The woods of Ithilien were alive with the hunt.
The first arrow whistled past Deorla’s face, snapping through a birch trunk. The second struck her horse’s flank — a warning shot, not yet meant to kill. The cries of men followed soon after, echoing between the trees:
“In the name of the Prince of Ithilien! Drop your weapon!”
Deorla spurred her mount, the Harbinger, into a sharp turn. Branches lashed her arms as she darted through narrow paths veiled in moonlight. Behind her, the White Company gave chase — twenty Rangers of Faramir’s command, elite soldiers sworn to cleanse the woods of all who walked under the shadow.
Bolts hissed from the darkness. One struck the saddle; another grazed her thigh, a shallow cut that burned. She veered toward a ridge where the trees thickened, hoping to lose pursuit.
Then she saw it — a cliff face ahead, dropping into the black rush of a waterfall. Her horse skidded to a halt, hooves scraping the edge. Water roared below, a cold thunder.
She turned to face the oncoming Rangers. They fanned out, torches glimmering like fiery eyes among the trees.
“Last warning!” a voice rang out — firm, authoritative.
The Captain of the White Company, a veteran of Osgiliath, stood at their front. “Drop your steel, woman, and speak your name!”
Deorla’s eyes glowed faintly beneath her hood. “You are out of your depth, Captain,” she said, voice cold as the river’s spray. “The wind carries darker names than mine.”
The Rangers tightened their circle.
“Then we shall see if you bleed darker blood.”
He raised his hand — and the volley came.
Deorla kicked her heels. The Harbinger leapt forward — straight into the waterfall.
The icy plunge swallowed them both.
The impact was like a hammer blow. The current dragged horse and rider down into a whirl of churning water and black stone. Deorla clung to the reins, lungs burning, as they were thrown beneath jagged rocks.
When she finally broke the surface, the night was silent again — no torches, no shouting, only the river’s ceaseless voice. The Rangers would think her dead.
She guided her wounded horse to shore, gasping for air, her cloak clinging heavy to her armor. Water streamed from her hair as she stumbled onto the mossy bank.
She laughed once — a low, bitter sound.
“You’ll have to do better than that, Ithilien.”
Then after drying herself out, she noticed her mount will not survive the upcoming travel. It was her only friend with the other 4 mounts she left behind, which probably had been already captured by Rangers. Harbinger was with her like forever, he was old, but Mordor and Rohhiric blood served him well for his age, but it seemed it time was at it's end. Deorla did not wept, she had no time for that, and the mount knew that. They said farewell to each other like a goold old friends, knowing they will not see each other again anymore.
By dawn, she found herself amid the broken remnants of an old Gondorian border outpost — a small fortress choked in ivy, its banners long faded.
Inside, she lit a fire, stripping the soaked layers from her armor. The stone hall was silent save for the hiss of flame. She used her dagger to cut away the ruined bandage on her thigh — the Ranger’s arrow had left a shallow wound, but nothing fatal.
As she rested, she noticed old carvings on the wall — the White Tree flanked by two stars. This had once been a watchtower when Ithilien was green and alive, before the shadow had crept north.
Now only ghosts remained.
She ate sparingly from her travel pack — dried meat and roots — then set her map before her. Mordor was still days away.
The fire in the ruined outpost burned low, hissing softly against the damp stones. Deorla sat by it, armor loosened, cloak steaming faintly from the river’s chill. Her reflection wavered in the blade she cleaned — a ghostly image of a woman she barely recognized anymore.
The water had washed away the blood, but not the memory.
For hours, she sat in silence. Then the silence broke — not by sound, but by thought.
One by one, she whispered the names of those who had driven her to this point.
“The White Company... Faramir’s hounds. May their arrows splinter, their courage rot.”
Her voice trembled with low, steady venom.
“The Dunedain — self-proclaimed wardens of the free world. May their watch fail and darkness take their roads.”
She cast another log into the fire, watching the sparks leap like fleeing stars.
“The Company of the East Road...”
The words came slower, heavier. She once led them — traded with them, bled beside them, built them into something formidable. But when she had turned from their cause to her own, they branded her traitor.
“...they were mine once,” she murmured. “They had their chance to stand beside me. Instead, they bit the hand that fed them. So let them wither with the others.”
Her fingers tightened around the dagger. The metal creaked faintly beneath her grip.
It wasn’t merely hatred she felt — it was purpose. Every betrayal, every chase, every hunt that sought her blood had sharpened her resolve into something harder than steel.
“If this world will not let me live in peace,” she whispered, “then it shall remember me in ruin.”
The fire’s glow flickered across her face, painting her features in alternating hues of gold and shadow — half woman, half phantom.
Outside, the rain began to fall again, steady and relentless, like the drumbeat of a coming storm.
Later, when the day had dimmed into green twilight, she found herself beneath ancient trees where pale ruins rose from the moss. Carved Elven columns stood like watchful sentinels, their surfaces etched with ivy and the faint runes of Mirkwood’s old settlers.
Here, the air still carried traces of song — faint, like distant memory. The Elves of Ithilien had made this place bloom once, but only silence ruled it now.
Then from the shadow of a fallen arch stepped a tall figure — fair, stern, and cold as moonlight.
“Few mortals walk this way unbidden,” he said, his voice calm but wary.
Deorla straightened. “Few mortals still know where to walk.”
“You are no wanderer. The shadow clings to you like frost. Why are you here?”
“To end what should have ended long ago,” she replied.
The Elf’s eyes narrowed. “You bring the scent of the East. The Prince’s rangers have hunted your kind through these woods for months.”
Deorla smirked faintly. “Then tell your Prince he’ll need sharper hunters.”
He studied her, silent, as if weighing her worth — or her damnation. Finally, he lowered his gaze.
“Go, then. But the land remembers. And the land judges.”
“Then let it judge,” she said “It’s not the first to curse me, and it won’t be the last.”
As she vanished into the mists of the forest, the Elf lingered, staring after her.
“Shadowflame,” he murmured under his breath — the name whispered still among the ruined watchtowers of the East.
