, a small smile playing on her lips. "You have the strangest luck."
Celenneth laughed, warm and rich. "That I do." Then her smile softened, and she reached for Linnea's hand. "But I'm grateful for the luck that brought me here. To you."
Víressë 26, 2969
Water sloshed softly in the tub as Linnea poured another cupful over Celenneth's hair, gentle and purposeful. Steam curled in the air, and the warmth soaked into them, a reprieve from the cool spring night; Linnea had insisted on helping her bathe, her hands careful as they worked the aches and the road's grime from Celenneth's body.
Running a cloth down her arm, Linnea paused over a faint, jagged scar on the inside of the forearm — old, its edges pale against tanned skin. "This one," she murmured. "I haven't seen it before."
Celenneth glanced at it, her expression going distant. "No. I don't show it often."
Linnea pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "Tell me. If you want to."
Celenneth leaned back, the water rippling around her. "It was a few years ago, in the Trollshaws," she began, steady but weighted with memory. "I'd been tracking a band of goblins raiding the outlying villages — not just stealing, but burning, killing without a thought. I couldn't let them go. I found their trail easily enough. What I didn't see was that they were expecting me. It wasn't a camp. It was an ambush. They surrounded me before I'd well reached it, too many to fight outright, so I did the only thing I could. I ran."
Her mouth twisted, wry. "Not my proudest hour. But the terrain was broken, and I knew I could lose them in the ravines."
"And the scar?"
"I misjudged a jump. There was a narrow ledge — I thought I could reach it, but my footing slipped. I fell hard, caught myself on a jagged rock. It cut deep, and for a moment I thought that was the end of me — bleeding, half-hanging over the drop, the goblins closing in." Her gaze fixed on the rising steam. "I still don't know how I climbed out. Not strength — desperation. I reached the ledge, found a narrow cave, and hid there for hours, binding the arm as best I could. They searched, and moved on."
Linnea's thumb brushed the scar. "You were lucky."
"Luck, or stubbornness." Celenneth gave a faint laugh. "When I finally made it back to the village they didn't know me at first — half-starved, filthy, barely standing. But the goblins never raided them again. I saw to that."
Linnea rested her forehead against Celenneth's temple. "You're too brave for your own good, you know that."
"Or too reckless," Celenneth answered, her smile wry.
Linnea sighed, her lips brushing Celenneth's ear, and Celenneth turned her head to meet her gaze. "Thank you for the bath," she said softly. And Linnea pressed a kiss to the scar, as though sealing the old hurt over with her love.1
Lótessë 2, 2969
The fire crackled low in the hearth, its light flickering across the fur-lined bed they shared. Outside, the spring night lay cool and quiet over the Angle, only a faint chill seeping through the seams of the worn walls; within, there was warmth enough.
Linnea lay stretched out on the thick blankets, her dark hair spilling in loose waves over the pelts, her breath slow and even — though it came a little faster when she caught the way Celenneth was watching her: intent, deliberate, a curiosity in it that was more than hunger.
Celenneth crawled over her with quiet, practiced grace, her thighs settling to either side of Linnea's hips, and leaned down to let her breath ghost across Linnea's cheek before setting a slow kiss just below her jaw. Linnea shifted, her fingers already reaching for Celenneth's waist — but Celenneth caught her wrists and pinned them gently to the furs.
"You're being too patient," Linnea whispered, low and edged with wanting, her fingers flexing in Celenneth's grip but not breaking free. "Are you going to tease me all night?"
Celenneth smiled faintly, her eyes gleaming in the firelight. "Maybe." Her breath brushed Linnea's throat, warm and maddeningly light. "Let me explore."
Linnea's breath hitched, and she nodded. Celenneth loosed her wrists but did not move far, her hands sliding down Linnea's arms in a slow, deliberate trace — the lines of muscle, the soft skin inside her elbows, where her fingers lingered until Linnea squirmed and a breath of laughter escaped her.
"Ticklish?" Celenneth murmured, tilting her head as though filing the answer away.
"No," Linnea said, fighting a grin, heat rising in her cheeks.
Celenneth chuckled and let her fingers drift lower, over the curve of Linnea's waist, and pressed her thumbs into the dip just above her hipbones — and felt her arch involuntarily. Subtle at first, only a tightening of breath; but when Celenneth pressed again, firmer, Linnea gasped, her hips shifting sharp against the blankets. Surprise crossed her face, and then something far deeper — need.
"Gods—" Linnea breathed, her voice breaking. "What are you doing?"
Celenneth didn't answer at once. She studied Linnea's face — the widening of her eyes, the tremor in her breath. "Exploring," she said, low and reverent. "Learning." And she pressed slow, deliberate circles just above the hipbones, and each one sent a shudder through Linnea's whole frame. Linnea writhed under her, her fingers fisting in the furs, her body arching toward every point of contact, her hips rocking with a growing desperation as Celenneth returned again and again to that spot she had never known to find, teasing the fine line between pleasure and torment.
"You didn't know about this," Celenneth murmured, sliding her hands up and pressing down once more with that same exquisite pressure.
"N-no—" Linnea stammered, trembling, her dark eyes blazing.
Then Celenneth followed her hands with her mouth — slow, open kisses along Linnea's sides, tracing the delicate arc of her ribs before her tongue found that sensitive place her fingers had mapped, and Linnea cried out, her back arching helplessly. "Don't stop," she pleaded, raw and unguarded. Celenneth answered with a low, knowing hum and doubled her care, lips and tongue working in concert, until every touch spiraled Linnea deeper and her whole body yielded. Her head fell back, throat bared, and her fingers finally tore free of the blankets to clutch at Celenneth's shoulders, her body drawing taut, trembling on the edge of something vast.
"Please—" Linnea gasped. "I'm—"
Celenneth didn't let her finish. One last kiss, pressed just right, and Linnea broke — her cry torn from her throat, her body arching sharp as the pleasure crashed through her. Celenneth held her through it, her hands steady and grounding as the trembling slowly stilled, pressing soft kisses along her collarbone, gentle now, reverent in a different way.
Linnea let out a shaky laugh, still breathless. "You found something new."
Celenneth rested her forehead against hers, their breath mingling and warm. "You're mine," she whispered, low and certain.
Lótessë 10, 2969
The forest hummed with insects and birdsong as they walked, Brynja darting along the path's edge to collect shiny pebbles and interesting leaves, testing Linnea's watchful eye at every turn. "Stay close, Brynja," Linnea called, firm but warm, while Celenneth walked ahead, reading the trail.
"I am, Mama!" Brynja called back from where she crouched by a cluster of mushrooms at the root of an old oak, her fingers brushing a cap. Linnea started to warn her — but the child darted back grinning, holding up a small cluster of red berries. "Look what I found!"
Celenneth glanced over her shoulder, frowning. "Don't eat those. They might not be safe."
Brynja nodded and tucked them into her pouch, and Linnea made a silent note to check it later. The day passed easy, and they came home with Brynja chattering of all her finds.
But that night, as the fire burned low, the child's bright energy drained away. She curled in Linnea's lap, cheeks flushed, brow damp — and when Linnea's hand found her forehead, her heart dropped at the heat of it. "Something's wrong," she said, tight. "She's burning up."
Celenneth knelt and pressed a hand to Brynja's brow. "Feverish. Has she complained of anything? A stomachache?"
"Not until now. She was fine. She ate—" Linnea froze. "The berries. She must have eaten one."
"Which ones?"
"I don't know. She put them in her pouch. I should have checked—"
"Linnea." Celenneth's hand came steady to her shoulder. "No time for that. Focus. Can you describe them?"
Linnea shut her eyes, calling back the brief glimpse. "Small. Red. Clustered. Almost shiny."
Celenneth nodded, her mind already working. "I know them. Fever, nausea, cramping — not lethal, if we treat it in time. There's an herb. Bitterroot. We'll want a poultice and a tea."
"I'll get it," Linnea said, passing Brynja gently into Celenneth's arms. "Stay with her."
"Go. I'll keep her safe."
Linnea threw on her cloak and ran into the night, retracing their steps by moonlight, fear pushed down beneath her purpose. She found the bitterroot near the stream where they'd stopped — its green leaves and pale yellow flowers unmistakable — plucked several stems with trembling fingers, and ran back. At the door Celenneth met her, Brynja still cradled close, her breathing shallow but steady. "Hurry."
Linnea ground the bitterroot into a paste at the table and steeped the rest in hot water, then knelt and pressed the poultice to Brynja's stomach and coaxed her to sip the tea, her voice soft despite the fear twisting in her. "Drink this, my little bird. It'll help. I promise." Brynja whimpered and clutched her hand and took slow, reluctant sips.1
The hours stretched, the two of them taking turns at her side, and the fever broke just before dawn, Brynja's breath evening out, her color returning. Linnea sagged against Celenneth's shoulder, tears of exhaustion and relief in her eyes. "She's going to be all right."
Celenneth's arm came around her. "You saved her."
Linnea shook her head. "We saved her."
As the first light crept in, Brynja stirred, her eyes fluttering open, her voice hoarse. "I'm sorry, Mama."
Linnea kissed her forehead. "There's nothing to be sorry for, my little bird. You're safe now. That's all that matters."
Lótessë 14, 2969
The cabin lay still under the hush of the spring night, the wind moving low through the branches outside, the fire in the hearth burned down to faint embers that threw dim, flickering shadows across the room.
Celenneth twitched in her sleep, her breath coming faster, shallow and uneven, her hands clenching the fur blankets as though gripping something that slipped away. Then a sharp, gasping sob tore out of her, and her body jerked against the blankets. "Linnea—" she choked, the name escaping like a broken prayer.
She was back there. Dark water stretched endless before her, a vast expanse of cold nothing, its surface slick and black. And in the center of that terrible abyss Linnea struggled, her arms thrashing, her head breaking the surface only to be dragged under again. Celenneth screamed — but the sound died, swallowed by the hungry silence of the water. Her legs would not move; her body, strong and trained and unyielding, stood frozen as if rooted, her boots fixed to the cold stone shore, her arms locked useless at her sides. Move, she commanded herself, panic spiraling into terror. Move, damn you. But she could not. All she could do was watch — Linnea's dark hair spreading like spilled ink beneath the water, her wide eyes locking onto Celenneth's, pleading, as her body shuddered and fought and then went still, the black surface closing over her with a cold finality.
"No!" Celenneth screamed — and jerked awake, her chest heaving, her hands clawing at the blankets as though still trapped in that frozen moment. "Linnea—" Her voice fractured as her wild gaze searched the dark room.
"Hey. I'm here." A warm hand pressed firm against her arm.
Celenneth's head snapped toward the voice. Linnea sat upright beside her, her eyes wide with concern but calm, her hands gentle and steady as they closed over Celenneth's trembling fingers. "You're safe," she whispered. "I'm safe."
Celenneth dragged in a ragged breath. "You were — you were drowning. I couldn't—"
Linnea cupped her face and held her gaze. "I'm here. Right here. You're not frozen. You're not trapped."
Celenneth crumpled, the terror crashing over her again. "I couldn't move. I couldn't reach you."
"But you're here now." Linnea brushed her thumbs across Celenneth's damp cheeks. "We're here. Together."
"It felt so real," Celenneth whispered. "Like you were gone."
Linnea wrapped her arms tight around her, holding her close. "I'm not gone. I'll never be gone. No matter what you see, no matter where your mind goes — you'll always find me." And Celenneth clung to her, shuddering, until her breathing slowed at last and the cold gave way to the warmth of Linnea's steadfast hold. The fire flickered faint but enduring in the hearth, and though the echo of the nightmare lingered like a distant storm, she held to the one constant she had ever fully trusted.1
Lótessë 20, 2969
The sun hung high, dappling gold through the rustling canopy, the forest alive with birdsong and the distant hum of water. Brynja skipped ahead, her dark curls bouncing as she darted tree to tree, her small bow across her back beside a pouch brimming with treasures — a smooth stone, a bright red leaf, a tiny bird's nest she'd promised to show Linnea later. Celenneth walked a short way behind, her eyes on the wood; Linnea brought up the rear, her gaze on Brynja with fond amusement and a mild worry both.
"Stay where we can see you," Linnea called.
"I am, Mama! I'm looking for tracks!"
Celenneth chuckled, watching the girl's eager search. "She's getting bolder," Linnea murmured. "Almost too bold."
"She's curious," Celenneth said. "That's a good thing — so long as we guide it."
The sound of water grew until they reached a narrow, sparkling stream, and Brynja skidded to a stop at its edge, peering down. "Look! Fish!"
Celenneth knelt beside her. "Minnows. See how they dart? You'd need a quick hand for one of those." Then her gaze sharpened on the far bank, where a faint set of prints pressed into the mud. "There. A fox, maybe. Recent."
"Can we follow it?" Brynja's excitement bubbled over.
Celenneth rose and put out her hand. "We cross here. The water's shallow, but the rocks are slippery. Step careful." Brynja gripped her hand, face set with determination, and Celenneth crossed first, finding sure purchase on the slick stones, then turned and held out her hands. Brynja took the first rock confidently, wobbled, recovered; Linnea watched close, her hands hovering. "Good," Celenneth encouraged. "Next — slowly." Brynja grinned and took another step, and another —
— and on the third rock her boot slipped, her arms flailing. "Mama!" she cried, high with panic, and pitched sideways into the stream with a sharp, bone-jarring thud against the rocky bank.
"Brynja!" Linnea was already moving, splashing through the water.
Celenneth dropped to her knees, her hands searching the child's small body with a precision she wished she did not have — for her own hands had set a broken leg once, alone in Fangorn, and knew the shape of this too well. Brynja whimpered, tears streaming, but did not scream. "It's her leg," Celenneth said, even, though her voice was tight. Her fingers traced the shin, feeling for the break. "It's broken."
Linnea dropped down and cupped Brynja's face. "Oh, my love — does it hurt?"
Brynja's breath shuddered. "It hurts, Mama."
Celenneth's calm held, though Linnea could see the tightness at her eyes. "It's a clean break. We splint it, and get her home. Hold her still while I find sticks." She scanned the ground and returned in moments with two sturdy branches, already tearing strips from her cloak with deft hands. "Brynja," she murmured, "this will hurt. But I'll be quick." Brynja nodded bravely and gripped Linnea's hand, and Celenneth set the splint with precise, efficient movements. The girl let out a sharp cry but did not wail, her trust in them holding her steady.1
When it was secure Celenneth gathered her up gently. Brynja shivered but rested her head on her mother's shoulder, her breath still unsteady. "She'll need to rest, and stay off it," Celenneth said, softer now. "But she'll heal."
Linnea pressed a kiss to the damp forehead. "You were so brave, my little bird. We'll take care of you."
Brynja sniffled. "I didn't mean to fall."
"It wasn't your fault," Celenneth said, brushing a strand from her face. "Accidents happen. What matters is you're safe now." And as they made their way back through the quiet wood, Linnea kept close with a hand on Brynja's back, anchoring herself in the girl's steady breathing, her heart still pounding with the memory of the fall — but Celenneth's calm strength held them all together. They were a team; together they could face anything. Even broken bones, and the fears that came with them.