Part 1 - Up the Enedwaith
The town of Erech had passed him long ago and was now almost forgotten as he reached the western edge of the Mountains. Beyond, and to the sea, lay a land of rolling hills that steadily sloped down to the distant shore. Yet unlike the lands of the Horsemasters further east, this land was barren and almost lifeless. In ages past, the fields had been forests and great and mighty trees have covered the landscape in a swathe of green. All that remained now was tired yellow grass and the decaying remnants of ancient tree-stumps.
His gaze trailed to the sea, glorious blue beneath the fading golden sunlight, and stayed fixed upon the waters for some time. He had been taught to fear the sea, though he had never before seen it, for it could captivate and lure men to their doom. Yet he felt no fear in his stare, only fascination at the new sight. Since he had begun his journey from the towers of Minas Tirith he had felt something new, something changed, about him…or perhaps awoken. The war had consumed him, had devoured his passions and his will and applied them where it was wont to do; Yet here, in the lonely and empty lands, he felt free of the great burden, he felt the desire and wish to travel and learn, not of armaments or strategy (those things he knew too well already), but of the world beyond his knowledge.
He dismounted as the road began to fade to stones and grass. The sky was already growing dark, the moon ascending behind him as the sun began to flee beyond sight. He tossed his heavy pack to the ground, swiftly following it himself and laying back, allowing the weariness to take over. The journey had been long and hard, and he was feeling the solitude. Yet he knew there were still many leagues before him. He listened to the silence, his weighted eyes closing to the sound of night song in the trees.
He awoke suddenly, his eyes meeting the moon that hung above him, his ears peaked by the call of his steed. He leapt up, his hand reaching to his belt and grabbing the hilt of his longsword. The darkness had pervaded his camp yet there was another intruder in the night...a shadow, just out of plain sight, beneath the shadows of the trees and out of the moonlight.
“Step into the light, stranger” Arathrandir called into the darkness, but there came no answer. He moved forward a step, slowly, cautiously.
“Show yourself, be you friend or foe?” He called again, this time louder. Still there came no answer. He took another stride forward but his step was interrupted. An arrow, sleek and silent, flew past his shoulder before plummeting to the ground far behind. It had meant to miss, of that he was certain, for the shot was strong and straight.
“Lay down your sword, Man of Gondor” A deep voice resonated from beneath the shadows of the tree. Yet there was no motion.
“I will not lay my arms before any man but the Steward” Arathrandir answered, raising his sword defiantly “Be on your way stranger, lest you tempt my blade to ire”
Laughter echoed around him. Voices whispered from places he had not thought to look. Yet only one spoke to him
“Arathrandir” The voice came, this time lighter, friendlier...familiar. “You are losing your touch my friend. Can you not tell your kin from foe”
A cloaked figure stepped from the shadow, his golden hair glimmering in the moonlight, the crest of the White Tree shimmering on his bracers. A bow of fine ash hung across his back, befriended by a full compliment of white feathered arrows. He smiled slightly as Arathrandir threw his sword to the ground
“Valadir!” Arathrandir ran forward, his arms open to embrace his old friend “You had me worried for a moment, but now I see that even the shadows in this dark place can hide friends”
“Aye” Valadir patted his comrade on the shoulder “But they can so hide foes as well. Such is our reason for being in these parts, friend. But what is your reason? Have you not men to lead in Osgiliath?”
Arathrandir sighed and stepped back, retrieving his blade from the ground and sheathing it once more. He glanced now around him, noticing the Valadir's men in the grassland, hidden by their deceptive cloaks and cunning skills. These men were among the finest of the Rangers of Ithilien, yet they were far from their company and from their home. Long ago, Arathrandir and Valadir had been brothers in arms, yet their skills were different, and their fate on different paths. Still, however, they had remained friends and he was warmed to find companionship in the night.
“Tis a long story, brother” Arathrandir sighed once more as he turned[i[i “Let us make a fire and I will tell you all that has become of me since last we parted”
Valadir nodded before raising his hand to his men. Soon a fire was lit, and laughter was heard in the barren lands as never had been heard before. Valadir grieved at the news of Arathrandir, yet could offer little solace but a flask of ale.
“I would come with you had I not a oath to Lord Faramir” Valadir said solemnly, his words truthful and heartfelt.
“I know, brother, but I ask no man to share my fate” Arathrandir took a steady sip from the flask “My journey takes me on to places I have never before been...Though I have not decided anything but my direction. South to the desert lands is a road I cannot take, It seems there is little further West I can go, and East is forever barred to me. All that is left is North North to our fathers ancient kingdom”
“Perhaps this will help” Valadir reached behind him, removing a parchment from his pack. Slowly he unfurled it, revealing a detailed map of Middle Earth.
“What is this place?” Arathrandir asked, pointing at the map.
“Ah, that, Arathrandir, is Rivendell, home of the Elf Lord Elrond” Valadir smiled slightly
“I have heard that name. It is said the Elves are no longer friends to man, however”
“A moment ago you could not tell friend from foe in the darkness, perhaps your perceptions are skewed, friend” Valadir laughed.
“I still do not know my destination” Arathrandir slumped back reluctantly, taking his eyes from the map “Perhaps you could give me guidance, friend?”
Valadir nodded slowly. He was a well travelled man, he had once been a messenger to the Steward and then a scout under Lord Faramir. Now a Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien, he was widely respected for his knowledge of the lands around Gondor, and further afield.
“Here” Valadir pointed near the centre of the map “Head north, follow the old Greenway...that journey may provide you with new hope”
Arathrandir nodded “So be it”
Valadir rolled up the map, handing it across to the captain “And may your journey bring you back to Minas Tirith soon. The time is nearing, friend, the shadow is moving in the east”
But his words went unheard. Arathrandir's eyes had succumbed once more to sleep, and weariness once more took its hold on the captain of Gondor.
Part Two - Departures
“I say we take it back to Lugburz” The taller, broader, Orc growled towards the rabble that had followed him in retreat.
“You been 'it on the 'ed too many times, Grâgnurz, if you go back e'll 'ave your 'ed”
“Will he now, with this prize he might make Grâgnurz Chief” Grâgnurz grinned as he waved the thick fabric in the air, the blood stained emblem of the white tree seeming to dim in the breeze. Grâgnurz was large, even among Orcs, his arms like huge branches sprouting from a great rock, yet he was not a leader, not even a lesser chief. When the battle had sprung upon them, he had been sat with Driga's clan, devouring roasted man-flesh on the fire. His own kin had been slain early, for they had taken the brunt of the fight with the Soldiers of Gondor, and now, it seemed, he was stuck with the lesser orcs (so he considered) of the Morgul Vale. The battle had been but hours ago, and they had run at full sprint, and now the Golden sun had hindered their flight. They sat, like stray dogs, beneath an outcrop of rocks, far out of sight of the keen eyes of Men. Yet which way they had fled, none seemed to know.
“I thought you runts was supposed to be trackers” Grâgnurz grumbled “We're well lost, I can't even see the flame in this damn light”
“Tracker we are” Driga snarled “But we ain't got anything to track 'ave we. 'less you want to follow those silver 'elms back to their shoddy towers”
“Well which way back?” Grâgnurz turned his thick round eyes on Driga with a disregarding sneer
“Just shut your trap, Grâg, we'll go for a look around when the dark comes over”
Driga turned his back and slumped back to his fellows. In all they were a mere score of orcs that had escaped the fight. Most were of Driga's mob, for they were both swift and cowardly and ran before defeat was even certain, but a few, like Grâgnurz, were of different troops. Of all Grâgnurz was the largest, yet there were two who stood taller, and seemed greater. They did not match the girth of the large orc, but in form they were not lacking. They had kept to themselves, grunting and whispering between each other, as the others had argued, yet now one stood forward. Grâgnurz and Driga stood together, for once, glaring at the imposing figure before them. Neither could remember having seen any like him, before or during the battle.
“Who are you?” Driga pulled himself up to full height, his clawed fingers carefully running along the hilt of his jagged iron dagger. His quick, thin eyes darted this way and that over the tall Orc, looking for the Mark that all in the service of Lugburz had. Yet no mark could be seen, and no emblem of red marked the battered armour of the tall orc.
“Let me have the Standard” The tall orc pronounced, his voice loud, deep and clearer than the snarls and grumbles of the others. For a moment Driga grinned, his eyes turning to Grâgnurz.
“It's 'is, you can't 'ave it” Driga grinned “'less you ask 'im real nice”
“Even then” Grâgnurz growled, his fingers tightening their grip around the roll of fabric. Without a word the other Orcs stood, each of them drawing their weapon, forming a circle of sharp spear and sword around the two unknown Orcs. Driga stepped forward cautiously, a coward perhaps, but with near a score of orcs against two, he knew there was nothing to run from.
“So, who are you” He repeated, this time with a caustic grin “You ain't Lugburzs and you ain't the Shriekers. Maybe you is Miney's from up north?”
“They ain't Miney's” Grâgnurz shook his head “Too big for Miney's”
“He is right” The other tall orc stepped forward in line with his comrade “We are not. We are Uruk-Hai and we serve neither your Eye nor your Wraiths”
“Oh, dontcha now” Grâgnurz dropped the banner, pulling a huge wooden club from his back. His great arms heaved the club, swinging it horizontally towards the two Uruks. Driga ducked as the great bough swept over his head with the force of giants. Yet the Uruks stood firm, until, at last, the great club was almost upon them. The first drew a great blade, crafted of hard and sharp steel, and screamed as he let it hammer upon the club. The wood splintered in two, the broken log flying into the rest of Driga's mob with continued momentum as Grâgnurz spun around, carried by the force, before falling to the ground in a disgraced heap. Without pause the Uruks were upon all that were left standing, their great blades and furiousity swiftly dispatching the weaker orcs. As the last fell, the first Uruk sheathed his blade, and walked casually over the lying bodies to the furled black banner of Men. His hand grabbed it with evident disdain, and tossed it to the other. Slowly his eyes moved over the fallen, looking for movement. None could know that they had been here, for nothing but the trickle of dark blood moved on the ground.
“Lets get this back”He nodded, with almost Man-like command ”“He'll be waiting for our report and we don't want to get seen out here”
And with that, the two Uruks sprang from the cover and into the daylight. Their steel boots trampling the grass beneath them as they set off to the North.
Part 3 - Borders of the West-march
The midday sun stared down upon the empty grassland of the Enedwaith, casting a short, insignificant shadow beneath the solitary figure that traversed the expanse. To the North, its beams glimmered across the rippling waters of the Isen before diffusing in a tumult of foam at the meeting of the Adorn.
Arathrandir had come far since the morning for the hills had flattened and his steed had made a comfortable canter across the soft earth. Yet he knew his progress would soon be slowed, for his sharp eyes could make out the River Isen ahead, a barrier to the North, over which his map had shown no crossing so far West. Yet that problem was not yet upon him and he had given it little thought, his mind still lingering on the events at Osgiliath.
He pulled back on the reins with a sigh, dismounting before the horse had come to a halt, and tossed his pack to the ground. He had not broken his fast since the night before and his hunger had begun to aggravate. Swiftly he removed a small bundle from his pack, unwrapping it with orderly diligence, and glanced at the morsels within. Travelling rations; little more than a dried slice of meat and some hard biscuity bread, but they had served him well for many years on the field and he was not dismayed. He knew well the worth of rations despite his luxurious youth. The son of a noble, an advisor to Dol Amroth, he had wanted for little in his childhood. Yet even then, he had never wanted for much beyond necessity. He had seen his father little throughout those years, for his youth was spent much within the bounds of Minas Tirith, yet he remembered much of the advice of his elder. He had studied the lore of Gondor and of Men and Elves at his father's bidding and for a time they had become close. For hours on end they had talked of Numenor, to Arathrandir's content and excitement, and the great deeds of the past that few remembered. His father had provided countless manuscripts and parchments, had taken him to ancient ruins and monuments and carefully, patiently, told of their history...yet all that came to a sudden end when Arathrandir had taken up the sword. His lore served him well, but new tomes, Articles of Command, Implements of Battle, became his study. His father had never forgiven him, though he had always maintained the facade of pride, even until his death. Arathrandir was alone then, save for his friends, his mother long since departed and his father entombed in the sepulchral tombs of Dor-en Ernil.
He opened his eyes with a shake of his head. The weariness had caught up with him at last, for the sky above had become a deep shade of blue and he had slept for many hours. He stood slowly, surprised to have been caught unaware by sleep's stealthy hand, and rubbed his blurred eyes. He smiled to himself as he found his steed sat beside his pack
“Not quite alone then” He laughed to himself and patted the horse on the side.
The night had come and with it a swift chilled breeze swept from the West, its air tinged with the faint taste of salt. Darkness pervaded every aspect of the Enedwaith, from the roots to the sky above. Even the stars were masked behind mist and cloud. He reached slowly for his pack and removed a bundle of kindling, carefully stacking it to make a small fire. He removed his gloves, rubbing his worn hands together for warmth, before holding them to the fire. The faint orange glow seeped through the gaps in his fingers, bringing with it gentle heat and comfort. Cautiously he glanced around, beyond his circular island of light, but nothing could be seen in the darkness. The night itself had become solid around him, a thick wall of black stone surrounding his island. Yet it was a wall that kept him in, not others out. He frowned slightly, feeling exposed in the flats, certain that his fire could be seen for leagues, but knew there was little else he could do. “Choices are rarely free and often limited” he muttered, the words of his father, with a slight nod of approval.
Suddenly he caught glimpse from the corner of his eye; a flicker of orange in the distance, a flame, perhaps of some kind. He watched silently as it bobbed up and down, ever growing...ever coming nearer. With a gasp he realised it was a torch, someone had seen his campfire. He rolled over, grabbing his sword from the floor, and retreated from his island, just into the night beyond.
”Rohirrim” he thought to himself, optimistically, but he knew in his heart that they were not. Mounted men would have reached him by now, and would certainly be bearing more than a single torch. He waited patiently, eyes squinting to see the figures beneath the blaze, his hand ever closed around the hilt of his blade. As they neared, dim shapes appeared in the gloom, dark haired and grim. The fire of the torch gleamed in their black eyes, casting a pool of orange in the midst of nightly pupils, and cast eerie shadows across their hardy features. Five, maybe six, in all armed with the crude weapons of peasant folk; pitchfork, shovel, blunted knives. They paused as they reached his island, standing just beyond the firelight, their eyes gazing at the remainders of his presence. With a mutter to himself he cursed, remembering his pack...all his worldy possessions. Slowly he moved his sword to the fore, preparing to leap from the darkness like a lion upon unsuspecting prey. “No soldiers of Men are they” he thought to himself, eyeing their ragged clothes and simple arms as he stepped forward into the light.
“Hail!” he shouted as the men tightened the grip on their weapons with evident surprise “What business do you have here strangers”
The men did not move, but one smiled and muttered to the others in his own tongue. Arathrandir could not understand their speech, but he could read their posture. They were not here to parley, that was clear, but they had been taken aback by the keen, straight sword of the Gondorian. As one they raised their weapons in challenge, snarling with hatred and disgust towards Arathrandir. He took a further step forward, turning his blade in his hand, ready to strike...but they did not flee, nor did they move.
“Fellow Men” Arathrandir began “I have no desire to harm you, but I ask that you leave me be, a traveller on a long road, for I have nothing of worth for you...if you cannot grant me my solitude then I regret you leave me no choice”
The men leapt forward, their weapons raised in fury, but paused before they reached him. A sound came hastening from behind, whistling and ominous, just as Arathrandir's blade was about to strike. He turned, but too late, the rock striking him on the side of the head. He fell, darkness taking him, the fire diminishing from his eyes, to visions of shadows and night, onwards fighting but ever forced to yield to the gloom. He fell, his eyes last sight the sword of Gondor clattering to the earth beside him.
