The next morning, Caoimhe saw Odhran and me off. Before we stepped outside, she pulled me aside, her expression thoughtful. “You’ll be quite warm in yer wool dress, lass,” she said, glancing me over with a critical but kind eye. “I’ve an old linen dress that’s just gatherin’ dust. It might fit ya.”
She disappeared into a nearby room and returned with a brown linen dress. It was well-worn but well-made, the kind of garment that had clearly stood the test of time. When I tried it on, it hung a bit loosely on my frame, but Caoimhe just smiled. “You’ll ‘ave time to fill it in wit’ good food when ya get to where ya goin’, lass.”
Her humor softened the knot of nerves in my chest, and I couldn’t help but smile back, even as my heart ached at the thought of leaving.
Outside, she handed me my knapsack, the gesture practical but full of care. Then, before I could react, she wrapped me in her arms, holding me close as she kissed the top of my head. “You’ll always ‘ave a place here, lass,” she murmured, her voice thick with affection. “If ya change yer mind on the way, don’t hesitate to come back.”
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat as I pressed my face into her shoulder. My voice was a whisper, trembling with barely contained emotion. “Thank you,” I managed, the words feeling too small for all I wanted to express.
When she finally released me, she held me at arm’s length, her warm hands steady on my shoulders. “Promise to write us,” she said firmly, her gaze searching mine. “At least t’let us know you’ve made it to the city a’right.”
I nodded again, this time more firmly, and she smiled, satisfied.
Moments later, I found myself sitting in the back of the wagon, surrounded by supplies, waving at Caoimhe as we moved further and further away from Pellas. Her figure grew smaller in the distance, standing by the gate with her apron held in her hands, watching until we were out of sight.
Odhran, perched at the front of the wagon, guided the mule with practiced skill, his movements sure and steady. Beside him sat Branigan—the boy I’d seen at the well—chattering endlessly about nothing and everything all at once. His enthusiasm was infectious, and though I said nothing, I found myself listening to his stories, the sound of his voice a comforting rhythm against the steady clip-clop of the mule’s hooves.
The mule trotted tirelessly toward Minas Arnach, and as the wagon swayed gently beneath me, I stole a glance at the road ahead. The ache of leaving Pellas remained, but mingled with it was the faintest spark of anticipation. My journey was far from over, but for the first time in a long while, I felt the smallest flicker of hope.
Branigan was never without words or opinions, and he made sure I knew it. He regaled me with stories about the dog on his farm that had puppies, seamlessly transitioning into a tale about the flock of geese that once chased him up the lane between the farmhouses. Before I could respond, he was rolling up his trouser leg to proudly show me a scar on his knee. “Got this from climbin’ too high in the big oak behind Ma’s garden. Fell right out! But don’t worry—I climbed it again the next day.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, nodding along and giving him the rapt attention he clearly craved. I needn’t reply. His energy was infectious, his words tumbling over each other in a chaotic yet endearing way. Occasionally, though, Branigan would run out of things to say, leaving all three of us to the quiet sway of the wagon and our own thoughts.
It wasn’t until the late afternoon that we turned into the main square of Minas Arnach. Calling it a square felt generous; it was little more than a scattering of buildings—a house, an alehouse, and a well surrounded by wagons and bustling villagers. Several other wagons were already hitched at a post, their owners trading goods and exchanging coins.
Odhran guided our wagon to an open spot and reined in the mule. Branigan leapt down immediately, grabbing the mule’s halter and hitching it to the post with the enthusiasm of someone eager to move on to his next adventure. No sooner was the mule secured than Branigan darted off, disappearing into the crowd without a backward glance.
I climbed down from the wagon far more slowly, clutching my knapsack tightly to my chest. The sight of so many people—talking, trading, moving with purpose—made my heart race. The noise, the motion, the sheer liveliness of the square was overwhelming.
Odhran stepped around the wagon and fixed me with his steady gaze. “Well, lass, here ya be. Will you make it on a’right from here?” His tone was low, his expression unreadable.
I nodded, though my grip on my knapsack tightened. “I will,” I said, though my voice wavered slightly.
He gave a low hrmph, his brow furrowing. “Hand me your bag now,” he said, holding out his hand.
Panic flared in my chest, quick and sharp. My mind raced through every worst-case scenario, but Odhran’s expression didn’t waver, and his outstretched hand remained steady. His patience outdid my reluctance. I handed him my knapsack, my fingers trembling slightly.
He rummaged through the bag with a practiced efficiency, frowning deeply when he looked back up at me. “Lass,” he said, his tone heavy with disapproval, “ya only have a few dried things to eat—and no flint. Do ya not have even a small knife?”
I shook my head, shame rising in me like a tide. My face reddening. His frown deepened as he handed the knapsack back to me.
“Don’t go wanderin’ off, lass,” he said firmly. “Stick wit’ the wagon, and I’ll be back.”
Before I could respond, he turned and disappeared into the crowd, his broad shoulders cutting through the throng of villagers with ease. I stood there clutching my knapsack, feeling small and vulnerable in the face of so much movement and noise.
Feeling uncomfortable with being left alone, I shouldered my bag and moved closer to the mule. He gave a soft nicker, his ears twitching as I approached. When he reached out with his nose, I hesitated before timidly brushing my hand against his warm, velvety muzzle. He leaned into the touch, his quiet presence grounding me in the midst of the bustling square.
We stayed like that, the mule and I, sharing a moment of stillness as the activity of the square swirled around us. The gentle rhythm of his breathing calmed the rising nerves in my chest, and I focused on the simple motion of stroking his nose.
It wasn’t long before Odhran reappeared, weaving his way through the crowd with his usual steady determination. He carried a bag in his hand and a larger roll in the other hand, and as he reached me, he gave a grunt, his expression unreadable.
“This’ll keep ya for now, lass,” he said, thrusting the bag toward me. “It’s a kit for ya. Some flint, a knife…” He hesitated, glancing at the mule before continuing, his tone almost gruff. “You ain’t even got a bedroll. That’s what this thing is ‘ere. And there’s a pan in there some place, if ya happen to catch somethin’.” He gave a small shrug, as if to dismiss the thoughtfulness of his gesture.
I took the bag hesitantly, my fingers brushing the rough fabric. His words, practical and direct, carried a weight that made my throat tighten. He didn’t have to do this—he didn’t have to care—but he did.
Before I could overthink it, I reached out and took his hand, giving it a quick squeeze before releasing it just as fast. My gaze dropped to the ground, my cheeks warm with emotion I couldn’t put into words.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice quiet but full of sincerity. I tried to pour as much emotion as I could into the simple words, hoping he could understand how deeply I appreciated what he had done for me.
Odhran gave a small nod, his expression unreadable but his gaze steady. Before either of us could say more, Branigan came bounding back, his energy spilling over as he approached, followed by a gaggle of other young boys. Their chatter and laughter filled the air, a stark contrast to the quieter exchange I’d just had with Odhran.
“Odhran! We’ve come to help unload!” Branigan declared proudly, puffing out his chest as though leading a troop into battle.
“You’re the last to arrive!” another boy teased, smirking as he gave Branigan a playful shove.
Odhran raised his hands in a placating gesture, his expression caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “A’right, a’right, you ruffians. Let’s get unloaded.” His voice carried the familiar mix of authority and humor that seemed to keep the boys in line.
Then he turned back to me, his expression softening. “Will you be on yer way then?” he asked, his tone quieter now, meant just for me.
I nodded, clutching the straps of my knapsack. “Yes,” I replied softly, “there’s s-still light enough for m-me to walk s-some.”
He placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, the unexpected warmth of the gesture settling something in my chest. “Well, be off wit’ ya then,” he said, giving my shoulder a small pat. “Safe travels, lass.”
I nodded again, swallowing the lump rising in my throat as he turned back to the boys, his focus now on dividing the boxes and bags among them. Their laughter and chatter faded behind me as I turned toward the road.
The finality of the farewell weighed on me as I stepped away from the square. I will write them often, I decided, clutching that thought like a promise. The image of Caoimhe’s kind smile and Odhran’s steady hand stayed with me, their memory a quiet reassurance as I took my first steps forward into the unknown.
The crunch of gravel under my boots was strangely comforting, a steady rhythm that matched the beating of my heart. Each step took me closer to my goal, to the life I was determined to build.
The further I walked, the lighter I felt, the nervous knot in my stomach slowly unraveling and making room for something new—excitement.
I let my thoughts drift ahead, imagining the city waiting for me. Minas Tirith. The name itself felt grand and full of promise, a place where I could leave behind everything that had weighed me down.
I pictured myself there, standing in a bustling workshop, surrounded by bolts of fine fabrics in every color imaginable. My hands would move deftly, stitching beauty into every seam, my creations sought after by nobles and merchants alike. I imagined that I would become the most famous seamstress in the city, my name whispered in admiration by those who wore my designs.
The thought made me smile, my pace quickening as though the vision might somehow pull me forward faster. For the first time in a long while, I allowed myself to hope—not just for survival, but for a future that was mine to shape.
My mind wandered as I walked, the rhythm of my steps lulling me into a quiet daydream. Thoughts of the city and the future filled the hours until the sun hung low in the sky, its golden light fading into soft shades of amber and lavender.
When the shadows grew long and the air turned cooler, I stepped off the road, moving carefully through the brush until I felt I was far enough away to be unnoticed. I set my knapsack down and paused, listening for any sounds beyond the faint rustling of leaves and the distant call of birds settling in for the night.
When the shadows grew long and the air turned cooler, I stepped off the road, moving carefully through the brush until I felt I was far enough away to be unnoticed. I set my knapsack down and paused, listening for any sounds beyond the faint rustling of leaves and the distant call of birds settling in for the night.
Unrolling the bedroll Odhran had given me, I laid it out on the soft ground and sat down, my hands resting lightly in my lap. For a moment, I just sat there, breathing in the crisp air and letting the quiet of the evening surround me. The world felt vast, stretching endlessly in every direction, and for the first time in days, I allowed myself to feel a small, tentative sense of peace.
As the last light of the sun slipped below the horizon, the chill of the night began to creep in. I huddled closer to the small pile of sticks and kindling I had gathered, my fingers trembling as I tried to strike the flint against the steel. Sparks flew, faint and fleeting, but the kindling remained stubbornly dark.
My heart sank. I tried again, gritting my teeth, willing the fire to catch. The sparks danced and fizzled, mocking me. The cold was biting through my wool dress, sinking into my skin as frustration and fear twisted in my chest.
My breathing grew uneven, and I couldn’t stop the panic creeping in around the edges. The night was closing in, the darkness pressing against me. I’d heard the stories—wild animals, bandits, the terrible things that thrived out here when the sun was gone. Without a fire, I felt vulnerable, exposed.
You’re not strong enough for this, my treacherous mind whispered, cruel and insistent. I shook my head, trying to push the thought away, and struck the flint harder this time. The steel slipped, scraping against my knuckles. I hissed in pain, pulling my hand back and cradling it to my chest.
The sting was sharp but faded quickly, replaced by the heavy ache of exhaustion. My throat tightened, tears threatening to spill, but I blinked them back. I stared at the pile of wood and kindling, as if sheer willpower alone could make it ignite.
I don’t know how long I sat there, trying, hoping. But eventually, I had to admit defeat. My hands fell to my sides, limp and useless, and the flint and steel tumbled to the ground.
Pulling my bedroll around me, I curled up with my knees to my chest. The wool dress I’d layered on helped stave off some of the cold, but it wasn’t enough. I shivered, my breath fogging in the air as I scanned the shadows around me. The faint moonlight made everything look eerie, stretched and unfamiliar. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a branch made my heart pound.
My mind wouldn’t stop racing. Every sound became a threat, every movement a danger I couldn’t see. I thought of Odhran’s gruff goodbye, of Caoimhe’s warm embrace and the safety of her home. They felt so far away now, like a dream I’d already forgotten.
The wave of homesickness hit me hard, mixing with self-doubt and fear until I felt hollow and small. I tried to close my eyes, to force sleep to come, but every time I did, the darkness seemed deeper, the noises louder.
The night stretched on, the darkness pressing in heavier with each passing hour. I pulled the bedroll tighter around me, my fingers numb from the cold. My head drooped forward, and for a moment, exhaustion overtook fear. My eyes fluttered shut, and I felt myself slipping into a fragile, restless doze.
Then a rustling sound jolted me awake. My head snapped up, heart pounding as I scanned the shadows. It was nothing—just the wind through the trees, I told myself, though the knot in my chest refused to loosen.
I adjusted the bedroll and sat up straighter, determined to stay alert. But the cold seeped into my bones, and my body betrayed me. My eyes grew heavy again, and despite my best efforts, I nodded off once more.
This time, I dreamed—or maybe I didn’t. I thought I heard footsteps crunching on gravel, faint and deliberate. My heart raced, dragging me back to wakefulness, but when I opened my eyes, the world was still. Just shadows and the faint glow of moonlight.
My breaths came quick and shallow as I rubbed my arms, trying to warm myself. The hours dragged on, blurring into a haze of half-sleep and startled wakefulness. Each time I closed my eyes, I felt on the edge of sinking into deeper rest, but something—a noise, a movement, or just my own mind—kept pulling me back.
By the time the first faint light of dawn began to break through the trees, I was utterly exhausted. My body ached from sitting curled up all night, and my mind felt as frayed as the hem of my dress. But the sight of the soft, gray morning light was enough to ease the tightness in my chest. The night was over.
The next two days blurred into a repetitive rhythm of walking and making camp, each moment both exhausting and strangely meditative.
During the day, the crunch of gravel under my boots and the occasional breeze were my only companions. The road stretched ahead of me, endless and unchanging, with no other travelers in sight. I kept my eyes on the horizon, focusing on each step forward. I knew it wasn’t much, but every mile brought me closer to Minas Tirith—and closer to the life I wanted to build.
When the sun dipped low in the sky, I’d find a place to make camp, usually off the road and sheltered by trees. I would lay out my bedroll and unpack my supplies, organizing everything with care. Then, determined to improve, I would set to work building a fire.
The first evening, it still didn’t come easily. I struck the flint and steel again and again, each failed attempt scraping away at my patience. The kindling refused to catch, mocking my efforts with its stubborn stillness.
My frustration bubbled over, boiling into anger that I couldn’t contain. With a growl of rage, I shot to my feet and hurled the flint as far as I could into the brush. “Stupid thing!” I yelled, my voice echoing in the quiet of the woods. I stomped the ground like a child, cursing the flint, the kindling, and everything else that refused to go my way. My chest heaved, my breath coming fast and hot, as I fought against the helplessness that had been building all day.
When the storm of my anger finally began to ebb, guilt crept in to take its place. I stood there, frozen for a moment, before the realization hit me like a cold slap. What if I lost it?
My stomach sank. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I muttered under my breath, the words aimed squarely at myself now. Without the flint, there would be no fire—not tonight, maybe not ever again. The weight of my mistake settled heavily on me, and I turned toward the darkening trees where the flint had disappeared.
Cursing my own foolishness, I stalked into the brush, my eyes scanning the ground frantically. The light was fading fast, making every shadow stretch and shift, but I searched anyway, my fingers trembling as I sifted through leaves and twigs.
Finally, my hand brushed against the cool, sharp edge of the flint. Relief flooded through me, and I gripped it tightly, holding it as if it might vanish again if I let go. I walked back to my unlit kindling, cradling the flint in my palm like a precious jewel.
Sitting back down, I took a deep, shaky breath, forcing myself to calm. My hands still trembled as I struck the flint against the steel again, but this time I was more careful, more deliberate. When a small spark finally landed and caught, I leaned in close, gently blowing until a tiny flame began to grow.
The fire was pitiful at first, barely more than a flicker, but it was mine. The warmth of it touched my face, easing the cold that had settled in my chest. I stared into the flames, exhausted but determined, promising myself I wouldn’t let my anger get the better of me again.
I slept much better, with the comfort of my little fire, that I woke occasionally to feed with the little file of wood that I had next to me.
When the sun finally rose, I felt rested and refreshed. It took me very little time to gather all my supplies, make sure my little fire was out, and step back onto the well-worn road.
The days blurred together, marked only by the slow arc of the sun across the sky. I trudged onward, stopping only to refill my water skin at the occasional creek, but I never lingered. No matter how much my legs ached or how heavy my knapsack felt, I forced myself to keep moving.
When the sun began its descent toward the horizon, I finally stopped to make camp. This evening, the fire came easier, its warmth crackling to life without the frustration of the night before. Wrapped snugly in my bedroll, I drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep, my body too exhausted to let my mind wander.
And so the days carried on, a steady rhythm of walking, resting, and rising again with the sun. But on the fourth morning, as I stepped back onto the road, something changed.
The sound of distant voices made me freeze. I strained to listen, my pulse quickening. Laughter–rough and coarse–echoed from somewhere ahead, followed by the crunch of gravel under heavy boots. I edged closer to the side of the road, my heart pounding as I debated whether to stay on the path or slip into the trees.
Two men came into view around the bend, coming from the north. Their clothes were travel-worn, their boots caked in mud. One carried a long staff slung casually over his shoulder, while the other toyed with a small dagger, flipping it between his fingers as though it was an extension of his hand.
I ducked my head, pulling my cloak tighter around me in an attempt to seem invisible despite being the only other human on this empty road. Just walk past them. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t stop.
As I approached, their laughter ceased. The man with the dagger noticed me first, I could feel his dark eyes narrow and focus on me. “Well, what do we have here?” His voice was oily and sharp.
I kept my gaze fixed on the ground just ahead of me, my steps quickening. “J-just p-passing through…” I mumbled, hoping that they would lose interest.
The man with the staff stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “Hold on now, no need to be r-r-rude,” he said, his tone mocking my stutter. “We’re just trying to be neighborly, miss.”
My throat immediately felt dry. My mind raced for a way to get away, but the weight of my knapsack on my back made me feel slow, tethered. My aching feet making running feel impossible. “I d-don’t want t-trouble.” My voice still trembled despite my effort to sound firm.
“There isn’t any trouble at all,” the dagger-wielding man said with a grin, taking a step closer. “Just curious why a little lady like you is doin’ out here on your own. Dangerous place for someone like you.”
I clutched the straps of my knapsack tightly, forcing myself to stand a little straighter, “I’m t-traveling to the city. My–s-someone is w-waiting for me t-there.”
“The city?” the man with the staff said, raising an eyebrow. “I hope you got coin for a big city like Minas Tirith?” His grin widened, showing yellow and uneven teeth.
“I h-have n-nothing of value.” I blurted, stepping back instinctively.
The dagger flipped in the air again, catching the morning light as the second man tilted his head. “Ya don’t sound so sure of that, miss. Everyone’s got somethin’ worth takin’.”
Panic bubbled up in my chest, but before either of them could close the distance, the rumble of wagon wheels broke the tension. The men paused, their heads snapping towards the sound.
The wagon came into view around the bend, this time from the south, where I had come from the day before, pulled by two sturdy mules. The driver, an older man wearing a wide-brimmed hat, slowed the wagon as he spotted us. His sharp eyes scanned the scene, and then narrowed them as he looked at the two men.
“Everything a’right here?” the driver called, his voice firm but calm.
The man with the staff stepped back with a feigned smile. “Oh, just a friendly chat, ya know how it is,” he said, his tone dripping with insincerity.
The driver didn’t look convinced. “You’d best move along,” he stated pointedly, his gaze unwavering.
The men exchanged a glance before the one with the dagger shrugged and flipped the blade one last time, then tucking it into his belt. “‘Nother time, m-m-maybe,” he said, his voice low and mocking, before turning to follow his companion back down the southern route, not without throwing a lingering glance over their shoulders.
The wagon driver watched them closer until they had moved a fair distance away, then he turned his eyes towards me, “You a’right, miss?” He had flicked the reins, and the mules moved his wagon closer to me.
I could feel my whole body shaking, and yet my body was so riddled with tension that I could barely get my head to give a jerky nod, “y-yes, t-thank you.”
He eyed me, giving me a glance down at my dirty boots, and then back up at my clenched hands, still gripping the straps of my knapsack, and then back to my face. “Yer alone out here?”
I felt shame flood my face with warmth, and I admitted quietly, “y-yes.”
The driver frowned. “That won’t do. It’s not safe on the road by yerself. Come on, climb up. I’m headin’ towards Minas Tirith anyway.”
I hesitated, glancing toward the trees where the men had disappeared, before nodding. “Thank you,” I murmured, my voice barely audible.
The driver helped me onto the wagon, the rough wood of the seat cold beneath me. As the wagon jolted forward, I kept my head down, still shaken from the encounter. The driver didn’t press me for conversation, and I was grateful for his silence.
For the first time in hours, I felt a measure of safety, though the fear lingered in my chest like a shadow.
I didn’t realize how close I was, how far I made it for the road crested a hill, and there it was—the White City, Minas Tirith, rising from the landscape like a beacon. The towering walls gleamed faintly in the late afternoon sun, their brilliance softened by a hazy mist that clung to the city’s lower tiers. My breath caught, a mix of awe and nerves settling in my chest as I took in the sight.
We were still some ways away, I was given plenty of time to examine it. The city was larger than I had imagined, its sheer size making me feel small and insignificant. I had thought Pelargir large, with its large river running through. But Minas Tirith made Pelargir seem like a small dock town. Tier upon tier rose toward the citadel, where a single white tower pierced the sky, its flag snapping crisply in the breeze.
As the wagon drew closer, the hum of life reached me—voices calling out, the clatter of hooves on stone, the din of a city that never truly stopped moving. The wagon jostled beneath me as it rolled toward the gates, and I tightened my grip on the rough wooden seat. The driver had been kind to allow me to ride with him for the final stretch of my journey, his steady presence a quiet reassurance.
“You’ve been quiet the whole way,” he said, his voice finally breaking the silence since I joined him. He glanced at me from beneath the brim of his hat, his expression unreadable. “Nervous?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice to remain steady.
“Don’t worry, lass. City’s big, but you’ll find your way.” He gave me a small, encouraging smile before flicking the reins.
As we approached the gates, the scale of the city hit me fully. The massive stone archway loomed overhead, and guards in gleaming armor stood at attention, their sharp eyes scanning the travelers coming and going. The line of carts and wagons moved slowly, each one stopping briefly as the guards checked the contents and asked a few curt questions.
When it was our turn, the driver tipped his hat and answered the guards’ inquiries with practiced ease. They barely spared me a glance, waving us through without much fanfare.
Inside, the city enveloped me immediately. The streets were narrow and bustling, lined with vendors shouting their wares and children darting between wagons. The air smelled of fresh bread, leather, and the faint tang of smoke. It was chaotic, vibrant, and overwhelming all at once.
The wagon trundled to a stop near an open square, and the driver turned to me. “This is as far as I go, lass. Best find yourself an inn for the night before it gets dark.”
I climbed down slowly, my legs stiff from the journey, and slung my knapsack over my shoulder. “T-thank you,” I said, my voice quiet but heartfelt.
He gave me a nod, his weathered face softening with a small smile. “Take care of yourself, now.” With a flick of the reins, him and his wagon moved out of the way of the busy market.
The streets twisted and turned as I made my way through the first tier of the city, the crowd thick and the noise relentless. Every step felt like a struggle, dodging bustling bodies and uneven cobblestones that threatened to trip me. The towering walls and narrow alleys loomed overhead, closing in on me with every turn, the weight of the city pressing down like an unrelenting force. In an instant, I was swallowed by the crowd, just another face in the throng—insignificant, invisible, swept along in the tide of movement.
The noise was too much—voices calling out, wagon wheels clattering on stone, the sharp bark of a dog somewhere nearby. My breath came faster, shallower, as if the weight of the entire city was pressing against my chest. I could feel the fractures in my mind, the fragile edges starting to fray, and with each passing moment, the pressure only built, threatening to spill over.
I stumbled to the side of the road, bracing myself against a rough stone wall as my legs threatened to give out. My hands flew to my head, fingers pressing hard against my temples, nails biting into my skin as if I could physically hold myself together. “Not here. Not here,” I whispered, the words trembling out of me like a mantra. My vision blurred, the bustling street around me twisting and warping into a dizzying swirl of sound and movement, suffocating and inescapable.
My knapsack slipped from my shoulder, landing on the ground with a dull thud that barely registered through the chaos in my mind. I grasped for something—anything—to anchor myself, but the thoughts came faster, spinning out of control. The crowd. The noise. The walls. What if I can’t find a way out? What if I can’t breathe? The pressure in my chest grew unbearable, and a single thought cut through everything like a knife: I’m drowning.
I squeezed my eyes shut, my fingers clutching the rough fabric of my cloak as though it could tether me to reality. Dark, cold waters surged through my mind, pulling me under in relentless waves of panic. My chest tightened, the sensation clawing at me, threatening to drown me completely. But through the chaos, a single thought pierced the storm: Calm down. You’ve made it this far. Don’t let it win now.
I forced a shaky breath in through my nose, holding it for a heartbeat before exhaling slowly through my mouth. Again. My chest hitched, the air catching in my throat, but I tried once more, willing my breathing to steady. I latched onto the smallest details—the cool air brushing against my cheeks, the rough texture of the wall beneath my hand—forcing myself to anchor in the present. I repeated this rhythm, this dance with myself until I could feel my control returning, pulling me further away from the panic.
Inhale.
Hold.
Exhale.
Slowly, the blur around me began to clear, the chaos retreating to the edges of my awareness. The noise of the street was still there, but it felt muffled now, distant and less overwhelming. I opened my eyes and fixed them on the stones in the wall before me—their uneven texture, the delicate cracks tracing through them, the faint green moss clinging stubbornly to the edges. I clung to those small details, grounding myself one breath at a time.
When my breathing finally steadied, I wiped my damp palms against my dress, the fabric cool against my skin. Bending down, I retrieved my knapsack, my fingers trembling slightly as I gripped the straps. My legs wobbled as I pushed myself back upright, but I forced them to hold. Not here, I told myself, squaring my shoulders. I can’t break here. Not in the middle of the street.
“Are you all right, love?”
The voice jolted me, sharp and unexpected, and my head snapped up. An older woman with a weathered face stood a few steps away, her expression etched with concern. Her sharp gaze softened as she took a cautious step closer, her hands slightly raised as if to reassure me. “Looking for something?” she asked gently, her tone low but probing.
My breathing hitched again, and I tore my gaze away, trying to block out her presence. Breathe. The rhythm was all I could focus on now—Inhale. Hold. Exhale. I repeated it silently, clinging to the unsteady control I was regaining.
I heard her voice again, softer this time as she repeated her question, but I couldn’t look at her just yet. My chest still felt tight, but I forced the words out. “A-an inn?” My voice wavered, but it was enough.
I glanced up hesitantly, expecting judgment or impatience in her expression, but there was none. Her face showed only curiosity.
She nodded, gesturing up towards the gate to the second level. “The Silver Blade’s not far. Just ahead, go through the gate, and to the left, you can’t miss it. Decent place for a night or two.”
I murmured a thank-you and forced myself to move, each step pulling me further from the chaos of the first level.
As I approached the gate to the second tier, I hesitated. The guards stationed there weren’t stopping everyone, but their sharp gazes swept the crowd, their scrutiny deliberate and unnerving. I adjusted my knapsack, straightened my cloak, and slipped into the edge of the flow of people moving upward. The tenuous control I had pieced together earlier wavered under the weight of their watchful eyes. But, once again, I passed unnoticed, just another face in the bustling throng.
The second tier felt different—quieter, more orderly. The streets still bustled with activity, but the chaos of the lower level was replaced by a sense of purpose. Merchants guided their carts toward tidy market stalls, their movements efficient and deliberate. The houses lining the roads stood taller here, their stone façades adorned with neat window boxes overflowing with vibrant flowers, adding a touch of life to the gray stone.
When the inn came into view, its painted sign swaying gently in the breeze, I nearly collapsed with relief.
Inside, the warmth of the common room wrapped around me like a comforting embrace. The innkeeper’s cheerful greeting felt like a haven, and after paying for a room, I climbed the narrow stairs to the safety of my quarters.
In the quiet of the small room, I sat on the edge of the bed, letting the last of the tension drain from my body. My breath was steady now, my mind quiet again. The panic had been overwhelming, but I had survived it. I didn’t drown in it. I had made it here, to Minas Tirith.
For tonight, that was enough.