The city was a dense mass of life which never slept, never rested. It glowed with its own importance.

The City of Light.

Across its night sky lights twinkled in warm hues. Wide arcs of light that marked the buildings and attractions that had made it famous world wide. It was spectacular and it was entrancing and it was unequalled. Yet, Aiedale found no pleasure in the view. An emptiness echoed inside of her, it hulked in the silence just beyond each gathering of light and life.

It wasn't just because she knew what stalked the shadows of this city. City of Light? No, she thought scoffing inwardly, it was far from that.

There was a silence within her, an emptiness, and it was etched deeply. It had been placed there in a single instant as a young girl and grown since then…the memories and the lies and the duties buried on top of one another…all of it reinforced, buried deeper and deeper by each lesson…

She turned abruptly and made her way down the Eiffel Tower. The icy burn starting in her head and throat. Unease bringing her perceptions ever more tightly to bear…the hunt, the endless hunt.

The demon leaned forward, his scale hands stopped moving - finding the exact spot between her ribs where a direct stab of his knife would go straight into her heart. One of his yellow eyes was swollen shut and he was breathing into her face, the stench of demon overpowering, nauseatingly foul. Then he placed one hand behind her neck and lifted her head. It was a mockery of the gentle, loving touch of a lover.

"A person can never know when they will die, but you can know this now, Darklighter: midnight in Avignon, in a stinking alley, tasting blood on your tongue and smelling blood. It will be your ending."

Aiedale closed her eyes very briefly, her lips moving. The demon leaned forward, he wanted to hear her dying declaration.

"Do you know how you will die?" murmured Aiedale. Her eyes were flat and dull from shock, from blood loss.

"Oh little Shadowhunter…" he shook his head, amused that she still held to the foolish hope she would live -

The hidden blade was lethally sharp. The demon let out one low gasp and then vanished because, for all his power, the kindjal blade was still stronger, wielded by one with Angel blood in her veins and the knowledge of exactly where to stab something sharp.

Aiedale's arm fell limply back, the knife clattering on the pavement. I win, she thought. I win and you lose…this time.

She heard the sounds of her companions feet on the rough cobblestones. Her thoughts were disjointed from blood loss. She felt the sting of a stele and heard her cousin's low cursing…

…this time.

The Shadowhunter was asleep.

Her slim form was curled in on itself, her head resting on her arm and the dark grey Lothlorien cloak pulled to her chin. She looked small and vulnerable. Above all, she looked young. The Ranger watched her, wondering what a Shadowhunter dreamed of…what Aiedale dreamed of. Nightmares and visions of the past, barbed and twisted through with jagged anger? Fractured moments from battles and revelations that came a moment too late…or simply dreams; moments and memories, hopes and fears all jumbled together?

He'd seen her wake from a dream, jerking uprights, arms held protectively before her, fingers reaching for a knife or for the emsteleem. No one had ever discussed it on the journey from Rivendell to Moria and then to Lothlorien. No one had ever commented on the way she would stare in those first few moments after wakening with wide eyes and chest heaving before she got a hold of herself and her face went carefully blank.

Aiedale did not invite those sorts of questions. She could radiate a kind of tamped down fury. A quiet presence, eyes taking in all but never showing anything. Always hidden behind a hundred walls only — when the need arose —to explode with lethal force.

Perhaps, the Ranger wondered, this was the way with Shadowhunters; that they were solitary and aloof by nature. Angry by nature. Angry at the world, at the fates and mostly at themselves. Angry that they were the way they were. Angry that there was no way out. The marks never faded. The scars never went away. Once learned, you could not forget the feeling of a blade in hand.

A Shadowhunter, he had come to learn, was splendid in adversity, but tedious when safe. Never content. When things were absolutely at their worst and most violent, Aiedale was at ease.

If he had not been forced to spend so much time at close quarters with her the Ranger would have found her arrogant. He would have been disturbed by that contained focus, the tamped down force that led each one of her movements a sharpness. Uneasy of that ability of her's to be either totally on or completely detached as if the lives of those around her were lesser. He would have been even more unsettled by the runes which marked her skin and were woven into her clothes, faint shimmering lines he had occasionally made out when the sunlight hit her black, carefully mended clothes which she had nursed along through this journey rather than discard.

He would not have seen what lay beneath: a young woman whose entire life had been thrown to pieces. A fiercely loyal friend who was deeply committed to doing what was right even if she had precious little experience with it. She'd been the unlooked for but steadfast ally.

When was the last time she had made a derogatory remark about how mundane he was?

In the little things, he realized, Aiedale let her true feelings be expressed. The runes she did not explain but carved so carefully into Boromir's funeral boat…actions, done without fanfare or remark. Just as she had when she fell into Moria…willing to make the ultimate sacrifice without even a second of hesitation, without saying anything to anyone and for the sake of a world not her own…

Even now, as he sat in the long grass on the plains of Rohan, a cold tingle ran down his spine at the memory of the look she had given him as she tumbled into the black chasm in Moria, eyes intense and unblinking, sharp as a knife: Go.

She didn't expect him to care or stop. Didn't expect any of them to give her sacrifice a second thought. But he hadn't wanted to let her go then and he didn't want to let her go now. Although, he mused, she wasn't the type who needed protecting. Holding back, maybe…

Aiedale shifted in her sleep, her head turning slightly so that a lank strand of hair fell across her narrow features. Even in sleep there was a certain set to her jaw, a certain tightness to her mouth.

She would spurn any offer of protection, any attempt to guide or shield her no matter how or why it was offered. Would purposefully push past any attempt to restrain her, contain her. Every attempt would be judged with suspicion and either rejected or accepted with reluctance. Whatever her upbringing had been, whatever lessons learned young and learned hard, they had marked her as surely as the runes. They had left her unwavering in her determination, both radiantly hopeful and confident in the ability to turn defeat into victory at turns and jaded in the extreme at others. Those scars were at the very core of her being, he thought. They made her unflinching. They gave her a relentless forward drive. He had once been told by an old Ranger who had served with his long dead father, Arathorn, that one should always be careful not to fight the scarred warriors. They were the survivors.

Aiedale shifted, one hand curling tightly around the edge of her Lothlorien cloak almost child-like.

She'd stayed, he thought. Yes, she had needed to if she wanted to find any way back to her own world, but he had the feeling that might have bee true then but it wasn't now. He sensed that she was gathering herself, testing her resolve as if preparing for some final test, some cataclysmic event…

He wondered, as he sat still and quiet, what she would tell him if he asked her what she storm she sensed on the horizon, what looming threat made her uneasy. If he asked her why she stared off into the horizon as if searching for some signal.

And it was because she would answer him if he pressed her to, whether with precise words or with silence that would be even worse, that he hesitated to ask her. He had come to learn, as so many had before him, that to ask a trained, field operative Shadowhunter what threat they sensed brewing should not be do.

They had started riding early, already on the move by the time the sun peaked over the edge of the vast landscape. The morning was bright and clear around them and they past through the plain and over the Entwash which cut through the grassland, read-choked and shaded by willow-trees.

Aiedale could do nothing but relax her taut body with the motion of the horse and let Aragorn guide their steed through the grassland. The turf was deep and yielding, the horses moved across it fluidly and with ease. There was no speaking. And so, feeling unmoored in this endless rippling ocean of grass, Aiedale let her mind wander. If anything, her brief life had taught her that to run from your problems just meant dragging them all with you to a new place. And the scattered remains of the Fellowship were dragging all sorts of problems with them.

She glanced at the white robed wizard on his magnificent horse. The soonest she could she was going to drag him by that obnoxiously clean beard to some corner and wring some answers out of him. The thought made her feel somewhat better, but it did little to settle her disquiet.

What about the hobbits? Frodo and Sam? What about the calvary of horsemen thundering away from the defence of their city? What about Aragorn and the death of Boromir, a galant Captain General of the city Aragorn was destined by prophecy to rule?

She knew too little of the various in's and out's of Middle Earthian politics and too little about what developments were occurring elsewhere to be able to predict too far ahead. The war was here, she knew that. But she had felt it, the razor edge tension on the edge of her awareness ever since she had landed in that clearing close to Bree. What she did not know was what battles were being fought as they rode towards Edoras. She did not know what players were engaged in the game, what strengths and weaknesses they had. She knew that to win a war one had to win enough battles to tilt the advantage and she did not know what battles might matter most, what allies could be secured and what foes should be neutralized.

With Boromir dead, she thought, what kind of reception could Aragorn find in the crumbling kingdom? Without the hero of that people to introduce him, to support him, to champion his cause, Aiedale was unsure how Aragorn could expect to find much of a welcome unless he arrived to save the day and was cloaked in the glory of victory. Such an entrance would take tact, timing and a battle that could be decisively won in such glorious fashion the hero had to be crowned king. Aiedale's head throbbed painfully.

And none of this would matter, she thought, if Frodo failed. No amount of scheming to get Aragorn on the throne of Gondor, no amount of battles fought and arrows fired…and yet if they did not do all that, fire the arrows, swing the sword, secure a throne, plot and scheme then Frodo might not have a chance or even if he did the world they would find on the other side would be little more than ashes.

Why do you care what kind of world is left? Aiedale's grip on Aragorn loosened for a moment at that revelation. Did she? Should she?

I don't, she told herself decisively. This is professional curiosity, this is making sure I don't loose my chance to go home because I failed to take into account all sides of this game. But the game was changing on her, she thought. Shifting and leaving her feeling so damn uncertain.

Some said that Shadowhunters thought they were invincible, invulnerable.

But there was a difference between thinking you were invincible and knowing you could survive. Thinking you were invincible led to arrogance that got you killed because of a stupid mistake. It made it think you were the best and deserved something that no Shadowhunter deserved, no matter how talented. Surviving, however, meant taking the worst the world could throw at you and keep fighting onwards.

Shadowhunters that made it through their novice warrior training and the first few years of active patrol duty knew they weren't invincible and that none of their fellow warriors were, either. Everyone bled and everyone screamed and everyone cried. The best and the worst, the kind and cruel, the deserving and the arrogant bastards.

Aiedale used to think of those early years as a storm through which no one was quite sure how they made it through, or how they survived while others did not. The storm stripped you of everything, pressed down into a core of raw ability. It was not necessarily the most talented or the bravest or the even the stupidest that survived the storm and the ones that were left were grim eyed survivors.

If a Shadowhunter made it to their third year of active duty alive and with a few workable limbs, that Shadowhunter knew they could survive. Because if you made it that far then you had already survived more than most. If you made it that far you knew that you would be cut no inch, given no second chance, allowed no doubt or misgiving.

The gates of Edoras loomed up before them out of the grassland, dark wood and bronze polished smooth. They had past by the silent mounds of the Kings of Rohan and come to the wind-swept walls of the city. Guards in horse hair helmets and flowing green cloaks had briefly halted them but they had been pacified somewhat by the sight of Shadowfax in all his glory. Following the lead of the wizard, the riders dismounted and walked their horses forward. Aiedale automatically reached for her stele, gripping it tightly as they came within bow string range of the warriors who stood, silent and on guard duty.

"Put your stele away," said the wizard to Aiedale in a low hiss, "you will not need it here."

"If she could have folded her arms and dug in her heels like an obstinate donkey, Aiedale would have. A Shadowhunter would never compromise, never bend to this kind of pressure.

She stared the wizard down from her disadvantageous height on the ground. "No."

"Aiedale," said the wizard, "be reasonable-"

"I've been extraordinarily reasonable," she said warningly. "I am not going any further into that mundane hell hole without a glamour."

"They need to see you," said the wizard. He cast his eyes over the companions and said, "Edoras these courts are called and we must be wary; for war is abroad, and the Rohirrim, the Horse-Lords, do not welcome strangers easily. Draw no weapon, speak no haughty word, I counsel you all, until we are come before Theoden's throne." The wizard then turned Shadowfax away, urging the horse onward at a brisk walk which left Aiedale to fume behind Aragorn who was holding their horse and watching her somewhat nervously.

"Wizards," she said in a very soft but no less furious snarl, "are infuriating. What does he think a glamour is supposed to do?" The mount that she had shared with Aragorn nervously flicked its ears back and forth, sensing the growing potential for an eruption.

"Peace," said Aragorn firmly both to her and their suddenly nervous horse. "He is right. You could interpret his intentions differently, Aiedale. Gandalf is not intentionally setting out to make your life hard. You need to think."

"Aiedale found she disliked being reprimanded by the mundane as much as she disliked being told what to do with her runes by the wizard.

"Yes," she said sarcastically, "I do so love to be chased out of places by pitchfork carrying mundanes."

"That isn't going to happen."

""My emkind emplan for any and all possible outcomes," said Aiedale sharply. "Especially those that are emeasily emavoided. Unlike emsome mundanes,em my kind do not go out of our way to invite trouble upon ourselves."

"The man knew better than to reply. It was pointless to argue with the Shadowhunter when she had that certain fixed look to her expression. She was daring him to argue so she could shoot him down with a few icy sentences and he wasn't going to play. Instead he marched along with the rest of their group through the gates and past the soldiers. Unwilling to be left behind, Aiedale moved along, her mind full of choice curse words.

She did not glance left or right. She didn't have to, the corner of her eye picking up all the details.

Mundanes.

Mundanes staring at her. Mundanes staring at the weapons she carried.

She was surrounded by mundanes and it made her feel deeply uncomfortable despite all the changes she had passed through recently.

She wasn't like them. She had known that for a long time. She could dress herself up as one of them, go to the same clubs, listen to the same music, maybe even kiss one of them. But the more she tried to blend in, the more she felt the press of her mission, her oaths. She sought out the hidden spaces, the emptiness, the darkened windows and locked doors where shadow people could pass fleetingly and without opposition. The knives in the dark, the dealing out of death delivered with quick, ruthless force.

Aiedale discreetly played with the edge of one of her fraying cuffs as she walked forward beside Aragorn and Legolas. She did not like being a spectacle to be gawked at and stared at. It wasn't just because she looked liked hell but because she knew how quickly fear and curiosity could turn to suspicion and then to anger…and that would be inconvenient. It was never convenient to be chased out of a place when you had come to offer your help and services.

Aiedale kept her gaze firmly fixed on the grey cloaked wizard before her. The eyes of the Rohirrim were burning into her.

She blinked, clearing her mind.

Now was not the time to allow her thoughts to wander too far. If her attempts to sit down at a Downworlder bar had taught her anything it was that if you were going to be chased out of a place with a knife and a few violently hurled bottles then one should make sure it was a fighting retreat. It didn't do for the last image your pursuers had to be of you fleeing like a frightened mouse.

She kept walking, eyes focused on the back of Aragorn's head. Through the streets of Edoras and up steps toward the giant Hall with its gleaming roof. Silent townsfolk watched them past, eyes boring holes as they past by. Finally, after a walk that seemed to take an age, they stood before a double set of guards and the giant doors into the Hall where the King of Rohan ruled. The guards golden hair was braided on their shoulders and their long corsets were bright, and when they rose taller they seemed larger than mortal men. Green gems flashed on the hilts of their swords.

The guards wordlessly opened the doors and allowed the small group to pass into an open antechamber where, before them, was another set of equally massive doors. Aiedale took in the entrance of the Hall of Medusled in a few seconds as they waited. Her rune enhanced eyesight picking up all she needed to know in a matter of a few seconds. She scanned the dim interior of the antechamber and then did a second quick scan, quartering the room, focusing on the far corners.

There were massive circular bronze braziers placed along the wall before her. The space was warm, glowing with soft light that left plenty of shadows in the corners. The light fixtures were solid, heavy pieces. No flashing, delicate crystal, thought the Shadowhunter with a flash of amusement, to be crashed into and around by these startlingly tall Rohirrim.

Unbidden came to mind the Paris Institute with its marble floors, gently sweeping stair cases and tall arches. It had the most magnificent crystal chandelier which reflected light across the spacious, white marble hall. The chandelier had to be cleaned every so often and - as every Shadowhunter who grew up there had done on some occasion as punishment for some misdemeanour - each piece of crystal had to be gently washed and dried. When you were up there on an impossibly tall ladder with a soapy bucket, you realized that the chandelier had been carved with runes and that each crystal had been gently etched with thin traceries of runes and the names of Angels. She had imagined the desperate informants, Shadowhunters, sympathizers to the Clave, and defectors who had broken their Oaths, looking up at the chandelier with its glinting, etched crystals before walking forward to be interrogated or to receive orders.

"You are to wait here," said one of the guards, an older man whose green cloak was fastened with a heavy, ornate golden brooch that seemed to signify some sort of higher rank. "Grima Wormtongue will determine if you are permitted to see the King."

Gandalf looked ready to harrumph at that but held his tongue, following the advice . Aiedale smothered the urge to glower. Her face was perfectly blank and composed, the very picture of neutrality. She knew that the guards before her had either dismissed her for being a girl or were two seconds away from kicking her out the doors first.

"You've been very well behaved," said Aragorn softly.

"I usually am," said Aiedale with a small, quick grin. "I can be very good at things like toeing the line and keeping my nose out of matters that don't concern me. That was until I met you lot."

"No wonder you found the hobbits so challenging," said the man with a quick smile.

She glanced away. The mention of the hobbits dampening her spirits. "Do you think they are alright?"

"I don't know," said Aragorn quietly, the pain clear in his voice. "Frodo and Sam…"

"Sam won't let anything happen to Frodo," said Aiedale quietly. "He's got one of my knives and he is absolutely lethal with that frying pan."

"Lethal? Sam?" She wasn't looking at his face but she thought he might be smiling, "The combination of lethal and Sam does not belong together in a sentence."

She tutted softly under her breath. "Don't discount the danger of being clubbed in the head with a frying pan."

"Have you experience in this?"

"Yes," she said. "My cousin and I ran afoul of a werewolf who chased us out of a kitchen with a very heavy cast iron skillet."

"Sam is not a werewolf."

Aiedale shrugged, "I would rather face an angry werewolf than a Sam defending his Frodo. My odds of winning would be better."

"I never thought you would actually think a hobbit was a worthwhile ally," said the man with a shake of his head. "You spent so long cursing their general incompetence with anything that involved a weapon."

"Aiedale sighed, "Hobbit or elf or man or dwarf — it doesn't matter. When someone cares emthat muchem about someone else they will do whatever it takes to keep them safe."

""It is heartening to hear that you have not lost all faith in the ability of another to make selfless decisions," replied the man.

Aiedale kept looking ahead, one eyebrow arching upwards. "Keep focused." p

The guards had returned and nodded to the two who stood on either side of the heavy wooden doors. Their commander, Glamdring, nodded to Gandalf and said: "Follow me! Theoden King gives you leave to enter; but any weapon you bear, be it only a stand, you must leave on the threshold. My door wardens will keep them."

Poor mundies, she thought as she divested herself of those weapons that they could see. And if the men were intimidated by Aragorn's sword, Elendil, or the magnificence of Glamdring and Legolas's blades from Lorthlorien, she paid it little mind, staying focused on her surroundings, every movement of the guards hands and every sideways glance in her direction. Keep them guessing, she thought. Keep them perpetually on the back foot, unable to predict or easily categorize her. They had absolutely no idea how to handle her or the astonishing number of blades she deposited in an organized pile by the door. She kept the seraph blade and two others, correctly predicting that the men were not going to search her person as throughly as a Shadowhunter would.

"None of the Fellowship were any less dangerous without their weapons, she knew. Her heart began to beat just a little faster, she knew a fight of some sort lay on the other side of this door. The guards lifted the heavy bars of the inner doors and swung them slowly inwards grumbling on their great hinges.

But the killing blow did not come. The knife stopped short, vanished a moment later into the black gear.

This was odd. Disconcerting. A Shadowhunter?

The vampire couldn't help but stare at this rarest of all creatures: A Shadowhunter who could stop. A Shadowhunter who could see the consequences in the heat of battle. A Shadowhunter who could take a breath and listen.

Something held her in check. The Shadowhunter skill and Shadowhunter mindset was tempered, controlled by something. She did not kill for the sport of killing like so many of her kind did. He wondered where that control, that inner check came from because few others had it. Shadowhunters were so quick to use their skills no matter the collateral damage inflicted on innocent bystanders.

They burned. They burned until all that was left was ashes.