Prologue:

Sellevorn rode across the plains of Rohan, away from her home. She stopped Faerloss gently atop a small rise and looked about. Far in the distance, the troops of Saruman were moving, inky figures against a wide blue sky. They had raided her village the previous month- no one left there believed the Uruk-Hai were friends, as King Théoden tried to tell them. Thinking of the King of Riddermark, Sellevorn spat upon the ground. She had wanted to defend her village the year before- but the King allowed no women to fight among the Rohirrim.

Sellevorn was leaving Rohan. Some part of her heart steered her to Gondor, and the realm of the Ithilien Rangers outside of Osgiliath. She would fight among the men of Gondor, and show that not all the Rohirrim obeyed Théoden's mad commands.

Dusk was coming on. She stopped Faerloss under a sheltering tree grove and started a small fire. There was no time to hunt tonight, but she had cram to ease her hunger. She sat far into the night, hypnotized by the flames.
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In another camp at Henneth Annûn, the cave stronghold of the Ithilien Rangers, Aylus and Ionedhûr sat around a similar fire with their companions. Aylus absentmindedly twirled a small dagger in his hand, resting on one elbow. He had only recently come into service of the Ithilien Rangers and already they were mustering for war. He thought of his young brother Tanthan, living in Osgiliath with their father and mother. He had to smile at the thought of the mischievous twelve-year-old whose mop of fair curls lent him an innocent, young appearance belied by the wicked pranks he often played. Aylus sighed, lonely. When he had left for training, ten years ago, he had been the age his brother was now. But Tanthan had no hope of becoming a Ranger. The small boy had periodic strange fits, in which pieces of his body appeared possessed by demons. Still, the boy kept his sunny personality; it was Aylus who had demons in his head.
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Ionedhûr was the ancient commander of Aylus' troop of Rangers, under Captain Faramir. He was ten centuries old, yet looked like a young man but for the grief etched on his fair face. Now he closed his eyes, immeasurably weary yet unable to find peace or rest. Anoën, his wife of fifty years, had died but a month ago. The Southron woman had been a true soulmate, knowing what it was like to be different from everyone else in Gondor. She could understand Ionedhûr's plight as a half-elf. When the elves did not accept his looks or senses- he grew a short beard, unheard of among them, and had the senses of a human- she did not care. When the men ridiculed his elven features and pointed ears, she kissed away his doubts and fears. The only thing which came between the pair was his immortality. He was cursed to live forever. She was cursed to die after threescore and ten years spent on Middle Earth.

Ionedhûr planned to join her shortly. He sang softly and grimly to the fire-shadowed walls around him

The world is made of sorrow
each star a prick of pain
Who wishes to see the morrow
when there is naught to gain?

No answer issued from the mute walls save a soft echo and the rush of the far-off waterfall. Aylus, jerked out of his own reverie, looked at his mentor sleepily. Ionedhûr gave the young man a small smile, fighting the urge to smoothe his tousled sand-colored hair from his drooping eyes. Gently taking the small dagger from Aylus' hand, he put it next to his bedroll in its sheath, where the sleeping boy could not roll onto it.

Ionedhûr drifted off to sleep, to dream of Anoën.
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The Uruk-Hai marched for Osgiliath in many ranks. They were still far away, but getting ever closer to their goal. They did not stop for the night.

They had sent a scout party far ahead of them, some twoscore in number, to test the defenses of the Ithilien Rangers.



Disclaimer: I own nothing of Tolkien's books, though most of these characters are my own. The poems are my creation and property.