Author's Notes: And so we introduce Warg's other side: the pervy Boromir fancier. He doesn't belong to me, fortunately for all concerned, and neither does the rest of Middle Earth. Everything will be returned to the books and movies with only minimum psychiatric wear and tear and no more than 5 pints extra drool, I promise.
Tasana froze as she heard the riders approach from the south, crouching uncomfortably on her hands and one knee next to the alpha female in the underbrush. Although her left leg was cramping, the woman did not dare to move until the mounted party had passed off into a thicker part of the South Woods. Cursing her unusual height that prevented the healer from using a more relaxed position, Tasana stood, shaking leaves from her dark, shoulder-length hair. "They may call themselves rangers, but those soldiers make nearly as much noise as a bunch of orcs."
Her companion laughed. "Fortunately for us the humans do make so much noise. Our two peoples have never gotten along."
"I'm not that bad, am I?" the human cocked her head with playful pride. "At least I don't scare off all the game within half a day's run." Her mother had taught her to move quietly in the forests as a girl, and five years of sneaking away to the wolves to run amongst them had improved Tasana's sylvan skills immensely. The gangly, rebellious adolescent daughter of Tamithor Rivermerchant was now one of the foxiest trackers south of Bree, easily able to avoid the Steward's rangers, much less her father's hapless apprentice.
"You do not howl before the hunters have moved into position, at least, little healer," the old she-Warg sniffed disapprovingly after the drifting scent of horse sweat. "Those cause fear in all they pass, with good reason."
"Not all humans mean evil for Wargs," the woods-woman stretched and shook the wolf's understated fears and her own off with the last of the cramp, and then tucked her short black hair back behind her ears, once again aware of the significance of its color. "If the Dunedain, for instance, knew you fought orcs, they would – "
"My mate met the Dunedain when he was young, little healer," the wolf called Mithilira cut her off. "They were no better than these soldiers, save the northern men are slightly quieter in the woods." The black alpha Warg had had to kill or be killed since he escaped the orc – dominated northern packs. Since then he had fought his former captors with vengeful fury. The wolf lord held little respect for other bipedal species as well, untrusting of anything that moved on two legs save Tasana. His mate shared his opinions for the most part, seeing how the great Wargs had been driven from the northeast and were being butchered in the south. There had been bad blood between wolves and men for far too long.
"I'm aiming to change that." Tasana said quietly, purposefully. She may not wear her hair in the tiny, complicated rows of Dunedain braids as her mother had, but Tasana was well aware of her double heritage from both the prosperous, hardworking, and often-warlike community of Gondor's main city of Minas Tirith, the city of her birth, and the more distant, near legendary Arnor, where her mother's clan lived. The Dunedain were the real rangers, not just soldiers of the Steward who rode out of the city whenever they were spoiling for a fight, but gypsy wanderers who befriended the elves and lived in harmony with their northern forests. They were either the true kings of humanity or the worst group of thieves and cutthroats to stalk Middle Earth, depending upon whom one asked. The latter type of people, including her father when he was in a resentful mood, often compared Tasana to her mother, blaming the maid's wanton wanderings upon her Dunedain legacy. Tasana, personally, was glad for the freedom her mother's woodland training had provided her with, and was eager to meet her northern relations and help them prove their honor to Gondor's citified society. But first she would attempt to help the Wargs make peace with humanity, and it would be more likely for the lost King of Gondor to return than Tasana to be able to bridge the years of hatred and mistrust between men and wolves. "Perhaps, at least, we can teach these southern 'rangers' to hunt more quietly."
0-0-0
There always seemed to be a large number of unusual visitors at the inn of the Prancing Pony. Despite its small size, the town of Bree was surprisingly important on the northern trade routes. Anyone traveling to or from the Shire stopped in Bree, and the Pony was the only inn in town. The ranger clans also came there to trade for cloth, weapons, and other supplies in the town; the merchants of Bree were the only ones who trusted the Dunedain enough to let the thieving rouges in their shop.
Barliman Butterbur, the proprietor of the Pony, never trusted such folk as a rule, but as long as the rangers kept to themselves and did not bother any of his customers; money was money. Payments in the form of hides and leather weren't all that unusual, and Butterbur was often too absentminded or in a hurry to ask what unfortunate soul the Dunedain had held up for most likely ill-gotten gold that a few of the northern trackers paid him with. It was good Gondor coin, imprinted with the seal of the Seventh Tower and easy to spend. Considering the times, Butterbur did not ask too many questions, but Dunedain paid up front.
The creak of the opening door and the sound of wet feet coming in from the rain caused Butterbur to look up from the bar. Four soggy, barefoot forms whose heads just barely cleared the top of the bar approached Butterbur with wide eyes and raised hackles. "What can I do for you, little masters?" He asked in his brightest voice, hoping to put them at ease. Hobbits generally did not travel much, and these poor ragged souls had had awful weather for such a long distance on foot, if they were from the Shire, as they looked to be. Butterbur had seen all kinds of people, and considered himself a good judge of character.
"Do you know if Gandalf is here?" the oldest one asked. At the innkeeper's pondering silence, he added, "Gandalf the Gray? We're friends, and he's supposed to meet us here."
"Gandalf… Long gray beard, pointy hat?" the hobbit nodded impatiently. "Sorry, little master, haven't seen him in six months. I'm sure he'll turn up here shortly though," Butterbur added with a reassuring smile as they whispered among themselves worriedly. "We've got some nice hobbit-size rooms on the ground floor if you and your friends care to wait for him. Why don't you go into the common room and take a load off after your journey? I'll send word to you when he shows up, Mister…"
"Underhill," the hobbit answered quickly, too quickly to be truthful. Butterbur thought the old man the hobbit was looking for had once mentioned another who had used that same alias some fifty or sixty years ago; a rich little hobbit who traveled in the company of dwarves. Butterbur could not remember the former Underhill's right name, Baggy Billow, Billby Bagolend, or something like that….
At least this "Mister Underhill" and his friends had taken the innkeeper's advice and were relaxing in the common room. Perhaps getting a little too relaxed. One of them had gotten up on a table and was dancing a jig and singing drunkenly as his friends clapped him on. Butterbur generally didn't mind such antics, so long as they did not trouble paying customers, but the big Dunedain in the corner was staring menacingly at the dancing hobbit. Strider was fairly trustworthy, for a thieving ranger, and always paid for his few, watered-down ales in Gondor coin, but Butterbur would hate to see that one riled.
Like all the Dunedain Butterbur had ever had the misfortune of meeting, Strider was tall, morose, and dark as the Black Tower in the south. This particular specimen was even more intimidating than average, not so much for his height or build, which was typical of the tall, lean men from the north, as for his aura of power that was obvious to even the drunkest fool looking for a fight in the Pony.
On the table, the hobbit tripped, fell off the table, and completely disappeared before he hit the ground. Butterbur and his guests stood stock still in shock until he reappeared a few seconds later a foot away from where he should have landed. No one moved when the Dunedain picked up the hobbit and whisked him out of the common room. The other three, brandishing walking sticks, a chair, and a skillet, followed after the ranger a few seconds later, and the spell upon the room was broken. Butterbur examined his ale, but it was no stronger than usual. He took another long draught to banish the night's insanity, but his liquor told him he had not yet seen the worst. As usual, his ale turned out to be just about right.
0-0-0
The angry storm clouds blew up from the East, out of the desecrated city that few dared to name. Black smoke covered the sky and blotted out the sun. The harsh winds and rain blotted out all sound, tearing against his clothes and hair with a malevolent will all its own. Rain stung his eyes, half blinding him as chain lighting struck from the dark tower toward the white city that sheltered all he held dear.
This torment, this danger was beyond the hands of any man it seemed, yet as the driving downpour strengthened, he could not help but blame himself for leaving that beautiful place and its populace to bear the brunt of the storm's force. He knew not how he came to be standing here, out in the stark, faceless wilds between home and the hellish eastern lands, but a part of him knew that if only he could return, he could stop the thunderous doom fast approaching. His father, his little brother – a man in his own right now, but ever the small boy who had rushed to him to set things right, in his eyes – his countrymen, all would be safe if only he were to raise his sword against the lightning.
But something kept him from doing so. He knew it would be dangerous, and not only to him. In the distance, he saw another sword raised as he hesitated and cursed himself for such hesitation: a weapon of age, power, and elegance. The lightning struck, and it shattered, sending shrapnel to the four winds. Despite the sacrifice of the blade, the bolt was hardly slowed on its path, ricocheting off the broken sword on towards the city. There was no chance of stopping it. The man who had upheld the ancient blade had been shrouded in shadow and driving rain, but as the thunderbolt struck, his briefly illuminated face had held an expression of utmost despair. The other's act had been hopeless, yet he knew no alternative way to try to prevent his city's destruction.
Yet in the northwest, a single, faint beam of pale light remained with the memory of the sun. He heard a melodious feminine voice call to him clearly over the rain, its source unidentifiable as if from a great distance, it sounded at once familiar and completely alien to him, an implacable sweetness in the middle of the storm. "Seek the sword that was broken," it commanded him. "In Rivendell shallt thou find it. Make haste, for Isildur's Bane is waking and doom is near at hand!" This hint of hope had come too late, though. He slowly raised his own blade, waiting for the lightning.