Xandalif sat upon her warhorse well off the road leading into the South Gate of Bree, simply watching the people come and go silently. Merchants, adventurers, whores, soldiers, thieves, farmers, clowns, spies...an endless kaleidoscope of the best and the worst Middle Earth had to offer. She felt a little like each one of those as she struggled to find her nerve.
She had just been tossing the last orc corpse onto a bonfire after stumbling across a raiding party on the banks of the Anduin when she felt a wave of panic and despair and regret. It had sent her head spinning, driving her to one knee before she had it under control and knew where it had come from...Finchley. Finchley was in trouble...no...Finchley was afraid. So afraid she could barely breathe...so then Xandilif could barely breathe. Rage filled her. Where the hell were Addie and Ryn...where was Nethrida? They promised to take care of her. Why was Finchley afraid!!??In what seemed like a heartbeat Xandilif was in the saddle and racing towards Eriador without a single thought but to get to Finchley's side, find who was frightening her, and make them regret their mother had ever been born. In time her mind began to clear...and by then it was apparent where she was going. Bree. Babygirl was clearly still playing with her dwarves in Breeland.
Now the Champion of the Azure Faithful was here, trying to find the courage to ride to the Pony, letting her thoughts wander.
It used to be so easy. Long ago, it was simply a matter of following orders. Siege this encampment, sink that ship, defend those walls. Kill the servants of shadows that we point you at.
After Men Erain, it was much the same, only she gave herself the orders because no one else dared. Nothing and noone mattered but the task. whenever she had allowed anyone to break that pattern, she paid for it, and the price hardened her gaze, stiffened her neck. Her drinks grew deeper, her tongue fouler, her hands redder year after year after year. Grog and blood and hatred kept the whispers and rumors at bay.
Then came Caerfella Redoubt and the fall of the Argent Lions, and it all just became more so. No longer just Champion, no longer just the Banshee, nor the Maiden of Madness. Now the Revenant, no longer truly alive yet not altogether dead, and now knowing what that truly meant.
But Kheledul and the mistakes made there changed it all again, and now she felt lost and unsure, afraid and overwhelmed. So many irons in the fire it was as if the blaze would soon overwhelm her. She could feel it's heat when she closed her eyes....and feel SilverWand waiting.
The elf spat, filled with a sense of shame. Her recent trip to Lorien reminded her the lady of Light was not her biggest fan, but the chat with Moyna's past self reassured her that victory was possible, they COULD defeat the darkness and save Finchley both. She knew it was possible...then why did it seem even more insurmountable, as if it were all tumbling from her hands. Too many expectations, too much depending on her..on her arm and on her skills, on the demon she wore across her back....on the fact that at least once upon a time, she had had nothing to lose.
Mans called them the Stranded Sisters. Xanderian the Tragic, and her older sister Xandilif, the Broken. Broken.
By force of will, she spurred her horse forward and galloped through the gates and towards the Prancing Pony to find Finchley and the others. Broken she was, broken she would remain....but she still had a job to do. She still had oaths to keep and battles to fight.
Why couldn't it still be simple?
