Disclaimer: Boromir of Gondor and all other denizens of Middle-earth do not belong to me, but to JRR Tolkien's estate and to some degree, Peter Jackson. However, the reincarnations of said denizens, as well as other modern type people, and the town of Campbell, do belong to me. I don't mind if you borrow them. . .just ask first and return them to me more or less intact.

Author's Note: Well, I did tell you that things would be seriously 'game on' in this story, and this prologue pretty much sets the tone for the rest of the story. My instinct is that this will be no more than ten chapters, including the prologue and epilogue, but I can't be sure. As ever, I can make no promises with regards to updates. . .I'm working at the polls on Tuesday, and also waiting to hear about a job I interviewed for last Friday. Footnotes are at the bottom, and oh yes, a former denizen of Middle-earth makes a (brief) appearance in this chapter. You'll know when you encounter him. (evil grin) Hope you enjoy this new offering!

Champions: First Strike

Prologue: Blood of the Innocent

October 2006

The man who called himself 'Michael Rafferty' pushed himself to his feet, inhaling deeply of the crisp air of early October in North Carolina. He glanced around his current project, smiling a little at what he saw. When Megan was a child, this was one of her favorite places to visit. He learned this the first time she brought him here, and he could understand why. . .then and now. It was a veritable wonderland for children, with a miniature train that circled the property and something that appeared to be an overly-large, mutated seesaw crossed with a peddle boat, along with other carnival rides. He was quite sure there was a specific name for it, but he hadn't heard what that might be. It was actually the miniature train (something he found far more interesting) that brought Michael out to the Petrenko farm, which sat on the county line.

Once they finished work for the day, that train would run on a track that encircled the property. Over the next three months. . .October, November, and December. . .only the decorations on the trees would change. The following weekend would see whoever was available putting up Halloween decorations up in the trees, against the trees, and wherever else they could think of. In the early weeks of November, those Halloween decorations would be swapped for Thanksgiving decorations; and in December, the Christmas decorations would come out. He would return in January, at the latest, to help disassemble the track. Emphasis on 'at the latest.' There was a strong possibility he would come out to help before then.

According to Francis Rafferty, the original patriarch of the family, Nikolai Petrenko, came to the United States nearly a hundred years earlier, following the Bolshevik Revolution. He arrived in New York, and then made his way down to North Carolina, where he settled with his wife and four children. Another two children were born after they made their home in North Carolina, and it was the only remaining child, Maxim, who now held the property. He also began the family tradition of decorating the farm for the winter season with each holiday in that three-month period.

That began during the Great Depression. In those early years, the decorations were few and far between, but the Petrenkos, like so many in that time, were a resourceful family, discovering ways to turn pine cones and even pecans into things of beauty. Megan's mother told him just how resourceful her mother and grandparents were, pointing out similar items in the Rafferty home. As the years passed, the tradition was kept up, even while his sons were serving first in Korea, then in Vietnam. Maxim Petrenko was eighty-five now, and reminded Michael rather strongly of the two hundred fifty year old pecan tree that dominated his property. . . .tall and strong and a survivor.

Maxim was leaning against the aforementioned tree, smiling faintly as Michael stepped back to view what was accomplished so far. And he had to admit, he was rather pleased the way the train was looking. The train's owner observed, "I wish we met sooner. . . you're the first person who has been able to do that on his first attempt." Michael shrugged. Usually, he would have been with the Graysons, but they were out of town. Besides, it was good to do different things from time to time. The other man continued, "You actually reminded me of my brother Christopher just now, while you were fastening the cars together. He would have loved what this has become."

Michael looked at the older man, hearing the wistful tone in his voice. Maxim explained, glancing at his twelve year old great-granddaughter, introduced as 'Tania,' who was raking leaves, "He loved children. . .was forever fixing the toys of our neighbors' children or making the toys himself. It was a crime that he never had the chance to be a father." Michael kept silent. There was no need to speak even if he knew what to say. Gavin told him that Christopher Petrenko was killed in World War II, only days before he was to come home. Maxim went on, "I like to think Chris has been watching, has seen all the upgrades over the years. But now I'm making you uncomfortable, and that's not fair to you. Megan warned me to take care of you before she left." This time, Michael rolled his eyes.

"Megan tends to be overly-protective," he replied. Not that this was a bad thing, or even aggravating. In fact, Michael tended to like it. Just like she tended to like his use of her proper name. However, unlike Megan, Michael did have to keep up appearances. On the other hand, it would seem that appearances that didn't seem to fool Maxim Petrenko, who merely smiled at him. His son Ion¹ emerged from the house in his motorized wheelchair, a pair of swords lying across his lap. Michael raised his eyebrows and asked, "Were you expecting unwelcome company, Mr. Petrenko?" Despite his dry tone, Michael's heart began to pound faster. And when Ion handed him a sword. . .it felt so right, gripping the weapon, as if something lost was returned to him. Gavin was sure, all along, that Michael was a soldier and a warrior in the past, but the proof was right here in his hand.

"These belonged to my uncle. . .he served in the Imperial Army before the Revolution. He was killed during the Revolution. . .I think Uncle Andrei's death was the final push my father needed to leave Russia. . .and Father inherited his swords. They're largely ceremonial, but I thought you'd enjoy a spar," Maxim replied. How would. . .? Maxim said softly, "I've watched you fight. You know how to use a sword. And I thought the children would appreciate seeing you fight." Again, how would he know these things? Maxim only smiled sadly and observed, "The last time I saw you, I wasn't myself. Yes, yes, Michael, I knew you in the past. Just as I know 'Boromir' is not a Russian or even Eastern European name, as Megan believed it was."

Michael swallowed hard. What went unspoken was another truth. . .Maxim Petrenko would not tell him about their shared past. Maybe he thought it was something that Michael needed to discover, or perhaps another reason. It was strange how many individuals like that were in Campbell and its environs. Which brought him to the issue of his memories. After he remembered his name, other memories broke free, including a strange blonde woman, who was not his mother. This woman, he sensed, was the key not just to his amnesia, but how he came to be in North Carolina. And then he heard the rest of the previous sentence, 'the children would appreciate seeing you fight.'

For the first time, he saw Maxim Petrenko's other great-grandchildren, grouped around their great-uncle Ion's wheelchair (he heard the youngsters calling the man 'Uncle Ion,' which is how he knew he was their great-uncle). Oh. Lovely. He hated performing in front of a crowd. But, as he learned the hard way, he was an absolute sucker for children (thank you, Gavin, for that particular lesson), and the thought of disappointing the youngsters was not a pleasant one. At least the twelve year old was in the shed, putting away her rake before joining the other children.

He was about to get an even more unpleasant surprise, however, as an unfamiliar voice said from behind him, "Oh. Are we interrupting?" Michael did an about-face, bringing up the (admittedly-ceremonial) sword in front of him, to find a black car sitting in the driveway. . .that hadn't been there even thirty seconds earlier. That was disquieting enough, but the Petrenko family farm had a gravel drive. . .they should have heard the car pulling up, at the very least. The two men standing in front of the car could have been identical twins with their black trousers and black overcoats, slicked back black hair and dark sunglasses.

But what really chilled him was the absolute certainty that neither of these individuals were humans. Oh, they inhabited the bodies of humans, but the consciousness currently in control most assuredly was not human. . .a certainty that had him stepping protectively in front of Ion Petrenko and the children, snapping over his shoulder, "Get them inside, get them away from here. Now." One of the newcomers smiled a thin, cold smile and Michael strode forward until he stood at Maxim's side, saying softly, "Get your son and great-grandchildren to safety, Mr. Petrenko. They are. . ."

"I know exactly whom. . .and what. . .they are, Boromir of Gondor. I have faced these beings before, and I do not fear them," Maxim answered steadily, adding something in Russian to his son. Ion nodded, and then herded the children toward the house. The two. . . Things. . .seemed amused, indicating that they had no interest in Ion or the children; just Michael and Maxim. There was no real reason to think they were interested in Michael, and he supposed he could have helped Ion with the children. However, the idea of allowing Maxim Petrenko to face this alone was. . .well, it just wouldn't happen. He wouldn't let himself think about what Maxim called him. Not now.

"And this time, you have no beautiful young niece to save you from my steed," Twin One said, sounding painfully amused, "However, you are not the one we seek now. Instead, you will take a message to the one called 'Lucius Wellington.' His former master calls Saruman to his side once more. Should he ignore this call, those who matter to him will suffer the consequences." Michael shuddered. He knew that name. And it wasn't from anything Gavin or Ronan said. The Thing added, "On the other hand, there are other ways to leave a message. . .and this way is sooo much more satisfying, we think."

Even as Michael was moving toward Maxim, the young girl who was raking leaves emerged from the garden shed and gasped in horror. Michael realized with a sinking heart that he had a choice. . .he could protect Maxim or he could protect the child. There wasn't time to do both. With a single, regretful look at Maxim, Michael was moving to intercept the girl, grabbing her about the waist, and pivoting until he was between the Things and the child. Maxim merely smiled at him, saying softly, "Let this be the hour that we draw swords together, Boromir of Gondor." With those fateful words, once more using the long-ago birth name of the man who now called himself 'Michael,' Maxim Petrenko gave a mighty cry and moved forward, to defend his home and his family.

He never had that chance. One of the Things raised a hand. . .and to Michael's horror, the sword in Maxim's hand turned. It turned back, until its point was pressed to Maxim's chest. The Thing in question made an odd motion with its fingers, and Tania screamed as the sword pierced his chest. But Maxim himself made not a sound, aside from a small, pained grunt, and then he fell to his knees. The ceremonial sword remained in his chest, impaling him. Michael focused on protecting the girl now sobbing and clinging to him, rather than on the sight of a man who might have become his friend collapsing to the ground; rather than on the sound of Maxim, gallant Maxim, choking on his own blood. Stay focused, he reminded himself, keeping his eyes on the Things, stay focused if you wish to keep yourself and Tania alive.

"Do you stand against us, mortal? Do you dare stand against the great Sauron? Do you truly wish to meet the same fate at the fool who dies before us?" one of the Things asked in a sibilant whisper. Michael didn't answer with words. Instead, he kept the ceremonial sword leveled at these Things (Ringwraiths, someone whispered in the back of his mind) and his free arm wrapped protectively around the little girl who was watching her great-grandfather die. He remembered his vow during Founders Day. . .that these people were worth fighting for and worth dying for. It wasn't his desire to die, but. . .

"I know what you are," he whispered, "I know what you are, and I will never fear parasites such as yourself. If this is my day to die, then I will do so proudly at the side of that man, and in defense of this child. But you won't attack me, will you? No, you need someone to carry your message. The message has been delivered. . .now begone, foul beasts! Release these men!" The Thing which killed Maxim made a sound that no human could make. . .and then, both men collapsed as if they were marionettes and their strings were cut. Michael was the sole witness. . .Tania buried her face against his side, and saw nothing after Maxim's death. It wasn't until after the Ringwraiths' unfortunate victims sank to the ground, insensible, that Michael realized not a word was said in English, but the language Gavin and Ronan called 'Sindarin.'

That would wait. He dropped the sword to the ground-yes, he knew better, but he had other responsibilities now, and gathered the little girl in his arms properly. He stroked her hair tenderly, murmuring soothing nonsense to her, as he looked around warily. It wasn't the words, but the tone, when calming skittish animals and comforting traumatized children. Something terrible was coming, if it wasn't already here, and it claimed its first victim this afternoon. If Michael had anything to say about it, Maxim Petrenko would be the last innocent to shed blood.

¹Actually, 'Ion' did come up as a Russian name, a variation of 'John,' when I was researching Russian proper names. Since I abhor going the obvious path, 'Ion' worked much better than 'Ivan.'