{AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter's mostly about Hallbera and her past. So if anyone wish to, they can skip right through it~}
Hallbera rushed down the stairs, her heart hammering frantically against her ribs. She hadn't heard that word in years. Indeed, not since several lifetimes of lesser men... not since she fled over the river Lhûn with her lodge.
As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she paused, her hand gripping the railing tightly. She closed her eyes, trying hard to banish the flood of memories that threatened to engulf her senses. But try as she might, she couldn't escape the ghosts of her past.
Shadow.
The Shadow?
THAT FELL SHADOW!
THE WITCH KING OF ANGMAR!
That fell shadow that served a far greater darkness. It engulfed the last light of Arthedain!
Hallbera remembered it all too well, she was there when Fornost fell, nigh 500 years ago, when she and a great many rangers fled over Lhûn. She had heard of Númenor... the island kingdom of her ancestors, a land of glory and splendor, now lost to the wrath of the Valar. Hallbera could still recall the tales her great-grandmother used to tell her during the long winters. Stories of the great Men of Númenor, the might of their armies, and the wisdom of lost kings.
Being a Númenórean herself, she had lived a stupendously long life for a ranger... now, she was nearing her 700th winter and she knew it would be her last. Truth be told, Hallbera was quite impressed that she had managed to survive that long, almost twice the lifespan of an ordinary Númenórean... that is if they could be called ordinary at all.
She could've almost smiled at that thought... almost... instead, her thumb rubbed the silver band around her ring finger. The Ring of Barahir, it had kept her alive for so long an age... the proof of her treachery... or so she would've liked to call it, and yet it was not so.
Hallbera never betrayed her king, she did flee over the river... and returned after gathering all that she could of her lodge. She hid in the dwarven tunnels of the blue mountains with her sires and King Arvedui... she fled to the Ice-bay of Forochel... but she didn't board the Elven boat of Lindon. Her distrust of the elves kept her alive once and it had done so over the decades.
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"Elves and Wizards!"
*BHAH*
She made a strange scrunched-up face at the mere thought of those so-called 'wise men.'
'Wise enough to save their own hides perhaps.'
But the question remained, where on earth did her daughter hear that name!?
Yes, 'her' daughter.
Spring came to her a bit too late... in her late 600s even...The thought brought up bitter-sweet memories of her past, Calvin's a sweet lad... a tad too sweet ever since he was still in his fifties. He was a Dúnedain, or as she liked to call them, Lesser Númenórean. That lineage flowed thick through his veins, thicker than most, so much so that he looked no more than 30 while his real age was somewhere around 90.
They met on a hunt... hunting trolls down near the Ettenmoors. Life changes when one meets their lover while hunting for trolls... changes for the best. Hallbera married, moved to the southern Ranger Lodgings, and took up ranging there.
Forty years later they had their first child, a son... she felt joy after a long time, for he took after her, and in him, the Númenórean blood ran true. They were truthful with him. He became arrogant and attempted to kill a wild boar with his bare hands to prove that he was 'superior' to the rest of the hunters... as a result, he got mauled by a wild boar.
Hallbera wasn't sad... she was regretful, regretful, and annoyed at the same time somehow. She couldn't educate the boy properly and vowed to do so next time. Next time, her daughter inherited none of her or her father's Númenórean heritage, but the mixed blood of southerners. But they loved her all the same and tragedy struck again, taking her in a fit of disease.
The third time was a charm and they had Amelia, who inherited everything from her parents. The blood, strength, and mind of a Númenórean... and the foolish aspiration to prove herself to others.
'Heh'
She chuckled as she bound another arrow tip to the shaft, she had been doing that for quite some time now... maybe it was already morning?
With a smile, she placed the last of the tip-bound arrows into a basket, leaving the fletching for later when she would have some more time. Not as though these would be of much use to her, they would at most pierce leather hides... and goblins wear armor... sometimes. At least all that she had encountered wore armor of wrought iron armor... these would splinter and enter their flesh, killing them slowly.
SIGH
"I wonder from where the girl heard that word?"
Perhaps Cal spoke too much after a tankard or two of ale? If so, when he returns, it would be Hallbera's duty to remind him who was the eldest member of their family.
She smirked, straightening up proudly-
*CRACK*
'My back!'
She was old... she didn't look it, but she was beginning to feel hollowed out. Like a waterskin with too many holes and patches on it, repaired again and again until it could no longer be used.
'My time is near, huh~'
She thought, and a smile bloomed on her lips, for she was content.