Disclaimer: This story is merely a work of fanfiction. I own only Strike, her story and anything else that was not intended by the people below. I do not own anything that is familiar are owned by J. R. R. Tolkien, the creators of 'Lord of the Rings Online', and the 'Actors of Work Productions' who created 'Born of Hope.' I have tried not to include things from the films, however, if there is, these belong to Peter Jackson. Please enjoy.

Warnings: There is bloodloss, death, and battles in this chapter. If you do not wish to read, then click away. This is an M for a reason — you have been warned.

This story is also a companion piece to 'Endings,' and I will be updating each story at the same time. You do not need to read 'Endings' however I would encourage you otherwise you might not understand what is going on.

I

Strike

21st of January, 3017

Snow fell, thickening until all of Arnor was covered. Winter was a constant this far north, troubling the population little, for it was in their nature, and yet, in the eternal darkness, no fires flickered. Sitting crossed legged under the ruins of what would have been someone's home, Strike tested the blade of her knife. Once, the sharpness would have sliced right through her thumb, now it scratched along calloused skin, like a snake trailing along the earth.

Her hood, while covering her face from the burning wind, was still a bright red, her flesh slowly turning to ice against the cold. While most people would have lit a fire, or at the very least, wrapped a scarf around their face, Strike knew the dangers of such actions. A fire caused orcs to come down from the ruined capital; sweat collected in the scarf would draw out a scent, and with it, things worse than orcs would follow. So she sat, barely moving, as the snow fell around her. She didn't dare breath through her mouth, and instead, she drew air through her nose, turning her lungs to icicles.

Under normal circumstances, Strike would have been accompanied by her brother, but Halbarad had been missing for several months, and her company was already stretched far enough across Arnor to give her a hand. Currently, and as far as she knew, she was the only Warden still in Arnor's high-strung borders; the only protection the local populous had against the things that went bump and slit their throats. Not that many people chose to live in the highest regions of the Northern Kingdom. Apart from a couple of the Dúnedain, and an indigenous people who had lived in the northern land long before Elendil arrived, no human dared to enter Arnor. To most sensible folk, Arnor was a ghost-kingdom, and to the even wiser, none ever travelled during the winter.

But for Strike, she had little choice, and as she sat, the snow began to dampen her clothes. The woman replaced her blade. There was no use keeping it unsheathed. She supposed if one were to come across her, they would have been shocked to find her. Greasy haired, black strands tucked down her neck, and face as grimy and dirty as an urchin found in Minas Tirith, no one would suspect that she was a Warden of Annúminas. That was if there was no bow strung on her back.

It was long, as expected with her unusual height, and was as strong and hearty as the oak it was carved. The arrows, while strapped around her waist, were tipped with a brutal poison, and as the Warden shifted, she caught a bird struggling against the wind. It was a hawk, and as Strike watched it, her stomach rumbled.

She looked an awful lot like her people, black-haired, tanned skinned and with deep grey eyes. Her height betrayed her as a Dúnedain to regular folk who knew how to look, for no woman of common heritage stood at six foot four. Her clothes were rugged but well made, ruined over some years. Compared to the styles and fashion of the South, the Northern peoples didn't bother themselves with flouncy dresses and tightly strung corsets, merely because the winters never permitted them.

They were always moving too, so for that reason, Strike wore a long-sleeved olive tunic and breaches. Her coat fell around her, a warm cloak over that, and her boots protected that. Only the ring on her thumb betrayed her of some nobility, the large green stone bright in the dark light.

Shifting, Strike licked her lips. Her stomach rumbled — loudly. All of the animals had migrated southward, etching closer to Bree and other warmer places. As such, meat was scarce, and everyone was beginning to become creative. From birds to orc meet, food was starting to run out.

Which was why, Strike rose, shaking the blanket of snow from around her shoulders, and strung her bow. Snatching up an arrow, she began to pull the weapon taut. However, she paused, eyes narrowing. Lowering the weapon, Strike broke her stillness. Her head cocked as she listened.

The wind grew suddenly, shifting in her direction, and before she could even breath, Strike turned, an arrow landing dead in the orc's head. Two more surrounded her, and as their leader keeled back, black blood spurting from between his eyes, the others growled. They were upon her, weapons jagged and surprisingly fast, even through a snow storm.

Something burned in Strike's stomach as she dodged, suddenly falling back to avoid decapitation. But as soon as she was out of the sword's way, her knife flipped up into her hand. Unlike the elven blades which were elegant beyond comparison, the blade carved by the indigenous population who lived in the mountain caves.

It was short, making the stab personal and close, and carved from bone; protection symbols etched into the handle. As such, black blood splattered across Strike's tunic as she grabbed the orc's head, spinning him around and slicing open its neck. His friend came for her, leaping high onto her back, horrible teeth slicing through her shoulder. A wild scream broke the endless night, the snow shifting as Strike slipped. Together the two fell, hands scratching at each other as they struggled to get free. Even as they tumbled, the Warden could feel the orc's infected saliva slowing making its way into her bloodstream.

It burned, twisting and turning through her, making her vision spotty, and as such, the orc won somehow managed to snatch Strike's knife from her grasp. She never saw him slam it down into her thigh, nor did she feel it. Although even though her vision was spotty, the world spinning on its axis as they turned, she saw the cliff edge.

Her arm latched out, scratching against the stone, nails threading as she tumbled down the cliff. Somehow, Strike found a ledge, and through her pain, she grinned. Quickly, and with as much strength she could muster, Strike pushed the orc away, kicking him with all her strength. It was only then that she felt the knife, and she screamed as a red hot pain travelled up her body. Her screams mingled with the orc's fearful cry as he lost this grip, his talons slicing through her hip like butter. He fell, head smashing like a pumpkin when he landed.

For a long while, Strike hung, her arms not strong enough to pick herself up. In the sky, she saw the hawk break free, diving down towards her. It was a Sparrowhawk, strong-winged and beautiful. It brought a smile to the Warden's lips, and then she was falling, body crashing off stone like a rag doll, and then Strike knew no more.

She awoke several times, each time frozen and almost burning.

The first time she awoke to a lynx lingering over her, maw black from orc flesh. It's great eyes surveyed her, choosing which part of her to eat. She raised an arm and growled, trying to shove the beast away, but her body failed her.

The second time she awoke, the lynx was gone; shoulder torn, a chunk missing. Someone was carrying her, furry arms holding her tight to her chest. She felt bone trinkets slap against her cheek, a wolf's howl rattling in her skull. She fell back into a blackening sleep, the wind howling around them, body screaming.

When she finally awoke, sage burned her nose, and her body was on fire. She lay on a straw bed, and she was staring up at the roof of a low cave. It was so close, that if she wished, Strike could touch it. But she didn't, not wanting to ruin the patterns and art that decorated the ceiling, the red-purple paint a sharp clarity against the yellow candlelight. Somebody had stripped her down to her undergarments, the binding across her breasts lose as a pair of coppery hands rubbed salve into her wound.

Those hands travelled up to an elderly man, his hair so dark it put Strike's black hair to shame. It was loose and wild, curling around the Northerner's face, giving him an almost feral look. Coins and bone trinkets hung around his neck, and as Strike studied his face, a small smile pierced her lips.

'Oge,' she breathed, addressing her saviour in his native tongue. 'I should have known,'

Oge, Chief of the Arnornian Yuuni smiled.

In the common tongue, and in the southern regions of the world, the Yunni were Northern Walkers, a group of people who travelled between Anor and the Blue Mountains, living in-between the caves and hidden wonders of the world.

They knew how to live in the mountains better than any dwarf, and lived on a lifestyle suited for trade and trust. To Gondorians, the tribes were barbarians, to anyone in the North and with a well-tuned mind, the Yuuni people were their allies.

Sitting back, Oge took Strike's outstretched hand, giving it a squeeze, flesh against flesh. His palms were wet with a greenish salve, something mysterious that Strike knew she'd never been able to understand.

'Greetings, child,' Oge breathed, looking softly at her, much like how a father looks at a child. 'You gave me a scare. We thought you were dead.'

'We?' Strike asked, but her voice sounded croaky, and she suddenly realised how dry her mouth was.

'My wolf,' Oge said, 'he sits in the corner,'

Rising, Strike sat up, hand slapping fiercely across her skull as the world spun. She squeezed her eyes, waiting for the moving to stop. It didn't, increasing suddenly, making her cry out. Oge's hand tightened, hard, and he spoke to her in a calming tone, trying to centre her. She lay back down, slowly, until her back lay on the straw.

'Wait here,' Oge whispered, and let go of her hand.

As soon as he did, the spinning grew worse, and Strike covered her eyes with a hand, reaching out like a mad woman with the other. It wasn't long before Oge returned, his hand slipping back into her own. This time, Strike didn't open her eyes, and a second later she tasted something cold trickle down her throat. Greedily Srike drank the water, eyes rolling back in her closed eyes as it washed away the dry feeling. She removed the bow and gave Oge's hand a firm squeeze.

'Thank you,'

Oge said nothing, and then,

'Sleep. Rest,'

The Yunni grinned, flashing the whites of his teeth, his voice comforting against Strike's ears. Over the next few hours, Strike faded in and out of sleep, and when she woke once more, her vision no longer spun. Instead, her ribs hurt. Looking down, she saw that Oge had slipped a shirt over her, and she'd stopped shivering. A part of her worried, fearful that hypothermia had set in, but her eyes caught the firepit, the curling flames, and she immediately relaxed.

Frostbite and hypothermia were common among folk who had no idea what they were doing, and for Strike, she'd heard tales of feet and hands falling off since before she was born. She didn't particularly want to become one of those stories. Eventually, she managed to sit up, wincing sincerely, sucking the air through her teeth as she did so. Oge was in the corner, bowed low over some stew, and he looked up, grinning as she crouched.

'A letter came for you,' he said, as she came over, hands extended to the fire.

Frowning, Strike excepted the letter Oge gave to her. The paper was bubbly, made from recycled paper, something only ordinary people did. Carefully, she peeled off the wax, nothing the empty seal, and after a moment's hesitation, opened it. There was, of course, only one person who the letter was from; however, hundreds had tried to fake it.

January 20th, TA 3017

Strike,

I require your assistance in Bree. Meet me outside the gates on the seventh of next month. You will be able to find me easily.

I will not wait.

Strider.

Folding the letter back up, she grinned. It was him all right. There was only one person who would write a letter that gruff. It was only then that she noticed the bird who sat on Oge's shoulder, the yellow of the creature's eye. It looked at her, giving her a slight, piercing glare as if trying to work out if she was the right messenger.

'The bird is smart and strong.' Oge insisted, indicating to the bird that watched him curiously, breaking Strike away from her letter. 'Such is the nature of the sparrowhawks.'

'Yes,' Strike agreed, folding the letter, turning it in between her breast and her wrap. 'So they say,'

The Sparrowhawk cawed and rubbed his neck against Oge's head. The old man shook his head and threw something in Strike's direction. She caught it easily, bringing the dead animal into her lap, watching the blood spool down her hands. A knife came next.

'I heard all Dúnedain know how to skin rabbits,' the old man insisted, and even before he'd finished speaking, Strike had slipped the knife between the neck and the head, slicing down.

The rabbit's head lay in the bowl that Oge kicked to her, the ears lolling slightly as more blood came. Neck she started on removing the fur, running her hands into the creature's body, pulling back the skin revealing flesh, Eventually, after a short struggle, she managed to pull the fur away from the rabbit's legs. The tail also came off; the legs next. A sickening squelching sound echoed around the cave, as the entrails and unusable body parts landed in the bowl, and the wolf's ears flicked up at the sound. Next, she washed the creature, massaging off the blood in a small wooden bucket, until it was clean. Then she began to slice it up, keeping the flesh on the bone. It was all thrown into the pot, seasoned with a bit of salt and reeds.

For a regular person, such as someone who lived in a town or village, their animals were skinned upon arrival, the process disgustingly taboo for a woman to do. But there were no shop stalls this far north, and so, the Dúnedain and the Yuuni knew how to skin things easily.

She washed her hands in clean water, before looking up at Oge. The rabbit was slowly cooking, a pleasant aroma filling the cave, making Strike's mouth fill with saliva. She swallowed it down and shook her head.

'How long until I can leave?; she enquired.

The old man held up a hand.

'Four days,' she asked, and Oge shook his head.

'Weeks,' he replied, voice gruff but quiet.

Strike closed her eyes; she would make it two.

Dear Readers,

So, compared to 'Endings' this is quite short. For those of you wondering, yes this is a companion to Endings. I apologise for taking so long, everything just went a bit nuts after Christmas. I hope you all had a good December and New Year. I hopefully will have a better schedule this year.

From,

Lily