The lands of Anórien stretched before Deorla like a tapestry of shifting hues. Beyond the waterfalls and borders, the countryside was dotted with half-abandoned farms, their fields thin and tired from years of war. Gondor was healing, but the scars were deep, and such scars could be used.
She rode slowly at first, not eager to draw notice. Each village she passed held whispers of Gondor’s resilience—but also their fear. When her black-armored figure appeared on the horizon, shutters closed, children were pulled indoors, and the brave few who lingered only stared, clutching tools as makeshift weapons.
Deorla did not stop. Her eyes were fixed eastward. Mordor awaited.
By the third night, she discovered ruins along a ridge, the remnants of an old Gondorian watchtower. The walls were toppled, ivy climbing over grey stone, and a shattered bell lay half-buried in the earth. It was here she made her camp, letting the fire crackle low while the wind sang through the broken tower.
As she ate from her provisions, she unrolled her maps—drawn by her own hand in the years of traveling as "Deorla, merchant and leader of the Company of the East Road." Now she traced with ink-darkened fingers the route toward Osgiliath, then farther east into Ithilien. Mordor was not far.
She thought of the names of the remaining lieutenants—Borangos, Lhaereth, Karazgar, and more. Old rivals. Old equals. Soon to be either allies… or obstacles to be removed.
“One throne,” she muttered softly to herself. “And only one voice to command it.”
The night was long, haunted by the cries of owls and the rustling of wild creatures in the underbrush.
By the time she reached Osgiliath, the White City’s soldiers were a more open presence. Though the city had been reclaimed after the fall of Sauron, it was still in ruin—a patchwork of rubble, scaffolding, and tents where men labored to restore what had been lost.
Crossing the broken bridge, Deorla kept her hood drawn. She passed through the markets, where Gondorian craftsmen hammered armor and women traded food from makeshift stalls. The people were rebuilding—but their eyes were weary, suspicious.
She bought no food, asked no questions, and offered no name. Only the gleam of gold coins—pulled from her white dragon-headed chest—secured her passage without trouble.
Deorla knew from the moment she decided to travel to Mordor, that her biggest challenge will be crossing Ithilien, there was no more dangerous place for her than this. Pesky rangers, her sworn enemies since forever. But she took the risk, she could always try enter Mordor via one might say a main gate, the black gate. But that was not her plan. She knew in order to take control of Mordor, or at least to learn something about it after fall of Sauron and the remaining lieutenants was to speak none other to one of them. Dolguzigir, the Dark Archivist was only lieutenant that she knew will at least be neutral to her. His job under rule of Sauron was to archive and repository of dark knowledge in Minas Morgul, and she suspected he still does that. So she would have to get to Minas Morgul, and best way and faster would be through Ithilien.
By the next evening, Deorla had crossed into the forests of Ithilien. They were fair to look upon—sunlight dappled through thick green leaves, wildflowers spread across glades—but beneath their beauty, danger stirred. The woods had become more than wilderness: they were now a guarded realm. Crossing the borderlands of Ithilien was treacherous. The forests, though beautiful in parts, were alive with shadows—not of Sauron’s servants, but of Gondor’s rangers. Though diminished in number since the War, their presence was still sharp.
For Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, ruled these lands. In his role as march-warden, he had sworn to clear the woods of outlaws, wandering orcs, and the remnants of Sauron’s broken host. To aid him, the White Company patrolled the hidden roads, Gondor’s finest rangers, veterans of the War of the Ring. And not only men lived here—an Elven colony from Mirkwood had taken root among the ruins, their fair voices and watchful eyes now interwoven with the defense of the land.
Deorla knew this, and yet she pressed on. The shadow of Mordor lay beyond, and no Ranger nor Elf would turn her from her path.
The first arrow struck the trunk of a tree beside her, quivering in the bark. She did not flinch. A second and third followed, hemming her in.
“Come no farther, stranger!” a voice rang out from the shadows—firm, commanding, and all too practiced.
Shapes emerged from the brush—half a dozen Rangers, bows drawn, cloaks blending with the wood. Their insignia, the White Tree upon their sleeves, marked them as the White Company itself.
Their captain, a weathered man with a scar along his jaw, stepped forward. His eyes narrowed at the sight of her black-clad form.
“You do not belong in Ithilien,” he said. “State your name and purpose—or you will not leave these woods alive.”
Deorla gave no answer. Her lips curved in the faintest of smiles, her hand resting on the hilt of her blade. Her horse stamped restlessly, sensing her mood, steam curling from its nostrils in the cool night air.
Above, the whisper of Elvish voices carried faintly through the leaves. She knew the Elves of Ithilien watched as well, unseen, bows in hand.
The Rangers shifted, tightening their grip on their weapons. The captain raised his hand in silent signal.
