AU- The Fellowship is introduced to some of the most reprehensible beasts in Middle Earth short of Mary Sues: Wargs that even the orcs can't stand. Can't we all just get along? The enemy of my enemy...
Rating: G, for now, but later chapters may contain swearing and brief sensuality.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything but Mithilira and Tasana, like you'd want them anyway. I'll trade them for reviews.
Edit: I just added a bit more behind Mithilira's reasoning for sending Tasana off. Maybe it's more Sueish this way, but it's semi-logical Sueish. We hope.
"That is no mere trinket for songs and tricks that you carry, 'Mister Underhill,'" the dark, rangy specter growled as he shook the frightened hobbit he carried by the scruff of the neck. "By my rights I ought to abandon you to whatever orc, brigand, or black rider that finds you first. A most fortunate thing for you that Gandalf sent me, else they would have done just that."
Frodo grasped desperately for his scattered wits. The ale in Butterbur's inn was stronger than anything the normally abstemious hobbit had ever tried in the Shire, but being shaken like a wet rag by a disagreeable-looking six-and-half-foot tall stranger was doing wonders for Frodo's sobriety. "My friends and I have avoided the riders so far without any help."
Frodo decided it was best to exclude mentioning how close a thing that had been. While crossing the Brandywine River the mysterious followers had been almost right atop the small barefoot party. Those awful creatures made the surly Dunedain ranger look positively magnanimous by comparison, scaring every creature down to the very worms in the soil their coal black mounts made contact with. Between the black riders, the wraiths of the Barrow Downs, and enchanted trees that put people to sleep before eating them, it had indeed been a very long journey, and Frodo was in no mood to be lectured about how narrow his escapes had been. However, he was even less in the mood to face another threat, and there seemed little he could do about being carried by the scruff of the neck; so the hobbit decided to keep his mouth shut and stop squirming.
The ranger, having reached his destination on the second floor, tossed Frodo down onto the long bed and sat down in the austere wooden chair next to the door in the sparsely furnished rented room. After double-checking the lock, the black-haired man turned his piercing gray eyes upon the hobbit as Frodo took stock of the room. "Are you frightened?" The Dunedain paused as the hobbit nodded wordlessly. "Not nearly frightened enough. Those are the Ring Wraiths chasing you: Sauron's immortal hounds tirelessly hunting after their master's source of power, which you now carry, Frodo Baggins. You must be more careful if you hope to survive to see Rivendell. Never, ever put that on again."
A pounding on the door interrupted Strider's lecture. One hand on his sword hilt, the ranger opened the door to find three young hobbits pour through the doorway. "You'd best let Mister Frodo go, you brute," Sam snarled, clutching his pan in a desperate but businesslike manner. Pippin brandished his walking stick with a very good impression of his father's outrage after catching the boys at a prank. Merry did his best to keep a formidable expression upon his face as he held the stool from the bar shield-like in front of him, but his angry countenance twitched slightly as the hobbit looked up towards the obviously dangerous ranger who held his cousin captive.
The Dunedain chuckled at their futile display, drawing his broken sword in a quick salute. "Quite an amazing people indeed, as Gandalf is so fond of telling me. Easy, friends, I mean you and Frodo no harm. Gandalf has sent me to escort you to Rivendell in his place, whilst he sends word to the wizards of Isengard of what has come to pass."
"How do we know you're a friend of Gandalf?" Sam asked, never lowering his skillet.
"I suppose there is yet little proof I can give you as yet, Samwise Gamgee, not until we get upon the road. But stand here by the window and watch the gates for a while. Then you and Frodo can tell me if you still do not require my aid." The ranger shrugged carelessly and backed into the shadows of the room without a sound after sheathing his sword.
All seemed quiet outside the room with its window overlooking the stabiles and part of the front door. People entered and left the Prancing Pony, talking and laughing amongst themselves, rarely loud enough to carry up to the second story window; their horses were saddled or led into the barn, and local livestock pawed and grazed in the grass. Sam turned away from the window and headed toward the door, but was cut off by the black shadow of the cloaked Dunedain. "You don't want to leave here tonight. Believe me, I hold you here only for your own protection."
Sam grumbled, but was cut off from further argument by a gesture from Frodo. The eldest of the hobbits did not trust the ranger, but something in the cool night air raised the hair upon the back of his neck. Frodo sat by the window long after his companions had gone to sleep, Pippin and Merry drowsing off in the bed, Sam stubbornly remaining on his feet until he collapsed against the wall in exhaustion. Strider picked up the sleeping hobbit gently, tucking Samwise in between the other two before righting the stool Merry had brought in. "Who are they?" Frodo asked the tall man as he sat upon the chair that was barely half the size needed to fully accommodate his lanky frame.
"Nazgül. No man can kill such creatures, wraiths in the service of the Dark Lord. They do not see the world as we see it, but merely in terms of distances between themselves and that bane which you carry. They sense it always; hear its call most loudly when someone uses it. They will hunt you so long as that is within your possession, Frodo. Their master is rising again, and needs only this to regain his power. But listen, and soon you will see why I brought you here." The Dunedain sat forward in his chair as the chilling screams Frodo recognized all too well sounded outside the inn.
Nine black forms upon darker horses trampled the gate beneath them, and then with five standing watch over the horses, the remaining four broke down the door to the inn. Frodo held his breath as he heard their heavy stomp approach the room where he and his friends had planned to spend the night. There was the sound of drawn steel, and the repeated muffled thumps as their swords tore the beds to kindling. Frodo could almost make out the dark forms in the window across the inn, and heard their unnatural screams of frustration as they discovered the hobbits had escaped their grasp. Sam woke as the black horsemen remounted and streamed off into the night. "What was that?" he asked once Strider had removed his hand from the disoriented hobbit's mouth.
The ranger gave Frodo a hard look, and the hobbit nodded slowly. Turning back to the wild eyed awakened sleeper, Strider indicated the window with the chaos milling in the streets below. "That," he replied softly, "is the reason you need to trust me."
Her father offered her hand to many a business partner over the next two decades, perhaps even secretly counting on her to run away from her suitors. On this point Tasana never failed to succeed, escaping to the woods, the wolf pack, and her sword, learning how to use the poisoned orc blade the same way she had learned her bow: through experience. She got plenty of that with both weapons as she accompanied the Wargs on hunts and orc raids, teaching the wolves her language as well as learning theirs.
Twenty-three years after her initial contact with the pack, the news was on every tongue, human and wolf alike. The eldest prince of Gondor, heir to the steward, had had some strange prophetic dream was riding to Rivendell as fast as the swiftest messenger horse could carry him. Supposedly, the dream predicted the doom of the White City, Minas Tirith, and all her surroundings. Was it possible that the Dark Lord and his ilk were attempting to conquer Gondor? Certainly the orc raids Tasana had participated in lately seemed to be getting worse.
"Talk to him, little healer," the seeress of the pack urged her. "This dream is a sign of the seer sense, and that is much too rare in Wargs, much less your kind, to let this go to waste. One is lucky to be able to foresee a single event in one's lifetime, and to witness such as this forebodes a great life indeed. Tell him the packs will aid him, if it leads to the defeat of our shared enemy." While her mate never trusted humans as a rule, Mithilira put great confidence in the woods woman's judgment of other members of her species. The alpha had seen her protégé angst over these rumors, and it was better to get Tasana out and about than let her stew and threaten the wolves' food intake from some mindless blunder she made on a hunt.
Besides, Mithilira's own well-developed instincts insisted that this alliance would prove fruitful for her pack. The Warg was quick to identify those who might show talent for what she referred to as the seer sense, a gift of foresight granted to those with close ties to elven-kind. The talent had been dying out amongst the Wargs from such a long separation from their former masters. It was prized amongst wolves, as a strong seer might lead his pack to better hunting grounds and save them from threats. Mithilira had interpreted Tasana's healing skills as an offshoot of this talent, and had been attempting to train her in it for ages, although prescience was not a skill that could be learned without some inner knack for it. If this Boromir had truly had some prophetic dream, it would be best to bring him into some alliance with the pack, if getting him to join them was out of the question.
The woods woman sighed before trying again to explain the reasons behind her reluctance to comply with the alpha's request. "Mithilira, humans are not like Wargs. He has many in his pack, and cannot listen to all of us."
"Unthinkable. If an alpha cannot interact with all his pack, they will leave him." The gray wolf commanded almost forty Wargs now, but she and her mate made time for each and treated them with respect. In truth, Mithilira acted not so much as a queen as an arbitrator and hunt-coordinator.
"There is a reason I stay here in the forest with you, my friend." Tasana bowed her head and reached into the rough gray coat to scratch behind the sharp silver ears, a gesture that would have earned her a toothy rebuke ten years ago. Since then, Tasana had learned to show respect before making contact with a high-ranking pack member, and the wolves had discovered that she meant no challenge by it. Indeed, some of the younger ones would seek her out for their more persistent itches and parasites unashamedly. "But as you might let another lead a hunting party that you do not follow, so the humans let others stand in their place almost constantly."
Mithilira seemed to grasp this concept more readily than she had the idea of a steward or his son. "That still must be awkward during the breeding season," she commented, sighing contentedly as Tasana found her favorite spot. Like their all but extinct smaller cousins, Wargs let only the alpha pair breed, but it was up to each pair of alphas to enforce this rule. Early winter was the one time when Mithilira could become positively tyrannical.
Tasana let this misunderstanding go for now. "But you understand why I cannot contact him now? I am not one of his betas; I am no hunt-leader."
"Nevertheless, you possess information that your alpha needs to know, and you need information and direction from him. It is the duty of any pack member to help her leader." Mithilira would not be persuaded of the frailty of her plan.
At last convinced to slip away and find out for herself what dooms she faced, the healer mounted Mithilira, the chief she-Warg she had befriended for so long, and rode hot on Lord Boromir's heels. Tasana had learned how to run nearly as fast as her four-legged companions for short distances, but had little hope of ever matching a wolf in stamina. The journey through neighboring pack territories was relatively uneventful, but even with abstaining from hunts and the woods-woman spelling her friend by running alongside the Warg, she and her quadruped companion were forced to chase a cold trail. The steward's son had not spared a moment on his journey, and evidence along the track hinted that he had pushed his mount to its utmost. His pursuers knew not what could push a legendarily bold, intrepid man to such flight, but they did know the dangers of being caught at his destination.
As much as the Wargs of the South Woods hated the orcs, there was a greater, far older enmity between the wolves and the elves. Long before Mithilira, an old matron by the standards a naturally long-lived race, had been born, there had been a betrayal that tore apart the Wargs and their former masters. The exact transgression was forgotten in the mists of time, but its resulting breach had never been healed. Most packs would rather turn to the orcs than the folk who had bred them from the great hounds and lesser wolves to become the master hunters of today. Tasana parted from Mithilira far outside the edge of Rivendell, fearing for her friend's safety. She trusted the seeress with her life, but the elves did not know the Warg's hunting preference for orc instead of elven meat. Hiding her scimitar beneath her cloak, Tasana approached the gates of Rivendell.