Chapter One
The door banged open. No one was expecting this, not on such a stormy night with a halo of lightning crowning Weathertop and the rain pounding like a bad hangover on the leaky roof of the Forsaken Inn. So, the ragged collection of farmers, trappers and highwaymen could be excused their curious looks toward the tall woman leaning against the doorjamb.
A gust of cold, wet wind whipped the edges of her drenched white dress and tore at the strands of long, golden hair that spilled out from behind her elegantly tapered ears. Several of the Men in the inn let their gazes linger on the statuesque stranger's high, pale cheekbones, their eyes narrowing as they traced the slender form under the rain-soaked gossamer gown.
But, there were also those frosty blue killer's eyes and the long fingers that gripped a gnarled staff in that practiced way that the men recognized. Maybe it was these that warned them against acting on the ale-soaked thoughts racing through their muddled brains. Then again, maybe it was the red stains on the hem of her gown and the fresh blood trickling down between the toes of her bare, muddy feet.
"Goodness me!"
The beer maid Hilla rushed forward, wiping her hands on her dishrag before running her bony fingers through her greasy red hair. "M'Lady, you're drenched to the bone! Out on a night like this, and with them goblins makin' merry up on Weathertop in the storm."
"I need to get to Bree."
The voice was an alto, melodic. Lilting, but with the same softness that a velvet glove has when stretched over an iron-mailed gauntlet. Nonetheless, the Lady let Hilla take her hand. Hilla shooed away a couple of wide-eyed farmhands away from the fireplace with her dishrag. They sprang up out of their rough-hewn oaken seats, and Hilla dragged the Lady closer to the sputtering fire. Hilla pulled up one of the empty chairs. The Lady collapsed into it, ignoring the red sparks flying about as Hilla stoked up the fire.
"Ain't no goin' to Bree tonight, m'Lady. Won't be nothin' but goblins and bandits 'twixt the Forsaken Inn and the Prancing Pony till the storm stops and the sun shines."
The Lady leaned her head against the twisted staff with its cracked quartz crystal. The frosty blue eyes closed as the pale lips mouthed a word in the Faery speech.
"Mithrandir -"
Hilla tossed the poker onto the hearth and knelt beside her. "Can I get you somethin', Lady - ?"
"Galadriel. I remain just Galadriel."