A/N: Thank you my readers and reviewers for your patience, it has taken me forever to write this chapter, so I hope you all enjoy it. As always my updating may be sketchy due to bitch slapping musi, school, and just plain ol being tired, thus resulting in the perfect storm for writers block. To combat the block I need help in the form of reviews, so please keep them coming. As always flamers will be shot. – Rei
Musical inspiration for this chapter: Awake and Alive by Skillet, I won't back down by Eminem ft. Pink, King of Sorrow Sade
miss-cold – Thanks, this fic was born from my deep and abiding hatred of the Denethor character so I'm going to give into my inner sadistic bitch and make him as miserable as I possibly can.
Deadzepplin- short answer, yes but you're going to have wait for next chapter to see what it is.
Sylandrea- thank you for the love besides my hatred of Denethor, I love unexpected crossovers and finding was of making the combos work.
Isis the Sphinx- The plot is really going to take shape after this chapter but you're just going to wait and see.
April 17, 2985th year of the Third Age
Estel, tidings from the Shire, Evendim, North Downs, and Moores are as the Lord Elrond fears. The presence of Orcs has increased exponentially for seemingly no reason. Agmar has become more active as of late, though I thank Oromë every day that none of the nine has been spotted as of yet. But still those of the witch kings fief have been more of a terrible burden upon us of Esteldin, whom have long labored against the shadow of Agmar. And worse still there are those of the foul ilk whom managed to infiltrate the North Downs all the way to the boarders of the Shire. For what purpose, I do not yet know.
I also bring you tidings of a mysterious foreigner, who now frequents the Bree village proper. Desmond has the look of a Dunlending with Northern blood to pale his skin. He claims to have wondered about the Brandywine for a time. I find this suspect, as I have no reports of his likeness from any of our rangers in the whole of Eriador. He is wealthy enough to be recognizable.
The man is generous with his coin which is of Annuminas origin. My own worst suspicion is that he is an agent of Agmar, come to spy upon those of Bree-land. He often wanders without any warning for days at a time, only to return just as mysteriously laden with fine goods of the abandoned city. When injurious minds see fit to ask the source of his fortune Desmond claims that it part of his inheritance.
I have already attempted to set a watch upon this man, but to no avail. By whatever means he manages to slip by them, to wherever it is he goes to retrieve the treasures he brings back. And though "Whitehood" as many of the Bree-landers have come to call him, is viewed with almost as much suspicions as any ranger, his generosity affords him a certain benefit of the doubt. To this end my lord I know naught what to do, and am most desirous to hear you opinion on these grave matters.
Sincerely- Halbarad of Esteldin
Estel Elrondion gazed upon the words of his kinsman and friend with equal parts worry and agitation. Though he could not fault his fellow edain's caution, the foster son of Elrond knew Halbarad had overstepped himself. Regardless of the increasingly ominous presence of their enemy's forces, the captain of the gray company should have not let fear dictate his actions. These were times when even the gentlest of souls had cause to possess questionable skills if they were to survive. This Whitehood could just be as he said to be, from what little he reported of himself according to Halbarad.
Still the son of Arathorn trusted his subordinate's instincts. Though Halbarad might have naught save his own suspicion, and the dubious doings of his query to rely upon, there was still something there that Halbarad seemed to deem cause enough to send his liege word. "Are you well my lord?" The Dunedain looked up from the soiled stationary in his hand, to the young ranger currently in his company.
Niluana, like Halbarad was amongst his edain parents few surviving immediate kin. He was by no means related closely enough to be considered for kingship, but it didn't make Estel wish he was any less. "Halbarad's tidings of the black legions' movements are grave, though not unexpected. Orc presence has increased in the Bree-lands. But he also fears a spy amongst the village proper" The exiled king watched the hammer jawed youth contemplate his dilemma with a careful silence.
Niluana was very grave for a man of just 42 summers, Estel mused willfully ignoring the fact that he himself was only a good ten or so years the brunette's senior. "What does Halbarad know of this spy?" The stockier ranger asked. Estel knew that if Niluana so much as grunted, he already had an idea in mind, and was merely getting all the information he could to see if it was actually viable. The brown eyed ranger had existed in the cusp of battle, living with a contingent of ranger in Enedwaith bordering Dunland most of his life.
And it showed. In the crocked set of his prominent nose, in every jagged scar the peaked beneath his gear, Niluana was a soldier whose teeth were filed by the bite of steel. And Estel couldn't help but wonder how such a man could follow one such as himself. "Nothing much, there is little news of this Desmond, outside of his ventures in the village of Bree. Halbarad thinks him a Dunlending half breed." The former ward of Rivendell could see Niluana visibly hesitate. "Come, I would have the wisdom of your council."
For another beat the ranger held his silence then, "I could go to Bree, seek out the answers myself." The un-voiced questions in the man's tone both confused and worried Estel. Niluana wasn't prone to show it when he was anything less than certain. The younger edain began to subtly fidget. "It may be easier because I would know what to look for." Still the unease made the older ranger falter in automatically doing what Niluana suggested.
Estel was well aware that the wrong words from him now could cause the thoughtful man at arms to once again sink back into himself. "I have no authority in which to command you thus. Such a journey would take you from where you are needed. But I find this," Estel indicated the travel stained piece of paper in his hand, "is also of great concern." "My only doubts lay in your own my friend. Speak your mind truly. What troubles you?"
"I have no desire to leave Enedwaith," Niluana said immediately surprising them both. "Be that as it may, you are needed more here than I." The darkly garbed ranger raised his hand to stop the protest that he could see welling up in his captain's throat. "You would ask precious few to complete the task I intend for myself, none of whom you would ask are here my lord." The grizzled man felt his scared lip twitch into a miniscule smile as Estel's defiance swiftly turned to sheepishness. In a small way Niluana was glad his liege urged him to speak.
No one who knew Gromsnik would ever come to the conclusion that the Orc was remotely intelligent. That being said, despite his questionable I.Q. Gromsnik had a healthy survival instinct. He was a rarity in his species, Gromsnik was cautious. And it was this very facet of his own nature that enabled him to survive longer than those whom emerged on the same day. Orcs weren't created to think for themselves beyond the gratification of the kill. And those who were even suspected of such were often put to death.
So when his more bloodthirsty cohorts caught scent of human flesh, unlike them Gromsnik did not go tearing off after the unseen pray. He had no wish to die at the hand of his "prey", less want for dying at the hands of fellow Orcs to obtain said prey, and desired dying at the hand of his superiors who would do so just because, least of all. Black lips peeled away to reveal half rotted fangs. Gromsnik inhaled sharply, dissecting the smells currently crowding his orifice. The stench of blooming pine was easily filtered out along with the familiar flavor of sulfur soaked blood.
Gromsnik slowed down even more, but he dare not stop for fear of the nameless leader of his company noticing. There wasn't any edain blood wetting the air. The screams were also decidedly non-human. He still didn't dare to stop, whatever lay ahead was still less of concern compared to what Gromsnik already knew. Unconsciously the orc shuddered as the sensory memory of his "birth" shook his entire muscular frame. Still shaking, the vile creature made ready his crossbow, edging closer and closer to the battle he could only hear.
Desmond stepped forward, ducking under the broad axe swing of his soon to be dead assaulter. He didn't even blink as the stiletto curled within his fist found its way between the ribs of the creature that just tried to split his skull in half. Planting his feet to stop his forward momentum, Desmond's thin blade slide out, and the assassin had to quickly turn in order not to fall on his ass. The blind swing resulted in another hit, catching a thick necked orc right above its armor slitting its throat ear to ear.
Desmond's momentum continued, forcing the dark haired man to bend his knees in order to retain balance. Stiletto met Scimitar, and the inferior weapon was sent flying out of the lightly garbed man's grasp. Desmond hissed the tip of the soiled blade sliced through soft tissue, scoring deeply into the palm of his hand. Snatching the appendage away from further injury, the last assassin rapidly back-pedaled. He was barely able to avoid a bolt in the back, via surprisingly timid enemy. Desmond bit back a curse as another bolt flew over his head, missing the apex of his cranium by bare centimeters.
Rolling away from his only weapon, the assassin desperately tried to keep away from the slobbering menaces currently trying to kill him. Wary Desmond finally looked around at the carnage. Two dead orcs were crushed under foot of their two comrades who snarled and snapped at each other just as much as they did at him. The third giant hunk of snot hung back, his keen black eyes staring the hooded man down through the crosshairs of his weapon. Desmond edged sideways hoping to lure the most dangerous of the three closer.
Only the orc's weapon turned to follow him. Eagle dark eyes darted around, before once again settling on the beefy creature holding the crossbow. The curly haired wanderer could easily dispose of the two monsters trying to flank him. Neither showed any sort of proficiency with the weapons they were wielding, nor did either orc show any sort of intelligence to adapt to the lack of skill. Intimidation and size were these creatures main line of offense. Unluckily for them, Ezio, and Altair were anything but pushovers.
Shaking off the invading thought patterns, Desmond quickly closed the gap between him and the orcs. Kicking the closest solidly in the crotch, the assassin put the crippling distraction to good use, using the momentarily incapacitated evil creature as a shield against his comrades. Ignoring the sickening crack of a skull being punctured all the way through, Altair's descendant took hold of the now dead orc's weapon, and parried the thrust which would have otherwise spilled Desmond's guts all over the forest floor.
Keeping the dead body between him and the archer, Desmond lunged, taking a broad swipe at his opponent's legs. The Orc leapt back with a snarl, narrowly avoiding being taken out at the knees. And once again, the last assassin had to desperately maneuver his "shield" to avoid getting shot while retreating from the retaliatory swipe at his face. Ghosting muscle memory caressed already aroused autonomic nerves, equal parts guiding, and distracting him in this fight. Desmond knew that he had to end this confrontation quickly. His grip on the stinking carcass of his makeshift shield was tenuous at best.
Stubbornly, Vesta's former ward ignored the ragged parting of flesh gapping in the palm of his dominate hand. Harder to ignore was the viscous black blood, spilling over Desmond's hooded head and down his shoulders, soaking his skin through his clothes. The tar like consistency was going to be impossible to get out, thus insuring that Desmond was going to have to replace yet another set of clothing. Now more than ever the last assassin was glad that Vesta was silent throughout the confrontation.
He didn't want to hear about how the blood would have never penetrated "the birthday suit" or how much better off he would be wearing it, instead to the inferior textile weave. Still, the coco eyed former run away knew Vesta was watching. He just hoped the soft glow of the pendant tucked away under his shirt didn't prove fatal. A wry grimace revealed the gleaming enamel of his teeth, as Desmond made another bid at getting extremely close to his opponent, while slashing from the opposite direction just as fast.
Distracted, the orc was crushed under the weight of Desmond's meat shield. The assassin unceremoniously dumped the dead body on top of the orc, and awkwardly rolled away to avoid yet another bolt being planted in his cranium. Once again grabbing the first weapon he could get a hold of, the former New Yorker didn't give the downed muddled skinned monstrosity a chance to get up. Desmond lobbed a stone almost the twice the size of his fist at the orc's head, scoring a gory victory. And again ducked for cover, 'I am going to survive this.' Desmond all but commanded of himself.
"My lady." "Your grace." "Your ladyship." "Sweet lady." Finduilas daughter of Adrahil barely managed to properly acknowledge the addresses she received from the inhabitants of her gilded cage. It had been months since the veil of affection for her husband had been pulled from the former lady of Dol Amroth's eyes. And yet the ugliness that she now knew seemed to know no end. Where once Denethor's stern lordly manner only made the pale noble woman want to kiss away his dour frown, now it was all that Finduilas could do not to flinch away in horror.
Denethor's outburst notwithstanding, the Stewart of Gondor had made no effort to restore the illusion of the chivalrous man that Finduilas had consented to marry. Instead her dark eyed husband had become even stricter than when she first took up her duties as his wife. It had been Denethor whom chose her ladies in waiting, and appointed their household staff. Both tasks which by right of wifehood were hers, and yet she thought it out of concern for her, that Denethor did this. Finduilas was young, and new to the city. And with such a stern husband like Denethor, what better gift than to lighten the burden of duty?
Now catching the intent looks following her, did the darkly haired lady understood. It was all about control. Every person in Finduilas's tenure that swore their fealty to her reported her every move to Denethor. Every action was carefully noted and categorized, not for courtly gossip, but for careful dissection under their lord's scrutiny. Just the thought of it made Finduilas ill. As her husband the current pseudo-ruler of Gondor had a disturbing amount of power over his wife. He all but controlled where she could go, whom she could associate with, and worse still her physical being and care.
Already she had been called into account for "misconduct" toward the Eleanor Serni. The lady of Lebennin, like most courtiers was particularly similar to ripe fruit, sweet and perfectly good to eat, right up until you bit into the rotten core. The lady Serni was perfectly even tempered and pleasant company, even as every poisonous bit of gossip passed her painted lips. Finduilas had always found interacting with the vain woman to be a chore, but in this particular instance had tried the dark eyed woman's nerves beyond Finduilas's limits.
Flashback
Corsairs of Umbar could lay siege from the sea, and Agmar could empty of ever foul creature to lay waste to the lands of men, but nothing would shake the hospitality of a proper purebred lady. Where once Finduilas would have laughed at her dearly departed mother's statement, now the Stewart's wife only found a grim sort of determination. Across from Finduilas sat Eleanor, garbed in subtle beaded refinement currently favored by the ladies in the Gondorian court. And with every sugary sweet bit of viscous smattering word being crammed through her eardrum, Finduilas found it to be just a bit harder not to snap.
It was her duty to entertain the guest of their great house as their husbands discussed matters of state. And though Finduilas was more inclined to entertain ideas of throwing Eleanor off a cliff, and her parasitic piranha out on their backsides, the more somberly dressed lady held her temper. "You'll have to forgive me Lady Eleanor for not putting much stock in rumors; Mr. Brenan has served admirably as first amongst the tower guard. And I would think such excellent service would not be lost on my lord husband."
The condescending pity that greeted her defense of the well-liked vanguard was as unsurprising as it was infuriating. "Poor dear," the affectionate term never sounded so sour, "Mr. Brenan's service excels all expectations, but a little bird told me that is why he is being assigned to a more fitting post. Besides, everyone knows that his lady wife already associates with rangers of Ithilien. It's too bad your sister-in-law Alagmariel did not survive to marry the lord Pinnath Gelin, else I am sure Mr. Brenan would go with more than his grace's blessing."
Finduilas was no fool, she could easily pick up on the innuendo latent in the courtier's tone. In just three sentences, the factious woman had managed to insult the three people Finduilas admired most in Gondor. Brenan Whitehood was no noble born or man of the commons. He was far worse in the eyes of those intolerant lords and ladies whom only inherited their' power through their' families, a bastard of already married Gondorian noble and a woman, whose identity to this day remained a mystery.
It was an insult that many a noble couldn't bear, that a bastard could distinguish himself, and actually marry well. Brenan's wife Morwen was of the Alagdor, the fallen house that once ruled Ithilien, now the few members that survived were conscripted rangers. That fact didn't lesson the sting that a bastard would dare wed a highborn lady. It left a bad taste in Finduilas's mouth, "If such an assignment were issued, I should think my lord would give more than his approval." Finduilas injected as much steel in voice as she dare, knowing the lives of noblemen rested largely on the whisperings of their wives.
A word from his fiery haired wife, and the Lord Serni would speak out against giving any support to the rangers of Ithilien just to spite Brenan. Finduilas forced down the urge to fist the skirts her silk peacock gown. Denethor's hatred of anyone whom distinguished themselves under his father's reign was well known. The only thing stopping the gray eyed lordling was that he hadn't found anyone good enough to replace the man. 'But given incentive', Finduilas once again forced herself to act normally, taking a judicious sip of her wine, not daring to complete the thought.
Eleanor's smile widened cruelly, "one can only hope the wisdom and righteousness of the council will prevail."The innocent sentiment was met with quiet agreement from the hanger-ons of the lesser ladies listening in on their conversation. However Finduilas found that she could no longer stomach it. Abruptly standing, the lady of Gondor compelled herself to tilt her head respectfully in her guests' direction. "Forgive me Lady Serni. I feel quite faint all of sudden, and would retire until a later date."
Finduilas knew that the excuse was flimsy at best, and would reflect badly on her husband. But she had not the heart to care. Not waiting for Eleanor to respond, Finduilas silently gestured for her attendants to follow, as she swept out the hall in which she received her guests. Boromir's mother couldn't have known what the insidious whispers that followed her to her private quarters would cost her. She was even less aware of the conflicted eyes that served her silence, would soon serve her husband with honeyed venom.
"You will have to start making arrangements for the six soon." Desmond didn't even pause as he poured a bucket full of ice cold pond water over his head, automatically shaking as the chill reached his bones. "The power I have left is extremely limited. Already my fusion cells output capacity has decreased 60%, and if it drops by 20 more, the six will have to be resuscitated regardless of you stage of preparation." The assassin cut his teeth against the almost overwhelming urge to retort. Usually when Vesta dined to contact him, the darkly haired man merely chose to ignore her until she finally gave up. "I will not be able to assist them. They will die Desmond." Too bad the super computer didn't see fit to be ignored today.
"Have you tried finding an alternative power source?" Desmond pushed himself to his feet, leaning away from the shallow channel that he had used to wash away the gore of black blood. Orcs weren't uncommon in the wilds of the North Downs, but it was no less taxing for Desmond, who was of the habit of leaving Bree to escape his nosey neighbors. The last assassin bent over to retrieve the sticky odorous concoction he had placed next to his now empty bucket.
"Any alternative source of power I could possibly use would require alteration of the Abies. There is currently no one in existence that can make those alterations." Desmond felt something in his chest knot, slowly squeezing breathe from his lungs. Despite Vesta's talent for understatement, her former charge knew exactly what she wasn't saying. Vesta was dying. And not for the first time, the assassin silently fumed at the presumptuous ineptness of those who came before.
One would think that geniuses who came up with the ship would have built her to last. Swallowing the spiteful commentary volleying back and forth through his already strained psyche, Desmond set to treating his injured hand. The paste wouldn't properly seal the wound, but the assassin didn't have any supplies for stitching. "What changes would be most viable in your current condition? And before you remind me there isn't anyone who can do it, you aren't worm food yet. I'll be back at the Abies soon, and then you can walk me through what needs to be done."
"Solar power would be the least complicated, and will require the least amount of material to execute. I will contact you with a list of substitutes for the parts that can't be converted here." "Ghramh," he said not even realizing that he was speaking Arabic, "ad'ew allh khtakm wadh, syfk sry'e, qdmyk samtwn." The light in his pendant faded, signaling the end to their "conversation". Still, Desmond knew that he would have to go back to the Abies before he returned to Bree. Involuntarily his injured hand twitched, the assassin really didn't want to deal with Vesta's particular form of whining.
Translations
Ghramh- Fine
ad'ew allh khtakm wadh, syfk sry'e, qdmyk samtwn.- may your way be clear, your blade swift, and you feet silent
A/N2: And for those who know Arabic who are going to say that this isn't a good translation, might I remind you syntax varies differently between these two languages. The basic meaning is still the same even if the words aren't.