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
Author's Notes: Okay; now we come to that point that proves beyond any other means that I really am a dorky fangirl. (Besides the fact that I'm now making the final irrevocable step into Mary-Sue-ism.) It's time for everyone's favorite game: Spot that Esoteric Song Reference!
Feeling sharp(e) today? (I wish I were.) It's tricksy, but I'll try to include enough hints that any fool worth his bean should be able to espy what part of the story I'm referring to, the artist, and the song title. This singer played a major part in a goofy spy comedy that was in theaters a couple of summers ago, which mocked a series in which the actor, who plays the character in Peter Jackson's version whose description is altered here, played the part of a villain. Still with me? I'm impressed. I got lost about four sentences back.
Anyways, if you can give me the quote in here, (it doesn't match up with Tolkien or Jackson's descriptions per se) the song it's based off of, and the singer, you get a special edition Istari Smiley Award and a shout out in the next chapter. Even if you were like me and didn't understand a word of that, hope you enjoy the AU, and if you don't get any pleasure from the story itself, have fun picking apart my freaky grammar and share the love through flames. I will remain a stupid git until I hear someone speak up to tell me that I am a stupid git. And even then it may take me a little while. May the Valar and Gods of Writing protect you all from those who are nuttier than I.
Is it tasty? Is it crunchable? Many thanks to Wizzo the Crunchy Frog for my first review. It's even a positive one; can you believe it? Agree or disagree with the dear frog as you will, but let me know how I'm doing through the little blue button.
Edit: Just added in a short bit from Boromir's POV in an attempt to explain Boromir's past knowledge of Tasana: he might have seen her once in a crowd. That's it. Edits are dedicated to BoromirDefender for a chapter by chapter review and pointing out logic weaknesses.
Further edit: Thanks to Saltwater for correcting my timeline.
"We cannot hide it here, Mithrandir." The elven lord shook his proud head sadly. "My people's strength is not what it once was, and we could barely survive an onslaught from the Dark Lord at the height of our power."
"You fared better than the other races, my old friend." Gandalf nodded with a bittersweet smile. "We will have to destroy it, then, but this will not be an easy task. It must be cast into the fires of Mordor."
"A fact I know all too well. No army could ever hope to penetrate that deeply into Sauron's foul kingdom." It had happened once, just after the battle with Sauron three thousand years ago. But human frailties had squandered that opportunity to destroy this bane that threatened Rivendell once more. The elf glanced briefly at the two men sizing each other up like wildcats from where they sat facing one another at opposite ends of the council ring. Both appeared as dangerous and confrontational as the dueling red dragons embroidered upon the southern lord's white doublet that the lighter haired man wore atop his chain mail. No, he couldn't blame them for the mistakes of their forefathers. His daughter, sons, and young cousin were so fond of the Dunedain, whom Lord Elrond looked upon as almost a foster son. Aragorn shouldn't bare the blame of Isildur's madness, the memory of which haunted Lord Elrond's sleep and disturbed his waking thought. Even if…
"No, but a small group may be able to sneak in where an army could not. A group of no more than nine or ten might go unnoticed," Lord Elrond's daughter spoke up. Like her father, Arwen possessed an ageless elven beauty and a quick mind.
"I've kept it this far. I will see this quest through, no matter how far it takes me, even into the Black Tower itself," Frodo said quietly. His friends quickly added their willingness to go.
"You'd have to tie us in a sack and throw us in the river to stop us!" Frodo's youngest cousin stood as tall and proud as his slender three foot five frame allowed.
"I wouldn't be surprised, seeing how it's impossible to separate you three from him. You managed to sneak into a secret meeting you weren't even invited to; Mordor should prove no problem." Elrond allowed himself a brief, droll smile. "So be it, then. You and your companions shall journey to Mordor to destroy the ring. With you and Gandalf, who must go as your guide, I shall send my kinsman Legolas as a representative for the elves, Lord Boromir of House Hurin of Gondor as a representative of men's concerns, and Gimli son of Gloin for the dwarves."
"Gimli's father went with Uncle Bilbo on his adventures," Frodo whispered to Sam. "It will be good to have them with us. Have you all agreed to this already?" He looked toward the three who had motioned at being named to the company. "Your aid is more than welcome, but it shall not be an easy journey. Even if you decide to go with us of your own free will, there are no guarantees that we will finish it together, so I won't object if you want to back out at any time."
"Perhaps we can ease this journey somewhat. The best bow in Mirkwood is at your service, Frodo Baggins," The elf said, bowing with a small flourish.
"As is my axe," Gimli said taciturnly, leaning on a massive double bladed weapon that stood at least as tall as Frodo. He looked disapprovingly at the archer. The dwarves had come very close to war with the elves of Mirkwood during their resettlement of the dwarven homeland in the east, and old tensions still rankled.
"I disagree with Lord Elrond about this plan, but better the ring is destroyed quickly than to have it fall into the wrong hands." Boromir rose with the other two.
"I wouldn't couch it in quite the same terms Pippin used, but I feel it would be best if I continued with this group as well." A dark form stood alongside the man from Gondor: Strider, the enigmatic ranger who had met the hobbits in Bree. None of the hobbits fully trusted him, but the tall, secretive Dunedain had gotten them safely to Rivendell despite black riders in the service of Sauron constantly hounding them during the trip. "Now that my ancestors' sword has been reforged, perhaps it will at last fulfill its purpose in destroying the ring." At the mention of the northerner's lineage, the paler haired lord flashed him a look of contempt that would have done either glowering dwarf or glaring elven archer proud, had the two paused in their mutual scowling long enough to see it.
"My Estel… Aragorn, no!" Arwen clasped her hands to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Her father looked similarly shaken by this newest volunteer.
"Are you sure about this, Aragorn?" Elrond patted his daughter's hand in an effort to calm her, and studied the ranger's countenance. "You know the fate the ring brought to Isildur."
"I have my own weaknesses, Lord Elrond, but I will not make the mistakes of my forefathers. I will make sure that no one else will suffer his fate, either." The dark gray eyes of the Dunedain ranger flicked briefly from the shocked elven faces to Boromir, as the ranger rested his weather-beaten hand upon the hilt of his newly reforged sword. The prince of Gondor had wanted to use the One Ring to defend his city from inevitable attack from Mordor. The ancient king Isildur had tried to do this after taking the Ring from Sauron. It had corrupted the king, killed him, and scattered his line. Despite Boromir's promise to help him, Frodo decided he would have to watch the son of the Steward of Gondor very carefully.
Some timeafter her arrival, Tasana saw Boromir marching out of Rivendell at the forefront of a strangely assorted company, letting off a blast of his hunting horn. "Lead on my lord, and I shall follow you," Tasana saluted him.
"Then ride on to Minas Tirith, good woman, and see the White City for me one last time before it falls. For none should follow where this company passes," he returned formally, taken aback by her sudden appearance and strange clothing. Travel-stained, well-worn breeches were not typical attire for female petitioners awaiting entrance to the elven city. However, the woods woman had all but given up upon her chances at freely entering Rivendell, and it was easier for her to camp outside of the city in her normal forest gear than something more appropriate for meeting a highborn noble.
"What dark things you speak of, my lord! Tell me, if it can be said, are the rumors the guardsmen speak of true? For I've walked – and ridden when I can – all the way from Minas Tirith to find the truth; only to find the elven city closed to travelers. I shall have been here two months, come the end of this week. Shall all that waiting be for nothing?" She had argued with the gatekeeper for three days straight to no avail. Not even a change into her best dress had convinced him she was harmless. She was beginning to believe the rumors of elven eagle eyes, spotting her scimitar no matter the fact that she had hidden it beneath a heavy cloak. Tasana hated to go unarmed with even the slightest chance of orcs afoot. Tasana knew not why the elves, who were rumored to be so hospitable, had closed their borders, but she could guess that it had something to do with Boromir's dream.
"What do the great councils say of these matters?" she asked Boromir. As a leading lord of the city and a powerful warrior, he must surely know what was going on, if only he would be willing to reveal it.
"Not even the wise can foresee all that shall come to pass, Mistress Swiftfoot," said a wizened old man in gray clothing and a rumpled blue hat that might have been pointed several decades ago. "Yet dark times these are; for the Ring Wraiths of the Dark Lord Sauron ride once more and the orcs come out of hiding. I would heed Lord Boromir's advice and fly back home as quickly as you came here." The elderly man looked at her curiously, as if finally seeing past an illusion caused by her unconventional entrance and forward manner. "Which certainly makes me wonder: how did you get here so quickly? For Boromir arrived but four days before you claim to."
"I know a few shortcuts," Tasana said hastily, not wishing to reveal her connection with the pack.
"Indeed. Our company is headed south. Perhaps you would be willing to reveal these shortcuts to us then, Mistress Swiftfoot." The old man was much too suave for Tasana's liking.
"Not with that pony. My path leads through wolf territory." Tasana was glad to make use of any excuse that came into her mind, and she took up the small pack horse's nostril flaring at the Wargish scent upon her clothing quickly.
"Aw, Billy here ain't afraid of no wolf," one of the slender little men spoke up, patting the laden pony upon the nose.
"And the Wargs do not fear any man nor sword. The packs will kill you if you do not prove yourselves friends." The situation was growing tenser by the moment. Tasana unconsciously put a hand to the hilt of her scimitar that she wore under her cloak, noting Boromir and the other large man were also reaching for their swords. The dwarf had kept a two handed grip on his battle-axe during the entire encounter, and the elf now loosely fingered his bow.
"Quite a bold woman to challenge Gandalf the Gray, and a wolf-friend and swordswoman as well, if I'm not mistaken," the latter said coolly.
Gandalf the Gray? The master wizard of song and legend in Gondor and beyond? Tasana was in for more trouble than she had bargained for if she upset these people, but to Mordor with it. The elven archer was perilously close to slandering her wolves, yet it was required by some unknown instinct that she accompany Lord Boromir. Doing the best to hide her surprise, she shot back: "Where are the rest of your people then, Elf? Where are the armies riding for Gondor in the south? Yet no army is large enough to approach Mordor openly, is it?" Her argument was pure conjecture, but she could almost hear the little men's jaws drop. Even the old man's – Gandalf's – eyes widened slightly. "Your company heads for some danger I do not yet know, Lord Boromir. You have said none should follow you, my lord, yet the wolves shall join you of their own will. For not all Wargs are loyal to the Dark Lord, and many packs will stay with me, even to Mount Doom where our worst tormentor reigns," she added with a look at the elf, as if daring him to claim otherwise.
"Put down your weapons." The wizard commanded his compatriots. "She is as trustworthy as any companion we are likely to meet and more crafty than most. What is your name, Mistress Swiftfoot?" Gandalf asked.
"The wolves call me Chev'yahna, or Healer in their tongue," Tasana said, forcing her hand away from the pommel. This was her lord she was addressing after all, she reminded herself, whom she intended to serve. Yet he continued to view her anxiously, as if he thought she was planning to attack. She needed to calm down. Perhaps she too was jumpy, or Mithilira's talents were rubbing off, but there seemed to be an aura of hidden danger and treachery about her lord.
The old wizard waited, weighing her answer and seeming to expect more. The others looked toward Gandalf, gauging her by the sorcerer's reaction, though the dwarf, obstinately clutching his ax, was obviously holding to his own council. "What if she's a spy, Gandalf?" he asked, bristling in a manner that reminded Tasana of her pack-mates scenting an orc.
"Better the enemy you know than the one you don't. We will keep her close, and monitor her signals, if any, to the Dark Lord." The beak-nosed old man appraised her steadily.
"I suppose your mistrust is not without reason," Tasana started, keeping her outrage in check. "But I swear unto you, love of Gondor is my highest master, and I serve none other by coming here."
"Fair words, mistress, but they may yet belie foul intent," the tall, dark-haired man spoke. "Nevertheless, Gandalf's reasoning is sound. You will accompany us willingly, and try no tricks?"
"I mean your company no harm, sir. I only offer my aid." This answer seemed to satisfy the last inquisitor for the moment, but the dwarf and elf still regarded her with frank suspicion.
"We shall head for the High Pass in the morning, then." The wizard's voice broke the tense silence. "Today we will go by the roads to lay a false trail, but we'll cut across the open country tomorrow. I trust you are prepared to travel with us, Chev'yahna?"
"I am always ready, though I'll need to hunt within a few days," she nodded, looking toward the wilderness from which she had come.
"There's plenty of cram," the dwarf interjected, referring to the tasteless journey bread of his people.
"I prefer hare, or raw orc when I can get it." She gave him a predatory smile and received one in return.
"You will get your fill of orc, and then some, Chev'yahna, even with Master Gimli hewing as many orc necks as he can reach," the elf said grimly. "Precious few though that may be," he muttered under his breath.
"It will simply leave a few for your bow then, Legolas," the dwarf replied evenly. "By the way, I caught that last part of your comment." His voice was closer to a growl.
"Yet if you two are truly after orcs, we had best get moving before sunset," the wizard ushered them along the path.
When Boromir thought back to those first few days on the road, the main thing he remembered was the awkwardness. He, at least, was alone amongst strangers. The hobbits all knew one another, and the elf and the ranger appeared to have ties, if not such obvious ones as the familial bonds between the little Halflings. Gandalf was ever a mystery to the lord of Gondor. The old wizard had come to Minas Tirith occasionally during his youth, but Faramir had been the one that Gandalf had taken under his wing. Unlike his younger brother, Boromir had never had much patience for old legends.
Truth be told, he didn't have much patience for a lot of things. This included his impatience for the journey back to his city. Thinking of Faramir only increased his anxiety. He had not left home on the best of terms with either his brother or their father. Both worried about what might happen without his presence in the white city. Boromir knew how desperately his city needed him, but he was sure his family would be able to manage a short leave of absence. A small risk now would be worth a great weapon to use in the face of the enemy later. And who better to face that risk than Boromir? His father was past his prime, and Faramir, for all his strength, had little love for battle. Both more than made up for any deficiencies in war-craft with their canny minds. Better to leave those powerful intelligences to warding the city, and simply allow him to ride out and back as quickly as possible, enduring the hardships of the journey for the secret behind his troubled dreams. Or so the plan had been in theory.
In practice, it had not been so simple. Boromir had reservations about the council's plans for the Ring. If the little hobbit could resist the temptations of it, it couldn't be that hard to put to task. Still, all doubts aside, his pride insisted that he see this quest out to its end, if only to come to some resolution to his dream-inspired journey. He just wished it did not take so long. Boromir was becoming desperate for a familiar face.
Perhaps that was why he had been so accepting of the woman. Even if she had no connection to Gondor at all, the promise of someone with whom he could speak of his city had made him receptive to her pleas to join them. Better to pretend he knew her than suffer this loneliness any longer.
And yet, the loneliness was still there. She was so shy about him, about all of them, really, that it was difficult to get much out of her about her past. The woods woman who called herself Chev'yahna fully realized that she was under the constant scrutiny of her new companions, and seemed nervous about upsetting them. Rightfully so, Boromir supposed, watching how Gimli clung to his axe. Even the dwarf had some distant connection to the wizard and the hobbits, the man had noted with a suppressed jealousy. Soon, he'd adapt to these new companions he reassured himself, but it felt so odd not to be recognized and respected by reputation alone. At least this Chev'yahna was kind enough to show a bit of reverence. Yet what if this woman was simply buttering him up in order to sell the company out? Boromir did not feel this was the case, but perhaps it was best to keep a close watch on her, just until he could get to know her better. Gods knew the ranger did that to them all.
Boromir didn't know what to think of this Dunedain that the hobbits referred to as Strider. Aragorn certainly did not fit his mental image of the heir to the long-lost throne. To look at him now, scruffily attired in a ranger's faded leathers, the steward's son would not have expected him to show up in any court. The few times he had attempted to engage the older man in conversation, he had found himself subject to grunted monosyllabic answers and a piercing gray gaze. Even the elf didn't appear to have any great discussions with him, as Aragorn preferred to keep to himself during the long days of walking.
Despite the quiet of the ranger and the woods woman, these walking days were not precisely silent. What conversation Legolas did not make with Strider was often made up for with catty comments between the elven archer and the dwarf. Although the elder two hobbits were wary of him, the younger ones would grill Boromir and the rest of the company for knowledge, trading stories of their mischievous past for what stories and songs the man of Gondor would be willing to share around a cook fire. Whilst their occasional rounds of complaints could wear upon his frayed temper, Boromir genuinely liked the littlest members of the fellowship. They reminded him of how Faramir had acted when he had been small. Perhaps, these little reminders of home would combine to stave off his loneliness, but it would take some time to do so. For Boromir, it could not be too soon.
They walked as far as pack boundaries without incident. When the company stopped for the night well along the route to the mountains the wolves had already made themselves apparent to Tasana. They howled as the hobbits – as the small folk were called – started a small fire, as smoke free as they could make it.
The hobbits had been so cheerful on the road: bantering, joking, and singing, even with tired feet. They were definitely unused to life on the road and hard living, but their optimism had buoyed even Boromir's dour spirits, pulling him into a mock swordfight following an impromptu practice lesson as they stopped.
The wolf howls had unnerved the village dwelling hobbits, but Tasana's answering howl left all but Frodo quivering in fear. Even Lord Boromir, famed throughout Minas Tirith for his bravery, looked slightly shaken. Then, to everyone's surprise, Gandalf howled as well, welcoming Mithilira and her mate to the camp in their own tongue.
"I wasn't planning to introduce them for another few days, Gandalf," Tasana said in common tongue, her tilted head posturing confused but pleased interest after the fashion of gestures that the Wargs often used to communicate up close.
"Best if we get to know our allies as soon as possible. We never know when we might need a friend." The old wizard adjusted his tattered, dusty blue hat and stood nonchalantly, as if he was introduced to Wargs in the forests by mysterious swordswomen on a daily basis.
"We never know when we might need the pony, either. I hope they've already eaten," Tasana replied uncertainly. As usual, the great alphas appeared first, standing just outside the camp, with the rest of the pack sulking on the edge of the firelight. Tasana greeted them warmly, and then brought the other members of the group out to meet them individually. First out to greet the alphas was Gandalf the wise wizard, who spoke the Wargish words of greeting on his own. He smiled upon hearing the she wolf's name, the feminine version of his elven alias.
Next was Legolas, the sharp eyed and occasionally sharp-tongued elven archer whose age belied his almost youthful appearance. He nodded slightly in a gesture of trust to Tasana as the wolves looked toward her for introduction. The elf was not as set in his prejudices as he first let on.
Gimli approached too quickly and attempted to pat the lord of the Wargs on the head like a trained dog. Tasana had to prove how she received the name of healer and put a compress on the dwarf's bleeding arm from where the black wolf had taken his entire forearm up to his elbow in his mouth in return for Gimli's faux pass.
Samwise Gamgee the hobbit had nearly fainted when the wolves sniffed his hand. Pippin Took, the youngest, actually did, despite his blustering words of having seen it all when he accompanied Frodo and Strider to Rivendell, and Merry Brandybuck wasn't much more comfortable around the Wargs than his kinsman. Frodo Baggins accepted their presence gravely, but Mithilira shied out of contact with him, telling Tasana that the hobbit smelled of death, pain, and the Twisted Ones of Mordor. This was unfathomable to the woods woman, as the eldest hobbit in particular seemed harmless, as he lacked even the playful mischievousness of his younger cousins and the dogged, almost militant grit of his best friend, but she had come to trust the seeress's nose, for people's intentions as well as finding prey. The scent was only passive, the she Warg assured Chev'yahna at the healer's questioning look, but Mithilira still refused to approach Frodo.
The pack mistress and her mate welcomed Strider as an equal. The man was certainly used to the lonely atmosphere of the woodlands, which supported his claim of Dunedain origins as well as his dark hair and gray eyes did. Yet despite the stigma of being a northern ranger, a group hated by most "civilized" folk almost as much as wolves were, Strider seemed at least as kingly in bearing and manner as Lord Boromir. The ranger was certainly an enigma.
The Wargs picked up Tasana's feelings of respect towards Boromir, but Mithilira also smelled the taint of treachery that Chev'yahna had picked up earlier. "Keep an eye on that one," The seer wolf warned her.
"Two eyes, whenever I can spare them," Tasana replied in wolf tongue. Gandalf chuckled for some obscure reason and added in Wargish that he too, would watch Boromir.
The wizard and the ranger had the first watch that night, but Tasana couldn't sleep. "Strider?" she called softly.
"Yes?" the black-cloaked shadow silhouetted against the fire replied.
"I sense there is something about you that you've hidden, something that may prove extremely important later."
"You haven't been perfectly honest with us, either. Chev'yahna isn't your real name."
"Nor is yours Strider." She approached the fire, crossing her arms. The last dregs of high winter seemed to be gathering in the camp that night, particularly in the tall man's frosted tone of voice.
"I don't trust you, and you don't trust me. We'll work this way, with this amount of information until we build that trust." He faced away from the firelight, standing without moving.
"What was your mother's name?" Tasana had no idea where that question had come from, and it surprised her almost as much as the ranger. Her own mother, who had taught her woods craft as a child, had died a few years before Tasana had first encountered the wolves. In some ways, Mithilira had become a replacement mother to Celenel Rivermerchant's daughter, continuing the young woods-woman's education in the wild.
One thing that no one had been able to replace or continue was the stories of Tasana's mythical half-brother, whom Celenel had raised in the northern wildernesses. According to the tales their mother told Tasana, he would someday return to Gondor and claim the throne of his forefathers. These stories seemed naught more than fairy tales when Tasana was full-grown; the Stewards of House Hurin had ruled Gondor from father to son for generations. Yet the Stewards all said they took this power merely until the rightful heir to Isildur could be found, and there were rumors of kingly lines among the Dunedain….
"Celenel. She was lost to us on a hunt when I was young," he said absently, and then shook his head, as if trying to shake off a spell with it. "I don't know why I'm telling you this."
"Aragorn," she whispered, her eyes widening. He turned abruptly toward her, his dark gray eyes flashing in the firelight.
"How do you know that name?" His voice was too soft.
"My – er – my mother told me stories of you when I was little…" she stammered, losing eye contact, then let her voice trail off. "I really never saw how anyone could have lured her away from the forest," she started again more softly, slowly gaining power in her speech. "She was always wanting to take me back to her home in the North Woods, in Arnor, where her father Thorongil O'Palansül had raised her, but my father would never be content to leave dryads in the trees." Tasana willed him to understand with her eyes, not daring to say it outright. "She said you would be a king."
He shook his head again as if to drive away the shock, but then answered with a nod of dawning comprehension. "Mother always wanted a daughter, but I never had any other siblings. My father died when I was a baby, and she never remarried."
"Tasana, my brother. Perhaps Gandalf is right. We need allies." They gripped hands firmly before she took his place on guard.
"Even more, we need friends we can trust. You walk along the edge of a sword now, but perhaps it will be easier going after tonight." He gave her a slight smile.
"I hope so," Tasana returned. "Get what rest you can, Strider, and I'll see you in the morning."
"Wake Legolas in an hour," he advised her. "You can't stay up all night, either."
"I will." Whether she was replying to the former or latter statement neither was certain of.