I risk my life to make my name by ohboromir

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The Castle of Maidens

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Artanis’ quest would lead her far from the safety of Tirion, down strange paths, and she would meet strange people. But it began, as most quests did, entirely ordinary. She had crossed the Blue Mountains into Ossiriand, and now she rode along the paved road by a river, humming to herself an old sailor’s song.

“Stop! Stop!”

Her horse reared back as a figure threw itself in front of her, bursting from the undergrowth. It was a woman, in a fine dress torn and muddied, dirt in her hair. When she looked up, breathing heavily, her eyes were wild with fear.

“Ser, are you are knight?” The woman scrambled to her feet, though she was not very tall, and even unmounted, Artanis thought she might only reach her breast.

“I am, maiden.”

The woman inhaled deeply, regaining her senses at the confirmation that Artanis was a knight. She laid her hands on Artanis’ leg, pleading. “I have fled, ser, from the castle of Hírilorn, where my mistress is the Lady. Woe, ser, oh such woe! My Lady wishes to remain unwed, yet a foul knight has come from distant lands, and holds her against her will. He says if she will not wed him, he will take the castle by the sword. But we have no soldiers, ser, only maidens may dwell in the castle. Please, you must help!”

“It is fortunate that thou hast found me. Fate is in thy favour this day.” Artanis offered the woman her hand, and lifted her onto her horse, saddled in front of her. “Direct me to the Castle, and I will deal with this rogue knight.”

The path to castle was clear. There was no sign of the maid’s – Artanis learned, on the ride, that her name was Idhriel – pursuers. Her horse’s hooves clicked against stone, as the ground turned from dirt to paved stone.

The castle of Hírilorn rose ahead of them, rising out of the trees as if it were made of them. The stone was grey and smooth, vines of ivy and breech branches adorning the walls. Flowers bloomed from the windows, sweet purple ones that Artanis had never seen before, and the castle tower rose to the heights of the surrounding trees, singing birds fluttering around the top, nesting in the roof.

A courtyard had been cleared and now it was full of soldiers, who had set up tents and fires and had gather in smaller groups to talk and eat. A silence fell over them as Artanis approached. There was shock in their eyes, and Artanis needed only a moment to see why – they were all Men, every one of them, and few Men had ever seen a elven-knight of the Noldor, let alone one so bold as to ride straight into their camp.

“My lady’s charm has prevented them from entering the castle.” Idhriel whispered in her ear, as Artanis dismounted, and lifted her from the horse. She smoothed her skirts and looked back over her shoulder at the men, frowning. “As long as she holds power, they cannot come inside.”

“And the knight himself?” Artanis could not see anyone among these men who looked like a leader.

“He must have a charm of his own, or some charm or amulet, he is inside. In the tower.”

“Ah.”

Idhriel led her up through the tower. In quiet rooms, Artanis glimpsed many women, young and old, elvish and mortal, gathered watching the soldiers at the windows, or trying to arm themselves, or packing to flee. Most of them did not look at her.

“Wait here.”

At the top of the tower, there was an oaken door. Idhriel let herself in and Artanis heard soft voices, and then a man’s, half-raised. She bristled, hand on the hilt of her sword. Before she could burst in, though, the door opened and she was called in.

Standing in the centre of the lavish room was the most beautiful elf Artanis had ever seen.

Her countenance was bright and fair, silver eyes shining from a face the colour of a spring fawn. She wore a gown of deep blue velvet, a white mantle hemmed with golden thread. A circlet of silver was in her dark, braided hair, and most marvellously at all, she wore a collar of white gems, a silver one in the centre shining like a star. Artanis bowed.

“Lady Tinúviel.” She breathed, as the woman extended her hand to her. She pressed a kiss to her ringed fingers and slowly rose. “I am the knight Ser Artanis of Tirion. Your maid has told me a man seeks to steal your land – how may I aid you?”

“It is not theft. Thy maid speaks falsely, Lady Tinúviel.”

Artanis had not noticed the man when she entered the room, so entranced by the beauty of the lady. She turned to him. He was not as tall as an elf, but he was a knight for certain, broad shouldered and rugged. His hair and short beard were dark, a thick scar across his face like a wolf’s claw, stark against his dark skin. His chainmail was mithril, elven-made and new. Perhaps he had stolen that, as he intended to steal this tower and its lady. His arm rested on his sheathed blade. He has only the one hand. Artanis thought. Was it bravery that had cost him it, or weakness in battle?

“I am Ser Erchamion. The Lady and I have been betrothed since my youth. I come only to claim what is mine.”

“Never have I heard of elf and man being betrothed.”

“Then perhaps thou ought to open thy ears.”

“It is not true,” Tinúviel interrupted, “At least it is only half so. A suggestion was made by my father, but no treaty ever signed. It is Ser Erchamion’s father who believed it to be settled. I shall not relinquish my castle.”

The knight threw up his hand in frustration. “Sorceress and stubborn women thou art! If it were not for thy land, I would leave thee be! What man wishes for a witch for a wife?”

Elves held sorcery in high renown – Artanis’ own father was a sorcerer of a kind, as was her eldest brother – and she raised her voice, addressing the knight directly.

“Choose thy words carefully, ser, or else I shall take thy other hand.”

Tinúviel stepped between them, laying a slender hand on Galadriel’s chest. “Sers, I will have no bloodshed in my chamber. It is impossible to remove from the rug.” She sighed, soft as the breeze, “Here is what I propose: Settle the matter in a match of skill, in view of all my ladies and all thy men. Ser Artanis will be my champion. Should thou win, Ser Erchamion, I shall wed thee. Should Ser Artanis make thee yield, thou wilt leave me.”

Artanis should have protested, that she had not yet volunteered, but she did not. She would have offered the lady her sword, her aid, in any way she asked.

“Dost? thou agree, Ser Erchamion?”

“Aye.”

“Ser Artanis?”

“Yes, good lady.”

“Then it is settled – call thy most honourable men to thee, and I shall bring my ladies.”

And so it was arranged. In the yard outside, the men had gathered on the far side, taunting and cheering their commander on as he stood opposite Artanis. On her side, the Lady had gathered with her fine ladies around her, serious and sombre faced – all but the Lady herself, who wore a smile sly as a fox.

Ser Erchamion struck first. Though he was approaching the middle age of men (she thought - she would not consider herself an expert), he was fast and he was strong, and she raised her sword to parry him. She felt the blow reverberate through her arm, but she held firm.

Back and forth their bout continued, for they were well matched. Where the man was strong, the elf was fast, where he was cautious, she was bold. Neither knight would give in – any ground one gained the other soon recovered.

But men grew tired and elves did not.

Artanis pressed her advantage as soon as she noticed his blows become weaker. By now the sun was low in the sky. She struck forward with fierce blows, backing Ser Erchamion towards his men. He struggled to parry a blow, then another, too fast, sent his blade clattering to the floor and the man to his knees. Artanis held the point of her blade to his throat.

“I yield, Ser Artanis.” His men had fallen silent. “The castle and the lady are yours.”

For a moment, she held the blade there, judging his honesty. She found no deception in his eyes, and slowly she withdrew, sheathing her sword. She nodded once.

The knight rose to his feet, grim, and turned to his men.

“Prepare to leave. We must be gone before the dawn.”

And there were. Not a word was spoken as they gathered their bows and tents and swords, marching from the castle and in the trees, melting among the trees as though they were part of the forest itself.

Artanis spent that evening in the company of Tinúviel and her ladies. At the high seat of honour she sat, attended by the ladies. Their voices and flutes and harps mingled in the evening air, the sweet song of nightingales returned to the hall, dancing and bright laughter. Flowers they bestowed upon her head, kisses on her cheek, their jewels they clasped around her throat. The halls of Hírilorn rang with joy and song. No fairer or more joyous gathering had there ever been.

Night turned to the bright dawn and into night again, before the ladies grew tired of their dances. One by one they retired to their beds and chambers, until Tinúviel and Artanis remained alone.

Side by side they sat, Tinúviel’s head on her shoulder. Her hand rested on Artanis’ strong thigh. Slow and gentle, her hand moved up to her waist, making Artanis turn to look at her. As she did, Tinúviel kissed her.

Her lips tasted of sweet wine. Artanis lost herself in the softness of them, melting under the lady’s touches. She felt her heart quicken in her breast, a heat flared in her stomach, set alight by the clever touches of the lady’s hand. Sweet kisses the lady rained upon her, until Artanis was breathless and flushed. Only then did Tinúviel draw away, eyes dark with desire.

“Thou lusts for me.”

Artanis could only nod in response – none had ever kissed her before, not like this. She had dallied with knights and courtiers alike in her grandfathers’ courts. She had admired the strong sailors in the court of her mother’s father, observed the broad smiths of Noldor, the clever and gentle lore masters of the Vanyar. All of them she found to her taste – but none she had ever given more than chaste kisses and touches. “I do.”

“I will give thee thy desire, on a condition.”

Artanis inhaled slowly.

“I will make thee my wife, lady of this castle at my side, Artanis Nerwen.” She could not recall ever giving Tinúviel that name. “I will give thee myself, if thou but promises to stay beside me forevermore.”

She could. None in Tirion expected her to return, she believed. The power of Tinuviel could keep the Green Woman away, if she came looking. She could leave in peace and joy and laughter here, in this great castle.

But that was not what Artanis wanted. She wanted honour and glory of her own, land she might govern in her own name. She wanted deeds of valour and renown, that her name might be recorded among the mighty for more than just her birth. She was Artanis of the Noldor, a princess, and a knight. She was not born to be a lady in a castle of stone.

“No.”

Tinúviel drew away, a delicate eyebrow arched. She looked as though no one had ever refused her before. Artanis wondered if all the ladies in this castle had once been bold knights. “If that is thy wish –”

“It is.”

“If that is thy wish, I will grant thee a boon for thy journeys.” From her throat she plucked one of the many small white gems and pressed it into Artanis’ hand.

“Keep this with thee, dear Ser Artanis, and the light will guide thee when doubt threatens thy bold heart.” Tinúviel leaned forward and pressed a single kiss to her forehead. “Go in peace, in the morning. Rest now.”

Artanis smiled sadly at her, watching the lady rise and close the curtains, lingering in the doorway. The light from the hall behind her made her glow, like she had been cast in gold. Artanis wished she could have stayed. But the world called her.

She spent the night on the soft bed in that tower room, all alone, but warm.

The next morning, Artanis mounted Larcatal, and rode back out onto the road, the jewel pinned to her cloak as a star.