Little Sparrow

When he first laid eyes on her, she was digging graves for the dead; she had arrived too late. When she first laid eyes on him, he climbed the hill as pillars of smoke trailed into the darkened air behind him; he had arrived too late. There they both stood, and there, in the deepening dusk and in the settling night, two heavy and sorrowful hearts met. It was all too late. Before them only the great abyss stretched unending.

Shadows fall and darkness stretches over Middle-Earth, its reach growing longer still. The Free People face enemies not only in the open; hidden and secret, the great Enemy knows well to break their spirit, their will to fight, long before his armies come forward. The walls of Minas Tirith stand tall, strong, yet the strength of Men wanes. Trouble brews over the plains of Rohan, and the horse-masters remain ever vigilant in their watch. In the North, the Dunedain Rangers fight a war unseen by most; protecting lands that find themselves at an uncertain peace. But for how long?

The Enemy is soon ready.

Well, hello there!

Author's introduction (can be skipped without issue, I'll forgive you, and mostly for those interested).

First things first! Here are a few tidbits of information, so interested readers know what lays the groundwork for the story.

Book-based. I have not written a single word of this story without all three Lord of the Rings books by my side, several tabs of wikia-pages, a map of Middle-Earth, and a lot of background research always my company. Not to mention dictionaries, as English is not my first language (this is not an excuse for a work poorly written, but rather that I have most certainly put in the effort to compensate!). I would never call myself a purist (obviously, with the blatant OC I've dropped into the story), but I do know I'm dabbling in someone else's work, and so I do my best to show respect to the original story. I will not be following the movies.

Slow-building adventure, then romance. If you're looking for a story that jumps right into the action, and then continues being action-packed from start to finish, I'm afraid this is not a story for you. I take my time to set up scenes, surroundings, and I enjoy writing details. So many details that I may or may not have scarred myself for life ... There will be fight-scenes, drama, intrigue (I feel like I should wave my hands dramatically here), and so on and on. It just won't be unveiled in the very beginning of the story. At least to some extent.

Also, this is a very slow progressing romance. And by very I mean very. It will not be the main focus throughout the first part of the story, nor the second half but although more so than the beginning; there will be elements of romance, but not much more than that to begin with really. The reason for that is I have always wanted to write a story that focuses mostly on the development of a character through trials and life, which is kind of coming true through this story.

Our main character is not there for the sole purpose of falling in love with Éomer, nor is he there for that reason either (falling in love with the OC, obviously, or himself for that matter. Whichever floats his boat I guess). I am going to explore as much as I can of Middle-Earth, and then perhaps they'll find some love along the way! While the story centers somewhat around my original character and the challenges in her life, the events will be canonical and, or, parallel with the story written by Tolkien.

OC. And yes, this is an original character, but no, she will not be a Tenth Walker. Her participation will be in another part of Middle Earth entirely, at least until a later part in the story in which I shall reveal no more. But she is not a Tenth Walker. I will be alternating between perspectives throughout the story, but I will mostly stick to one character per chapter.

Constructive criticism, feedback, thoughts, and reactions are always more than welcome. I write this story mostly for my own interest, but share it so that others may also enjoy it if they deem it good enough for that. So everyone is more than welcome to provide feedback throughout the story as it progresses. I'm very keen to hear what readers may have to say.

Enjoy this 'pilot-episode' of just about 8.000 words!

Little Sparrow

Chapter I: The Sword of her Father

September, The Third Age, 3010

Heavy rain pounded against the windows.

An ever present pitter-patter that drowned out the rest of the world.

It was a constant drum, filling the quiet room where only the fire crackled and the dry logs popped in the heat; soft murmurs laced with concern were passed in the dim light around the bed as three figures crouched together over a fourth, the last laying still and unmoving. Puddles of water gathered around them, pooled on the wooden floor and mixed with both mud and blood. Bathed in warmth, golden and gentle, the chill in her body was not from the cold but an all too familiar sense of trepidation.

She stood away to the side, hidden and forgotten, away from the light. In the shadows. Her back pressed hard against the wall. Tears trickled down her chilled cheeks, falling onto her already soaked clothes. When the riders had arrived, shouting for aid, she had spared little thought on the heavy downpour outside and followed the others out. Grey eyes had sought out hers then, amidst a great many people hurrying forward to attend to the injured and the horses, and she had pulled herself through the mud into the house after the men. Following the limp form they pulled in with them.

Snippets and fragmented sentences were all she could glean from the uninjured Rangers, bringing in reports – orcs crossing the Bruinen, more than their scouts had first spoken of. An ambush. Arrows singing through the air, and little more than a panicked retreat had saved the company's lives as they fled into the woods for cover. Their horses knew the way, sure-footed between boles and strangled roots over the darkened forest floor, lid only by the faint light of a crescent moon, and they had managed to outmanoeuver their attackers.

But several of their men had suffered injuries.

She swallowed, mouth as dry as parchment, and she clenched her fingers into fists. Her father had been one of them; she had seen the dark-feathered shafts protruding from his back as they lifted him off the horse. Now dark patches ran along the floor, from the door to the bed, glinting crimson in the light of the fire. First only a few droplets, but quickly they then grew in both numbers and size. He was bleeding out fast. There was no better healer in the entire village than the one present, but even still fear pressed down on her, suffocating, until her breathing was but shallow rasps for air.

Where had the arrows pierced?

How deep?

The white linens became soaked in blood; a bowl of water turned muddy, a swirl of brown and red. Groans of pain erupted. The first arrow was pulled out, tearing muscle and flesh, and another wave of blood oozed from the wound. Pressing her eyes tightly shut, hands on her ears to drown out the horrid sounds, she prayed repeatedly in her mind with desperation. Over and over. Please hear my prayer, she called, o great Estë. Please help my father. Do not take him from me. I beg of you ...

A shout tore through her thoughts, piercingly sharp.

Spare him.

Her eyes snapped open and she felt faint; head heavy as a hollowness seeped from her heart into the rest of her body. Spreading through her chest, running along every nerve to the very tips of her fingers. Her hands fell heavy down her sides. Where there had previously been soft moans of pain and struggled breathing, now there was nothing. Everything was quiet. All too quiet.

She looked toward the bed.

The last arrow had been pulled, discarded on the floor, and the men now struggled to still the bleeding.

The world felt grey, as if a great cover had been pulled over her; smothering all her senses into nothingness. Her sight, her hearing. Only the hammering of her heart resounded in her head. It was not the first time; she had been here before, standing as she did now. Watched as they tried to save her mother, crying out in childbirth – not for herself, but with pleas and prayers to protect the life in her stomach. But the Valar had not listened.

The grasping hands had fallen limp, the words turned feeble until they, too, stilled into silence. She had lost a parent then, and only a few days later her infant brother, frail and born too soon, left for the Halls of Mandos. To be reunited with their beautiful mother waiting for him there.

Was she now to lose another dear to her?

Was her mother waiting once more?

Please, Estë, no.

A soft voice, weakened until it was barely a whisper weak against the din of the downpour, called to her. "My little heart ..." She knew that voice; the first she heard when she woke in the morning, and the last she heard before falling asleep. The one that chased away her fears; taught her how to ride a horse, and told her stories by the fire. Scolded her when she did wrong, and praised her when she did right. Roughly she rubbed her eyes, wiping away the tears, and sniffled. He could not see her cry – she would not let him worry, even though she wanted nothing more than to scream until breaking. Until she felt hollow. "Come ... so that I can see you."

Her eyes flickered to the door. She suppressed the urge to flee.

The adults stepped aside, making enough room for her to move closer. His face was pale, almost white despite the light, and clotted blood ran down his cheek. But she knew him; she recognized him in spite of everything, and she always would. Swearing then, to any greater being that would listen, she would always remember her father as he once was. Not like this, she thought.

Her fingers gripped his much larger hand, squeezing tightly to let him know she was there by his side, for the grey eyes saw naught. They stared ahead, clouded and veiled as if another world was already calling. He did not see her. Did he see her mother? "I am here, father," she croaked, voicing breaking as she willed away her tears. She stroked his hand, tracing every line and scar, so familiar in her own. She would be strong.

A weight was laid carefully on her shoulder, a reassuring presence to support her, and she glanced back onto her uncle. His eyes held compassion; sadness and grief; but also strength enough to help her through this waking nightmare. She held his gaze. Teeth dug into her lower lip and a taste of iron filled her mouth. Swallowing, breathing deeply, she steadied her voice.

"Right here with you," she said.

His hand grasped hers, tighter, a thumb running slowly across her skin. "My sword?" He rasped.

One of the others stepped to the table nearby and fetched a long sheathed blade. It was laid upon her father's chest. Too weak to lift his hand, they helped him clasp the hilt, fingers white as they locked around the metal bound in leather strips. He grasped his sword for the last time. At his neck a silver pendant, shaped like a six-pointed star, was fastened. Gleaming.

It should have been her brother kneeling here, on the cold and hard floor, and not her. And certainly not so soon – far too soon.

"You need not take it," he wheezed, the air now barely filling his lungs. Blood was sleeping in, something was punctured, somewhere, and it took his remaining strength to stay conscious. The dead were calling, she knew that well enough.

She shook her head, then remembered he could not see her. "Of course I will," she said instead, attempting to smile. "I am ready."

Whether it was a cough or a laugh she could not tell, but they both knew the lie she had spoken with honest intentions. She gently pulled one hand free, already then missing his touch, and placed it on his over the hilt. "May the Valar–" He paused, attempting to calm his ragged breathing. He coughed violently; blood trickled down the corner of his mouth. Her sleeves were soaked in crimson as she wiped it away. "–bless and protect you. May your uncle guide you where I cannot."

Tears now ran freely down her face, and sobs pressed against her clenched teeth, but she kept her lips sealed so that no sound could escape. Be strong, be strong, be strong ... Her hand on the sword trembled. Be strong. In those last moments, that felt both agonisingly slow yet so soon gone, it seemed as if the world had frozen; with baited breath she waited, dreaded what was happening. But it was inevitable.

"Rell," he spoke her name. For the last time. "Be safe."

His chest rose no more.

The light left his eyes, turning blank and dull, empty, and the fingers slackened their grip on hers.

She lowered her head. At the age of twelve she took her father's sword as her own, and with it his duties as a Ranger of the North fell upon her shoulders. A Dúnedain sworn to protect the lands from evil; she gently, carefully, loosened the hilt and drew the sword to her. It is heavy, her mind noted dully. Watchers from the Grey Company, now she too would wear the silver star.

So very heavy. Clutching the sword to her chest, she looked up onto her uncle. "Will you avenge him?" Despite it all and as a surprise even to her, her voice was even. There was no rage, no sorrow. Acceptance; many before him had fallen in battle, died in the line of duty to protect the hard-fought peace. He would not be the last. Many would fall still.

She knew what it was like to lose someone, for she had seen it time and time again. For a Ranger to never return, and a family to wait yet never see them again. To take a blow, but still be able to get up and to keep going. To carry on living, regardless of the heartache and the loss that would never truly leave. She, too, would get up again. "Will you see to it that the orcs will not live to witness another sunset?"

His dark hair fell into his eyes as he bowed his head.

"Scouts are tracking their trails and reporting back as we speak," he said, "–we have not left them out of sight." With care he pulled a cover over the body, hiding her father from view; then he eased her onto her legs, put a hand over hers on the hilt, and grey eyes pierced her own searchingly. A silver ring rested on his finger, gleaming in the warm glow of the fire, and the two snakes, twisted and intertwined, became almost alive. It held her gaze, unfocused and shaken in her grief, until she calmed her breathing. The Ring of Barahir.

Her only remaining kin now stood before her, promising to bring death upon the orcs.

"I will ride out with the men at dawn."

With that promise she allowed the hollow chill to fill her, sealing the grief from escaping any more than it already had. It would be unbearable. She lowered her gaze, nodding. "Thank you, uncle." She breathed, exhaling slowly through her nose. Silently she made a vow, a vow only she would ever hear. But in the years to come she would cling to it, remind herself over and over of this promise, when she was faced with hardships and the weight of the world bore down upon her.

I will be strong.

When morning dawned, a light grey piercing the darkness through a heavy cover of clouds, she had yet to leave her father's side. White fingers were drawn tightly over the hilt of the sword, resting heavily in her lap as she crouched on the cold floor. Drenched from the downpour, her clothes had turned damp and clammy, and sometime during the night someone, likely her uncle, had draped a blanket around her. Her eyes were dry, itching, and her face swollen from tears. But she could spill no more.

A chill had overtaken her, and her heart was heavy.

Several of the men, that had brought her father home, proposed to take the vigil to show their final respect, but she had declined. She was grateful for their kindness and compassion, but it was her duty to keep the flames alive and hold the long, sleepless, and devoted watch throughout the night. Not once had she strayed from his side nor dozed off, despite heavy eyelids and a pounding in her head – and in her heart.

But she did not feel the physical struggles of her body, for a numbness dulled her mind.

She could hear the village rousing with the sun's climb across the horizon, and soon a large company of Rangers would depart. Shouts and orders were passed around, horses neighed and stamped as they were prepared for battle; scouts had reported back in the long hours before dawn, having trailed the band of orcs across the plains near the Trollshaws. The light of morning slowed them down, for evil creatures feared it more than anything else, and so now it was the Rangers' hour.

A thrum of vindictive anticipation hung thickly in the air.

Her father was not the only one claimed by death that night; one had been returned only so that his family could light the funeral pyre, and another had succumbed to his injuries early after their return. A third still struggled between life and death, and the healers feared he would not wake again from the fever. And if he did, he would never walk again. No orc would ever step foot on the other bank of Mitheithel, nor ever enter eastern Eriador.

They would be met with a rain of arrows, and only death would welcome them.

The stream would run steadily, carrying the filth and dark blood away with its waters; the corpses would be piled and burned, and the pillar of smoke would be seen for many miles in the distance. A warning clear to all that saw it. Vengeance would follow swiftly. It was a thought that brought some comfort to her mind when she finally rose from the floor.

Her limbs were stiff, frozen and asleep from the long lack of movement, and she braced her body against the bedpost. The sword hung down her side, scraping over the wooden floor boards, much too heavy for her. Streams of light filtered through the shut windows, finding a way in to the darkened room. She went to the door, pushed it open, and shielded her gaze from the sudden brightness.

Pools of water dotted the ground, and boots sank into the deep mud with squelches; a group of riders was already mounted, their grey cloaks drawn. They nearly became one with the misty dawn, ghostly pale figures. Their horses were sturdy creatures, bred for swiftness in difficult terrain and to move without being seen, but not without strength.

The Rangers were armed with spears and bows; swords hung about their waists, but none wore much armour. It was not a clash between two opposing forces in open battle, but an ambush carried out in swiftness. It would all be over long before the orcs would have much chance to retaliate. There was no need for honour against such an enemy.

It would be a slaughter.

Some looked to her when she emerged, lowering their hooded heads in solemn greeting. She glanced about in an attempt to find her uncle. Only when the last riders joined the company, did he arrive amongst them; pulling his horse by the reins he walked to her side and crouched down, making them see eye to eye. He had always been tall. Taller than anyone else she knew, but in that moment he appeared small; burdened with not only grief but also a duty he had hoped never to fulfil. For it to never fall to him. A gale wind swept down from the east, cool and fresh, and pulled at her clothes; tangles of hair brushed her cheeks, and he tugged them away behind her ear.

The riders were waiting, silent grey shapes swaddled in mist, ready to depart.

"My sister's daughter," he said, words weighed with great care, "I would never have wished for this to happen. Your father was a great warrior – a great man, and he shall be missed dearly by all. Know that I will do my utmost best to raise you in his place, though I know not how. I pray that you will have patience in me, for all my shortcomings that he would not have had. I shall teach you, and I will learn in return."

She nodded and smiled faintly. How tired she was. "Teach me what you do know, teach me all your wisdom. Let me be a Ranger he could be proud of." Placing her hand on his, so warm against her coldness, and staring into the deep grey eyes, she vowed to follow her chieftain wherever he would lead. She did not wish for a new father, for she only ever had one, but her uncle could help her become something else. So much more. "I will ask of nothing else."

His smile was one of sadness, though she then knew not why, but then he came to his full height. The hood masked his features.

"So it shall be."

With his cloak spread out around him he mounted swiftly, and the riders followed close behind as he left the village square. Mud and dust whirled up after them. It was not long before they vanished into the mists, and soon the trampling hoofs stilled to nothing. Women and children watched a while longer, a silence heavy in the air, but they soon returned to duties of their own; funerals were to be prepared, the dead to be washed and cleaned, the injured to be taken care of.

And life had to carry on.

Only a few men remained, to keep guard of the village, and soon they hauled wood over to the nearby field. There, on the green hill in the distance, pyres would burn and in silence they would say their last farewells. They would mourn and remember the fallen; tell tales and share memories. With honour they had died in battle, defending a world that thought itself at peace. How long she stood there, watching the pyres take shape, she knew not; only when one of the elderly women came to her, wrapping arms around her in a tender embrace, did she stir from deep thoughts.

They would help her prepare her father.

It was not work for a child.

October, The Third Age, 3016

As the light grew a little, she brought her eyes back to the ground at hand, studying her next move. She lay crouched, almost flat, against the soft grass and her gloved fingers moved over the trail. Ahead and eastward, the early sun of morning climbed the mountain range, setting its peaks on fire in a golden light. To her other side a dark forest edged into the horizon; fading to the distant blue, and out of the forest a river flowed to meet them. Her lips pursed in thought, brow furrowed as she attempted to read the signs before her.

She could feel eyes watching her, assessing her work, and she squared her shoulders with firm determination. The ridge upon which she and her companion stood went down steeply, and before them spread an open landscape of plains and hills. Stepping around the trail, careful not to ruin her only lead, she peered out over the stony shelf. The grass swelled like a green sea where she had previously found indentations in the wet ground; how she hated tracking through open land. There was very little to be found in grass.

The wind was on her back, tugging at her woolen cloak; soft and warm, scented faintly with wood flowers, as late Autumn was stirring the lands before passing to Winter. Such a wind was of no use to her. "It is headed south, over the plains," she spoke, hoping he could not hear the hesitation in her voice – although she felt it clearly. And so she turned to face her companion. "We are not far behind."

The weather-beaten gloves held their horses close at hand; his heavy dark-green cloak, stained in his travels, was drawn close about him. He returned her gaze evenly, but the gleam in his grey eyes was unmistakable. The corner of her mouth twitched. "Indeed?" He mused. "And what makes you draw such a conclusion to our hunt?" Stepping closer to assess the trail, he bent down and carefully ran his free hand over the muddy dips in the grass. Reading them better than she ever could. "I wonder how you came to such an answer. But, indeed, the grass has been trampled recently, and you are correct when you say it is headed south. Did you gather this by the shape of the marks, or by some other means?"

He came to his full height again, waiting for her to answer. The horses tripped restlessly, eager to be on their way again, for the air was cold and gnawing on the ridge. Clearing her throat, eyes flickering from him to the ground, she gave a short nod. "By the shape of the hoof-print, yes." She pointed and gestured. "Do you not believe the same?"

"Indeed it is so," he answered, but the amusement in his voice concerned her. What mistake had she made this time? "Though the fact I can see it down below in the valley made my trackings all the more easier." Her mouth snapped shut, and she quickly turned to look out over the edge to the lands below.

And surely enough, a black dot between the green, the deer grazed on the open meadows with little concern to the hunters following. With a scowl in his direction, she bit back a sour remark and pulled the bow free from her back. Then she nocked an arrow. I should have noticed, she scolded herself in her mind, irked by the novice mistake. Hearing, touch, smell, taste, and sight. Foolishness! Taking aim, she gauged the distance and deemed it within easy reach. The string was pulled tight, stretched to its fullest.

"Remember where to hit, Rell," he guided, fondness clear in his voice, much rather than the edge of a master's stern appraisal.

"I know."

And so did he, too, of course. She exhaled. While she could not boast of her skills at tracking, for they were poor indeed, she knew well how to handle a bow. And she did so skillfully. Her hands were steady. It would be costly to have a wounded, bleeding deer running about in terror across the plains. A clear, true shot penetrating both lungs was her aim, and she would make sure it was so.

Then she loosened the string.

The arrow carved the air, and the deer had no time to react; it pierced the spot she had aimed for, and the animal collapsed with a violent twitch but moved no further. A hit made with certainty saved her a trek through the hills, attempting to find the dying animal wherever it had run off to in terror. She slung the bow across her shoulder, gave her uncle a look, and took the reins to her horse; mounting, she descended the steep hill with the other Ranger following behind.

Rell found the deer easily in the tall grass.

Black, lifeless eyes stared up on her as she approached. It was large enough to last weeks, and they had tracked it for many miles through the forest; they would not have starved without it, for a Ranger could always find food in the undergrowth, so instead her uncle had used it as a lesson in hunting. Carefully wedging the arrow free, hoping it could be used again for she only had few left, she then proceeded to hoist the animal up onto the back of her horse.

She would have preferred to gut and clean it then and there, but they had still a while to go before making camp for the night. They had been on the road for a month and were now returning to the village of her birth; in earlier days they could be away for more than half a year, trading news and reports with their fellow Rangers when they met in the wild, but it was not so any longer.

The world was changing – and not for the better.

The darkness stretched far, and its reach grew ever longer. Grasping for footholds where Men allowed it to enter. Trouble brewed in the horizon to the East; orcs gathering in large numbers, bolder and stronger than ever before, and the watchful peace they had long enjoyed was drawing to an end. Still, they only spoke of it with quiet voices laced with alarm, for they knew how to read the signs yet also wished dearly that the readings would be wrong.

It was but a glimmer of hope that the omens of ill were but rumours.

Everyone knew war was soon upon them.

On the open plains the wind blew unrelenting; it began as a whispering in the air and she pulled her cloak closer, feeling the first droplets hit against her cheeks and back. The two Rangers needed not speak, they both knew their destination and the way, and so she steered further south while keeping the flowing river to her left. Its stream was slow, lazy, as only little water fed it from the mountains in the far distance. The shimmering surface dulled when grey and black clouds drifted over them, and soon the rain fell heavily; beating down on their bent and hooded backs.

So much rain fell that the sound blurred into a long, whirring noise, grating on her ears and it drowned out all else.

The horses knew the path, an easy and flat stretch straight onward, trotting through the tall swaying grass. The landscape was an uninterrupted and endless ocean of green and soon she found her thoughts to be wandering as they often did. Through seven winters and seven summers, Rell had followed her chieftain into the wild, but only in the last two had she been able to wield her father's sword; finally strong enough, where previously a much smaller blade accompanied her bow and arrows out into combat. Over the long years their journey had taken her far; through ever-changing landscapes and seasons. Through a heavy blanket of snow, painting the world a blinding white, she had traversed the treacherous pass of the Redhorn Gate.

Sheer and steep slopes of Caradhras, into the Dimrill Dale. Over open plains and grasslands, where great herds of horses roamed free, the trampling of hooves like thunder; where shepherds shared meagre meals over the fire, trading stories from far away lands. Beneath the ancient mallorn-trees in the kingdom of the Silvan Elves, in a world where time stood ever still and the songs were beautiful. Rell knew the stars in the sky well, and many a night she had spent gazing upwards to the small, shimmering gems strewn across a vast darkness. She had learned to hold her head high, indifferent to the disdainful looks turned her way. Unashamed of the hushed whispers and gossips in dim tavern-rooms, or harsh voices spit to her face, where few saw their presence as little more than a nuisance at best.

She pulled a sleeve across her face as water trickled down her brow, obstructing her vision, but she was otherwise not caring about the downpour. Her uncle had pulled his horse ahead when her own had lessened its pace, matching her slow wandering thoughts. Rell bothered not to spur her horse forward, and instead followed behind and kept her gaze on the muddy ground below. The chill of late Autumn was approaching swiftly, and soon their vigilant watch would be needed, for ever did evil stir when light wanes.

When Winter came, so did all things horrid and malicious.

Often they had hunted great wolves in the deep forests and mountain passes, using spears and torches, keeping the peace in the region of Eriador; bandits became restless and increasingly desperate in order to make it through the Winter months, and orcs took advantage of the longer hours of night. There was little rest for a Ranger.

The pair was then returning from the Ettenmoors, where they had hunted small packs of goblins venturing too close to the valleys before the foothills of the Misty Mountains. Her cloak was still flecked with dark, almost black, patches of blood that smelled almost as horrible as the creatures themselves; the quiver on her back nearly empty. In the midday sun, blinding in the eyes of a creature of Morgoth, a pair of Rangers had easily brought death with them. The fleeing remnants they had hunted through the jagged stone-lands with ease.

But now it was time for them to find their way home.

Rell and her uncle had for a long while followed the Hoarwell, the waters bleak and dull from which it had earned its name, a dreary companion. Mitheithel – grey-spring – but when the waters turned and skirted the edge of a forest of beech trees, they too turned away and moved the straight way west.

Her uncle had steered them only through parts of the wood, never straying far from its edges, and only ever when they would save time by passing beneath the large shadow of branches. Ever watchful, with the chirping of birds and the rustle of leaves as company, they followed a downtrodden dust-path seldom used by any other creatures. The upland woods were haunt to trolls, in shallow caves deep within the darkened forest, but they met no enemy on the road so far from the hills.

Soon they left the cover of trees and entered the last leg of the journey, now crossing the green hills she knew so well. Many years had she spent here, learning how to track and hunt in the wilderness; how to tell apart edible roots and berries from poisonous ones, to scavenge for food and to stomach what others could not. Not far now, two days at most if they did not rest for the night, they would reach her childhood home, although she knew her uncle had other plans first.

To a valley where the sound of running water was loud, and where every day throughout the year was here blessed with beauty and song; to the house of Lord Elrond, in Rivendell where her uncle had resided as a child. Words of guidance and news of the world were there shared, and the weary could rest their feet. Rell pulled herself from thought, feeling the rain lessen to a light drizzle until it ended completely; she brushed back her cloak and looked up.

Cloudy skies of grey stretched unending above her, but ahead rays of light pierced the cover as wind swept across the land.

Morning had turned to late noon while she had been lost in thought, and peering back she could no longer make out the ridge they had earlier climbed, nor the ravine they had followed down. The river was but a thin, glowing line of silver far away, and it would soon be swallowed by the green. On her right, the tangled and dark forest followed their path, wretched boles fencing in the dark world beyond.

Muddy pools of water sloshed beneath her when she spurred her horse forward. She fell into pace next to her uncle, pushing wet strands of hair from her face before voicing a question. "Do we continue throughout the night or do we rest?" Contemplating grey eyes peered ahead into the distance at her words. They likely both looked forward to clean clothes and a warm bed, but neither were they in such a hurry as to push the horses unnecessarily through the night.

"We shall make camp at dusk," he said, "Once we reach the moors for shelter."

Rell nodded, glad to rid herself of the drenched cloak that clung uncomfortably to her skin.

They continued on in agreeable silence, their shared company familiar, and it was only broken by soft neighs or a bird startled from hiding. The clouds soon drifted away on the wind, leaving only thin strips of white on an otherwise clear sky, and the chill in her body subsided to some extent; it would not be many hours before the sun would sink towards the horizon in streaks of red and gold, but the Rangers would continue on until then.

When finally the dark hours were about them and the road began to fall gently into the dusk, they sought a place to camp for the night between steepening hills and solitary outcrops of trees. The horses were tied to a nearby oak, and while her companion scoped out the area and collected firewood, Rell fed her horse a wrinkled apple and patted it down.

With the look she then received, almost human-like in its indignation, she quickly fished out another apple for her uncle's horse. "I apologize for my thoughtlessness, o great lord," she laughed, receiving a soft nuzzle against her arm. Then she proceeded to heave the deer off of her saddle, feeling the coarse fur rub against her cheek. It was a young doe, but still too heavy for her to carry far, so she was forced to drag it across the grass and away from their resting place; there she placed it on a slab of stone and pulled the knife from her belt.

Rell crouched on the ground.

Starting between the hind legs, she slit the skin and peeled it away with practiced ease; then the blade cut across the abdomen all the way to the jawbone, careful not to cut too deep to avoid puncturing anything. Rell then pulled the deer onto its side, and it did not take long before she had cleaned out the worst guts. Digging a hole in the soft ground, she discarded what she could not use, and covered it in a layer of dirt; it would do little to keep scavengers away, for the smell travelled far, but at least their own noses would be spared.

Then she began carving off the most tender meat for their evening meal, placing it on a nearby stone along with both heart and liver, before tying a thick rope around the hind legs. Making sure it was fastened, she hung the deer from one of the sturdier oak-trees, high enough off the ground so that no large animal would steal away with it during the night. Satisfied, she returned to the horses and found her uncle tending to a small fire that soon after roared to life.

With her waterskin she cleaned her hands for blood and grime, then quickly dried them against her outer tunic.

The wood was damp, letting out small crackles ever so often, and the smoke was dark; a spiral of blue-grey whirls. But they skewered the meat and let it roast over the flames as they settled, laying out covers for the night, and then they shared dried berries and roots from her satchel while waiting. The wind was sighing in the branches, and leaves were whispering. There was always a sense of disquiet when she was on the road, ears trained for sounds, but after a time, as the stars grew thicker and brighter in the sky, her unease lessened.

An air, earthy from the earlier rain, hung heavy around them. Her fingers worked a way through her braided hair, tugging insistently and loosening it until it fell down to her shoulders; tangled and knotted, she wrung the last dampness from her tresses. Then she stretched, shoulders popping into place, and she crossed her legs. The warmth slowly crept over her skin, prickling but welcome as the numbness shied away.

She pulled a whetstone from her satchel and then meticulously began to sharpen her knife. It was sharp as is, but the familiar motion felt calming to her, a repetitiveness that kept her mind from wandering. Over and over; back and forth. The blade shone, reflecting the golden-red tendrils licking over the wood, when she twisted it in her grasp. Rell paused to check on the meat, turning the skewers halfway around, and inhaled the smell. With a yawn, she then leaned back on her elbows as her gaze found the other Ranger across the fire.

Smoke welled up, twisting in light grey puffs before vanishing into the dark, as her uncle was now drawing thoughtfully at his pipe. The sweet smell of pipeweed mingled with the cold air, and she smiled at the familiarity and the memories brought with it.

Weather-beaten lines cast shadows across his face, brow furrowed in deep thought and his gaze adamantly looked into the flickering flames. Rell likely knew what he was thinking. A feeling of frustration clutched at her stomach, coiling around uncomfortably like a serpent writhing to get out, until her grip around the whetstone cut into her palm. She chewed the inside of her mouth.

They had not only stayed in Rhudaur, patrolling the area between the mountain range Hithaeglir and the swift-running Bruinen, to guard the small settlements scattered about the landscape. The Rangers were on a hunt. A long and weary hunt, following trails that had long since gone cold, in their search for a strange, elusive creature.

Not a beast, but neither was it a man.

Time and time again they had failed. It knew the waters well, both rivers and lakes, slipping away into murky depths, and it scaled treacherous cliff walls with ease, where they could not tread. She knew not fully the reason why, for the Grey Wizard had only opened up his heart to her uncle for council. That was now some fifteen years ago, and long before Rell had joined him on the road. It had been the start of a long and hopeless search for news. With naught but a few footprints in the softest of mud along a riverbank, or whispered rumours of an evil creature stealing children from their cradles, to follow.

Cunning, it hid from both daylight and moonshine, and often made a way through the dead of night that was both swift and soft. Never before had she heard tales of such a creature; the stories made her skin turn cold, and the secrecy between her uncle and Gandalf the Grey was equal measures curious and worrisome. What need drove them to continue a fruitless hunt?

Over the years he had explored the Wilderland, to lands she had never – nor wished to – see. To the fences of Mordor, in the shadowed regions of the world; searching dark hills and rotting mires. But always had he returned to the village without success. Face grim with both dejection and determination. Her curiosity was great, but she did not ask. If her chieftain deemed it necessary for her to know, then he would tell her – and only then. Though Rell could not help but wonder.

Why had the watch around the Shire doubled?

Beasts and birds, spies of many sorts, gathered around its borders, and she found it to be strange. Concerning. What use had the world of the gentle Hobbit-folk? She looked up to the stars, watching the Valacirca bright above the shoulder of a darkened mountain range to the east, its light ever growing and dimming as clouds drifted by. Further, Elemmírë twinkled, its light kindled long ago to welcome the awakening of the Elves, and it was so beautiful and unreachable. The sight renewed her strength.

They could never be touched.

Even if the Rangers and all the free peoples were to face the evils of the world, against the Lord of the Black Lands himself; even if the Dúnedain would cease to exist, this light would never truly be quenched. It could never be tainted. The wounds on the world could never run so deep, never leave scarrings on the truly beautiful once, so long ago, created by the Valar.

Finally, the meal was ready, and a hungry stomach pulled her from her brooding thoughts. With a skewer each, Rell found the meat to be tender but with little flavour; they had no spices or salt to season it with, making the taste rather bland in her mouth as she chewed. But the food was filling, and she could ask for nothing more so far from a homely hearth. The waxing moon loomed huge upon the speckled expanse, climbing as darkness settled. Neither Ranger spoke much as they ate, and soon Rell settled on the ground with the cover pulled close around her body.

He would take the first watch.

At first she listened to the sound of night around her, eyes closed and hand resting on the hilt of her sword. Fingers clenching and unclenching. The breeze made the trees around her murmur, soft singing voices in an ancient language she could not understand, and the fire danced across her eyelids. Despite the drowsiness, making her arms and legs feel as if stones weighed her down, she struggled to fall asleep. But with the warmth of the fire and the soft rustles of her uncle's shifting movements, Rell finally gave in to sleep. Again she could smell the low burning of his pipe. It would not be long until her watch, and rest was always precious.

The world turned dark around her.