Ran looks up at the summit of Amon Sul, the night stars shining in its background. It was past midnight, but the huntress had no desire nor plan to sleep. Sitting here on this hill was luxury enough for her.
Her eyes trailed the side of the watchtower of old, her gaze flowing down the mountain, eventually reaching the approximate direction of the Forsaken Inn.
I hate inns. But this one's not so bad.
Indeed, the many times she had visited the Lone-Lands, she had never bothered to stop by the inn. She always thought it was going to be like the Pony, loud, crowded and full of people. But when she finally went there, she realized it was more like a hunting lodge than an inn. It was very different and not homely at all.
Just my type of place.
She remembered the first time she went there, when Danglir and Amathdir decided to stop there instead of heading directly to Weathertop. She questioned their decision, but as usual, Amathdir turned out to be right.
Amathdir. I have been constantly reminded of him recently.
Of all the men and women I called my brothers and sisters, none of them were as kind to me as Amathdir. Many of the other Wardens were displeased with my younger, adventurous self, thinking I was too rash or too childish. But Amathdir was different. He helped me. He guided me.
So many years had passed. Ran could still recall the image of the mighty man and the greatsword of his forefathers. When he stood, whatever armour he wore would shine in the light, his cloak would flow behind him, and his face was never grim, always hopeful, often smiling. He looked more like a Man of Numenor of days long gone, a symbol of hope for his people.
His strength never faded, he could slay countless goblins, best the largest of Men. He was fair among men, skilled among hunters and wise among even the lore-keepers of the Wardens. He could have become a hero and have dozens of songs sung about his glory, he could have felled a thousand Orcs, but he chose to aid me. I can never understand why, but Amathdir always seemed to be right. So I did not question him.
She looked down, at the dirt and grass beneath her feet. She never understood people, and she never really understood Amathdir either. But she knew very well that no one, not even the Firstborn, were always right.
Could he have made a mistake? Amathdir would have saved hundreds of lives, but instead he chose to save me. He could have taken an arrow for someone else. Of all the people he can give his life for, he did it for me. I was nobody; I had no family, no noble heritage to boast about, no knowledge of ancient lore nor were my skills the most exceptional among our kin. Could he have been wrong?
Her hand moved to the hilt of her blade, a habit she has gained ever since her sword was presented to her. She unsheathed it partially, about an inch or two of the blade still resting in the sheath. The moonlight gleamed off the blade, illuminating the Sindarin letters which spelled out the name Tirandune.
This is a King's blade. Designed not to kill but to inspire. It was meant to rally Men, not to fell enemies in battle, though it can effectively do so as well. This should not be in my hands, but the hands of Calenglad, or Halbarad, or the Chieftain himself. Could the Eldar have made a mistake as well?
What are the chances of a great Man and a wise Elf, both making such a mistake? Perhaps...perhaps I was wrong.
She let go of her blade, allowing it to slide back into its sheath. Ran looked back up towards the top of Amon Sul, the former glorious watchtower, now standing in ruins.
All those years I had been fighting...I was not doing it for the good of Eriador. I did it so that I would fall gloriously in battle and see Amathdir again sooner. I did it so that I could once again hear his words of wisdom, so that I could be guided by his voice and gaze upon his smile...
His smile...
The way he smiled when he was around me...it was not his hope I saw. It was mine.
Estella was the name given to me, derived from the Sindarin word of Estel, meaning hope.
Hope.
I am hope.
