Disclaimer: If I owned any of this "Lord of the Rings" stuff, I wouldn't be sitting here, writing fanfiction. I own Arwith. Steal her for your own use, and I'll send small, furry animals to eat your socks.
I got a review from Jennifer- chapter 17 was rather gruesome, wasn't it? Besides a few more wars, she didn't have as much human interaction in the succeeding years. But the characters she did met were intriguing.
In a field near a brook, a little girl with long, red hair taught her to make flower chains and to catch butterflies and ladybugs.
Near a stream filled with bass, an old blind man and his servant, a Moor, taught her to catch fish by standing very still in the water until one swam between her hands. To her almost joy, he also gave her several large books, which she read with fascination.
She one day happened upon a young man sitting by himself in a clearing. When he saw her, he smiled, but nothing more. Because it was early in the day and she had only recently awoken, she yawned and stretched, catlike. He made a noise and his eyes widened. She looked and saw him gesturing to his teeth. She cocked her head to the side, confused. He tapped his canines and pointed to her. She tongued her oblong teeth and asked with her eyes, "What?" He made several gestures in the air and she looked even more confused. He tried again, to no avail.
Finally, frustrated, he said slowly and with great difficulty, "I'mb… theaf…" Her eyes widened with realization and she pointed to her ears. He shook his head. She nodded and tapped her lips. His brows rose and he mimicked her. She shook her head.
He took her hand, excited, and hurried with her down the path. They soon met a young woman, about the same age. The man grabbed her hand and pressed several gestures into her palm. She didn't look at him, but reached out blindly and felt in front of herself. He took both girls' hands and put them together. This new girl grasped her hand, placed the other on her cheek, and smiled. "Hello, miss. My name is Xandra, and this is Cadman. He tells me you can't speak." Xandra's hand followed while the girl shook her head. "Amazing," she said. "I'm blind." She grinned wryly. "Aren't we quite the trio?
"Have you a name?" She paused, but nodded her head. "What is it?" There was no response. "Can you write it on paper?" No. "Can you sign it? With your hands?" No. "Oh, dear. Haven't you ever been taught to sign?" No. "That's awful," she said sadly. No response. Xandra squeezed her hand. "You have very cold, rough hands. And hard features," she added, feeling her face. She smiled again, commenting, "Cadman says he likes your teeth. May I…?" She opened her mouth and let Xandra feel the elongated teeth. "Ooh, fangs."
Xandra and Cadman led her to a village populated almost entirely by people like them. They were deaf or blind or mute or mentally ill, or even just a bit slow. There were people who had recently lost limbs and were learning to do without them. Xandra said this place was called Broken, because of how many on "the outside world" considered its inhabitants. Here, she said, was an ideal little town, tucked away from the world, where anyone with any kind of handicap could come. They could learn to function as well as anyone, sometimes well enough that they would decide to leave and live their own lives.
There were a few "normal" ones, people who lived in the city and helped those that needed extra attention. They were family members, anyone with especially good intentions, and even a few elves. The humans welcomed her with no problems whatsoever, but the elves were a slightly different matter. She had only ever encountered elves when she was trying to kill them, so she had difficulty accepting that she might be living peacefully with even a handful. And they didn't quite seem to trust her either.
Xandra and Cadman, however, became her near constant companions. They slowly taught her to "sign," a way for one such as herself or Cadman to communicate. She was a diligent student and was soon able to sign as well as anyone else.
As an experiment, she and her two companions taught each other to think the way the other did. She and Cadman were blindfolded, Xandra wasn't allowed to speak, and both girls had their ears covered until they couldn't hear. They would spend a week in their hindered state. What senses they already had would improve, so much so that she would often relive the experience while practicing her fencing or sparring, simply to heighten her abilities.
There were only two elves she didn't eye with suspicion or watch from the corner of her eye. One was an older lady and the other her grandson. Both had long blonde hair and blue eyes. Elemmírë often worked with the deaf or mute, while her grandchild Aerandir assisted the blind. Aerandir often practiced fencing with her.
Elemmírë approached her one day and told her to walk with her. Because of her commanding presence or for lack of anything better to do, she followed. Elemmírë informed her that from the time she had arrived, she had watched her. There was something different about her, save the obvious. And she suspected that she knew what it was. She didn't say anything for several moments, but turned to look at her where she had stopped a few paces behind. They stared at each other intently. Finally Elemmírë spoke. "If you like, I will teach you. You have the discipline to learn. I am willing to overlook your past, only because I believe that anyone can change for the better. What think you?" She stared at the ground for a while as though running over the proposition in her mind. Finally, she looked up at the elf Lady and nodded.
They spent many sessions sitting before each other in silence. She only spoke on occasion, repeating that she was doing well, but still needed to focus. At the end of every session, she would remind her not to tell anyone. This left Xandra very curious. "Oh, do tell me what the Lady is teaching you." She kept walking, but pressed a sign into her hand. Xandra balked. "I am not meddlesome!" Cadman pressed a few signs into her hand. "Oh, wonderful. Take her side, then. You are becoming too good at reading lips!"
Xandra was late for her lesson with Aerandir, so she didn't press the matter. Xandra enjoyed Aerandir's company immensely and said that it was a blessing for anyone blind to an elf teaching them to improve their hearing. That particular evening, her session lasted past dinner. Most of Xandra's other friends were unperturbed. But when it was almost time to retire for the day and she still hadn't returned, a few began to wonder where she was. They went looking for her near the town well, where Aerandir normally taught, but they were nowhere nearby. Cadman became worried, and they went in opposite directions.
Ten minutes later, having seen no clue as to where Xandra was, and probably cursing the fact that she couldn't call out her name, she paused near the woods. As quietly as possible, she crept to the forest's edge and walked around one of the trees. She found Xandra and Aerandir standing behind the trunk, too absorbed in kissing each other to notice her arrival. She watched calmly until he saw her out of the corner of his eye and stopped, his face pale. "What?" she asked. He didn't respond, but squeezed her hand. Her lips thinned. "Oh, dear…" she murmured. The girl glanced at one, then at the other. Then she looked up as though rolling her eyes and walked away.
Later that evening, Xandra came to her and said, "It was you, wasn't it?" She placed Xandra's hand on her face and nodded. Xandra was silent for a moment before she said, "I won't ask if you don't tell." She nodded again. Xandra stopped inquiring about Elemmírë, and no one learned why Xandra was always late. Just to be certain, however, Aerandir had his brother forge a unique sword for her, one without a hilt. It was put to good use during her constant practice.
Finally surrounded by people who knew her past and liked her anyway, by people who understood, she might have stayed in Broken. Little did she know of the series of disappointments that would follow.
They were told one morning that they needed to evacuate- a terrible storm had been ravaging the west and was coming their way. The day was bright and the weather fine, so few people believed that something so disastrous would be there before a day's time. But some of them agreed that they should leave immediately. "We.. should… leave," a retarded man, Daegal, insisted. "You've been saying that since yesterday," his "normal" sister said. "We didn't even know anything was wrong then."
"We'll be fine," said a man with no legs from knees down. "Look around you; you couldn't ask for a more perfect day. "He's right," added another. "No! Leave… now!" "I agree with Daegal," commented another man, also blind.
The girl and Xandra were listening from the side. Elemmírë and Aerandir were standing off, looking at the sky and the forest. The elf Lady murmured to no one in particular, "Daegal has always known the ways of nature- not an uncommon trait among those in his condition. And the earth provides its own ways of warning us, if we only know how to recognize the signals." Turning to her, she said, "Listen carefully. What is the earth telling you?"
Eyebrows furrowed, the girl listened carefully. Slowly, her eyes widened slightly. She grabbed Xandra's hand and brought to her ears. Xandra tried to listen, but the sounds of arguing grew. Finally, she turned and said loudly, "Stop!" Everyone suddenly fell silent and turned to look at her. She and Xandra listened carefully. After a moment, she pressed two signs into Xandra's palm. "She's right…" she murmured. "About what?" someone asked. Turning towards them, she whispered, "Where are the birds?" Everyone listened and found that she was right; it was a lovely morning, not even noon, and not a singly chirp could be heard. As if to erase any doubts they might have, the sky darkened and the wind blew ominously. "Leave… now…" Daegal repeated.
This time they listened. People began loading up carts with whatever they needed and slowly began leaving the town. The weather quickly turned nasty as the clouds became gray, the wind howled, and the air chilled. The citizens started hurrying in their quest to vacate the area when it started to rain. The rain came down cold and hard. It was three in the afternoon when the thunder came. It was nearly four when lightning struck one of the trees, splitting it in half and singing most of branches.
She and Cadman were ready to leave. But Aerandir had opted to stay behind and help Elemmírë get everyone out, and Xandra refused to leave without him. "Go ahead without me," she said. "Help everyone find refuge at Fuinur. You can do that, they'll listen to you. Aerandir needs my support here. Go on," she encouraged. "Take Cadman and go." Eventually, she nodded.
Xandra squeezed her hand, then took her in a fierce hug. She stood there awkwardly in the torrents of rain. Having never before hugged anyone, she stiffly wrapped her arms around Xandra and patted her on the back. "I wish I could see you," Xandra whispered into her ear. Xandra finally released her and repeated the process with Cadman, pressing signs into his hand and hugging him as well. Cadman sat in the back of the cart with many others while she took one of the few horses and led the wagon train out of town.
They traveled the rest of the day and most of the night, never stopping, before they reached Fuinur. The city was too far south for the storm to affect them, and was filling with people in need of refuge. When she was sure everyone was safe, she turned around and went back for everyone else.
The wind was strong, the rain was sharp, and the sky was black. It was difficult to navigate through the woods. A few hours into the journey, the thunder cracked. Her horse reared up and threw her off. A tree branch was twisted off its trunk and fell from above her as she landed on her back.
When she awoke, the sky was gray and the ground was wet. She sat up slowly, clutching her head and pulling her arm out from where the limb had fallen on it. There was a long, deep cut in her forearm, and the smeared blood was dark and sticky. Binding the wound with a strip from one of her cloaks, she looked around and saw that the land was a mess. More branches and puddles scattered the ground. She found a rabbit that had been caught by its neck in the crook of a tree and began eating. Unable to get her bearings, she began wandering hopelessly in one direction.
The devastation lasted for miles and it was more than four days of stumbling around the countryside before anything looked untouched. She seemed dazed and slightly delirious because the entire experience was foggy and out of focus. Her arm swelled and turned a pale shade of green. She couldn't sleep and often broke out in a sweat. After more than two weeks, she paused near a stream and leaned against a tree. She panted, coughed, then leaned across a boulder and began to retch. When she had finished vomiting, she lay down next to the water and drank deeply.
She lay on the ground gasping, then took out a long knife. Unwrapping her arm, she tied the band above her elbow and reopened the crevice in her arm. She clenched her teeth while she pushed from her elbow towards the cut. Strange, white liquid-like matter came pouring from her arm. She pushed again and again until nothing more than blood came. She rewrapped the wound and passed out with her arm floating in the water.
She woke up later to find minnows hovering near her hand in the water, nibbling on the skin from her fingertips. She had lost some of the green tint in her skin, but it was a long time before it returned to normal. She checked her arm regularly and often repeated the process, until the infection had been completely eradicated. Her fever went down and she slowly nursed herself back to health.
It was perhaps during this time that she decided mankind was a nuisance, because she immediately took up her old ways of wandering from place to place, never associating with anyone. For many years, she lived mostly on the outskirts of the woods, watching the world turn and the seasons change.
She one day from her hiding place in a tree witnessed a large gathering near a village. It looked like a wedding, but something was wrong. The only matrimonial services she had ever witnessed involved laughter, smiles, and tears of joy. This had all the fixings for a wedding, but the young man was stony-faced, the guests looked as though they didn't know what to do, and the only person crying was the bride, and for anything but joy. Her sobbing grew louder when she stood next to her soon-to-be husband, who looked similarly miserable.
In the middle of the ceremony, the priest said, "I beg your pardon?" The groom repeated in frustrated tones, "Why are we doing this? I don't love her, and she wants nothing to do with me." The crowd looked as though they agreed, but priest said nervously, "But you've only just met. How do you know she doesn't like you?" The young man turned to his blubbering bride, smiled, and said conversationally, "Milady? Do you not look forward to being my wife and to bearing my children?" The bawls that followed were louder than ever. "You're right!" The young man had to shout to be heard. "If she hasn't threatened to cut her throat, she must be smitten!"
An angry man came out of the crowd. "That's enough. And stop you're wailing, you puling little wench!" The young man turned and shouted back, "No, Father. You can't make me do this! I don't want to marry the girl, I don't even know her name!" The man yelled, "It's Jinira, and you will marry her!" "My name is Jirina!" she sobbed. "Shut up!" the father shouted. "You shut up!" his son screamed.
Grabbing his son and weeping future in-law by their arms, he turned them towards the priest and said, "Get to the important part." Afraid, the man said hurriedly, "Do you, Johfrit Finrod, take this woman, Jin- sorry, Jirina of Stendhal, to be your wife?" "Say yes" came the order. "No," Johfrit said, yanking himself out of his father's grasp. The elder man growled. "Too much depends on this union for you to not go through with it." "I don't care what kind of deal you have with her father, I won't do it."
"Oh, you'd rather have this girl, eh?" The man pulled a young woman from the crowd. She too looked quite unhappy. "Yes," the son said. "Yes, I would have her for my wife." "I would have you for my husband," she said. The crowd murmured in agreement. The father glared. "But you won't have her."
He pressed her back to his chest, put one arm around her neck, and held a dagger to her throat. Johfrit froze. "And neither will anyone else, unless you break that iron will and do as I command." "Father, please," the young man said. His father tightened his grip and ordered, "Do it." The dagger's edge was starting to pierce the girl's skin, and a small stream of blood was running down her throat. Tears of anger and frustration pooled in Johfrit's eyes. "I hate you," he said earnestly. "I don't care," his father said.
Johfrit stared hopelessly at the woman he really loved before saying, "I do." Turning to face the priest, he added, "Take her to be my wife, that is." Looking as though he wished he were anywhere else, the priest asked, "And do you, Jirina of Stendhal, take this man, Johfrit Finrod, to be your husband?" The tears came silently as she spoke. "Very well." Reluctantly, the priest said, "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may comfort the bride." The party dispelled with the father smirking smugly, the guests glancing back at the young "couple" with pity, and with the dejected lover sitting alone on a tree stump, quietly sobbing.
Several unhappy memories late, one of the worse events happened. She was temporarily living in a farmer's barn. The farmer's family consisted of his wife, sons, one daughter, and that daughter's husband. They were quite boring, but relatively pleasant. The farmer was another matter entirely; he was a mean, surly man who drank too much and had no respect for anyone. His wife and children lived in fear of his temper. He insulted and belittled everyone in sight, threatened them constantly, and his wife and sons frequently had their faces, torsos, and backs covered in bruises. At night, everyone could hear his shouts and her crying and screams of pain. Everyone knew, but no one said anything.
Because he never would have stood for allowing a vagabond inside the house, she had to sleep in the barn with the animals. The horses and a few cows that also lived there became anxious whenever she came inside. One night, they were particularly loud, and as she was sitting in her corner, ready to close her eyes, he suddenly opened the barn doors. He stalked over, slapped her roughly, and shouted "Quit making them animals squawk!" before leaving. The attack was entirely unprovoked, so she might normally have gone after him and slit his throat. But she had lived among the peaceful for so long and she was surprised enough that instead she stood there and listened while his footsteps faded.

On the day she was set to leave, she was standing at the Dutch door while the daughter handed her food. Her father came out, ready to plow more fields. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked her angrily. "She's leaving," she answered. "That's not what I asked!" he rumbled.

Walking over he slapped her against the wall, forcing her to drop what she had, and screamed in her face, "I don't work so you can give away the food I provide! It's here for your lousy husband, for your pitiful brothers, for your stupid mother and most of all, it's here for me- so I can eat it!" Shrinking away, she whimpered, "But she said it was alright, she checked and-" Suddenly very quiet and livid, he said, "Who did?" She flicked her eyes over toward her mother who was standing in the corridor.

"Was it you?" he screamed. Swinging his wife around, he punched her, furious. "You ever do anything like that again, I'll kill yah!" He picked up his hat and left, red-faced and glaring. His sons helped lift their mother off the floor while his daughter stooped to pick up the scattered breads and shattered bowl with trembling hands. Her husband came by and helped her at first, but held her instead when she buried her face in his chest and started to shake. "Don't be angry with your father," the mother was murmuring. "He works hard to do good things for us, and he's just tired."

She was probably pondering this while she waked across the unplowed field because she almost didn't notice that she was going in the opposite direction as the farmer. She did notice, however, when the horse reared up, neighed loudly, and ran began running in the other direction, dragging the plow with him. Screaming at the horse to stop, to come back, the farmer turned on her wildly and ran at her. "You ran off mah horse, yah ugly little-" He didn't say whatever he was going to say because when he cranked back his fist to hit her, she swerved to one side and elbowed him in the back of his neck. He landed face first in the dirt, but was up again, enraged. He tried once more to hurt her, but she took a long dagger out of her boot and forced it up to its hilt into his abdomen. He doubled over, looked down at what she had done, stumbled a bit, then collapsed.

His wife and two of the sons had just run up to see what happened as she turned him over and removed her weapon. "Dead," one of them whispered to the other as she sheathed the blade. She straightened up just in time for the new widow to slap her angrily across the face. Her head didn't even swing, and she looked back at the woman who had taken worse beatings from her own husband. Staring at her with a look of confused helplessness, the woman slapped her again and then again. The other just stood there and took it, staring back at her. Only when one son held his mother back did she begin crying piteously. The other turned and went on her way.

What was perhaps the greatest disappointment of all came after she was really just trying to maneuver her way through the forest. She had been on the move, having seen no one for the past few days, when for no apparent reason, she suddenly stopped where she was. She didn't move but her eyes roved the area. She turned and drew her sword, stopping the one that had almost cut her twain. The man holding swung again in another direction. They fenced until they knocked the weapons from each others hands and they had to grapple. She was small and quick with strong hands, but he was stronger. He soon pinned her to the ground and began to strangle her. "Guerilla bitch!" he hissed. "Ungrateful traitor!" He continued to growl at her but his insults were little more than muffled sounds as her vision began to blur and her hearing faded. The memory was beginning to grow hazy and almost black when it suddenly cleared. Gasping for air and coughing, she heaved until looking up to see a long spear hovering in front of her face. Several men were standing around her. Said the one holding the spear, "You're welcome."

She and her attacker were blindfolded and taken to a camp near the forest's edge. While she was quite used to being captured and roughed up a bit, she was not used to being captured and given food and a seat near a fire. But that's what happened.

Her hands remained bound while the man who had spoken to her before tossed her a piece of raw meat. He was an older man who spoke to his companions in a language that was not the Common Tongue, but for some reason sounded familiar. The people looked familiar too. They were rather tall, with slightly dusky skin and dark hair, and their eyes had small creases in the corners.

The man skipped all formalities, seating himself in front of her and saying in Westron, "Alright. Who are you, and who's side are you on?" She stared at him as she had so many others. Getting right in her face, he said in serious tones, "Unless you've got no tongue, you'd better answer me." He was obviously quite sincere about it, so she tapped her lips and shook her head. Looking as though he didn't believe her, he said sarcastically, "Oh, you can't speak?"

Another man came over and spoke to her inquisitor in the same foreign tongue. She quizzically watched them commute.

Before the two men left, they glanced curiously at her. Others were doing the same. Some feet away, the older man was standing outside a tent, looking at her and scratching his chin, muttering, "Where do I know her?" He was interrupted when a third man stepped out of the tent. They spoke briefly before striding over to see her. The third man stood over her and watched her sternly.

If nothing more could be said of this severe man, he radiated authority. He was very tall and muscular, with a strong jaw and sea green eyes; everything about him seemed to demand respect.

Even his tone was commanding as he spoke to her. Her brows furrowed a bit, trying to comprehend what he was saying. The elder man translated, "He says that if you want to live to see tomorrow, you must tell who you are and where your loyalties lie." Leaning forward, he added, "And I would listen if I were you. No khan has ever been one to not keep his word. Especially a descendent of Tolya the Great."

Her eyes suddenly widened in realization. Hands still bound, she took a branch from the ground and began to drag it in the dirt. The men leaned over and saw that she had made a crude sketch. It was the henna tattoo that had appeared overnight on her arm centuries, possibly millenniums earlier.

Suddenly the elder man slapped the ground. "That's where I recognize you!" He spoke in rushed, excited tones to his superior, who then gave her a look of doubting and muttered something that strangely resembled "impossible." Turning to her again, the older man asked in a low voice, "What would you do if I were to tell you that we are going to set off fireworks tonight?" She grimaced. He grinned like a child who has just discovered something he shouldn't. "It is you, isn't it?"

After much effort, it was discovered that the older man, called Duncan, and this rabble were the descendents of the Normans and Kolenka's people. The language spoken by most of them was a branch of Altaic, so she had a vague understanding of what they were saying.

She was later led to a cave where the walls were covered with what looked like ancient drawings and many characters similar to the one she had sketched. One picture featured a person with snow white skin, a sword, and fire in their hair, battling alongside the other warriors. The character was shown once more near what looked like fireworks, this time facing the opposite direction as all the others. The khan, Lazlo, who was indeed of the same blood as Kolenka and Tolya, said that he didn't care who she was, as long as she was an enemy of Yrre. After learning that the man who had attacked her was one of Yrre's henchmen, she quickly decided this Yrre person was her foe.

It was with good reason that Lazlo and his "tribe" hated Yrre. For centuries, their people had continued to live the lives of warriors, honing their skills as horsemen-archers and often working as mercenaries, though they never lost their roles as the national hit-and-run raiders. They had long ago conquered all the land they wanted and now only occasionally waged war on each other. Plenty still ate raw meat. Some even lived, almost, peacefully. But in the past few decades, another, an outsider, had entered their midst. He came with ideas previously unpracticed; it resulted in a new separation of classes, one in which it was a man's riches that made them great, not his talent. To a people that believed their gods would bless them with a place in heaven if they lived the life of a proper warrior and went down in battle, this thought was positively sacrilege, but it quickly caught on. The chasm between the people soon grew, and they were quickly divided in what they believed was better. Many who had previously called their neighbor friend were now, because of their lack, despised by those who had been their brothers-in-arms.

No longer familiar with the ways of their ancestors, a great deal of the people had grown rich, greedy, and slothful, and it was these that supported the new leader and eventually appointed him king. Now anyone who promoted the old ways of living without the riches and existing in what was a happy, if hectic, life was called an anarchist and quickly silenced. The people were taxed beyond reason, the new militia had free run of the country, and the new king had become a tyrant. Lazlo and his band were the last of those trained as fighters, and they were determined to right that which Yrre had done wrong.

Because all that remained to fight against Yrre were peasants and rebels, the task was anything but easy. But Lazlo, marvelous warrior that he was, was similarly wise in the ways of politics. He knew how to understand people, how to command their respect, and how to get them to do what he wanted. He had thus far gathered supporters in every town and village in the country and could rally them to his aid if needed. After all, Duncan later said, the easiest way to unite a people is to give them something to hate, and that Lazlo had done. He was one of the few people in her life she came to look upon with respect.

Among his closest companions, and those she saw most often, were Duncan, Marl, and Jicksum. Duncan, as Lazlo's most trusted vizier, had the most trying task of seeing to it that Lazlo's sons were protected. Already aware that he was fighting a losing battle, Lazlo had taken precautions to have as many sons as possible and snuck each of them out of the country to be raised by someone who would help them understand who they were, where they came from, and what they should do with that knowledge.

Marl and Jicksum were an unlikely pair. Marl was very stocky, very simple-minded, and in battle, very wild, obviously of the same lot as the Norman berserkers. Jix, as she was frequently called, was rather tall, with lean muscles, blue, doe-like eyes and no feminine curves whatsoever. Her long, dark brown hair was braided tight and away from her face, then allowed to hang in tangles down her back. A hothead, she too loved the thrill of battle, and it was a favorite saying of Duncan's that, had she been born a redhead, her attitude would have matched her hair. Marl and Jix shared a tent, and no one ever questioned it.

There were not a few battles to be fought, but one event stood out clearly. She was riding in the thick of battle when her horse reared up and threw her. She landed on a pile of bodies and weapons. Her first instinct was to wince and try to rise, but she was somehow stuck. She looked and saw that her left thigh had been impaled by an upturned sword. A mixture of horror and shock covered her face. She was pinned, and only after the battle had been won did Lazlo, Duncan, and Marl come to investigate.

Clenching her teeth, she rolled slightly to one side and let Duncan get a closer look. "The blade is bent below you," he said. "We'll have to break it and remove you from up here." Promptly following this, Marl raised a mace above his head and swung. She made a kind of growling scream as the blade shattered and she was pulled off.

She spent the next few days lying on her back in a tent. She sweated and was burning hot to the touch, but she shivered and her teeth chattered. She fazed in and out of consciousness, and once overheard Duncan saying to Lazlo, "A piece of the blade's broken off in her. Either we remove the metal or we remove the leg."

She awoke when someone opened her lips and placed the blunt edge of a knife between her teeth. Duncan was cutting awake the leg of her trousers while Jix gently pressed down on her shoulders. "A luxury for a lady," she remarked. She had to close her eyes when Duncan brought out a variety of knives and turned to her leg. She whimpered a little, bit down on the knife and balled her fists, trying not to squirm while Duncan worked. Finally, Jix took the knife from her mouth and she panted. Dabbing at her brow, Duncan whispered, "Very good." She recovered quickly and never rode a horse again.

The man who supplied Yrre's army was to be assassinated. She and Jix were called on to do the job. Disguising herself, Jicksum would say to her, "Don't march like that- you look like a common foot soldier. You almost have to slink like a cat. And put on more cosmetics and jewelry! It'll disguise your face, and they'll think it's your chains clinking, not your blade."

After a disguised Duncan had delivered them and presented them as gifts from Yrre, the two veiled women were escorted to their victim, who quickly sent everyone else from the room. Giving him soft touches and loving looks, Jix finally held his face gently in her hands and kissed him. He was a very fat, dirty-looking man, so it couldn't have been pleasant. But it allowed her partner to reveal a long blade and push it into his gut. His moans and gasps never made it past Jix's lips, and his fat enveloped the sword, hilt and all. They were able to escape before anyone discovered them, and were toasted as heroes when they returned. There was a small party arranged to celebrate this minute, but vital victory. Lazlo and Duncan spoke to her animatedly on how hopeful they were that they would soon eliminate any of Yrre's opportunities to seek outside help while at the same time introducing her to pipe weed. She took a single puff, gagged, and refused any more. Jix and Marl spent the remainder of the evening wrapped around each other like a pair of snakes.

Several days later, a messenger came. "Yrre's forces are attacking the villages to the north. Everyone's being slaughtered." Lazlo was furious, but said there would be nothing they could do by the time they arrived. At this, Jix lost her temper, as she often did, and immediately led a score of fellow rebels with her to stop them. "Jix. Jicksum!" Lazlo called after her, but she urged her horse onward, the messenger leading the way. Frustrated, Lazlo and several others rushed after her.

They followed the trail for half an hour before stopping suddenly. They were nowhere near any of the villages, but the scene was littered with the dead bodies of Lazlo's men. "An ambush," Duncan said. "Jix!" Marl called. "Jicksum, where are you?" They scoured the area for a few moments before Lazlo looked around a large section of trees and boulders. He stopped and a pained look came over him. "Oh, Jix…" Duncan followed, but soon came back, ashen-faced. She tried to get around him, but he held her back. "Don't go over there, little Siny." Marl ran over as Lazlo came back. "Where is she?" Marl asked. "Marl, don't." Lazlo tried to stop him, but Marl protested and shouted until he broke past and saw what lay past the corner. He froze, gripped his fists, and screamed through his teeth, falling over and heaving through dry sobs.

Jix and the other men were burned on individual pyres. Jix was covered with a cloth to prevent anyone from having to see her. Marl wasn't there.

Finally, they were to leave for a final battle. Lazlo stood above them and spoke. "Sons of the North, hear me! Today, we fight. But we do not fight as our adversary, for power and for riches. Our's is the far greater goal. Honor, freedom; that is our cause. And though we are outnumbered, and though our enemies will be fierce, we have a heart for what we do, we believe in something better. Friends, brothers. Rise up and stand!" The men hurrahed and set out.

They stood perched on the battlefield, staring their enemies in the face. One of the men on the other side was the "messenger" that had lured Lazlo's men to their deaths. "So good to see you again, traitors," he called. "What happens to you before the day is up will not be good," Lazlo answered calmly. "We do not think well of those who would trade their heritage for gold." The "messenger" leered. "Your lady friend didn't seem to mind us." Marl visibly quivered.

They launched themselves into battle almost immediately. What Lazlo had said was true: their enemies fought with vigor, and the losses would not be few. But another thing was clear: Lazlo and the Men of the North fought with a fire that could not die. They fought for everything they had and could hope to have, for a way of life that meant everything to them.

After only a few minutes of fighting, however, something very strange happened; something that had happened only once, many millennia ago. She suddenly paused and her eyes went out of focus. She came back just as a fist came swinging at her.

She woke up much later, hours later if the sky was anything to go by. She stood shakily and tried to understand what had happened. Corpses lay scattered the ground. Only two men still stood. It was Lazlo and a man from his tribe. They were facing away from her, watching the new wave of soldiers that was coming in from the distance. She stumbled back, then turned and ran behind a tree at the forest's edge. The new enemy was nearly upon them. Lazlo and his sole aide stood in a fighting stance and gave one last war cry before they were seized and slaughtered.

She ran. Ran into the wood. Ran past all the carnage. Ran past the tents that still stood, waiting for occupants that would never return. Ran until she came to the cave where she had been identified. Crouching inside, she panted, then saw her picture on the wall. She stared at it for a moment before taking a large rock and smashing it into the wall. She did this until all trace of her presence with Kolenka's people had been lost forever. Then she ran some more.

For many weeks, she hid in the cave. She spent many a night staring at the small fire she had built, a passive look on her face. One night, she took a branch and wrote on the ground in the large, wobbly writing of a child, "COWARD." The next day, she rose and began to walk out, shedding the various weapons she had on her person. Small daggers and long dirks left a trail behind her. She had her hand on the hole-like hilt of her sword when she released it. It alone remained.

The next few centuries were spent in hiding from the world. She lived in the thickest regions of the woods and slowly became more animalistic, abandoning any civilized trait she had ever adopted. She continued to be jerked from reality from time to time, and would stare into space as though unaware of the world around her. She was one struck with a sudden sharp pain in her shoulder. Several days later, it happened again, in her head. Many months following, the pause took on a new form. As though watching through the eyes of another, a vision of a great, black tower took form in her mind. It was crumbling, the fiery eye atop it watching its support fall. Like it had so long ago, the fog was suddenly sucked into that one spot, then shot through the air. The strange pauses stopped thereafter.

She continued to drift through the woods, occasionally catching a glimpse of society, but never rejoining it. She clung to the forest, to the trees; until one day, while watching a unique party of men, a wizard, a dwarf, and an elf in the forest. The elf suddenly shot an arrow in her direction. Then the dream of memories ended and all was black.

A/N: Obviously I don't own any Green Day songs either, but I just thought that the lyrics went perfectly with the character.
I walk a lonely road
The only one that I have ever known
Don't know where it goes,
But it's home to me, and I walk alone.
I walk this empty street
On the Boulevard of Broken Dreams
Where the city sleeps
and I'm the only one and I walk alone
I walk alone, I walk alone
I walk alone, I walk a-
My shadow's the only one that walks beside me
My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating
Sometimes I wish someone out there will find me
Till then I walk alone
I'm walking down the line
That divides me somewhere in my mind
On the border line
Of the edge and where I walk alone
Read between the lines
What's ed up and everything's alright
Check my vital signs
To know I'm still alive and I walk alone
I walk alone, I walk alone
I walk alone, I walk a-
My shadow's the only one that walks beside me
My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating
Sometimes I wish someone out there will find me
Till then I walk alone
I walk alone, I walk a...
(long instrumental solo)
I walk this empty street
On the Boulevard of Broken Dreams
Where the city sleeps
And I'm the only one and I walk a...
My shadow's the only one that walks beside me
My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating
Sometimes I wish someone out there will find me
Till then I walk alone...
(even longer instrumental solo, depending on which radio station you're listening to)