Fic: I Ven Eden (A new road) FRT 3/9
Disclaimer in Part One
Halbarad was late. He knew he was late, and he knew the reason why - delayed, once again in his journey because he’d paused to examine signs that suggested a band of orcs had crossed the Great Road and gone up into the Barrow downs earlier in the day. He’d been hoping that the twins would be waiting for him when he reached the Prancing Pony, and, if they were, they’d be growing impatient at his failure to arrive before the waning of the day. Still, it couldn’t be helped. The orcs had grown bolder these past few months, making raids that brought them down from the Ettin moors and across the Weather hills to prey on the outlying farms for fat sheep and even fatter hobbits. And as a Ranger of the north, he was sworn to protect these lands and the people that lived in them, no matter what they thought of well weathered wanderers and their suspect ways.
He was still some miles from Bree, and watching the edge of the roadway with anxious eyes. The downs spilled down close to the road along this stretch, and the gullies offered any number of places where a bold bunch of orcs might risk ambushing a lone traveller. He’d be lucky to reach the town before dark at this rate, and even luckier if the gatekeeper would let him in once night had fallen. He didn’t mind camping out in the wilderness, but the thought of a decent mug of ale - old Butterbur knew his brewing, if nothing else - and better company than his own drove him on as fast as his tired mount could carry him. He was ready and alert for anything. Anything, that was, but the sudden apparition that appeared on the road ahead of him, materialising out of the growing gloom as if she’d stepped straight out one of Elrond’s tapestries.
She looked like an elf-maiden, draped in ivory silk, her honey blonde tresses falling freely about her face and a richly embroidered cloak edged with dark fur hanging from her shoulders. The sword in her hand glimmered with cold blue fire, although its light was nothing compared to the fire of her eyes and the sheer brilliance of her presence, shining in the last rays of the setting sun. Standing behind her, a good step behind, and a good head and a half taller then she was, was another figure stepped straight out of legend and woven history. A knight of the old realms, his head bare but the rest of him clad in a gleam of moonsilver. His mithril mail was clearly dwarven forged, as were the fittings across his shoulders and the gauntlets beneath - but the sword he carried was in the old Elven style, a lost companion of Glamdring and an echo of the one held so firmly in the maiden’s hand.
“Elbereth,” Halabard breathed, an instinctive appeal for protection. The hobbits and the Breemen often claimed that ghosts stalked the edges of the Barrowdowns, but he’d never seen one.
Until now, that is.
The maiden challenged him in ringing tones, her voice clear, but her words incomprehensible. He reined in his steed and stared at her, unable to believe his eyes. He’d started to lift his hands from the reins, to spread them cautiously wide in a gesture of greeting and reassurance …
… when the white hot bite of an arrow stabbed across his arm and sent him spinning from his saddle in a sprawl of surprise and pain.
What the …
Confusion erupted around him. Orc voices, filled with hate and gravel rose in sudden clamour. His horse bolted in fright. More arrows rattled down onto the trackway. He heard the maiden curse - a good one by the sound of it, filled with earthy bite and a depth of feeling - and then the knight saying something he didn’t understand, but which sounded more impatient than alarmed. Metal clad boots crunched on the paving and steel rang against steel An orc yell turned into a gurgled yelp, and the body of a grizzled warrior slammed into the stone a bare foot from his face. The creature’s eyes were filled with surprise, a dead stare of startlement that the Ranger would go on seeing for days. Just as he would continue to see the sight that awaited him when the knight lifted him out of the gravel and half carried him across to the shelter of the nearest pillar, the great sword drawn and swung in defensive strikes, while a flurry of arrows clattered off armoured shoulders.
The maiden was - dancing.
A dance of dedicated death, the sword an extension of her arm, her body twisting and turning with the speed and grace of an otter - or a wildcat tormenting prey. Orcs were charging her, only to fall in scattered pieces as her blade cut deep. Heads bounced. Arms thudded to the ground. Grizzled veterans were howling as their legs were sliced out from under them. The world was a fuzz of dark spray, and the maiden’s gown was turning purple black with their blood.
She’d thrown off her cloak as soon as the orcs had charged. Halabard found himself being supported by its warmth, the knight using it to pad the cold stone at his back while he grabbed the Ranger’s hand and clasped it firmly around his bleeding wound. “Hold,” the man commanded, his Sindarin accented and hesitant, but good enough to be understood. Halbarad nodded and his rescuer nodded back, standing up and turning to return his attention to the battle. He was just in time to blood his blade on the orc that had charged in to stab at him, and he tugged the weapon free, kicking the corpse away with contempt. Another of the filthy creatures slashed at him, its own blade turned aside by the gleaming armour, and he took that one in the throat, with a swirling twist of the sword point that spattered the world in a rain of onyx.
He was good, the Ranger decided, feeling dazed and light headed, but somehow unafraid as this powerful and commanding figure stood over him in determined defence. Good - but not as good as the maiden, who’d resorted to picking up abandoned blades and throwing them at her attackers with a ferocity he’d never seen in an elf before. Not even the twins fought that furiously, and he’d seen them take down entire bands in mere moments, their hatred for all orc kind manifesting in ruthless strength and merciless actions.
The battle didn’t last long. Orcs might be stupid, but they’re not foolish enough to go on fighting against impossible odds. Not without the whips of overseers urging them on, at least. Ten, maybe fifteen of them died in short order. More crawled away nursing mortal wounds. The knight took down at least five, and the rest ran away, several of them perishing with blades between their fleeing shoulders, their bodies littering the ground like … well, like dead orcs after a battle. The maiden threw challenges after the rest, taunting their hasty retreat with choice words that ended in a light and unexpected laugh. The knight frowned at her - with affection, Halbarad thought, not annoyance, then shook his head, wiped his blade on the nearest corpse and sheathed it neatly into the holster between his shoulder blades. The blue glow of the steel was fading away, and the Ranger let himself relax - although he kept his free hand close to the dagger hilt in his boot, just in case.
Close to, it was obvious that the man was not a ghost. He was far too - solid - for a start. Tall, like a true Numenorean, and rangy in his reach but not in his build, which carried the gleaming armour with both strength and certainty. His hair had been dark once, but grey had begun to replace its glossiness and his face spoke of wisdom and maturity . There was also a slash across his cheek which had begun to ooze with a glisten of scarlet.
Halbarad relaxed even further. Ghosts and wights and wraiths don’t bleed - although men wearing a king’s ransom in moonsilver and wielding elven forged swords didn’t usually turn up out of nowhere, either. And then there was the maiden …
She’d walked back to join her companion, using the drape of her sleeve to wipe her own blade clean. She was spattered with orc blood from head to toe, her gown stained and heavy with the weight of it. But she was smiling. The kind of smile he’d only ever seen on the faces of the carefree - and there were few enough of those, in these dark days.
She wasn’t an elf, either, although she was almost as delicate as one. She was honey gold where the man was dark, short against his looming height, and slightly built where he was sturdy - but something about them suggested they were of the same kin. In fact, he’d swear to it, although he couldn’t put his finger on how he knew.
The two exchanged words, using a language Halbarad had never heard before. One or two of the words held hints of familiarity, but nowhere near enough for him to grasp the meaning of them. The flow of their conversation was clear though; she made a laughing complaint about her spattered state, he admonished her with soft authority - after which she nodded a wry acknowledgement, and then he sighed and gave her the kind of look that only the closest hearts could ever share. Not a lover’s look, but one of deepest feeling all the same. A father to a daughter, a brother to a sister - even, Halabard postulated a little bemusedly, a liege man to his lady. He didn’t know who they were, or from where they’d sprung. Travellers were rare on the Great Road and the Greenway in these dark days, and travellers like this even rarer. In fact, the only man the Ranger had ever met who radiated that quiet sense of power - other than Strider of course - had been Gandalf …
“Are you - a wizard? Istari? Curinir?” he asked, trying to sit up in his astonishment, and gasping from the resultant pain that shot down his arm. The blood spattered pair immediately abandoned their post battle concerns and came to his aid, the man reaching to frown at his wound and the maid leaning in from the other side to wince and glance away again. Halbarad echoed the wince, mostly because strong fingers had replaced the slippery pressure of his own. The maid gave him a sympathetic look, rubbing her blood stained hands down her ruined gown to clean them before offering one out to him. It was hard to tell if that was intended as greeting or an offering of comfort, but he took the hand anyway, marvelling at how small and delicate it seemed once wrapped within his own. Had he not seen her dance of death and defiance he would never have believed her capable of holding a sword, let alone wielding one with such confidence and expertise.
“Halbarad,” he offered, smiling at her, then pulled back his hand and touched his chest, repeating his name as clearly as he could. Comprehension dawned in her eyes.
“Oh,” she said, and pointed at him. “Halbarad?” He nodded and her face lit up. “Bufi,” she announced, putting her hand to her chest. “Buffee Summers.” And then, pointing to her companion said, with equally careful clarity: “Jeye-eles.”
The man she indicated threw her a very puzzled look before he caught up with the flow of the conversation. “Ah,” he noted. “Enneth …” He said it as if his Sindarin was even more hesitant than Halbarad’s own. The ranger knew enough to communicate with elves when speaking Westron might be less than desirable, but he didn’t have Strider’s mastery of the tongue. There was a brief pause, while the man clearly struggled to find the words he wanted, and then he smiled, wryly, as if there were amusement in the one’s he’d found. He touched his own chest, mailed gauntlet to ringing chain. “Rupert Giles. Curinir. Tirn.”
Wizard, Halbarad translated, confirming his earlier suspicion with a hint of awe. The second title made no sense. Watcher. He clearly wasn’t a Ranger, who might have earned that kind of appellation in the Shire. Watcher of what? Of whom?
The wizard’s hand went out to catch and hold the maiden’s shoulder with possessive pride. “Buffy,” he repeated softly. “Dagnir.”
Slayer …
Halbarad took a deep breath. Sauron was rising again in the east. The nine had been unleashed on the world. The sword that was broken had been reforged, and now strangers who seemed to be of Gandalf’s kin had appeared from nowhere, a knight and a battle maid, the two of them clearly so long gone from the world that even language needed to be learned anew. These were strange times. Strange times indeed.
“Halbarad,” he repeated, to confirm his earlier naming and added, with a little confident pride. “Dunèdain.”
Halbarad was late. He knew he was late, and he knew the reason why - delayed, once again in his journey because he’d paused to examine signs that suggested a band of orcs had crossed the Great Road and gone up into the Barrow downs earlier in the day. He’d been hoping that the twins would be waiting for him when he reached the Prancing Pony, and, if they were, they’d be growing impatient at his failure to arrive before the waning of the day. Still, it couldn’t be helped. The orcs had grown bolder these past few months, making raids that brought them down from the Ettin moors and across the Weather hills to prey on the outlying farms for fat sheep and even fatter hobbits. And as a Ranger of the north, he was sworn to protect these lands and the people that lived in them, no matter what they thought of well weathered wanderers and their suspect ways.
He was still some miles from Bree, and watching the edge of the roadway with anxious eyes. The downs spilled down close to the road along this stretch, and the gullies offered any number of places where a bold bunch of orcs might risk ambushing a lone traveller. He’d be lucky to reach the town before dark at this rate, and even luckier if the gatekeeper would let him in once night had fallen. He didn’t mind camping out in the wilderness, but the thought of a decent mug of ale - old Butterbur knew his brewing, if nothing else - and better company than his own drove him on as fast as his tired mount could carry him. He was ready and alert for anything. Anything, that was, but the sudden apparition that appeared on the road ahead of him, materialising out of the growing gloom as if she’d stepped straight out one of Elrond’s tapestries.
She looked like an elf-maiden, draped in ivory silk, her honey blonde tresses falling freely about her face and a richly embroidered cloak edged with dark fur hanging from her shoulders. The sword in her hand glimmered with cold blue fire, although its light was nothing compared to the fire of her eyes and the sheer brilliance of her presence, shining in the last rays of the setting sun. Standing behind her, a good step behind, and a good head and a half taller then she was, was another figure stepped straight out of legend and woven history. A knight of the old realms, his head bare but the rest of him clad in a gleam of moonsilver. His mithril mail was clearly dwarven forged, as were the fittings across his shoulders and the gauntlets beneath - but the sword he carried was in the old Elven style, a lost companion of Glamdring and an echo of the one held so firmly in the maiden’s hand.
“Elbereth,” Halabard breathed, an instinctive appeal for protection. The hobbits and the Breemen often claimed that ghosts stalked the edges of the Barrowdowns, but he’d never seen one.
Until now, that is.
The maiden challenged him in ringing tones, her voice clear, but her words incomprehensible. He reined in his steed and stared at her, unable to believe his eyes. He’d started to lift his hands from the reins, to spread them cautiously wide in a gesture of greeting and reassurance …
… when the white hot bite of an arrow stabbed across his arm and sent him spinning from his saddle in a sprawl of surprise and pain.
What the …
Confusion erupted around him. Orc voices, filled with hate and gravel rose in sudden clamour. His horse bolted in fright. More arrows rattled down onto the trackway. He heard the maiden curse - a good one by the sound of it, filled with earthy bite and a depth of feeling - and then the knight saying something he didn’t understand, but which sounded more impatient than alarmed. Metal clad boots crunched on the paving and steel rang against steel An orc yell turned into a gurgled yelp, and the body of a grizzled warrior slammed into the stone a bare foot from his face. The creature’s eyes were filled with surprise, a dead stare of startlement that the Ranger would go on seeing for days. Just as he would continue to see the sight that awaited him when the knight lifted him out of the gravel and half carried him across to the shelter of the nearest pillar, the great sword drawn and swung in defensive strikes, while a flurry of arrows clattered off armoured shoulders.
The maiden was - dancing.
A dance of dedicated death, the sword an extension of her arm, her body twisting and turning with the speed and grace of an otter - or a wildcat tormenting prey. Orcs were charging her, only to fall in scattered pieces as her blade cut deep. Heads bounced. Arms thudded to the ground. Grizzled veterans were howling as their legs were sliced out from under them. The world was a fuzz of dark spray, and the maiden’s gown was turning purple black with their blood.
She’d thrown off her cloak as soon as the orcs had charged. Halabard found himself being supported by its warmth, the knight using it to pad the cold stone at his back while he grabbed the Ranger’s hand and clasped it firmly around his bleeding wound. “Hold,” the man commanded, his Sindarin accented and hesitant, but good enough to be understood. Halbarad nodded and his rescuer nodded back, standing up and turning to return his attention to the battle. He was just in time to blood his blade on the orc that had charged in to stab at him, and he tugged the weapon free, kicking the corpse away with contempt. Another of the filthy creatures slashed at him, its own blade turned aside by the gleaming armour, and he took that one in the throat, with a swirling twist of the sword point that spattered the world in a rain of onyx.
He was good, the Ranger decided, feeling dazed and light headed, but somehow unafraid as this powerful and commanding figure stood over him in determined defence. Good - but not as good as the maiden, who’d resorted to picking up abandoned blades and throwing them at her attackers with a ferocity he’d never seen in an elf before. Not even the twins fought that furiously, and he’d seen them take down entire bands in mere moments, their hatred for all orc kind manifesting in ruthless strength and merciless actions.
The battle didn’t last long. Orcs might be stupid, but they’re not foolish enough to go on fighting against impossible odds. Not without the whips of overseers urging them on, at least. Ten, maybe fifteen of them died in short order. More crawled away nursing mortal wounds. The knight took down at least five, and the rest ran away, several of them perishing with blades between their fleeing shoulders, their bodies littering the ground like … well, like dead orcs after a battle. The maiden threw challenges after the rest, taunting their hasty retreat with choice words that ended in a light and unexpected laugh. The knight frowned at her - with affection, Halbarad thought, not annoyance, then shook his head, wiped his blade on the nearest corpse and sheathed it neatly into the holster between his shoulder blades. The blue glow of the steel was fading away, and the Ranger let himself relax - although he kept his free hand close to the dagger hilt in his boot, just in case.
Close to, it was obvious that the man was not a ghost. He was far too - solid - for a start. Tall, like a true Numenorean, and rangy in his reach but not in his build, which carried the gleaming armour with both strength and certainty. His hair had been dark once, but grey had begun to replace its glossiness and his face spoke of wisdom and maturity . There was also a slash across his cheek which had begun to ooze with a glisten of scarlet.
Halbarad relaxed even further. Ghosts and wights and wraiths don’t bleed - although men wearing a king’s ransom in moonsilver and wielding elven forged swords didn’t usually turn up out of nowhere, either. And then there was the maiden …
She’d walked back to join her companion, using the drape of her sleeve to wipe her own blade clean. She was spattered with orc blood from head to toe, her gown stained and heavy with the weight of it. But she was smiling. The kind of smile he’d only ever seen on the faces of the carefree - and there were few enough of those, in these dark days.
She wasn’t an elf, either, although she was almost as delicate as one. She was honey gold where the man was dark, short against his looming height, and slightly built where he was sturdy - but something about them suggested they were of the same kin. In fact, he’d swear to it, although he couldn’t put his finger on how he knew.
The two exchanged words, using a language Halbarad had never heard before. One or two of the words held hints of familiarity, but nowhere near enough for him to grasp the meaning of them. The flow of their conversation was clear though; she made a laughing complaint about her spattered state, he admonished her with soft authority - after which she nodded a wry acknowledgement, and then he sighed and gave her the kind of look that only the closest hearts could ever share. Not a lover’s look, but one of deepest feeling all the same. A father to a daughter, a brother to a sister - even, Halabard postulated a little bemusedly, a liege man to his lady. He didn’t know who they were, or from where they’d sprung. Travellers were rare on the Great Road and the Greenway in these dark days, and travellers like this even rarer. In fact, the only man the Ranger had ever met who radiated that quiet sense of power - other than Strider of course - had been Gandalf …
“Are you - a wizard? Istari? Curinir?” he asked, trying to sit up in his astonishment, and gasping from the resultant pain that shot down his arm. The blood spattered pair immediately abandoned their post battle concerns and came to his aid, the man reaching to frown at his wound and the maid leaning in from the other side to wince and glance away again. Halbarad echoed the wince, mostly because strong fingers had replaced the slippery pressure of his own. The maid gave him a sympathetic look, rubbing her blood stained hands down her ruined gown to clean them before offering one out to him. It was hard to tell if that was intended as greeting or an offering of comfort, but he took the hand anyway, marvelling at how small and delicate it seemed once wrapped within his own. Had he not seen her dance of death and defiance he would never have believed her capable of holding a sword, let alone wielding one with such confidence and expertise.
“Halbarad,” he offered, smiling at her, then pulled back his hand and touched his chest, repeating his name as clearly as he could. Comprehension dawned in her eyes.
“Oh,” she said, and pointed at him. “Halbarad?” He nodded and her face lit up. “Bufi,” she announced, putting her hand to her chest. “Buffee Summers.” And then, pointing to her companion said, with equally careful clarity: “Jeye-eles.”
The man she indicated threw her a very puzzled look before he caught up with the flow of the conversation. “Ah,” he noted. “Enneth …” He said it as if his Sindarin was even more hesitant than Halbarad’s own. The ranger knew enough to communicate with elves when speaking Westron might be less than desirable, but he didn’t have Strider’s mastery of the tongue. There was a brief pause, while the man clearly struggled to find the words he wanted, and then he smiled, wryly, as if there were amusement in the one’s he’d found. He touched his own chest, mailed gauntlet to ringing chain. “Rupert Giles. Curinir. Tirn.”
Wizard, Halbarad translated, confirming his earlier suspicion with a hint of awe. The second title made no sense. Watcher. He clearly wasn’t a Ranger, who might have earned that kind of appellation in the Shire. Watcher of what? Of whom?
The wizard’s hand went out to catch and hold the maiden’s shoulder with possessive pride. “Buffy,” he repeated softly. “Dagnir.”
Slayer …
Halbarad took a deep breath. Sauron was rising again in the east. The nine had been unleashed on the world. The sword that was broken had been reforged, and now strangers who seemed to be of Gandalf’s kin had appeared from nowhere, a knight and a battle maid, the two of them clearly so long gone from the world that even language needed to be learned anew. These were strange times. Strange times indeed.
“Halbarad,” he repeated, to confirm his earlier naming and added, with a little confident pride. “Dunèdain.”