A stooped gray figure had been traveling the lands beyond Mirkwood for days.

Whispers, she'd heard, from the birds and the beasts that hid behind the shadows of the trees. The stars appeared sharper that night, shards of glass embedded in a sky bleeding like spilt ink in the darkness that spread from the east. Dusk settled into vigilant night, a heavy sentient presence that felt as alive as the nocturnal beasts of the forest. Everywhere she turned, there was a feeling of restlessness, as though the land was watching. Waiting. Peering out on that distant horizon for a fate it knew it could not escape.

It was the forest itself, however, that made her wonder what could be wrong. The animals were more awake at this early twilight hour than ever they had before. They watched from their homes in the earth and nests in the boughs of trees, their keen eyes fixed on the world outside their borders.

From the rumors she had heard circulating through the forest undegrowth, they had never before seen one of his kind. Tall, like that of the elves, but there was no weightlessness of grace in his long stride. His face was old and weathered, the age of the world carved deep into his features, as though the wind itself had made them. He was an ancient creature. One who had felt the grief of an age long since passed and had little hope for those to come. But he was not Elvish. Of that, the eyes of the forest could be certain.

When she had heard talk of this strange figure, listening to the chattering of the woodland beasts, she began her search at once. For days, she inspected the ground for prints and signs of crushed grass, pressed her ears to the earth and listened for disturbances in its steady pulse. But there was nothing. No sign of any human being passing through. Within those days of futile tracking, there was little to be heard from her part of the woods. No new whispers, very little movement outside of the gathering of food and the passing here and there of Silvan Elves. She began to lose hope that she would ever find this strange being, if he existed at all outside the wild imaginations of a forest so desperately sick with fever.

The fifth day had come. A sense of unease still clung to the curl of the fog and the breeze which drifted through the heavy leaves. Dark swollen clouds had begun to roll quietly in from the west behind the setting sun. She trudged through soggy hills, a light rain descending, in pursuit of a lame deer for supper when she happened upon them – tracks, at long last. They were beginning to melt in the steadily growing downpour, their cast blurring at the edges as she traced them with her gloved fingers. But her eyes were keen even in the shadow of clouded dusk.

They were large bootprints – not heavy, like that of a dwarf or a lumbering orc, but rather a tall man.

She looked up, balancing her longbow over the slope of her back as she crouched. There was no sign of movement on the bleak horizon. Not even the flitting here and there of elk or birds dipping into the grasses below them. But these tracks, she had decided, were still fresh. Made no more than two days before.

Her eyes narrowed as the light failed. "You must not be far," she murmured to herself, her mouth closing back into a hard thin line.

With renewed determination, she rose swiftly from her knees and moved down the gentle slope of the hill.

Her deer had all but been forgotten.

.

.

.

The first light of dawn struggled to break through a dark and somber mist.

Her visibility was limited by the low hanging clouds, but she could still see him – the strange man all of Mirkwood had seen roaming the countryside. Near daybreak, she had found him. Nothing but a looming shape of grey amid the lifting darkness. She had moved into the forest since then and hid behind its wall of trees and tangled briar thickets.

For only a few hours she had studied him. He was alone and spoke little, and what little he spoke of was always to himself. Here and there he would hum, the timbre deep and grave in a way that reminded her of the voice of soft thunder. They were songs much too cheerful and glad to be familiar. Here, in Mirkwood, the song was merry, and the voices which sung them clear and lively, but always there was a current of deep sorrow running through them. It was the Elvenking, who had known the ages and watched the golden years turn to darkness and rust. They would sing of that nearly forgotten time, chant their melancholy verses, and the forest would bend its head in reverence to them.

This was no Elvish figure. She had seen from the depth of his footprints and the lively, yet weathered bend of his broad shoulders that he was not. But there was no danger in his alien songs, his subdued talk. He seemed harmless enough in his passing. She only wished to know where he was going and why he was here.

Without warning, he stopped, the song on his tongue disappearing into the back of his throat. An oppressive silence fell on the forest, one that filled her ears and made her heartbeat pound like a drum in her armored chest. She scarce drew breath as he turned, the lean staff in his hand black against the rising moon. But he did not move toward her. Not for a long moment, when she began to wonder if he had turned to stone.

"Come, now," he said, and a weary smile bled through his voice. "I know your curiosity must be weighing on you so. Why do you not show yourself to me? Perhaps, if I deem you worthy, I may share with you the tale of my quest…."

She did not move from her spot behind the fallen ash tree. Her hand groped through the damp layers of her trousers for the dagger she'd long since kept hidden in her boot. "Perhaps it would be wiser if I did not. I have no assurance that I will not come to harm if I do so. And neither do you."

"I assure you that you are more likely to come to harm where you are in that accursed forest than by my hand," he replied. His outline began to shrink, as if bending forward, and at once she could see the creased knuckles of his hand glimmering pearly white under the moon.

Out of sheer instinct, she went quickly for her bow. Her grip around it was loose, but she was not averse to the idea of using it if the need arose… "I do not trust you."

"There is no need," he replied. "I am only telling you a story."

Though uncertain of him, she remembered the warmth of his gentle songs and aimless talks from before. How innocent, they'd seemed.

She clenched her teeth and stretched out her arm to take his hand.

.

.

.

"It is not often that one meets with women of your kind."

She had already known, from the way he carried himself, that he had been old. But he wore the weight of it in his eyes. They seemed ancient, the color like that of pale and weary starlight. Even in the livening glow of the burgeoning fire, a radiance both unambiguous and forgiving, he looked older than the moon and the sun put together. Still, he beamed at her through its rising heat. She was certain that he was altogether too friendly to be a native of Lake-town, having met their kind before.

He set down his staff at his feet, a sign of surrender even she could recognize after years of wandering the wilderness. It peeked out from beneath the hem of his tattered pewter robes.

"I have no kindred," she replied. "Merely a nomad in these parts."

"And they usually are, your kindred," he continued. "Wanderers, pariahs, appearing nothing more than lost and alien to those who do not know of them. The Dunedain are a mysterious folk. But even I may look upon them and recognize the blood of Numenor running through their veins."

Every muscle in her body suddenly tightened. "You seem to know much more, stranger, than you let on."

"I can tell you I know enough for a lifetime. Perhaps two, but that is beside the point. As I have said, I know of your kind and therefore the task which you have undertaken, if not reluctantly – these borders are under your protection. I imagine I must appear as some sort of…threat to you. I can assure you I harbor no ill will toward you or your sickly forest. I am merely passing through, as it were, with important business to be dealt with in lands quite far from here."

"That still does not tell me who you are, old man."

He did not look at all taken aback by her curt words, but instead laughed and removed his large pointed hat in order to bow. "Gracious me! How time has robbed me of my manners. I am Gandalf, of course – Gandalf the Grey. Mithrandir to some, though I expect you would have recognized me if that name were familiar to the Elves of Mirkwood."

"It is not familiar," she told him. "The Elvenking does not have many friends outside his own borders. Even within them, I doubt they are few in number."

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling together like old grey paper. "I expect you are a friend to the peoples of Thranduil Elvenking, Ygraine."

"I would not call - " Her ears suddenly pricked, her head inclining so slightly. "How – how do you know my name?"

"I know many things, dear girl, and your name is among them."

"Then you are a witch! Or a sorcerer - " She stood, backing away from the strange man and reaching for her bow without breaking stride. "You will tell me your true intentions, old man. I will not be swayed by your poisonous charm!"

"Then you admit I am charming? That is a relief ! - "

She tightened her grip on the arrow between her fingers. Fear bubbled in the hollow between her heart and her lungs. "I am tired of your games! Tell me!"

With a gasp, she dropped the bow as something warm and rough took her hand. Her head was spinning as she glanced down at the white callused fingers wrapped around her knuckles. It had been but an instant, and she had not even perceived his swift movements, but he had somehow reached out and grasped her hand without her knowing it. She realized, as she looked back at him, that he was some sort of sorcerer.

"I am neither witch nor sorcerer," he said, his voice low and gentle. "Merely a harmless old wizard trying to help a friend. He is in the direst need."

She found that she could do little else but breathe and blink in her current position. "And where is your friend?"

"Many leagues behind us. I had hoped to find someone of your kind. Trustworthy, capable. A willing accomplice in my scheme. Beorn would have been my first choice but you will do quite nicely in his stead…"

"Schemes? You said just before - "

"I am quite aware of what I said," he replied gruffly, looking at her in the same withering fashion a cross father would his child. "That was before I decided I could trust you."

"You know nothing of me and yet you are willing to impart the life of your friend into my care? You must be very lenient in your definition of trust."

"Now it is I who tire of your games. Take heed, o shieldmaiden. A party of twelve dwarves and a small creature called a hobbit is making its way from the Carrock into Mirkwood forest. I expect they will not be welcomed by your friend the Elvenking. I beg of you, Ygraine, to help them. Help them in any way you can. Keep them far from the Elvenking's reach, for his influence reaches far in this black place."

His eyes searched her. She could feel them, deep inside, roaming in the pit of her belly and the recesses of her nervous heart. They appeared desperate, their color burning bright with fear. It was as though he was entrusting his very soul to her – and she could not begin to understand why, but she dared not refuse him.

She took his hand, a dead weight in her own, and gave it a soft squeeze of assurance.

"Give me his name, your friend, and I will not fail him."

Ygraine - pronounced Ee-grain.

Disclaimer - I do not own Gandalf, Thranduil, or any other of Tolkien's beloved characters. I am only sticking my character in the middle and playing make believe.

Enjoy! Thank you, to all of you, for your kind words of encouragement. :)