A/N This was just a bug in my head, after reading so many LOTR fanfictions I thought I'd try my hand at my own. I'll do my very best not to make this a self-insert, crazy Mary Sue tenth walker who Legolas falls in love with upon seeing her deep purple eyes. I promise. The whole idea for this story was actually inspired by a cosplay cloak I got from Amazon and loved. ISO a beta if anyone is willing, let me know :) . Here I insert the obligatory I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING RECOGNIZEABLE WHATSO EVER. This is purely for my own creative fun and pastime.
Thank you –Adventurer
It had been three years to the day since she has last seen Gandalf. The old wizard was notorious for his comings and goings as he pleased, and the vagrant nature of Róven and her company meant that when they did see him, it often by chance. Well, she reflected, as much as anything was by chance with the wizard. That thought brought a small smile to her face, as she watched him laugh merrily around their small fire, blowing smoking rings of all shapes and sizes. That had always been her favorite part about him, the smoke rings. Her whole life she'd felt the pull to fire. Her mother had often caught her with burned fingertips and singed hair from one flaming experiment or another. It was the wild and free nature of it, just like her, and the wizard she supposed, that drew her in. It danced and changed, never the same yet somehow achingly familiar. The land here was like that too, ever dynamic, always growing.
Her company of Rangers had been traveling south, from Fornost towards Bree when they came upon the old man wondering down the road. It was rare for the company to be on the road to begin with, but the weather had been unrelenting. Sheets of rain had plagued them since their departure, and it was cold. Bone chilling cold – the kind of cold that froze her hair at night, and her company had been unsuccessful in their attempts to start a fire. Even Róven, with her usual affinity for setting things ablaze, had been unable to produce a single ember. It was in their soaked and miserable state that they had stumbled upon Gandalf. Oh! What a welcome sight he had been. Off the road a ways, there now burned a bright and warm fire, flickering with a promising luminescence. The dark and cold night was much less so now, and the grand booming laughter of her companions and the wizard warmed her through, as much as the fire.
Estel, who sat closest to their old friend was puffing ardently on his own pipe, trying to produce smoke rings of the same caliber as Gandalf, but failing miserably. She watched in amusement as the Ranger screwed up his face in all kinds of comical expressions, attempting to get his mouth just right so the smoke could pass through in great plumes. The rest of the company was mocking him, but gladdened for the distraction from their current journey. Orcs and other foul creatures had been roaming the lands more and more freely, and the Rangers of the North hunted them like they plague they were. Middle Earth had grown increasingly dark in the last few years, and a shadow that they were all aware of, even though not one could actually see it, extended out far into what were once tame and friendly lands.
Róven's small company had wondered far, searching out the new dangers to dispel them as they arose. Her life was on the road. She knew she could not stay in one place for long, it was not the way of her people. The thirst for blood was too strong. The burning desire to avenge their once great kingdom was hidden, deep but bright, within each of the Rangers before her. Estel, her cousin and Isuldir's heir was their leader, fearlessly leading them through the lands, as desperate as they to satisfy that thirst.
"Tell me, Gandalf!" Laughed Estel, through another ridiculous attempt at a smoke ring, "What news do you bring with you from the South?" The twinkling eyes of the wizard sobered.
"Ah, yes. News it is you would seek. I assume it is that way you are traveling?" He replied.
Halbard spoke then, recounting a tale he had heard at an inn in Bree. Merchants had been traveling on the very route the company traversed now, and not in a small convoy either. As the story went, there was a large group of wealthy men had come east from the sea bearing fine goods crafted of shells and silver. They had intended to make their way North from Bree to Fornost, to trade for dried meats. The last winter had been harsh, and the crop from the west was not bountiful, nor was there much game to hunt. They had left the Prancing Pony some weeks ago, but never arrived in Fornost. No news had come from the road of such a convoy, and it was said to be sizeable enough not to be simply missed or disregarded.
"The tale is a strange one," Recounted Halbarad, "Men from the sea seldom find their way this far east, and even less seldom is the crop here better. And for a group so large and well provisioned to simply vanish? I do not understand." He trailed off.
Gandalf peaked out from under the brim of his hat at the puzzled man, and then out at the company. There were five dark rangers gazing back at him, eyes wide and bright, eager for his response. The old man audibly chuckled, surprising all of them.
"Leave it to the Rangers of the North, to go headlong into danger and mystery and not be frightened, but excited by the very prospect!" The old man's chuckling had grown into almost full out laughter. He surveyed each pair of gloomy features. They were hardy people, descendants of both great Kings and wild nomads. What an interesting group, he mused. Four men and one woman, quietly doing what must be done for those who could not, but yet they did not do it for valor or honor. No, he thought. These people did it for their own. They satiated their own desire for adventure by tracking and hunting trouble. Middle Earth did not know it, but these wild people kept the very wild at bay.
"Here you may have your news," Gandalf said at last. "I have heard of this tale. I myself find that it is very odd indeed for such a convoy to be in this country at all. I think all is not as it seems here, my friends." He stroaked his beard thoughtfully. "I have travelled far on this road, for I find that I have the desire to see the Shire once more. The birds are quiet, too quiet. Something haunts this passage, and fell things grow bold in this cold, dark, quiet place. I think you will not have to seek out this mystery."
Róven spoke up now. "Gandalf you speak in riddles. Please, tell us what you know."
"Don't be so hasty young one." Gandalf spoke. "By my firelight you might get some reprieve from the very cold and dark I speak of." He puffed on his pipe. "Perhaps this weather is a blessing to you, for I know the way of the Rangers does not often take them on the road. Keep your blades and eyes sharp, though I know I do not need to tell you that. Travel along this route has become seldom, and I fear that the things you hunt may in turn be hunting you. I also fear that these merchants are not all that they seem. It is well that your company is here."
Róven inwardly sighed, understanding that was about as plainly spoken as Gandalf was like to get. The firelight danced on his face, and she marveled at how the wizard could sometimes look so benevolent and wise, and other times look so gaunt and worn. She supposed that her people were like that, however, catching sight of Estel's now drawn face. What a sight they were, with their features grown rough from the road and their clothes warm and functional, but not beautiful. Yet she remembered not moments ago, the mocking laugher of her companions and the joy they all felt at the sight of the wizard.
"Will you not stay and help us?" Asked Halbarad, drawing a long pull of smoke from his own pipe, his face bathed in shadows.
"No," Replied the Wizard. "I have many errands to run, and some pressing business to attend to in the Shire. The dwarves do not take tardiness kindly, and you see," He continued with a mischievous wink, "Wizards are never tardy."
Estel's eyes twinkled and glowed with mirth, as he laughed hardily and clapped the old man familiarly on the back. "It would appear not." He said. Their Chieftain now turned to address the company. "We will continue on at first light my friends. But for now, please let us do what the Wizard says. Enjoy the firelight, as we may have many dark nights ahead of us. Into the wild we will go, for the hunters are not easily hunted."
Indeed the night continued, not as dark as before, and Róven sat happily by the flickering flames, listening to the enchanting tales of those around her, but never taking her eyes of the embers. She felt powerful next to the heat and warmth, and did her best to absorb what she could of it. She felt akin to the blaze, her skin crawled with the energy it was emitting. She rose her hands, softly, just to warm them, and almost laughed in jubilation as a lick of the fire danced closer to her, as if it was reaching out to an old friend. She welcomed it, and reached out to touch it, to embrace its being. Her hands brushed through the flame, the searing heat not bothering her at all. Yes, she thought. She was akin to it. The Rangers of the North may love the dark, but she felt now, more than ever, it was because they were the light.