"I came as swiftly as I could," Faramir replied, sweeping his cloak from his shoulders. He nimbly moved past of the other rangers, comforted to see familiar faces surrounding him. It was a worry each time he returned. He would also notice one less man, one less name. The lives of the Dunedain were too often short despite the longevity granted them by their blood, ended early by sword or arrow or any number of troubles they faced upon a daily basis. It served as a reminder to him that his youth, touched with grief, was not all that unbearable in the face of what his kindred here faced and fought. They knew loss more poignantly than near any, were forced to become as familiar with it as life. "Forgive me, I fear your letter arrived later to me than either of us might have wished."
Mardil waved a hand, guiding his captain into a small room littered with maps and charts. Faramir followed, nodding to a familiar ranger as he passed. "Worry not," Mardil corrected gently, a small smile following. It occurred distantly to Faramir that he could count each of Mardil's smiles on his hand and still have fingers left over, "We are just grateful for your return. We have not heard word from those in Arnor, but we still have hope they may aid us. Long has it been since last we spoke to our brethren, I do not know what numbers they boast nor what conditions they have faced."
Faramir nodded in understanding. "What little I know of the Rangers of the North dwells in history books and legend, in myth and tale. I am ashamed I know not more, if anything. Do oft you communicate with them? Speak to them, aid each other?"
Madril gave a swift shake of his head, "No. They must go about their own business, their own duties. I cannot speak as to what assails them in the North, what has through the ages, but the Men of the West have always dwelt there and always shall, I suppose." A shrug followed, albeit a thoughtful one. "I cannot think of when last we thought to try and seek their council, but I hope our common blood might lend us their aid, even if they would wish otherwise. They are said to value their privacy."
"As are you," Faramir smiled, folding his arms over his chest, "For that I should think us all to have common purpose." Despite the curiosity and worry that clouded his journey to Ithilien, as a warm breeze swept his hair Faramir found himself relaxed, content. He had always cared for Minas Tirith, would always call the gleaming towers his home, but in Ithilien he found himself truly comfortable. It was as if the burdens that haunted his steps within the gates of the White City had faded, though to be replaced with other worries, and a quiet part of him whispered that it was the absence of his father. He shrugged off that thought, returning all of his attention to Mardil.
"I will hope on that, my lord," Mardil said sternly, leaning to unroll a map of Ithilien and the western provinces across the table. Faramir's gaze fell upon it, tracing the contours of inscribed mountains and vales, "Six months ago, we caught two small bands of Southrons trying to ford the Poros. We thought nothing of it then, though in truth it had been the largest group of them we had seen in years." His scarred hand swept over the thin line of the river, resting atop a carefully inscribed name, "And they grew closer to Haudh in Gwanur than any foe we could recall."
"How close?" Faramir arched a brow.
"Within two days travel."
He was startled by that. Even two days away was closer than he would have thought any foe of Gondor or the Rohirrim might tread. It was a burial mound, a place thought near sacred by the Eorlingas in their traditions and revered by those in both Ithilien and Gondor for its history. The twin sons of Folcwine had been laid to rest there, fallen in service to the Oath of Cirion by the hands of Haradrim. It had long been thought a cursed place by the Southrons, as well as all enemies of Gondor. Faramir was grateful he remembered such history lessons now and made note to thank his former tutor when next his returned to Minas Tirith, but also could not remember when he had heard of any foe of Men seeking to even approach the Crossroads. "Have any tried to come near since, Madril?"
"No. Our scouts report they have not even attempted to cross the Poros once more and for that we are grateful. We do not have the numbers to spread that thin, much less to assemble a force so far from Osgiliath."
"Good," He nodded firmly, swiping his tongue over the corner of his lip in thought.
"It would seem," Madril corrected gently, his hand moving to the East, "But our scouts report that since then, and still now, the Southrons gather. Not one band, no, but enough to be considered a company. Furthermore, we suspect more to be traveling, but the size of this host we cannot say, nor guess at. All we know is more may still come."
Faramir thought of Boromir's words then, leaning over the map thoughtfully. "They oft keep to their tribes, yes, but have you considered that perhaps some small warlord has garnered their allegiance through conquest? They have always warred amongst each other, perhaps they gather not to strike at Gondor, but at each other until the command of one of their own? Keep cautious, yes, but within a fortnight we may likely see this group crumble under the weight of their own jealousy and lust for power."
Madril smiled thinly, "We had hoped as much, assumed as much. However, two months ago, one of our scouts retrieved this from a Southron scout." He moved to a small chest in the corner of the room, kneeling and retrieving a small strip of cloth.
Faramir arched a brow as Madril held it out. It seemed a simple thing, dyed burgundy in tradition of the bold, proud colors their folk favored. Already faded somewhat by the sun, Faramir squinted as he took note of the dark runes painted onto the fabric. "I fear I cannot read this, Madril. What says it?"
"What do you think it to be?"
Faramir lifted it up closer to his face, searching any familiar arch or curve hidden. Upon finding none, and perhaps worried that he had missed something obvious to Madril, he shook his head. "I would assume it to be one of the tongues of the Haradrim. Their language is harsh. I have never seen their own writing; in truth I thought they likely had none."
"They have their own writing, though it is rare and oft cruel."
"Oh, then what says it? Forgive me that I cannot read it. No doubt one of you or your kin may know what it states."
"We had thought so, as well. My kin and I passed it round', waiting for one of us to be able to recognize it. None were able, however. For that, we sought the aid of those in the North."
Faramir tilted his head in thought, looking upwards from the cloth. "For this you reached out to the Rangers of the North? I mean no insult, but what aid might they offer with such as this? I doubt they often see the writings, or even hear the speech, of those in Harad."
Madril nodded slowly and Faramir felt a shiver trickle down his spine as he spied fear in his lieutenant's eyes. "Were this writing of Harad? No, they would not be able to help us, but we do not think this born of Harad, Faramir."
"Where then?" Faramir asked swiftly, confused.
Madril did not immediately reply, though Faramir watched as the worry in his grey eyes grew.
Sidri felt her stomach rumble and sighed under her breath, wrapping her cloak all the tighter around her shoulders. Despite the wears of the journey, it had remained near spotless and as warm as the day she had first been given it. Despite her hunger and exhaustion, she smiled in gratitude for it, as well as for the kindness of those in Imladris. The Dunedain has always been a friend of those who dwelt in the Last Homely House, and she knew well their survival had long been aided, if not been wholly dependent, upon the generosity of Elrond and his kin.
She nudged her horse further down the worn path, contented by the song of a distant bird. When she had been a girl, her father had taken her to visit Imladris with a few others of those in Sarn Ford. She had been in outright awe of the Valley, eyes wide at every statue and glittering balcony, and the elves had been amused by it. They had been kind, however, and had taken her hand as her father and his men spoke of what tidings she was far too young to understand. She had been guided through countless gardens and over fair bridges, beneath which bright streams danced and lapped. It had been a wonder to her then and remained so even now.
Upon hearing of her journey, they had waved away the letter she carried from Halbarad as evidence of her mission and trusted her fully. A life of wariness and suspicion from the Bree-folk made that an altogether welcome change and when she had left, her packs had been filled with food and the clothes upon her back made by the hands of the firstborn. It had made her journey bearable, though far more made it uncomfortable, and before she could stop herself Sidri began to long for the comforts not only of Imladris, but of Sarn Ford.
She sighed, forcing herself to focus on the road before her, and pinched her thigh to keep herself awake. Her horse threw back its hair, as if seeking to aid her in this, and a tired smile crossed her features. In return, she patted his neck gently and made mental note to offer him a great many carrots whenever they reached their destination.
The road itself, though it had long ago fallen once more into the clutches of the thick forest surrounding her, none the less remained passable. The woods themselves reminded her of those dotting the rolling hills of the North Downs and for that, did not intimidate her. The bird song, louder now, lightened her spirits and she absently worked to determine what bird it was. Her mother had always been especially gifted at that.
"Might as well see where we are, I suppose," She nodded down to her horse, reaching into her saddlebag and withdrawing a tattered map. Halbarad had reassured her it was the most recent map of Ithilien to be found in all of the Bree-lands, purchased a fortnight prior from a dwarven merchant, but given its clear wear she would have settled for it to have been drawn up in the last century. She leaned back in the saddle and unfolded it over her lap, squinting down at the faded ink.
If the map proved true, then she had crossed into the borders of Ithilien earlier in the morning. It was late afternoon now and Sidri calculated she had passed more than three leagues into Ithilien, two at most. A few more hours and she would settle for the night and hope to reach a settlement of Rangers in the morning. "Henneth Annun," She stated slowly, her tongue working the unfamiliar word. A bird seemed to sing in reply and she glanced up with a faint, tired smile and carefully placed the map once more within her pack.
Nudging her horse forward, another burst of bird song rang out to her left and she blinked. It had sounded closer now, louder but no less fair. Her brow furrowed as yet another called, then another and she drew her sword just before she caught a rush of dark green out of the corner of her eye. Sidri was on her foot in but a moment, decades of training and honed reflex surging in her veins. Her horse whinnied loudly now, sensing something in the forest surrounding them. Her gaze swiftly scanned the trees and bushes before her, flicking from shape to shape in order to find what had followed them.
Her exhaustion dulled her senses however and she bit her lip fiercely enough to draw a bit of blood, the pain forcing her to focus. "Show yourself!" She snarled, reaching with one hand to draw her cowl up to cover her features. She didn't suppose it would make any difference, hiding her face now, but the gesture felt familiar, comforting. "I know you are there, show yourself if you mean no harm!"
She flinched wildly as an arrow cracked into the ground before her, stepping back. Well, Sidri supposed, that all but assured her that harm was intended and for that, she grasped her sword all the tighter. Her cheeks flushed with the embarrassment of being caught so wholly unaware. If she was given another chance, she'd not make the same mistake within Ithilien.
"What business have you here?" A gruff voice suddenly called out and she furrowed her brow, reaching up to gently pat her horse's neck, but kept a firm grip on the handle of her blade.
"My business is my own," She snapped back irritably, "And I fear I do not oft call it into the woods unto those I cannot see."The leaves rustled to her left and she turned on her heels, raising her blade. "Show yourself!"
Much to her surprise, a figure strode forward then, appearing from the thick forest. He was tall, clad in green and brown, and though his hood was drawn she recognized the glimmer of grey eyes that matched her own. Sidri realized then, that a ranger stood before her, and just as the corners of her mouth curled into a smile and she prepared to address him as a brother, a resounding crack rattled through her skull. It was followed by a torrent of pain and then black and then nothing more.
