Thaddeus Bradley was freezing in the seemingly-everlasting polar night, the dimly lit medical room seeming unnaturally cold as yet another blizzard assailed the base camp. There was news from deeper in the caverns now - further exploration was unsustainable, some impossible radio silence emanating throughout the caverns. However, more troops were being sent into the caverns - after some earthmoving a few vehicles had even managed to enter.
Not that Bradley was going in. The place creeped him out more than ever now, and sometimes he could hear ghosts of screams echoing from its cavernous depths. They said a whole underworld existed there, a vast black pit lit dimly by corpse-light and filled with monsters beyond human imagination or reckoning.
Besides, the wolf attack had been bad. Though his wounds were well on the way to fully healing, the doctors said there would always be scars.
Knuckles rapped on the door, which then opened inward. A man walked through, statuesque, tall and incredibly handsome. Short and well-kept blond hair framed a patrician and youthful face that looked as if it would not be out of place on King Arthur, below which a few shreds of stubble could be seen. The expression was calm and measured. The man wore a simple black trenchcoat, a long and elegant sword scabbarded at his belt.
As he moved closer, Bradley saw that in his eyes was a strange inner light. There was a power about it, and yet a kind of gentle kindness and serenity, a sense of effortless action . That sense manifested itself also in the graceful and yet measured way he moved, as if he was one with his surroundings.
"Greetings, Sergeant Thaddeus Bradley," the man said, measured and gently, almost like music. 'You were brave beyond all the other soldiers five days ago. Few others could have acheived what you did.'
"In any case," he continued. 'My superiors wished to give you this.' He took out a parcel he had been carrying under his coat and unwrapped it to unveil a fine, artistically designed sword about three feet long. Runes gleamed on its blade and jewels shone bright on its gilded hilt.
"This is an old weapon," he went on. 'It was borne by a lord of a vanished city and a king of another. I would also wish to give you this, as I sense dimly that you will do great deeds with it in the dark days that are sure to come.'
"You will need it soon," he ended.
"I will take it," Bradley replied. 'But...where do you come from and who do you work for?'
"I come from the West," the man replied, stressing heavily that particular word. "And I work right now for the same people you do. You will hear from them shortly."
+++NOVEMBER 19, SITE ALPHA+++
The small four-story building located in a small interdicted zone in the Oxford countryside was the nerve centre of the Agency. It was thus not a surprise that a large part of it was given up to a library.
There were volumes everywhere - medieval manuscripts, 19th century trance recordings, Anglo-Saxon mariners' tales, divergent Bibles, bizarre world maps and all number of other things. The Director liked to spend his time there, and could almost never be found in his office as a result.
The blond-haired man who had been to Bradley two days ago approached the Director's desk with the same air of effortless motion as he had all the time.
"I have done what you requested I do," he said to the tall, elderly Persian-looking man dressed in a dark blue pinstripe suit.
"Then it is well," the man spoke in reply. "I tarried overlong eastwards last time the Shadow rose. Though I did what I could I failed to bring victory. It lies heavy on me."
"None of us did, Morinehtar," the blond man replied. "Though we all struggled hard and fought bravely, in the end only a halfling's pity saved us from the Darkness."
"And in the end of that coming Age the East overthrew the west," the man replied sadly. "I could not fully prevent the lies of Sauron from taking root in a new generation and leading it, as ever, to its destruction. Thus in the ruin of Endor the Straight Road was lost to me, and I was left on these hither shores until the world should be broken."
"But I will ever seek to protect these people," he finished. "My old sorrows and failures will be as nothing if we are not ready by next year's solstice."
He reached to a remote and turned a nearby television on.
The news was grim, reporting a tropical storm that was veering wildly for Sydney and showed no sign of slowing in speed or intensity. The female anchor spoke earnestly about how very few could be evacuated and any survivors would be ruined for sure.
"He looses his first darts," the man spoke grimly. "Not meant to destroy us but merely to measure our strength for his next attacks. His true strikes against us will be terrible indeed. And when Earendil ceases in the heavens many men will bow down and worship him, for after that they will have lost all hope that he can be conquered."
The blond man winced as if recalling a far-distant and yet incredibly painful memory.
"But such a time is not now," the old man replied. "We must prepare while we can."
The news program switched to a topic about rapidly rising wolf populations in Northern and Central Europe and increasingly frequent attacks before digressing into an identikit celebrity scandal, at which point it was unceremoniously turned off.