A TALE OF HOPE AND LOVE

YEAR 2929

The morning was chill, more than usual. A white mist settled over the lands of Rhudaur. Word had reached them of the fate of the villages in the east. They were burning, attacked by bands of orcs and other evil creatures of darkness. The men had fled, scattered and leaderless. Now, they were tracking them.

They were the Dunedain of the North, Men of the West. Descendants of the long lost realm of Arnor, they now dwelled in secrecy and stealth, journeying long distances and hunting the servants of the Enemy wherever they found them. For long years now, Eriador and Rhudaur had enjoyed the peace the Rangers had given them but no more. Orcs and goblins constantly descended from the Misty Mountains from Redhorn and the High Pass alike. Smoke rose from the high mountain peaks and dark clouds hovered in the sky, covering the usually bright sun, sending the lands into shadow.

They were in the secret settlement of Nithiel, not very far from the Last Bridge, when the grave news reached them. A village twenty leagues eastward was burned by a group of orcs. Twenty Rangers, led by a great captain, marched out with their great bows of yew and a quiver full of silver arrows, hooded and cloaked with a long sword at their belts.

Now they were here, five leagues west of the burned village, standing upon a ridge of gray rock watching the black smoke rise from thatched barns and hay-stacked houses. They saw it all with their sharp eyes, now very sad and also filled with anger.

Their Captain bowed. The lands were still green and some way yonder they found tracks. Not orc-tracks but man. He whistled to his rangers which sounded more like an owl hoot.

When all were near, "Let us hurry. They may not be very far ahead. This way, come!"

He led them towards the forest grooves to the north, following the tracks. The other Dunedain followed him and once they had entered the forests, none could tell whether they were there or not. Their cloaks camouflaged them.

They ran with very light footfalls and they had been going thus for three hours when they heard orc-cries. The sound came from the northwest direction and they hurried towards it.

It was not far. They had almost reached the place, a small clearing. In the small clearing, there stood an old man, in his forties, holding a sharp sword with two women by his side, each holding knives in their hands. They were being pursued by orcs – small, stunted and hideous looking. The Rangers looked at them in detest. Some of them had their bows already strung. The Captain, however, raised his hand. "Daro!" he cried.

The Rangers looked at him. He whispered, "Let them come near. We do not want them to be alerted to our presence. Loose your arrows when they reach the third tree. Daihir, Sylvain, you will go and rescue the women and escort them to safety. The rest will follow me. Let us hunt some orc."

The Rangers murmured in assent.

The Orcs had reached the third tree when a hail of arrows met them. All of them found their mark downing the hideous beasts. The Captain, still hooded, brandished his sword and placed the tip upon his forehead. He slowly started walking towards the orcs who had diverted from their prey and coming towards them.

The Rangers kept loosing their arrows upon them. An orc came quite close but it met its death as the Captain swinged his sword at it, cleaving it from chest to loin. With another swing he beheaded another, sending its head crashing into the tree trunk to his left. The Rangers removed their swords too and started killing orcs at will. There were too many. Perhaps the village east was emptied of them. Twenty atleast fell by the hands of the Captain as he displayed his swordsmanship.

The two rangers who were bidden otherwise ran towards their left cleaving everyone in their path and finally reached the old man and the two women by his side.

"Come, we need to go west. Make haste." said Daihir.

The man was reluctant. "I will not flee but you may take the women."

He then took his sword and ran towards the quickly falling orcs. He blocked an attack by a huge one eyed orc and turned the sword against it, piercing its eye and then swung his sword to behead it. Another lunged at him only to be pierced in the stomach.

The Captain kept killing the remaining orcs, his sword now feared by his enemies. Very few who remained now fled towards the east. He motioned to the Rangers, all of them unhurt. "Follow them. Let no orc reach their villages. Go."

The Rangers cried "Ah Ha!" and ran towards the direction in which the orcs had fled.

The Captain came to the old man who was still fighting two orcs. The Captain stabbed one in its back, the orc's face contorting in pain. He then removed his sword, letting the orc fall to the muddy ground and beheaded the other with a single swing.

He stood there now, panting, his breath swiftening. Then he looked up. The old man stared back at him and nodded.

"It was a short battle." said the Captain.

"Aye" said the old man.

"Where were you heading to?"

"I do not know. Just westward. We were hoping to find a safer place."

"No place is safe this time in the world. Shadows lengthen after a long peace as it is wont to. The orc attacks have been numerous and they have been striking at many places."

The old man stared at him with intent eyes. "You are the Dunedain, descended from the line of kings."

The Captain nodded. "Come, we must make haste. The roads are safe no longer. You have women with you. We must take you west to Tualdor, our secret settlement. There you may tell what you have to tell."

Then they set out westward and sometime later, they met company. Two women with two men. The Captain now removed his hood. He was fair they could see with long black hair. In his eyes was wisdom and strength.

"I am Arathorn, son of Arador." He claimed.

The two women let out huge audible gasps. "Isildur's heir." said the woman on the left.

"Hush!" said Sylvain, a young ranger, still to come of age.

"My name is Dirhael. Son of Arador, you say. That is great news indeed. Arador was my friend when we were young and played and learned together. If you are who you tell you are, I offer you my gratitude, lord, and my salute. So do my wife, Ivorwen and my daughter, Gilraen."

The two of them bowed along with the old man.

"You need not bow to me thus. I am not yet the Chieftain but you may do the same to my father when we reach. For now, we must make haste."

Then his eyes went towards Gilraen. She was quite young. She had recently come of age. Her eyes betrayed a light blue colour and she had long black hair and was fairer than any lady he had beheld. He looked into her eyes which seemed to be smiling at him. She herself was smiling and her ears had grown almost red. He nodded and put his sword into his silver scabbard that hung at his waists.

"Come!" he said.

Gilraen's eyes followed him westward as he pranced. She knew she had fallen in love. He was the man she wanted to be with. Dirhael, however, looked uncomfortable; his eyes wandering from Arathorn to Gilraen.

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