reetings. My name’s Etharei.

ecently made Corporal of the Ehtyar Division of the Rangers and the Minister of Culture of Minas Tirith. You may have seen me tottering around carrying over-sized newly-polished trumpets, or if you’re the more adventurous type, I would be that person staring at the disappearing backs of a group of charging men, saying “Well, if we must” before emitting a terrorising battle-cry, whipping out a spear and overtaking said men.

y story is a simple and rather uninteresting one. I was born and raised in an isolated village in western Lossarnach, near a tributary of the River Sirith. The village’s name was Stone’s Throw, but I’m afraid it’s not there anymore. But before we get to that, I’ll just mention a few more details I have five siblings, though my eldest sister had gotten married and left before I was born, and I’m the youngest. My father was the village blacksmith, and earned an honest living. We had a roof over our heads and food on the table, which meant that compared to our neighbours we were fairly well off. Plus, father could read. He taught all of us, of course, but only I seemed to have inherited his deep interest in the old stories and books. Any peddler that passes by knows to stop over at the house if he had books or scrolls to give in exchange for a dry bed and warm meals.

was especially close to my father when I was growing up. I was his ‘special one’. Of all my siblings I am the only one with an Elvish name. ‘Etharei’ is apparently from the Sindarin worn ‘ethuil’ (meaning ‘spring’) and the Quenya word ‘äré’ (meaning ‘sunlight’). The story goes that when my high-pitched newborn wailing announced my arrival into the world, the dark clouds of the spring showers cleared outside, and a shaft of light shone through the open window onto mother and I. I personally doubt that it really happened that way, but I don’t mind the name, and the story’s rather sweet.

had a rather normal childhood, at least the special type of normal associated with a young girl growing up with four older brothers. Marcus, Tomas, Drunin, Jonath. I grew up expecting little more in my future than a good husband, a house, and a lot of children. If I was lucky I would get a garden, and not have to toil out in the paddy fields. I was obedient, and satisfactorily hardworking. I had brothers who made sure that anyone seeking to take advantage of me suddenly found life very unpleasant. But there had been always been another side to me, the surface of which would sometimes see the light of day when sparring with my brothers using quarterstaves, or listening to my father’s stories of the glorious days of our people. Yet this happened rarely enough to be ignored as childish flights of fancy, at least for a while.

ut even in our remote section of the world, war eventually touched us. Mounted men came, calling for able-bodied men to join Lord Forlong’s army to defend Gondor against the forces of the Dark Lord. All my brothers went. We had moved away from Stone’s Throw by then; my father was getting too old for his trade, so we had sold the smithy and moved to my oldest brother’s farm in the neighbouring village of Grey Rocks. Lucky thing, too, for one day we woke up in horror to find a thick column of black smoke rising from roughly where the village was, and a handful of refugees told us that a handful of orcs had appeared and had torched the village.

orried for my safety (I was barely an adolescent girl), mother had arranged for me to live with her brother’s family in a town not far from Minas Tirith itself, where it was presumably more protected. My father heartily agreed, saying that if the Tower of Guard fell we would all be lost anyway. So it was that one warm summer day, I bade a tearful farewell to my mother, father, and sister (who lived with us after her husband went off to Lord Forlong’s army), then set out with two other families heading in vaguely the same direction.

n the fourth evening of our journey, we were attacked. We were slowing down and looking for a good camp site for the night when out of nowhere came this lone Orc. It was a half-starved wreck, who obviously thought that attacking a group in which the only men present were either at the crawling stage or had long since gone to seed gave him a good chance for a meal. It would have been too, had it not been for two things. As a parting gift, my father had given me a sturdy throwing knife (when he was younger he had made the occasional weapon, usually when he still had quite a bit of heat left in the forge at the end of the day and nothing urgent to do). And one of the women had been about to discard this long length of wood, so I took that and smoothed it down with my knife into a rough (but sturdy) staff for walking. When the Orc leapt out of the bushes, growled, and eyed a crying toddler in a basket, something in me went click. Before I knew it, I was staring down at the body of the Orc, staff in my hand and the throwing knife buried in its throat.

he women stayed away from me after that. I found it quite strange, actually. Before the incident, I had been nothing more that an extra back to help wash the clothes and prepare food. I hadn’t thought about it- it was what girls did. A part of me was horrified at having killed something, even if that something was a creature of the Dark Lord and had us all in its menu. But I was startled to discover that a part of me felt a grim satisfaction at seeing my knife in the Orc’s throat. Something had awoken, and it wanted to kill. I wasn’t fully aware of it at the time, but it was my first taste of bloodlust. Of course, being young I was anxious and worried, and though I retrieved the knife and cleaned it, I tried to touch it as little as possible.

othing much happened for some time afterward. I eventually reached my uncle’s house, where we weathered the storm of the war in an underground cellar with an entrance hidden by loose floor tiles. After the war, letters from home said that a few fields got burnt, but other than that Grey Rocks got through the war unscathed. I was deeply saddened to hear that I would never see Marcus again, but at least my other three brothers returned home. My mother mentioned that my father, who had been getting slight colds for the last few years, was getting worse, but apparently they were optimistic about it. I worried over them, of course, but I had my own problems. I tried to re-immerse myself in the practicality of everyday life- cooking, sewing, cleaning. I even tried getting interested when my aunt took me through town to look for a prospective husband. But at the end of the day, no matter how tired my muscles got or my back ached, I would stare up at my bedroom ceiling, and still feel the need. The need to kill.

told no one. But I knew in my heart that I could not stay in that town. I couldn’t go home, either. I couldn’t go back to being content with my life, not with this monster inside me. So I asked my uncle if I could move to the City, for a little while. We had relatives there. I could get a small job, earn enough to obtain medicines for my father before I returned home. I also wrote to my parents. They all agreed, and soon I was gaping at the great mithril walls of the City as I nervously entered it with what few possessions I had on my back. I had gotten rid of the staff some time ago, but hadn’t had the heart to sell my father’s knife.

fell in love with the White City at first sight. And though I was homesick, and nervous, and lost in a torrent of conflicting emotions, I knew deep in my heart that I was right to go there. I lodged with a widowed aunt and her children, who welcomed me warmly but told me a no-nonsense tone that she expected me to be a proper woman and do my share of the work at home (she had only one daughter and six sons, so there was a considerable amount of housework to do). Cut from the same cloth as my mother, she had very firm ideas about the role of women in the world- to work in the home. As I had been a very obedient daughter all my life, I surprised even myself when I went into a Pub that night.

eading home after an hour of sitting in a dark corner with a glass of juice (I was too nervous to talk to anyone, especially as quite a few of the patrons openly wore weapons). I glanced in time at a puddle on the ground and saw that there was someone right behind me. My hand reached for the throwing knife sheathed in my belt when a hooded figure stepped out of the shadows in front of me.

“his young lady is armed, Kole, and we wouldn’t want to have you going home in several pieces, would we?” the cloaked figure said, obviously addressing the person behind me. I couldn’t help noticing that his hand was not too far from the hilt of his sword. I heard some muttered curses behind me, the sound of running feet, and turned around in time to see a retreating figure duck back into the Pub. I turned my gaze back at the stranger, only he too was gone.

fter a rather loud lecture from my aunt about a proper girl not being out in the City at such an hour, I headed to the bedroom that I shared with the only other young female in the household. I told my cousin about what had happened, and she said that my ‘rescuer’ had probably been a Ranger.

ot having heard of them before, I paid a visit to their headquarters the next day. Before the sun had set, I had bought a secondhand dented buckler for my armour and had enrolled. Training was vigorous and difficult, but hours of mutilating sandbags and dummies eased the unrest in my heart. I tried hiding it from my family for a while, but eventually I came out and confessed. My aunt did not take it well, and neither did my mother (though she at least was more discreet). Eventually I moved out to live with a good friend and fellow Ranger, Muinacamar Sergeant Estrel Tindome.

ife as a Ranger made me happier than I had thought I’d ever be. Though I still hope to settle down eventually one day with a husband, house, and hearth, I’ve realised that I’m young and free to do as I please, in the summer of my life. I’ve traveled abroad, to lands my father only dreamed of. I’ve met many Gondorians and non-Gondorians who will be friends for life (including a Dwarf Lord with a great sense of humour named Annolori and an Elf named Eithil who made me aware of my allergy to daffodils). I’ve come to terms with my bloodlust, and can control most of the time. I’m still confused by the two side of my nature, but perhaps I’ve come to think of myself as a walking paradox. After all, how many people do you know who can delight in disemboweling orcs and spend countless hours getting lost in the clothing racks at Mental Harvey’s (something I do weekly with Theatrical Director Curunin)?

f course, not all turned out so good. My father recently departed this world, his lungs finally failing him after years of being gradually weakened by colds. Fortunately I managed to get home in time, and he was so proud at his daughter being a Ranger and Minister of Culture that my mother decided that her opinions about it weren’t worth sharing. He named the spear that Commander Trey had given me on my first day Inziladun, after Tar-Palantir the last Faithful King of Numenor. After his funeral my brother Jonath suddenly ran away from home, leaving no explanation as to where he was going or why.

eturning to the City, I buried myself in work and dance classes. I’ve come to terms with the loss now, I think, but the grief has embedded itself somewhere in my soul, and until some questions are answered it’s a mucky whirlpool in there. Incidentally, the Ranger who rescued my moneybag (and possibly me)? He goes by the name of Naith Liathant, I’m sure you would have heard of him.

ay the White Tree forever bloom!

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