"Gandalf, what are the Vuritari?"

"I beg you pardon, who?" The old wizard chewed on his pipe and lifted a quizzical eyebrow towards the hobbit.

Bilbo Baggins tried to keep the sigh out of his tone as he repeated himself. "The Vuritari. I read about them in a book once and I always wondered what they were, and who better to ask than, well, you?"

"Hmm, let's see…" The leaves shuffled lazily in the forest breeze. Bilbo swayed with the limber clip-clop, clip-clop of his pony while waiting patiently for the old wizard to answer.

"Ah, yes! The Vuritari!" Gandalf exclaimed. The memory returned to him like a long-lost relative. That is, a relative he was not very fond of, apparently, for Gandalf's eyebrows locked together and he frowned.

"Two thousand years ago," he began, "the Vuritari, so the legend goes, were once part of the Dúnedain race of men. One day, in a small village somewhere in Arnor, a man came to their land by the name of Rorgorath. He proudly boasted of having spoken to the spirits of the Netherworld. They had in turn disclosed to him the way to elevate oneself into purer, higher beings.

"Normally, Rorgorath would have scoffed at as a rabble-rousing fool, but he arrived upon a time of great hardship and famine for the Dúnedain. Alas, for those desperate for relief from their plight, Rorgorath offered a tempting salvation. And so a following of twenty men and women formed around Rorgorath, who promised his followers the secret of spiritual enlightenment. They called themselves the Vuritari.

"Rorgorath and his cult – that would be the most fitting word for it – predictably drew ire and suspicion from the other menfolk. Rorgorath himself particularly made them ill at ease; once or twice came reports of a demonic tongue being spoken at the Vuritari camp outside the village. Some quietly declared him a wielder of black magic, but most thought him a mere scoundrel and fraud.

"One day, a young boy - a Vurtitari follower - approached his father's bed while he slept and slit his throat. His only word of defense: 'My father would not see the light. He was too weak, so I struck him down'. The appalled villagers ran the cult out of town. They were forced to flee over the hills and deep into the forest, where they formed their own community.

"The Vuritari fell out of common tongue until the year 861, when Eärendur, the King of Arnor, mysteriously died, prompting a civil war that would divide Arnor till its fall. Some say that a cloaked assassin hired by a local chieftain killed the King; and indeed, upon his deathbed, the chieftain supposedly mentioned the late Eärendur in his dying breath, along with a man called Surran of the Vuritari.

"If Surran was a Vuritari mercenary, he was not the last. When the Wainriders of the East swarmed into the lands of Rhonovian, they rode with a mysterious figure called Djungil against the armies of Gondor. Although Earnil II later annihilated the Easterlings and drove them out of Gondor, many a men spoke about the feats of Djungil. It is said that at one point in battle, he struck down at least 50 soldiers at once and bested them all himself. He would hack down men as one would hack down weeds. One soldier claimed that in the midst of battle, the fearsome Djungil declared his origins: he was a Vuritari, and claimed that his people were all warriors, trained from birth and as skillful as himself.

"The ludicrous cult had long been forgotten; soon the Vuritari became known through whispers about the land as a matchless warrior people. The legend grew to be as formidable as the Vuritari themselves. The Vuritari trained their children from infanthood, so they said, to become cold-blooded killers. Others claimed that they never met their equal because they were not mere humans; they were elves rejected by the Valar because of their violent nature, or demons in human form."

An involuntary shiver went through Bilbo's spine. "What do you believe, Gandalf?" Bilbo asked softly.

"About their nature?" Gandalf asked. "I believe that there is a great deal of magic and forces in this world, Bilbo Baggins, some beyond even my own understanding. Rorgorath was believed to be nothing but a charlatan. But it is possible that he learned how to contact spirits in the Netherworld and bind them to human vessels, accounting for their hosts' enhanced strength and speed as well as a prolonged life. But you must understand, I do not tend to dwell into such terrible, wicked sorcery."

"Oh no, no no, I d-didn't mean to imply that – "

"It's quite alright, Bilbo," Gandalf replied casually. "I know you meant nothing by it."

They were quiet for a moment. Then: "Gandalf, I read that none can survive an encounter with even one Vuritari."

"Nonsense, you're only saying that because no one ever has.*" Gandalf smirked at the fearful hobbit. "Rest assured, Master Baggins, that the Vuritari have not been seen for many a century now. They have likely isolated themselves to their commune, the location of which no one knows. It is said they fear interaction with the outside world because they find it 'spiritually impure'." He coughed on his pipe with a mocking 'pah!'

"So…" Bilbo said slowly, "it is unlikely that we would ever come across one."

"Most unlikely," Gandalf reassured him, laying a gentle smile upon the hobbit. He suddenly paused. "Unless…"

"Unless what?" Bilbo involuntarily sucked in a mouthful of air. His eye bulged wide.

Gandalf puffed a wispy white smoke ring. "The Vuritari are known to have a severe code of conduct. If one were to violate such a code, it would be pain of death or -"

"I don't understand," Bilbo stammered. "What does that have to do with-"

"Or banishment," Gandalf finished curtly. "Punishment by exile." Seeing Bilbo's pale fale, he added, "But I doubt that such a ruthless culture would resort to something so light if a warrior were to egregiously violate a law. So don't you fret, Bilbo Baggins. There are more dangerous things on our journey to worry about."

"Like what?"

"Like a certain hobbit's unquenchable curiosity."

Bilbo felt his cheek burn scarlet as the old wizard chuckled. A light rain began to fall.


Ah, do I miss those days with Gandalf.

There was not but the sound of a morning lark in Mirkwood. The trees loomed over, like silent guards watching, watching his every step; no breeze wandered through the branches to swish the leaves. They stood in chilling solemnity, a grand temple of greenery.

Bilbo did not realize how forlorn the woods truly were until the lark began to sing. The silence stabbed him with a thousand blunted needles. Bilbo's throat seized when he thought of how alone and exposed he was without the Company. He was the only creature for miles. With every crunch, crunch, crunch of his steps followed a loud da-dum in his chest that echoed in the forest. Bilbo swallowed; his hands were moist so he made a fist on his left hand on which he wore a small golden ring.

Remember, Bilbo. He closed his eyes. You are invisible. No one can see you. You are safe so long as it is on. You are –

THUMP.

Bilbo toppled and knock went his head on the hard forest floor. He groaned, in pain from the shock as well as from an ache that oozed into his back.

An inch from his left hand laid the ring. Bilbo instinctively snatched it up. About to stand, Bilbo realized that there was something thin and metal on his neck. He shivered; it felt icy on his skin

"Slowly now, make no haste, stand up."

With every word, Bilbo felt his breath catch. An elf? No, the tone was as harsh and cold as the sword the being wielded.

"Arms out. Turn around."

Bilbo obeyed and slowly he rotated to face his assailant.

Before him stood a woman, dressed in dark cloth and leather. Her sword was so close to his face, he felt that if he took a breath, the tip would quiver.

"Who are you," she demanded, "and what is your business here."

He again jumped at the harsh tones. Clearly no elf as there was no fairness about her. Her muddy eyes was as stern as steel. Her face, lined and pockmarked, held no sign of warmth. She wore pants, a great surprise to his hobbit sensibilities. He had never seen a woman wearing trousers like a man before.

"I have not cut out your tongue yet," the woman said gruffly. "Speak, or die."

"I- I'm B-Bilbo Baggins, m'lady. I am a hobbit."

"A hobbit." Her eyes narrowed. "Never met one before."

"Well that's alright, not many people have, I've found." Bilbo tried to smile despite himself.

"And what business," she asked, "does a hobbit have in the dark forests of Mirkwood?"

Bilbo gulped. "I- I- um, my own."

The blade now was mere inches away from his throat. Da-dum, da-dum galloped his heart. "I ask you again," she hissed. "What. Is. Your. Business."

Bilbo stammered. "Please, I have a home, Bag-end. In the Shire. Please, I want no trouble with-"

"The Shire?" She frowned. Bilbo paused, but his heart continued to gallop with such intensity that he feared it spring from his chest.

The woman's eyes suddenly widened. Smirking, she moved back, but kept the sword tip pointed at Bilbo's throat.

"Tell me, hobbit" – with a menacing smile – "and answer me straight. Are you traveling alone."

The dwarves' faces flashed in his mind. "No, yes, I am traveling alone."

Her eyes narrowed. She paused. Then, with a whisper: "Erebor."

Bilbo stiffened and his jaw twitched automatically.

The woman grimaced. "You know the name. Now I have no patience for games and liars. You are traveling with a band of dwarves, are you not?"

Bilbo's palm dampened. She knew. How? Her sword pointed tauntingly at his neck. "…I am."

"And where are they now?"

"Taken." Bilbo had no choice but to tell the truth. "By the Woodland Elves. I avoided capture."

"Did you now?"

"No one thinks to notice a hobbit."

She was silent for a moment. Her sword, though still aloft, fell a fraction of an inch.

Bilbo suddenly felt overpowered by a memory of Gandalf telling Thorin, "You are being hunted." We are being hunted…The realization then hit him like a stone.

With a burst of courage, "Are you…you are the one hunting us." Bilbo asked.

One eybrow raised, she leveled a glare at him. "Sorry?"

"Gandalf- uh I mean," – Oh gods, just tell her everything, why don't you? – "we thought that we are being hunted by someone. Multiple someones."

She let out a mirthless chuckle. "If I'd hunted you, you'd not have come so far. And I have no interest in pursuing dwarves and hobbits." She bit the word "hobbits" like it was a nut. Bilbo flinched. "And I serve no interest but my own, if that was your next question."

Bilbo felt his questioned answered. But wait, why did it satisfy him? That could've easily been a lie; if she were an assassin, she certainly would lie to him, and she'd be damn good at it too.

Shiik. She sheathed her sword. "Fear not, your friends will be safe for the night," she said tersely. "I am Mirra. I have food and drink at my camp."

With a flourish of her cloak she stalked away into the forest. Bilbo stood dumbfounded for a moment. Then a lurching grumble slipped from his stomach.

Oh, not now. He had not eaten properly for weeks now, but now he was supposed to trust the food of a strange woman who had just held a blade to his throat? He bit his lip and let out an exasperated sigh. He looked down at his stomach. "If trouble comes of this, I blame you."

And he followed her through the temple of ominous green.


Night fell over the forest and the pair sat in silence around a red cackling fire. Mirra gave Bilbo dried meat and fruit. He gave the food a withering, speculative look before devouring it all.

Mirra smirked. "I'm surprised you trust the food I give you, hobbit."

"I dfon't," he responded, his mouth full for the first time in what seemed an eternity. "Fut, I hafve't eaten in sfo long dat I goodn't carelesf if it was pfoisoned."

She nodded.

As Bilbo finished his dinner, they sat in silence. The forest loomed even more intimidatingly beyond the light of the fire. The stillness was unnerving, but Bilbo had gotten more used to it. That did not mean that he still did not jump when the firelight threw an occasional shadow onto the tree trunks.

Some time later, he broke the spell of the still, "So do you know Thorin?"

A flash in her eyes that did not come from the firelight. "Yes." She said coolly, not meeting Bilbo's stare. "A long time ago."

"How?"

"What does it matter to you?" She shot back, a razor in her voice.

Bilbo flinched but pressed the issue. "I'm just curious. To you, I was just another unimportant wanderer in the forest until I mentioned the Shire. You realized what I – what we – were up to, and you seem to know almost as much about it as one of the company itself. And not only that, now that you know my business, I'm sharing your food and fire."

Her eyes narrowed, but she did not stop him.

He continued. "So what I want to know is, why do you know so much? And why did you show sympathy towards me? And I also want you to convince me that you are not some Orc servant or hired assassin."

Mirra snorted, but not as coldly as before. "If I were some Orc servant or assassin, what makes you think that anything I tell you is true?"

Bilbo shrugged. "I don't know. But for some reason, I believe you honest. Now I want to know why."

Mirra did not respond for a long time. Bilbo was suddenly aware of his breathing and made an effort to breathe evenly.

Then quietly, he heard her murmur, "you realize this is no short children's tale, right? I have lived for over a hundred years and I have known Thorin for most of them."

His eyebrows shot up. "You are over a hundred? You look no older than the dwarves!"

"Who in turn are also well over a hundred," she said, amused by his naiveté. It then struck Bilbo how her face was weathered, sprinkled with pockmarks and wrinkles. Her brown eyes, though fierce, were dulled and old. She seemed like someone who's seen much of the world, almost too much.

Bilbo said, "I have time. I doubt that even a dozen dirty, stubborn dwarves will rot in an elvish prison."

She nodded, smiling at his joke. Then she took a deep breath. "It began long ago…"