Chapter Text
Shhhk.
A long, metallic rasp rang out right by her ear, and another strand of jet-black hair drifted gently to the dusty ground. Éodred glanced up at the sword propped against the stone — its polished blade served as her mirror. Her lips twitched in a crooked expression, halfway between a smirk and a grimace; it was hard to tell which held sway — satisfaction or frustration.
And truly, there were reasons aplenty for dark thoughts. Too many. They trailed behind her like a pitiful caravan, brought up by a stubborn little donkey with a sack slung over its side, trudging in the rear. The search for the wizard had dragged on far too long, forcing her more and more often to go on foot so the horse could rest.
Still, she had a horse. The ones she was pursuing were traveling entirely on foot — and with halflings, no less, whose tiny legs, Éodred was convinced, were not made for swift progress. “Once this is done, I’ll overtake them in no time,” she reassured herself, hoping her guess about the Fellowship’s path was correct.
And yet it was that very Fellowship that had driven her to hastily butcher her once-luxurious braid. At the last tavern, she’d secured a pair of trousers, and now she was digging into her travel sack for a coarse linen shirt she’d packed just in case. With a sigh, Éodred tugged a strand of hair near her temple and brought the dagger to it once more.
Shhhk.
With each cut of the blade, she looked less like a maiden and more like a youth — perhaps a comely one, but certainly no longer a lady.
“ The road is not safe for a lady so young.,” she rasped, mimicking the elf-woman’s voice. The cold she’d caught on the journey, as if by design, helped her sound the part — that of a cracking adolescent voice.
But truth be told, safety had nothing to do with it. The Fellowship included at least one man who, if he learned her true name, would surely rain furious accusations upon her head.
“So what shall triumph?” she mused. “Gondorian morality that says ‘woman is a gift of the Valar’… or Gondorian morality that—” A coughing fit cut her off before she could finish aloud.
The situation was plain: her name was a spark waiting to ignite conflict. Speak it — and anger some; conceal it, yet remain a woman — and provoke the rest. Only one option remained.
Stifling another cough, Éodred grabbed a new strand.
Shhhk.