I'm totally proud of myself for how quickly I have posted a new chapter after the last! That's a rarity, for sure. And I'm already 1700 words into the next one.

Thank you for the continued support and interest shown by all who reads, and comments; as always, you guys are absolute gems, and I appreciate you to the Moon and back again. Special thanks to the lovely reviewers: to shari1, Hawaiichick, EllieCast4, Britt, and MiaEther! Your words fuel my writing fire, and has most likely helped speed up my typing a whole lot.

Enjoy!

Little Sparrow

Chapter XXVII: The Quiet Lull of Summer

June, The Third Age, 3017

It had taken only a step back, the movement languid and easy, to dodge – and, subsequenty, grab – the wooden sword swung at her. Rell could have avoided the blow entirely; allowed it to swipe by her in a wild arch, and watched it lodge stuck in the dirt. But instead, she hardened her hold and yanked the blade towards her. Her sparring partner let out a grunt of effort, trying to keep the weapon from being snatched away from him, only to lose his footing.

She watched the boy fall flat on his face with a shake of her head.

"Had I been an Orc," she started, crouching before him. "My hands would be covered in mail, and I could just take your weapon from you. We fear the injury, and the pain, but they will not. You swing too heavily, and far too thoughtlessly." The boy looked up at her, and while his face was covered in dust and grime, the scowl of sullen discouragement was hard to miss. Rell smiled and turned the sword over in her hand; challenging him to pick it up. "We will never win with brute force alone. To fight is a battle in your mind – outsmart the enemy, and you will make it out alive."

After a moment of quiet deliberation, he sat up and took the offered weapon. He rubbed his nose. "You are too quick for me."

"Speed is my strength. Consider this, what is yours?" They stood once more, ten steps apart, weapons facing each other. "Now try again, Arun."

Rell moved first; not to attack, but slowly circling the boy. The sun was on her back, pale and harsh, and blinding, and when her position was right she took one step left, then another right. Back and forth, making sure to continuously be in motion. Angling her body one way, and then another, watching her opponent weighing his own next moves; searching for the right moment to attack. She could sense his hesitation, waves of uncertainty that came clear in his stance.

Barely discernable, she tilted the wooden sword sideways. A small opening above her shoulders, baring her neck.

A hidden invitation.

Arun saw it – keen eyes, Rell thought – and sprang forward with great determination and blade lifted. In a blink, the boy was once more laying on the ground, for his blow had been far too eager, aiming for her head, and had missed entirely. "Of you and me, who is the tallest?" She asked, turning to watch him fumbling regain his footing. "You aim for something you cannot reach – use your lesser height to your advantage!"

Three times more he swung at her, and all three times Rell allowed it.

Not once did she parry or block his swings. Instead, she kept circling around him; another attempt, and again she could watch the sword carve the air with a single sidestep of her own. There came the sound of chuckling from outside the sparring ring – four other boys of varying ages, from eight to twelve, all watching the spectacle with impish glee. They sat on the fence, legs dangling, and swords discarded. Though their laughter was entirely without evil; for each had they gone through the same, and each were dusty and bruised. Of all of them, Arun was the oldest.

Nonetheless, Rell shot a hard glare of reprimand towards them. At once, they quieted.

It was but the blink of an eye. Yet it was enough; Arun saw his chance. Where his blows earlier had aimed, repeatedly, after her head – and so her sword had mirrored his – he turned suddenly. With a swift spin on his heel and twist of his wrist, he slashed out for her legs. If not for her own instinct and watchfulness, his aim would have been true; and Rell nearly staggered when she stepped aside.

The sudden downcut was at once answered; firstly, by a firm rap across his exposed shoulders, making the boy, once more, hit the ground with a thud. His balance had been lost in the attack. But secondly, Rell spoke with praise. "Well done, Arun! That was a clever stroke." Encouraging claps and cheers came from the spectators, as Rell helped him upright. His face was bright red but brimming with pride. "Your feet should be further apart – pivot, as you deliver the blow, so that you do not leave yourself open in return."

Rell ruffled his dark hair.

"Tell me, then, what is your strength?"

He gave it a good thought before answering. Shuffling feet and furrowed brow. "I am smaller ... My eyes are good. My aim should be what others have trouble defending." He pointed to her legs with the sword. "Keep low, out of reach. And then, when the opportunity presents itself, strike?" With a hum of agreement, she nodded; he should plan to cripple and slow, to hinder the opponent. Rushing head first would merely loose him his life. "I should think and watch. And wait."

"Exactly. Make sure to keep that in your mind for the next time."

Then, she urged him to join his friends.

They had jumped the fence and came to meet him, patting his back and loudly, excitedly, speaking above one another. Rell watched them, a smile on her face, before turning to leave; it was time for a breather, and the midday sun was climbing high on a cloudless sky. There was a warmth in the air. The boys would likely spar for many more hours, practicing what they had been taught – and living out tales of knights and heroic deeds, stories they had been told by the fires of night. They would take turns, at times being a brave champion or vile beast, but each would go to sleep with heads filled with wonderous thoughts.

Rell left the wooden sword in the rack, side by side with many others of differing sizes.

She, too, had once played the same games; she knew well the taste of the dirt, and the sting of bruises, or aching arms and legs after a day of training. She remembered the feeling of invincibility, that the world was impossibly vast and filled with adventures; with sword and shield she would fight the evils of Middle-Earth. And now – with truth, and bitterness, and the face of reality – she missed those days. Long gone and passed into memory. No one stays a child forever, she thought, following a narrow alley between houses.

It was only a quick walk before she reached the well.

Here, Rell drew water and washed; her hands and face coated in dust, sweat, and grime, and she scrubbed vigorously until clean. She did not need to dry, for the day was warm and bright with sun. While Winter had been harsh, terribly so, Summer brought with it peaceful days and milder weathers. Perched on the stone edge, she took a moment to watch the village around her, and to rest; the day was certainly as fine as one could ask for, for there was not a wind blowing or a cloud in sight.

The paleness of her skin had turned sun-touched, and scars ran like white lines across her outstretched arms. They were only that – scars, and nothing more. With each arrow sprung from her bow, or swing of her sword, Rell thanked the Elves. She knew it would never truly be the same, for how could it? Yet the fears in her heart and mind had, day by day, weakened until they were but a whisper; in the early mornings her fingers were rigid, cold and hard to move. But throughout the day they would warm, bending, and followed her will.

And then, there were trembles still. Small, involuntary twitches, that came suddenly and uninvited; jolts of pain that would take her from her current work. Though they were only fleeting. Rell had learned to live with the pain, determined to drown it out until it was naught but brief flashes of discomfort. The peaceful days were a time of mending for Rell, and useful they had been.

She flexed her fingers and felt nothing.

Almost as good as it was before, she thought.

Her gaze followed the slow walk of two elderly women, bringing with them a basket of eggs; their faces were touched by age, but there was also something lurking beneath. It was a hardened look – and something she saw in all the people of the Angle. Terrible rumours, of strange things and dangerous creatures, reached them with each Ranger's return; legends of the dark past seemed slowly come alive, ominous and grim. It was all the village could talk about. War was coming. It was no longer speculation. It was truth.

All they could do was watch and wait, for an Enemy they knew was preparing, creeping out, in the shadow of Mordor.

And when the time was right, darkness would descent over Middle-Earth.

Rell kicked her feet across the ground, sending a single pebble flying, and pushed off against the well. We will be ready.

There were squeals of laughter and splashing, and sunlight winked on the rippling surface of the lake. Rell watched the girls from where she sat, beneath the trees where the ground was soft with moss and grass, and her feet dipped in the water; shade was cast by overhanging branches, fully sprug with vibrant greens and white flowers bloomed in myriads, and a sweet smell was dense in the air.

Summer was at its warmest, June had passed to late August, and the world around them had morphed to life; bulrushes and reeds grew dense around the shore, and glistening dragonflies buzzed in and out between the blades. A flock of white-feathered ducks had, upon their arrival, been ousted from rest, and with great wings flapping disappeared into a clear sky. Her toes picked languidly between smooth-edged stones in the shallows, her gaze following every small swirl and ripple brought to life. Cresting the bank, the water was almost entirely translucent but slowly dove into darker shades of blue and silver-grey.

The twins were swimming in the lake; skirts and shoes abandoned on the mossy rocks flanking the river. Misshapen roots wrestled with the earth, digging a way up to freedom, and Rell saw the first small strawberries peaking out between green. They were not ripe, more white than red; but even sour strawberries were a treat. She would have to remember to pick them later. A humming bee darted through the air.

Rell glanced to the pair, still at play and taking turns diving to the depths – no deeper than her own waist – and then her eyes turned to the horizon. The hill-tops were cloaked in a distant haze, golden, and dotted with scattered trees. A Summer storm had blown across the lands during the night; thunderous, then settling to a constant, sullen drizzle, but in its wake was now naught but endless skies and warm sun. It seemed they could stay outside without trouble for the entire day. Rell leaned back to rest in the tall patches of downy grass.

She watched the leaves, fluttering against the brightness, and it dazzled her.

The wind made the willow's gnarled fingers creak and sway, and it was not long before Rell was half in a dream. It came, familiar yet strange; unknown but dear to her. It was a dream that had visited the edges of her sleeping mind many a time before; a returning companion ever since her stay in Lothlórien's woods. When she had walked half between life and death. Touched by fever and sickness. Increasingly persistant. The vision was much the same as the times before, and it was hard to tell if it was the past, or a future not yet real; or something in-between. But each time something new was added; a little detail she had previously missed, or the time stretched a moment longer. Enough for her to learn something.

To see something she had not seen in the times before.

The grass was tall, almost as tall as she. Softly bending and dancing, an endless sea of golden waves that kept her blurring gaze transfixed. Her hands moved with a ghostly touch, brushing above the grass; her arm was scarred when moving one way, then suddenly whole and untouched when moving back. Heavy, then light. She was locked in place, unable to move if she so willed – but she did not, could not. For Rell was waiting. For something ... No, her mind told her, someone.

But who?

There was a thundering beat in her chest; it was her heart, beating away like a thousand horses running free through the glades and plains. They were the heralds of arrival – bringing with them the one she was waiting for. It was a rider. On a great horse he sat astride, and as it was the times before, his face was masked by shadow and cloak. He towered above her, daunting and imposing, yet there was a hidden tenderness ... Something kind. Beautiful beyond enduring. His name was known, but Rell could not speak it.

But the Rider spoke to her.

She heard his words, but remembered them not.

And as the times before, he reached out for her with his arms – and she stretched her own, marred and broken, to meet his.

Something warm, and wet, and red, drippled onto her skin. First one, then two and three, then many; uncountable, unstoppable; bleeding. Blood. Rell tried to speak, hands fumbling to reach the Rider's, but the dark spread and grew, until even the golden grass was overtaken. And she stumbled, swept by the torrent until she, too, was drowned in crimson. Down she went, until the dream was nothing more than deepest depths of despair.

With a gasp she woke.

The sky was blue, and the day was broad still. Something cold dripped onto her cheek, a chill touch that was soon followed by another. Her gaze settled, and the dream abated until it was but a small, gnawing whisper in the back of her mind. Looming over her was one of the twins, soaked and grinning, for her hand was outstretched above Rell's head. Droplets of water fell. "You fell asleep," Imril stated.

Slowly, as if her body was not yet quite her own, Rell sat up straight. Her fingers – warmed by her rest in the sunlight – brushed the water off her skin; she smiled, and swatted the girl away. "Go dry elsewhere, or I will throw you back into the lake, you sea witch!" Imril laughed and, jumping from stone to stone, went over to their small encampment; her sister was there already, spinning one way and another on bare feet. The cold had seeped into her, far too deep, and Rell scrubbed her face until it burned.

It felt strange to breathe, and it took Rell several moments before she joined them.

When she did, she showed the girls how to light a fire; what branches were best to burn – the wet ones by the lake would make too much smoke; and how to properly hold the flint and steel. They struggled, and argued, for a while, but soon enough a small flame bloomed to life. And so they settled down for a rest, to dry up before their walk back to the village.

Rell stared thoughtfully into the dancing light, mulling over the dream that seemed to haunt her.

There has to be a meaning. What was her mind trying to tell her? It felt as a warning, a premonition of something dangerous; but the Rider had never seemed evil to her. There were signs she could not read, could not understand, and it troubled her greatly. An entity that had grown increasingly powerful, until it could no longer be ignored. As if the secrets that came into her mind were kept there, hidden and veiled even to her. Rell sighed, bringing her chin to rest on folded knees. And mayhap, a dream is only a dream, and nothing more.

Idril plopped down next to her, cupped hands filled with strawberries. "I will trade you for a story," she said, holding them just beyond Rell's reach, when she attempted to steal a couple. "Something funny."

"I do believe I have told you all the stories I know, more than once."

The girl pursed her lips, until a look of stubbornness passed over her. "Then you can make one up."

With an eyebrow raised, Rell let out a dry laugh at the request; but with a bit of wriggling and bargaining – getting her hands on a handful berries – she gave it a good thought. "Very well! A funny story, you say? Then I shall try." She made herself comfortable, looking from one girl to the other, while slowly nodding. "I know your fondness of the Halflings, and so this happened many, many years ago in the Shire. Perhaps this tale is true, and perhaps it is not. You may be the judge of that." She popped a strawberry into her mouth, and found it more sour than expected. "The Shire is a beautiful and fruitful land, with many fields and pastures. Farms, cornlands and vinyards, and woods. The grass is green – the greenest I have ever seen.

"And the Hobbits know only peace and tranquil days. But on this day, a day very much the same as this, where the Sun was shining and no cloud was in sight ... There came from the field a shrill cry for aid. So terrible and loud it was, that all the other farmers rushes to see what the fuss was about. And truly it was a sight to behold. For all the cabbages were gone! Poof! As if stolen away in the night, there was nothing but holes in the ground."

"How can cabbages just vanish?" Imril asked.

"That is exactly what the Hobbits thought as well. Was it perhaps a thief? One of them Big Folks beyond the Brandywine River, come to take away all their hard work? They searched the village thin, every nook and cranny, but came up with nothing. Not a single cabbage leaf was found. And so, all the wondering farmers could then do, was settle for the night; dreaming of crops growing arms and legs, and hopping away under moonlight." Another strawberry, another moment to think. "By the morning light, the Hobbits woke to a surprise just as big as the one before. For this time all the carrots were gone.

Deep holes in the ground, and nothing more. For each day in that week, the bewildered and distraught Hobbits would rise with the Sun and see that another field had been emptied. Leeks, pumpkins, tomatoes, even the onions. Gone!" Rell poked into the dwindling fire, rekindling it until new flames licked against the firewood. There was a tint of grey in the Eastern horizon; it was later than she had first thought.

How long did I sleep?

"And what happened then?" Idril gave her several berries of her own.

"Oh yes. They knew there was a vegetable thief at large, but he only came at night. Finally, the Hobbits came up with a plan – to keep watch!"

Imril snorted. "Should they not have done so from the beginning, and not wait an entire week?"

"Well, perhaps." She shrugged. "Maybe they were too upset to think clearly, for we all know the fondness they have for food. But either way, it was then decided; the bravest – and tallest – of the farmers was set to watch the last field left untouched. The turnips. And there he sat, all night, watching and waiting. And listening ... For he did not see the thief, but hear him he did. It was a digging in the ground, smalls thumps and snuffling. One by one, the turnips vanished into the soil until there were none left. By morning, the fearless Hobbit – who, honestly, was quite shook and awfully pale – told the others of what he had seen."

"Was it a rabbit?"

Rell grinned. "It was indeed a rabbit."

"That is silly," Imril noted.

"No! It was not a silly rabbit." Her answer came almost offended. "It was Hopper, the Hoptastic; Bane of all farmers throughout the valleys. A vermin of mythical proportions that can consume entire fields in a single night. The giant pest had come to the Shire!" If she had expected much else, revealing the villain of the story, she was instead met with wild laughter from both girls. She smiled at the sight.

"That is silly!" Idril agreed.

"Not to the poor Hobbits! But luckily they lured him out with a big feast and celebration, where they then stroke a bargain with the monstrous creature. He would leave the Shire in peace, and instead he could torment the villagers of Bree-land, or anywhere else East of the mountains for all they cared. And so ends the story, truthful or not, for it is time for us to return home. Night is coming." Quickly chewing the last sour strawberries, Rell stood and stamped out the fire; then she found her sword and strapped it to her belt, the weight a comfort against the creeping dark.

"Maybe Hopper is out here, lurking, no longer with a taste for vegetables ..." Idril spoke in a secretive whisper, tip-toeing closer to her sister. "Perhaps he has now a taste for Man!"

Imril prompty punched her in the shoulder. "Then you will be eaten first."

"Because I am the sweetest?"

"No. I bet you taste like an onion."

Rell laughed at them both. "Enough, now." Slinging a satchel across her shoulder, she took a girl by each hand and started the walk back across the pasture. "We know he would eat you both in a mouthful, for one would never leave the other." They had plenty of time, and a good deal of light, and so were in no rush. Above them, grey crows dipped and soared on the winds; hoarse caws their company. They followed the straight way down the sloping hill, the falling night on their backs and the sunlit valley ahead.

When they had walked for no more than half a mile, Imril and Idril picked up a song – a concoction with the sole purpose of annoying their mother – and took turns making it worse throughout the rest of their journey. Of screaming cats and barking dogs. And Rell allowed the merriment; much more powerful, and far more welcome, than the ever-lurking whispers in her own mind. Something she each day tried to repress, to smother until it was truly time to act upon. Burdens and warnings. She knew the dream would reveal itself in time.

And finally, as the dogs and cats had gone to war, and made peace again, the village came ahead.

When they were close enough, the twins ran ahead. Their father stood watch by the stone passage, as he did most days with spear and shield, and he was quick to embrace them both. He was much bigger than them, and they seemed to vanish within his arms. It was not long before they chattered loudly, each sharing the happenings of the day; but as Rell approached, the Ranger's gaze lifted to meet hers. She came to a halt on the path. Mouth dry and heart hammering.

"There is a rider waiting for you," Maldil said. "And he brought a message."