Searching for Redemption by Chemins

[Recommended]

Admin Note: This work is being posted by the site admin as a Novice Writers Recommended story. The author may or may not be a member of the site, but they will be able to respond to any reviews you leave. So please review as you normally would.


Warnings: NO Mary-Sue. NO OC/Main character romance. NO romance. NO OOC. NO 'long lost relative or true love or etc.' If you like any of these things, you might be disappointed with this work. SOME violence (it's LOTR, fcol). SOME use of odd language (elizabethian). SOME language (d**n, hell, etc.). Rated T.

THIS STORY RECONCILES BOOK- AND MOVIE-CANON! There may be some things that some people don't get because they haven't read the books. However, it is not necessary to read the books to understand the story. For example: I’ll be damned if I have to exit by the Endless Stair, all several thousand steps of it. (The Endless Stair is well-described in the book, and only hinted at in the movie. This is just a bit of depth I chose to add (the research was extensive...).

Disclaimer: I do not own anything belonging to the Tolkien universe and no copyright infringement is intened.

Searching for Redemption

By: Chemins

Chapter 1


The night was dark, the shadows falling around the world like a curtain. A small village sat silently as the latest time of evening became the earliest precursor to dawn.

A horse stood quietly outside the town, tied off to a stand of trees, nickering softly as it pawed the ground with impatience.

Its owner stood close by, a figure that blended into the darkness, encompassed by a billowing black cloak. The figure turned, a quick exposure of moonlight momentarily revealing sharp feminine features, long red hair, and cold green eyes. Twin short swords were strapped to each thigh, leather scabbards on each leg, and a longbow and loaded quiver were strung over her back.

Then the moonlight vanished behind the roiling clouds, and she was again shrouded in darkness.

The horse snorted, nibbling on some of the sparse grass at its feet. The area was situated in a valley, the nearly sheer cliffs rocky and windblown, supporting almost no vegetation. The horse was tethered a short ways down one of the gentler slopes, the woman using the height to her advantage, examining from a distance the many roads and alleys the village afforded. Tarnost was silent in the night.

Finally, after several minutes, the woman turned and tied her quiver and bow onto the horse’s soft saddle. Then she walked towards the village, keeping in the shadows of the boulders along the slope. She crept silently past a dozing sentry guard, ignoring him, and finally came to her target’s house. She pressed herself against the wall and listened intently, trying to find her prey; she couldn’t see anyone in the darkness, but that didn’t mean there was no one there. She heard hushed voices from the front of the house, words made unintelligible by the wooden walls. She edged around the corners to the door.

The woman waited a moment, then fiercely kicked the door open, running into the building and slamming the door behind her. Her eyes adjusted to the bright candlelight quickly, and she stood still as she took in the scene before her.

A man was standing firm in the main room, his wife hiding behind him. She looked terrified, but the man looked expectant and grim, his features made clear by the roaring fire in the hearth beside him.

He leveled eyes with the intruder, then quietly said, “Sylva, go into the bedroom with Eola, my love.” The wife clutched his shoulder, decidedly petrified but resolute as she shook her head.

“No, Jonat. Don’t ask me to leave you.”

The man broke eye contact with the other woman and turned to Sylva; he gently took her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him.

“Sylva, if something happens to me, Eola will need you. Please, go take care of her. Everything will be all right, I promise.”

He placed a light kiss on her forehead, his lips trembling slightly. Sylva swallowed hard, blinking back tears, and then nodded. She turned and headed to the bedroom, not looking back. The bedroom door slammed behind her.

Jonat looked after her for a moment, a wistful look on his face, before he slowly turned back to the woman.

Both were silent for a moment, then he softly said, “You’re Reaper.”

It wasn’t a question. The woman paused, then inclined her head slightly.

“You know why I’m here.”

Her voice was icy and calculating, and the man couldn’t help but wonder what her voice would sound like had her words been spoken with kindness.

“I didn’t have a choice; you have to believe that, understand that. My daughter was ill, my wife half-starved, and we needed the money. He has so much…”

He trailed off as Reaper pulled a dagger from underneath the cuff of her left sleeve, holding it loosely in her right hand.

Jonat asked quietly, “Do you not know mercy?”

Reaper replied coldly, “I know mercy. I offer it in the form of a quick death.”

Then she moved, faster than the eye could follow, and was suddenly in front of Jonat. Time seemed to slow, to freeze, as his brown eyes frantically darted around the room, finally resting on her face. She stared at him impassively through the red bangs that fell to her chin. Underneath the mask that covered her mouth and nose, her lips were set into a straight line.

Time resumed its normal march as blood bubbled through Jonat’s lips.

His eyes rolled back into his head and he fell forward; Reaper deftly sidestepped his falling corpse. The body slammed to the floor with a loud thump, and all was still and silent for a moment. Then Reaper knelt and pulled the dagger from his chest, wiping the blade clean on his unmoving torso. She replaced her dagger in her hidden wrist sheath and glanced at the man’s left palm.

There’s the scar, as promised, she thought to herself.

Without skipping a beat, she pulled one of her short swords and brought it down forcefully on the man’s wrist. The sharp silver metal cut through muscle and bone easily. As Reaper stood, tucking the severed hand in a large leather pouch, the bedroom door opened. Sylva poked her head out, still fearful, and gave a wild cry as she saw her husband’s body on the floor.

“Jonat! No!”

She raced forward, falling to her knees next to her husband’s still body, and began to cry loudly. Reaper dispassionately cleaned her sword with a soft cloth, undaunted by the woman’s proximity.

She practically felt the rage in Sylva’s voice as she shouted, “He didn’t do anything!”

Reaper turned to her, eying her small form as she pulled on her Ranger hood.

“He stole money from my employer.”

Reaper turned towards the door, her steps purposeful, and she heard Sylva stand behind her.

“He stole twenty gold; that’s all he took! We needed food…is a man’s life worth all of twenty gold pieces!”

Reaper slowed then stopped, turning to the shaking and emotional widow.

“It’s the principle of the matter for my employer. Your dead husband was a thief, one my employer wished to punish.”

She ignored Sylva’s flinch and added, “And as for Jonat’s life, lady, his breaths were valued at three hundred gold, not twenty.”

As she pulled the latch and melted into the darkness of the early morning, Reaper thought, I wouldn’t do a job for so little recompense, wench.

Sylva rushed out the door, tears in her eyes as she screamed, “You monster!”

But Reaper was already gone.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
There was the sound of shifting fabric and feminine giggles in the other room, but Reaper didn’t hesitate and pounded loudly on the wooden barrier. A harsh curse echoed through the room, a man’s voice loudly condemning the disturber. Reaper didn’t move and waited motionless as the sound of heavy footfalls approached the door.
The entry gave way slightly, opening the smallest of cracks, and a sliver of light broke into the dark corridor. Reaper unceremoniously pushed open the door, allowing herself unbidden entrance. She stepped past a slightly startled man, uncaringly stepped over a pile of clothes, and sat down uninvited in a large, plush chair.

The man at the door slammed it shut, holding up a pair of hastily donned trousers with obvious annoyance. Reaper looked around, taking in her environment automatically. A woman was resting underneath a mass of silken sheets on an impressively large bed, and she was obviously irked by the intrusion. She turned jealous eyes to the man.

“Matero, who’s this? What’s going on?”

Reaper ignored her and said, “It’s done.”

Matero looked surprised for a moment, then shook his head, saying, “I would have preferred you reporting back to me after dawn. As you can see, I’m busy; return some time this afternoon.”

Reaper cocked her head slightly, appalled by the man’s arrogance, despite herself. She pulled her hood and facemask down, the glint in her eyes murderous.

“You misunderstand, Matero. I take the job. I complete the job. I receive payment for the job. All on my terms, never on yours. The job is completed, and I expect my pay, now.”

Matero swallowed hard, staring at the woman across the room from him. Then he scowled, seemingly undaunted.

“Feh – you mercenaries are all alike.”

He walked towards the desk across from the foot of the bed, and Reaper studied his posture. His words were haughty, but she noticed the tremor in his hands and the thin sheen of sweat that covered his face. Reaper pulled the soaked leather pouch from her belt, untying the slipknot with a nimble flick of her finger. Matero turned from the desk, a bag filled with coins weighing down his free hand. He handed her the pouch and accepted the sodden sack with a slight grimace.

“Wonderful,” he muttered, not looking her in the eyes.

Reaper hefted the purse, her eyes suddenly narrowing. She watched Matero as he pulled the strings, opening the bag, and the man’s face screwed up as he was assaulted by a sickening smell of copper and rot. Reaper smirked mirthlessly.

“I take back what I said about waiting until after dawn, mercenary.”

The other answered, “Smart.”

Matero assessed Reaper with quick eyes.

“Our business is concluded, Reaper. You know where the door is.”

Reaper finally stood, still holding the coin purse. She began walking towards Matero, a strange look on her face.

“You know my name, Matero?”

The man took a hesitant step back, glancing quickly towards the woman in the bed.

“Y-yes,” he stammered. “You’re Reaper.”

The mercenary nodded slightly, pulling a short dagger from a sheath on her belt.

“Correct, in a sense. But you’re the only one alive that knows my true name. It’s been so long…what was it again?”

Her voice was patronizing, but her face was emotionless.

“It’s…your name is Sarene Talo.”

Matero took another step back, his eyes darting around as he looked for an exit. The mercenary twirled the dagger in her hand, playing with it mindlessly as she advanced on the man.

“That’s right; I’d forgotten. Normally, I’d kill a person for knowing so much about me, but you offer a slightly steady flow of work, so I’ve decided to spare you for the time being.”

She cleared her throat for show.

“Now, Matero, I want you to consider my reputation. Think about who I’ve killed, and for what reasons.”

Matero jumped as he felt his back hit the wall, and he looked behind him, scared.

“You’re a mercenary – you kill for money. You’ll kill anyone.”

Sarene nodded again.

“Good. Now, last thing I want you to think about.”

She stopped in front of Matero and asked ominously, “You know what I do to people who try to cheat me, Matero?”

The man’s bottom lip quivered slightly, and he again glanced at the woman in the bed. Sarene caught his look and chuckled dryly.

“I’m not above killing you in front of witnesses, Matero. Now, you’re trying to cheat me. Do you realize this?”

She leaned towards her temporary employer, the dagger still dancing in her hand. With her so close, Matero suddenly lost the ability to lie, and he nodded rapidly. Sarene abruptly shifted her grip and aim of the dagger and held the point dangerously close to his crotch.

Her voice was low as she said, “I expect full payment, Matero. Where is the rest of my money?”

Matero began to stutter, his eyes wide as he kept track of the dagger’s sharp point.

Sarene sighed and said, “I’m leaving here with either your manhood or my money, Matero. Where’s the last of my money?”

Matero shivered as he nodded towards the desk. Sarene looked at him closely, decided he was too anxious to even attempt lying to her, and swiftly punched him in the face, slamming him to the floor. He remained on the ground, holding his broken nose, as she turned to the desk and fished out twenty pieces of gold from a small drawer.

Sarene shook her head in disgust as she watched the man moan in pain.

“Pathetic, Matero. What an absolutely nauseating display of the weakness of Man. And you had me kill a man who lived in the same town as you? You are a coward.”

She pulled on her facemask and hood as she replaced her dagger. She stepped over Matero and headed towards the door. Sarene paused and turned towards the woman on the bed.

“You better leave, harpy. I hear Matero is a mean drunk. You don’t want to be here while he drowns his embarrassment in ale.”

Sarene left, slamming the door behind her, and muttered, “Cheapest whore I’ve ever seen. Not working for him again.”

Too many memories, she silently added.

She jumped onto her horse outside the inn and urged it into a full out gallop, eager to reach a more hospitable area before the next night; the people of Tarnost were notoriously abusive towards mercenaries.

She raced out the gate that surrounded the town and thought idly, I need to kill him, sooner or later. He knows my name.

Sarene made a mental note to tie up that loose end before she took another job, lay low on her horse, and spurred it on into the predawn blackness.

[Recommended]

Chapter 2

The bar was rowdy and crowded, even with dawn less than an hour away. A group of farmers sat and talked loudly around a table in the center of the room, mostly amusing themselves with lewd jokes and mindless jabs at each other.

Sarene ignored the entire bar to the best of her ability; it wasn’t too difficult, for all of the bar patrons, despite their intense drunkenness, had enough sense to give her a wide berth. She sat at the bar alone.

Her horse was sheltered in the inn’s stable; she’d made the sixteen leagues to Calembel easily that night, her need of warmth and sleep causing her to spur her stallion quickly.

The Ranger pulled her hood and facemask down as the barkeep came up to her. He was fat and smelled of sweat and old ale, and possessed a face only a mother could love; Sarene didn’t mind his company, however, and gave him the conversation she never extended to any other commoner she met.

“Not time enough to set up camp, eh, Reaper?”

His breath and general proximity made the woman want to gag, but she held in her reaction, instead offering a rare ghost of a smile.

“Job ran a little late, Aricks. Want a drink and a room.”

The barkeep guffawed heartily and slapped a hand on the greasy wooden bar. He was the only creature Sarene had met that had neither been afraid of her nor found her line of work and her attitude towards it distasteful; both qualities would have made Sarene wary had she not known that Aricks was constantly on the verge of both alcoholism and suicide. Perhaps unfortunately, however, Aricks’ mindset made him extraordinarily susceptible to prolonged fits of laughter, normally at things that were not humorous in the slightest way.

Sarene drew on her miniscule sense of obligation and dutifully engaged in a conversation that she and Aricks repeated every time she returned to his inn to rent a room.

“Why do you laugh at everything, Aricks?”

The barkeep found a semi-clean glass and slammed it to the wood in front of her, giving a very unattractive wink as he did so.

“Why you think, lass?”

Sarene absently tightened her wrist’s dagger sheath as she replied, “Had I known I wouldn’t have asked, bartender.”

The man laughed again as he poured a shot of his strongest brew into the woman’s glass. Aricks fished for a key as he returned the bottle of liquor to its place beneath the bar.

“You know me, lady. I find everything tickles me.”

Sarene tossed back the drink without a wince, breathing deeply as it burned the back of her throat. She set the glass back down as she mentally tallied up the bar’s occupants and scanned for any potential threats.

There’s no threat here other than a nasty fall by a misstep on the alcohol soaked floorboards, and even that threat is limited by the degree of stupidity and inebriation, Sarene mentally mused.

“And why does everything tickle you, barkeep?”

Aricks finally found the key he’d been looking for and handed it to her, holding onto it a bit too long, as usual. The mercenary fought to keep her eyes open as she stood.

“Because life’s too short, mercenary. You never know when someone’s going to walk up behind you and take your head off. Because if you find humor in everything, you just may enjoy yourself a little bit more than everyone else in this miserable world.”

Sarene found that she was still amazed by Aricks and his incredible mood swings, even after their three year acquaintance.

“If that’s the way you see the world, barman, than why, in the name of Earendil, are you living in this dungeon-like bar?”

She fished a coin from her pocket as he answered with a toothy grin, “Because I’m more in love with ale than I’m in love with life.”

Sarene shook her head and turned, heading towards the single flight of stairs at the back of the bar. She tossed a gold coin over her shoulder, hearing it land with a loud ring in the glass she’d emptied, and continued on her way.

Aricks’ laugh followed her steps.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sarene stared out the window as she finished undressing. She mindlessly draped a rough woolen blanket over her shoulders, shivering slightly. Outside the clear panes, the lightening sky was wet and clouded, matching the mercenary’s mood. Jonat’s death had awoken memories that Sarene wished would remain buried.

The woman leaned against the window, resting her forehead on the frozen pane for a moment as she closed her eyes.

Flashes of blood and her own screams played out in her head, accompanied by a painfully familiar laugh. Sarene growled deep in her throat, forcing open her eyes.

I refuse to let this job distract me from my ultimate objective, she vehemently swore.

Still struggling to push away a mass of memories she wished she didn’t have, Sarene pulled on a rough sewn nightdress from her pack, slipped underneath the thin quilts Aricks had generously supplied her, and blew out the candle on the bedside table. She blocked out the noise from the street below as she closed her eyes and forced herself to sleep.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She looked around quickly, terrified and shaking. She couldn’t see the men holding her arms, but she knew they were there. The room around them was dark and foreboding, the atmosphere chilly, freezing Sarene in body, spirit, and mind.

In front of her, at the top of a set of stairs near a dais, in between two bright, flaming torches, were two men; she knew both of them.

One was standing tall, his arrogance and sense of superiority flowing from him like water. He had sharp, calculating eyes and was well built, his muscles surprisingly developed considering he ruled over the land and was not a mere soldier. He looked to be in his mid-thirties and his face held no kindness. His name was Binen.

Kneeling before him, face slightly bruised and eyes bloodshot, was a younger man, looking to be about twenty years of age. His hands were tied behind his back, and his rough clothing evidenced his lower status. He had soft blue eyes that were glassy and pained, but his defiance still burned like fire in his gaze. He was called Rill.

“Little hellion, I don’t quite know what to do with you,” Binen said in an exasperated manner, much as a parent would scold an offending child.

“You’re a strong worker, a creative thinker, and an impressive strategist. You have a body that men want and a mentality that women seek to unlock. You bring me more money in a week than others make in a month.”

He shook his head and sighed.

“But you incite riots among the other slaves, you help others like yourself escape, and you yourself run at every opportunity, often with your lover’s assistance. How am I to lord over all my slaves when I cannot even control one little hellion?” he asked her, though it was slightly a rhetorical question.

Sarene strained against her captors, wincing at the rusty steel that bit into her wrists and throat. Her eyesight blurred with tears.

“Please, he didn’t do anything, I swear! Let him go; I promise I won’t do anything like this again!” Sarene cried, putting as much sincerity and honesty into her words as she could muster.

Binen seemed amused and shook his head.

“No, little witch. I don’t know exactly how you manage to do it. The dungeons won’t hold you; my best trackers can never find your trail. How else am I to break you unless I take away those you care for?”

Binen watched her silently as she fought weakly against her captors. He pulled his sword from his scabbard and held the point at Rill’s throat.

“Now, child, here is the ultimate consequence of your years of pathetic and futile attempts to deny your status as a slave,” Binen announced.

Rill shuddered on the floor, staring at Sarene with wide eyes. His own orbs matched her scared and watery ones, but he managed a smile. He blinked away his tears and sat up a little straighter, pulling some vestiges of dignity to the forefront after being a slave for fifteen years.

“Don’t let him win, my love. You’re not a slave. Not to me. Never to me.”

His whispered words were the last things to pass through his lips. Binen abruptly sliced a large, bloody, pulsing gash through Rill’s unprotected throat. The young man gave a hissing, gargled gasp and fell to the stones at Binen’s feet.

“No, Rill! Oh, for the love of Elbereth, please no…”

Her shouts dissolved in tears, and she immersed herself in her heartbroken sobs, no longer fighting against the men who held her. She squeezed her eyes shut against the view of her dying love, though she was unable to silence the desperate gasping of the young man next to the dais. Rill’s gagging heaves for air echoed in her mind for what seemed to be an eternity, and then at last, the only sound in the room was that of the crackling of the torches.

Sarene forced open her eyes, her green orbs immediately locking on to Rill’s still body; it was lying exactly where he’d fallen. His head was turned to the side, his eyes open, sight glazed and unseeing. Rill’s dilated pupils were staring directly at her.

The image was enough to send Sarene into another fit of tears. She cried out in anguish, falling to her knees, shaking her head in disbelief. Binen allowed her to continue for a moment before he grew bored and cleared his throat noisily.

“All right, that’s enough of that, hellion,” he said patronizingly.

Sarene looked up, tears still flowing freely down her face. Her eyes had been blazing brightly with hatred and anger before Rill’s blood had been spilt; now, her eyes revealed nothing but stone cold acceptance.

Binen leaned forward on his sword like a cane, noticing the difference.

“Ah, so now we see, don’t we? For three bloody years you’ve made my life hell, but I’ve kept you for the sole purpose of your monetary worth; have no illusions that I care for your fate, for I do not. So when you began this ill-begotten crusade for freedom among your fellow slaves, I allowed your life to be spared, instead executing other slaves in your place. Are you following me thus far, hellion?”

Sarene nodded silently; how could she not? Every night, the memories of the executions of her friends and people she considered family played out in her mind. They had been killed because of her actions, and were told as much before being terminated. Every execution in the last three years had been entirely Sarene’s fault.

“After I discovered your affair with Rill – you may wish to know that it was one of your gentleman callers who informed me of your lover – I decided to see how it affected your crusade. I was curious as to whether or not your ‘expenditure’ of energy through other venues would distract you from the other slaves.”

Binen paused, shaking his head in his secure superiority, and Sarene shut her eyes against his expression.

“Imagine my surprise when I realized that you had not only gained energy by your alliance with your lover, but you also increased your efforts to destroy my extraordinarily lucrative slave practice. Now, I simply could not, in good conscience of business, allow that. Do you understand? That is the logic I have used to take others’ lives while sparing you these last twenty four months.”

Sarene nodded uselessly, hanging her head. She heard Binen’s footsteps come closer to her, and a moment later, a warm hand grasped her chin, forcing her gaze up. Binen leaned close to her, coldness in his eyes, and when he spoke, his breath stirred the short bangs hanging in Sarene’s face.

“You are just turning nineteen, correct? The older you become, the less money your body will bring. Your intellect will accumulate some gold, but not nearly as much as I wish. But you’ve other talents, don’t you, hellion? You are quite adept in hiding, escaping impossible situations, surviving. These tools would be useful in the Wild.”

He leaned back, assessing Sarene, looking at her with a fresh perspective. He circled her, looking upon every dimension her body held, and he eventually stopped in front of her once again. She looked up at him with miserable eyes, and he nodded, suddenly deciding upon a course of action. He looked up and spoke to one of the men holding her chains.

“Hakan, there is a group of Rangers camping out just to the north of the second gate. Go and tell their leader that we have a recruit who is all too willing to do whatever it takes to become the best Ranger in the Wild,” Binen ordered.

He looked down at Sarene, a strange smile on his face.

“For that is correct, isn’t it, hellion? You will become the best Ranger to ever step foot in the Wild. You will take a name that will strike fear into the hearts of both the innocent and the guilty. You will become the most renowned mercenary in all of Middle-Earth; you will bring me a healthy cut of all your earnings. And you will always be my slave, won’t you, Sarene Talo?”

The teenager glanced behind Binen, seeing the body of her dead lover. She could hear his final words in her ears, but all of her mind was covered in the dark and dismal cloak of depression. She looked back up at Binen and nodded.

“As I breathe this air, I swear that I shall do as you command, for as long as you command it.”

As Binen relayed more instructions to Hakan, Sarene felt the fire of defiance that had blazed so long in her mind whisper out into nothingness.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Sarene lurched upright in the bed, a small but deadly blade brandished in her right hand. She looked around quickly, recognizing her surroundings as she tried to slow her breathing, and swallowed loudly.

“Just a dream…” she murmured, feeling foolish for her abrupt reaction. She lowered the blade and ducked her head silently, forcing her breaths to be calm and steady.

No, not a dream, and not a nightmare, Sarene bitterly corrected herself.

A sudden knock at the door jolted the mercenary, her frayed nerves taking the noise like a shot to the heart. She jumped, turning immediately, weapon again at the ready. A part of her mind realized that it was her unwelcome caller who’d awoken her from her disturbing sleep; had she the capacity or the inclination, she might have felt thankful to her intruder.

Sarene stood, weapon still in hand, and pulled a blanket over her shoulders out of necessity as she watched her breath form clouds in her face. It was early September, and the intensity of the sunlight told the Ranger that there’d been an early snow fall that morning.

“Who calls?” Sarene asked, her voice as icy as the snow covering the ground.

There was silence on the other side of the door for a moment, then a masculine voice replied, “It’s Cole. I’m here on the usual business.”

Sarene waited a moment, dissecting his words. She didn’t trust him to any degree, but he was relatively harmless; he knew less about her than Matero did. Her mind decided, Sarene reached forward and pulled the latch, stepping back as another man entered the room and closed the door behind him.

Cole raised his hands slightly, palms empty, knowing the mercenary’s nature. Sarene nodded and looked him over for visible weapons. Cole was thirty-something, out of shape, and usually out of a job. He leaned against the wall behind him and crossed his arms over his rather expansive gut. Cole would be entirely intolerable but for his contacts, most which were of the less than savory nature. Sarene felt that such entanglements were to be avoided at any cost; she’d learned long ago of the danger of such relations.

“What news do you carry, Cole? Speak it quickly,” Sarene ordered.

She was tired and stiff, her joints still protesting the mad dash through the woods. Her uneasy sleep, no matter the fact that it had been eight hours, had left her feeling thin-skinned and vulnerable; both feelings were ones that could get her killed.

Sarene watched as Cole fumbled for a letter pouch at his waist. His hands shook and he grumbled under his breath as he clumsily untied the leather bands. Sarene didn’t try to hide her annoyance at the wait; when the obviously drunken man failed to untie the strings for the third time, Sarene snatched the pouch and cut the bands with her small blade.

“I was gettin’ it, Reaper,” Cole muttered.

Sarene debated removing his head from his shoulders, then decided against it; in the past year, Cole had brought her many different jobs, most leaving her relatively wealthy. She opened the leather pouch and pulled a stiff piece of parchment from its confines. Mentally bracing herself against any revealing emotions, Sarene turned the letter and eyed the wax seal.

Her mind froze for a moment, wondering at the implications the black wax afforded, for there, in all its unreal horror, was an entirely terrifying likeness of the war-ready Witchking of Agmar.

Sarene abruptly grinned widely, her eyes narrowed. She broke the seal and opened the letter carefully, placing it on the desk. She ignored Cole’s presence and stripped, pulling on her clothes without tearing her eyes from the parchment.

Sarene sensed more than saw the man’s eyes roving over her body, appraising her naked form, but she kept her attention trained on the letter in front of her. She was by no means modest, and Cole would have grown bold indeed if he thought to do more than look.

Reading the relatively long and flowery dissertation, Sarene quickly realized that the letter was sent on the authority of the Witchking, though not by his hand. It was the equivalent of Sauron himself requesting her services.

Without speaking, Sarene pulled on her leggings and warm undertunic; hearing Cole’s disappointed sigh, the Ranger threw him a dangerous look. He was still standing where he’d been.

Sarene returned her eyes to the letter, reading over the greetings with more than her usual amount of interest as she pulled on her triple-lace longvest over her undertunic. She grabbed her leather belt and began to fasten it around her waist, only to freeze halfway through the motion. Her green eyes were trained on the letter, but, despite all her years of training, surprise and shock were visible in every aspect of her features.

Cole took notice and stepped forward, a bit of excitement on his face.

“What is it? Large payment?” he asked quickly, absorbing a sort of vicarious thrill from her expression.

Sarene didn’t answer, but his words seemed to snap her out of a trance. Her thoughts rushed quickly through her head as she hurriedly pulled on her boots, lacing them tightly about her feet. She snatched her bow, quiver, and swords from their places beside the bed. The Ranger spoke in a rush as she attached her twin swords to her thighs.

“Cole, you have two choices. Either you forget you gave me this letter, or I kill you right here.”

Her voice conveyed conviction, but her words were distracted. Cole frowned, confused. He shrugged, unaware of the dangerous ground he tread on.

“What do you mean? I didn’t do anything,” he defended hastily.

As Sarene pulled her bow over her cloaked shoulders, she pulled on her mask and tightened the leather ties behind her head. She leveled a harsh glare at Cole as she folded the letter and placed it in a hidden breast pocket.

“I swear I will kill you right here, Cole. Keep your mouth shut about this letter and I won’t have to take your heart from your chest,” she warned again, this time entirely focusing on him.

Cole glanced around, suddenly aware of the general isolation of the area. The bar below them was quiet, the rooms around equally so, and he was suddenly sure that she could kill him without making a sound.

“Sure, Reaper. Consider it done…but, are you still going to pay me? I mean, our arrangement…” he trailed off, realizing the stupidity of asking a mercenary for money.

Sarene studied him silently for a moment, fully clad in her Ranger garb, and then she pulled on her hood with her right hand while tossing Cole a gold coin with her left.

“Stay silent or I will shove that coin down your throat, Cole. Test me and I’ll kill you,” she promised.

Cole nodded immediately, understanding that the threat was not idle. He held the coin tightly in his palm, squeezing it in his anxiety, and jumped back a foot as Sarene stalked towards the door. She put her hand on the latch and turned hard eyes to him.

“Now, what was that message that you brought to me this morning?”

Catching the testing edge of the question, Cole softly offered, “What message?”

If Sarene gave any recognition or praise for his answer, he never knew. He blinked, and the Ranger was gone, her steps retreating from the doorway. Cole shook his head and rubbed the gold coin in his hand; he had a feeling he would never see the mercenary again. And if he did…well, any time within his lifetime would be too soon for him.

[Recommended]

Chapter 3


The setting sun burned brightly, its hue a reddish gold. Sarene pulled her right leg up and sat sidesaddle for a moment as she adjusted her boot, tightening the laces. She did the same to the other boot as she looked at the huge tower in the valley below her. Isengard stood like a bloody spire from the ground, the trees around it appearing as grass from Sarene’s distance.

Her horse whinnied softly underneath her, prancing on his feet for a couple of seconds before settling down again. Sarene couldn’t help but agree with the stallion’s expressed concern; the area fairly stank of decay. She leaned over his neck and bestowed a bit of uncommon gentleness as she ran her fingers through his mane. His coat was black while his mane and tail were of the purest white.

He was one of the Mearas, the race of horses that graced Middle-Earth with uncanny intelligence, strength, and speed. It was known throughout the mercenary community that a reliable horse was of essence for the occupation; Sarene had acquired intimate knowledge of this truth after her first assignment was brought to a humiliating halt by a rebellious steed. She had therefore taken it upon herself to track, trap, and break one of the Mearas, a feat she found more challenging than she would ever admit. Still, her efforts had proved worthwhile and farsighted; the race of the Mearas had a long lifespan, living to be eighty years old. Sarene, though, would far outlive her horse. She was a descendent of Numenor, though her actual propinquity to the pure line was of little concern or interest to both herself and others.

Once she had broken the stallion, it was a simple matter of asserting her dominance, and the two of them became instant companions. Her horse had been unnamed for the first two years after his capture, but she’d had to abandon that luxury after the oddity drew too much attention. She’d chosen the name Nirnaeth from Elvish Sindarin, meaning ‘lamentation’. Sarene found the name fitting, considering the situation she’d forced the horse into. By accepting her as a rider, Nirnaeth had been immediately branded as a traitor by every other Mearas and horse in Middle-Earth, but he still bore her faithfully.

Nirnaeth snorted, tossing his head. Sarene acknowledged the horse with a quick pat on the neck.

“I know…” she muttered mostly to herself.

She was in the realm of wizards, far removed from the world of Men and Free Folk, and she was disgusted by the very thought of stepping foot inside that stone tower. A part of her mind spoke up, though, and brought attention to the eight thousand gold pieces she would receive upon completion of the job.

That much money is more than enough to buy my tolerance, Sarene decided grimly.

Giving Nirnaeth a nudge in the sides, the Ranger pressed on towards the tower through the melting snow. They reached the walls of Isengard within an hour, the sun still lighting the western sky. Sarene reined Nirnaeth in from his gallop and eased him into a slow walk up Isengard’s main path.

The horse’s shoes echoed off the trees with an eerie quality, and Sarene could sense an air of change about the area. She shifted, taking in her surroundings with a practiced eye. The trees were green and full of life, but the peace that normally came from such forests was dimmed. There was alarm in the area, as though there were archers in the leaves, but Sarene saw no one; she knew that not seeing something did not automatically make it cease to exist.

Then, approaching the tower steps, Sarene sharply realized what was escaping Isengard and silencing the song of the forest.

Deceit. Betrayal. Malice.

She could practically smell it in the air, so accustomed was she to detecting such intent. A Man stood at the bottom of the steps, his demeanor entirely too slippery for Sarene’s liking. He seemed soaked in fear and guilt. The mercenary narrowed her eyes beneath her hood as she stared down at the man.


He’s well learned in the art of lying, almost as well as I, Sarene mused as she dismounted.

She barely recognized the man from a meeting in Rohan nearly ten years prior; time and treachery had worn their hard traits into Grima Wormtongue. Without a word, Sarene produced the letter from her breast pocket and deposited it neatly into Grima’s waiting hand.

“Follow me,” he ordered; he reminded the Ranger of a timber snake she’d made the mistake to irk when she was just learning how to hunt.

Pushing down her ire at the man’s command, Sarene headed up the stairs behind Grima. She turned slightly at the top and made a small slicing movement with her hand. Nirnaeth tossed his head and nickered his acknowledgement. Sarene entered the tower, knowing he would stay where he was unless threatened, and once again offered some small thanks to the Valar for the intelligence of the Mearas.

She followed the Rohan-born traitor up a double flight of stairs and through a series of winding corridors, wondering their intended destination. Her thoughts were halted, however, when they passed an open door, revealing three grisly looking creatures pouring over a book of the darker practices of weapon making. Only Sarene’s momentum carried her forward as she realized the true meaning of the presence of orcs in the tower of the Saruman.

So the rumors throughout the Wild are true. Saruman is forfeiting his allegiance with the side of the light, leaving the Wizards without direction and guidance, Sarene mused, taking pleasure in the ironic twist.

Her hatred for the Istari was almost as legendary as her reputation, though why she disapproved of their race was subject to much gossip and no fact. It was a truth she hid from herself as much as she hid it from others.

Sarene wrenched herself from her internal reflection in time to stop herself from running into Grima, who was motionless at the doorway in front of them. She looked around quickly, furious that she’d allowed her mind to wander while in the tower, and recognized Saruman’s throne room from her previous visit.

In the throne situated against one of the walls sat the White Wizard himself, his staff in his hand as a king wields a scepter. His aged face was tense and anxious, but Saruman still smiled warmly at his guest as Grima made a discreet move to stand beside him.

“Ah, my young friend! So good of you to answer my summons,” he began cordially, standing in an attempt to appear civilized.

Sarene weighed her options at a frantic pace, studying the Wizard’s eyes curiously. Finally, she decided not to play his game.

“Keep the pleasantries for those who do not know your true nature, Istari. Do not insult my intelligence nor belittle me for my youthful appearance,” she coldly charged.

The air chilled several degrees, a change Sarene did not attribute to the weather. She held her ground, however, and didn’t flinch away from the older man’s harsh glare. He seemed to make a decision in some internal struggle and he fixed an unwavering but civil gaze on her.

“Your reputation seems well deserved, Reaper; you are as perceptive as is told.”

His compliment fell on deaf ears, and Sarene understood the importance of affirming her position before he mistook her s*x as a weakness; she’d allowed him the upper hand during her last visit, an event she didn’t mean to duplicate. Sarene reached up and pulled down her mask and hood for the sole purpose of allowing the Istari to fully understand her words.

“Observation, not perception, is the skill needed to unravel your intentions. Your wall has sentry posts now, a duty that has been lax and even non-existent in the years preceding this one. Your trees and gardens tell of misuse and neglect; such a thing is very uncommon in regards to Wizards of the people. You employ traitors, harbor orcs, and engage in foul weaponry. Do not think me a fool, Saruman, for it will cost you dearly,” Sarene openly threatened.

The White Wizard studied her severely, his piercing eyes reading Sarene’s implications. He nodded slightly and sat again.

“Very well, Reaper. I am afraid the one to deliver the details of your employ has not yet arrived. You shall remain here for the time being.”

Sarene immediately shook her head, quickly growing impatient with the drama that always seemed to accompany Wizards.

“That is not possible, Istari. The summons I received stated that I was to arrive by the end of this week, before the setting of the seventh sun. I have never received payment for waiting, and I do not expect to start now,” the mercenary said as she turned towards the door.

Saruman raised his staff and the four sets of doors slammed shut. Sarene stopped, her emotions hidden underneath the icy calm she exuded. She glanced over her shoulder at the wizard, debating on drawing a weapon. Saruman, perhaps recognizing the rational line of thought, leaned back and fixed her with a placating glance.

“I must insist you remain, Reaper. I have my orders, and I would rather not be forced to break them, or break you,” he slowly said.

Sarene smiled mirthlessly and fully turned back to the throne.

“Indeed? And who exactly orders a wizard about with such confidence, inspiring such loyalty and fear in their servants?” she asked, though the answer was apparent; the wax seal on the letter had told the Ranger everything she needed to know.

“You shall find out soon enough, Ranger,” Saruman replied mildly, unrifled by the jab. “I was also instructed to extend a bit of praise to you for your performance during your last assignment for us.”

Sarene turned and crossed her arms, pacing the length of the room as he spoke. She regarded the covered pedestal in the middle of the room with marginal concern; if a Palantir was hidden beneath the cloth as she suspected, then Saruman’s treachery could reach farther than she first imagined. Sarene turned her attention back to the Wizard’s comment.

“Your commendation is unnecessary; I work for money, not acclaim,” she responded mechanically, using a response she had given many times before.

“However true that may be, your persistence and final results were impressive. I can only speculate as to how you coerced that creature to divulge the location of the One Ring,” said the Wizard.

Sarene stopped in her pacing and held her head high as she stared out a tall window, noticing a few stars peeking out of the dimming sky. The mercenary was actually quite pleased with the results of her last assignment, the payment of five thousand gold pieces only adding to her satisfaction.

Saruman had called her for a special job, one that required her to report to the rebuilt tower of Barad-Dur. She supervised the interrogation of a strange and gangly Hobbit, one of the Riverfolk of the Shire; Gollum, the creature had been called. She had garnered only two words from his mangled lips; Shire and Baggins. Upon reporting her findings to the Mouth of Sauron, Sarene had been ordered to release the creature that had obviously been very difficult to capture. Unsure but uncaring, she had done so, received the amount of money agreed upon, and left Mordor.

Now she was called back again by the servants of the Dark Lord. The mercenary hid a frown as she realized that if she accepted whatever job was to be offered to her, it would put her twice serving the sworn enemy of Middle-Earth. She mentally weighed her options, trying to figure whether or not she cared. In the end, she decided she didn’t.

“I applied techniques that you have never imagined, not even in your darkest dreams,” she gruffly supplied, hoping he wouldn’t press her further on the subject.

She felt no guilt or remorse for the methods of torture she had used, but those same practices had also been exercised on her; remembering her use of them awakened memories of agony she had no desire to relive. Still, her own experiences had made a useful teacher, enabling her success and making her bold when negotiating her fee for the breaking of Gollum.

“I imagine so,” Saruman finally said, breaking the silence.

Sarene did not speak for several minutes and remained staring out the window, her eyes tracing the patterns of rapidly appearing constellations. She saw Grima shift out of the peripheral of her vision, but Saruman seemed content in the silence.

“It appears my employer is here,” Sarene commented, hearing a mass of hoof beats at the base of the tower.

Grima seemed to grow more nervous and started looking at the main door with a shadow in his eyes. The Ranger waited, listening carefully to the heavy footsteps ascending the stairs with deliberate slowness, and mentally tallied the sounds.

Four horses, four riders, she idly thought.

A moment later, the main doors flew open, crashing into the walls with a sickening crunch. Grima gave a startled yell and seemed to shrink. Sarene’s eyes widened as she heard a deep whispering breath behind her. There was a clunking of boots, and she sensed someone draw several paces closer to her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and she suppressed an instinctive shudder.

Giving herself a two-count for mental fortification, Sarene inhaled quietly and turned smartly on her heel. She resisted the urge to step back and forced herself to stare upwards into the dark black hood of the Witchking of Agmar. He was no more than two feet from her and was clad in his war metal, his helmet giving him a wicked appearance. After several moments of tense silence, a hissing noise emanated from under the Witchking’s hood; it took Sarene a moment to realize that the ghostly Man was speaking.

“Our master has need of your services once again, woman,” he said.

Sarene fought the cold in the room, feeling it permeate her bones as her blood seemed to freeze in her heart. She forced herself to remain calm in the face of the Nazgul.

“So I gathered, foul beast. Tell me what you wish done or let me be on my way; I’ve neither patience nor time for games,” Sarene snapped.

Her words were arrogant enough to effectively hide her abjection to the Ringwraith’s presence. If the Witchking was surprised by her audacity, he did not show any sign of it. Instead, he lowered his head and spoke again.

“We know you, Ranger. You hold no love for Man.”

Sarene felt rage take hold of her mind and she spoke without thinking, defending herself by emphasizing her profession.

“I am a mercenary, fell ghost. I hold love for nothing, save money,” she spat, infuriated by the suggestion that she cared for anything whatsoever.

The Witchking took a sudden step closer to her, and Sarene took an immediate step back on instinct.

“Hold your tongue, woman, or prepare to have it cut it from your throat! Know your place or we shall send you to the Halls of Mandos,” he shrieked angrily.

Sarene winced at the high-pitched scream and her ears pounded mercilessly in her head. She glared at the being in front of her, indignant at the admonishment. A part of her mind spoke up quickly, warning her of the dangerous ground she was treading.

This tower may be neutral ground at the moment, but these are Nazgul. Stop being so reckless! They can spread your blood all over this room in the space of a heartbeat, Sarene harshly told herself.

The mercenary forced her face into passive submission and lowered her eyes, consciously making an effort to remove her hands from her sword hilts. There was a stony silence in the room as the Witchking studied her new persona. After nearly a minute, his ghostly words echoed in the room again.

“My master does not tolerate insolence. You are not above fear, nor are you above death, Numenorean. Time has not yet caught you, but I am not so easily outrun,” the Witchking said.

Sarene kept her eyes downcast and nodded mutely, bottling her antagonism tightly in the back of her mind. She would release it later, out of the reach of the Ringwraith’s poisoned Morgul blade. The Witchking was apparently satisfied with her deference and again turned to the matter of the assignment.

“Your efforts to discover the location of the One were successful, but the success came too late. No longer does the One Ring rest in the Shire. You are to find the One, track it, spy on those who carry it. Report to other servants of the Dark Lord, for they shall be your allies.”

Sarene memorized his words as he spoke, analyzing her mission from every angle possible. Saruman spoke up, his words heavy.

“It is possible that you may run into another of my kind, a Wizard known as the Grey Pilgrim. He’s called Mithrandir by the Elves and Gandalf by the world of Men. He is not one to trust or even associate with, for he is a devoted enemy of Sauron.”

Sarene risked raising her eyes in order to appraise Saruman’s visible emotions. She knew she was being lied to, she simply didn’t know what about. She was being manipulated and toyed with, but she had resigned herself to being a pawn when she became a mercenary; it came with the profession.

Still, there was wrongness in the assignment that she couldn’t put her finger on. Sarene hurriedly went over the information she’d received again, looking for any clues as to what was being hidden from her.

Stop it. Since when have you cared about why the job needs to be done? You aren’t paid to ask questions; you’re a mercenary. You only need the money, she reminded herself.

The Witchking abruptly said, “I am prepared to double your payment, Ranger, in exchange for your services.”

If Sarene hadn’t been so well trained, she would have immediately agreed without hesitation. She realized, though, that her silence in face of the details of the offer was what prompted the leader of the Nazgul to offer more money.

It’s all about the money, Sarene. That’s all you need to know, she thought.

“Very well. I accept your terms, Witchking,” Sarene confirmed.

His chore apparently completed with her acceptance of the task, the Witchking turned and exited the throne room without a word. The other three followed him, and moment later, a clatter of departing hoof beats could be heard through the window.

Sarene blinked once and turned questioning eyes to the Wizard. With the Nazgul gone, she resumed her usual personality.

“Where’s my advance pay, Istari?” she asked bluntly.

Saruman ground his teeth slightly but nodded to Grima, who seemed to gratefully vacate the room. The old man handed Sarene a folded map with some other papers tucked inside.

“This map has been altered slightly; locations of refuges of your new allies have been emphasized. You will not be harmed by orc or goblin or any other servant of the Dark Lord while you carry that parchment,” he intoned.

Sarene didn’t bother hiding her disgust. She’d felt the emanation of darkness from the oiled paper before touching it, and when she’d taken it, a great eye of fire had flashed in her mind.

A Wizard’s spell, a magic potion, some ancient words and smoke…all it takes to create a protective shield against those too stupid to realize any better, Sarene grumbled silently.

She realized the importance of the object, but all she could think of was the money she’d been promised. Saruman expanded some on her task while they awaited Grima’s return.

“Do not look for the Ring in the hands of Men, for their line is weak, easily corrupted. Gandalf would not have been so ignorant to trust the One to a broken line. Half-breeds are not to be underestimated, though, for it was one of their kind that held the Ring for more than half a millennium without ever falling completely under its power.”

Sarene listened with disinterest to the Wizard’s advice. She had no trust in him or his words; she relied solely upon herself, upon what she could see and feel and touch with her own senses.

I’ll be damned if I allow myself to fall victim to another piece of failed advice, she vehemently swore, remembering many different misadventures brought upon her by the ‘advice’ of others.

Feeling a bit safer in the tower since she had suddenly become worth time no one reliable could spare and sixteen thousand pieces of gold, Sarene started to fully explore the possibilities of the job she had accepted.

I am to spy on the One Ring. They obviously can’t do it themselves; the Black Riders would never be able to pass through Elven territory unnoticed, nor would any others of Sauron’s army blend into the world of Men without difficulty. So a paid human is the logical choice for their plan, she reasoned.

But what is their ultimate goal? They cannot merely be after the Ring – they would have me kill the carrier and return it to Mordor as soon as I found it, if that was their singular purpose for hiring me. Maybe something to do with legend or prophecy? Maybe an awakening of a light more powerful than Sauron’s malice, something he fears?

Sarene sighed mentally; she thought, I took the time to learn every form of Elvish, every Dwarfen rune, and every dialect of the common tongue. I can read and write any language as a native, and I am as adept a riddle-speaker as these cursed Istari.

She shook her head and grinned joylessly as she thought, Yet for all my foresight and all the strength and diligence and patience of my forefathers, I took no time to learn any type of lore.

The mercenary looked up as Grima reentered the room and promised herself that she would take more time for the less practical studies when she was finished with this job. The shifty man nodded to Saruman as he took his place behind him.

“Good. Now, Reaper, your payment is awaiting you downstairs; you may acquire it before you leave. Is there anything else you need?” he asked, his voice conveying little to no actual concern.

Sarene shook her head and donned her hood and mask once again. She turned towards the open exit and began to leave.

A quick inhalation slowed her steps, and she stopped fully as Saruman added, “You realize that if you complete this task laid before you in the manner described, and if Sauron regains the Ring, all the lands will be covered in a second darkness.”

The Ranger frowned openly beneath the safety of her mask.

Is he trying to make me reconsider my decision? she asked herself incredulously, wondering at both the sanity and the loyalty of the Wizard.

She didn’t move and stayed at the threshold of the doorway, her back to the Istari, her eyes trained forward.

“Sauron remembers his allies and favors those who perform great services in his name. Do this task, and do it well, and power, fame, and wealth shall be yours without comparison. You shall be a queen in Sauron’s realm; entire kingdoms shall bow before you while you bow before Sauron. Remember this, no matter what trials you face,” Saruman stated.

Sarene kept her breaths steady as her mind reeled at the prospect of the truth the Wizard offered. She had never thought about fame and fortune in the way he had described; had never thought of being seen as royalty. The Ranger in her had never been tempted, and the mercenary had merely seen such goals as insurmountable. But the human in her wanted what was promised so badly that she swore she could feel polished metal on her brow and precious rings on her fingers.

Burying her emotions under years of practice, Sarene continued on her way. She approached a miserable-looking man at the tower’s entryway, demanded her money with no small amount of greed, and mounted her horse at the base of the stone steps. Laden down as she was with all her possessions and Nirnaeth being worn to near exhaustion, Sarene insisted a fresh horse be given to her to carry the weight of her eight thousand gold pieces. She exacted her request violently from the man and rode away from Isengard with another horse and blood on her gloves. All this she did in a haze, as thoughts of eminence, material goods, and a relatively easy life filled her head.

Is this what Binen feels every second of each day? she asked herself with a start.

The answers were not forthcoming.

- - - - -

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW!

[Chemins]

Hey! I'm the author of the stories the lovely administrator posted under this same name (Chemins).

Was just checking on my stories and noticed that the italics didn't transfer over from where the text was copy/pasted. That's alright, everything's cool, but here's a note for any reader.

Italics in this story denote thoughts, memories, flashbacks, dreams, etc. Without the italics, you'll have to use your own judgement as to where those things are. So good luck and happy reading!!!

[Recommended]

Actually Chemins I think I just missed putting them in. You have to place the code when you post. I'll go back and see if I can find them all and fix them. Hopefully I can.

Oh and I'm glad to see you decided to sign up. Welcome to the site.

M.

[Recommended]

-------

Chapter Four

Rivendell was quiet in the early morning, the birds singing softly, as though afraid to wake the realm’s inhabitants. Streaks of light spread from the rising sun in dense, soothing rays, cutting through the hazy night fog with ease.

Sarene wandered through the realm with a peace of mind she rarely ever felt. After her meeting with the Witchking in Isengard, she had begun tracking down the Ring, starting in the Shire. It was easy enough to connect the disappearance of two young Hobbits and the quick arrival and departure of the Wizard she’d been warned about, but tracking them was an entirely different story.

She’d followed their trail to Bree with four of the Nine. Upon missing them at the inn, the Nazgul were frustrated and continued on, confident that the Hobbits had crept away during the night. Sarene had stayed behind, however, and done some drinking and listening around the local bars. It was then, though, that Sarene had encountered her first difficulty – following them without alarming their guide. It had been a long two weeks to Rivendell, her ire raised by the Nazgul who’d attacked in the middle of her only good sleep, and she was still sore from her long ride.

The mercenary paused at one of the waterfalls that fell languidly into a clear blue river. She stood on the thin bridge that floated over the rippling pool. Her muscles ached, and her left leg still burned from her visit to Matero a week earlier. Sarene ruminated on his violent death, allowing her thoughts to touch upon the reason for her injury. When she reached Matero’s expansive property on the outskirts of Bree, she’d been immediately attacked, her former employer obviously fearful of her return. She’d battled her way to his study and found Matero poised for a fight. She’d dueled him and won – barely.

Sarene angrily threw a pebble into the pool before her and thought, Called upon his servants to attack me! Had no honor in life and has no honor in death.

She calmed slightly and remembered Matero’s head falling from his shoulders with a mild degree of satisfaction. Still, the man’s blade had bitten deep into her thigh and made walking a painful event, riding even more so. She’d neglected to fully treat it until she had the time. Of course, she hadn’t yet found the time to do so, even ‘safe’ as she was in Rivendell.

Sarene shook her head and rubbed the wound absently as she thought of her trouble in tracking down her chieftain. She smirked mirthlessly. Had she known that Strider had been charged with escorting the Hobbits to the Elven realm, she would have found her task easier than she could have imagined; she would have merely traveled with them. She missed their leaving Bree, however, and had to track the leader of the Dunedain all the way to Rivendell. Sarene often lost the trail along the way and found herself wandering down decoy paths; she guessed whom she trailed even before reaching Rivendell.

“Do you seek solitude or do you mind company?” a voice asked cautiously behind her.

The mercenary turned immediately, regretting the action as her head swam in a sea of stars. She gripped her leg tightly with one hand, the other going to one of her swords, but Sarene stopped herself before she really began. Aragorn stared at her silently, waiting for her answer. Sarene let him wait as she looked him over. It had been ten years since she’d seen him last during a joint raid on a harbor belonging to the Corsairs, but he didn’t seem to be a day older; of course, neither did she. He was clad in Elvish tunics and his hair was trimmed and clean.

His appearance was a stark contrast to hers. Sarene had arrived maybe an hour before. Her entrance and safety had been guaranteed due to her training as a Ranger, and fortunately, they’d not asked who she was known by in the circles of the Dunedain; the deeds of Reaper were infamous and that reputation inspired fear, not welcome. The name of Sarene Talo, however, was inconspicuous and docile, and she was allowed in without reservation. Her first task had been to procure a stall for her horse, as well as food for both of them. That chore finished, Sarene had begun wandering Rivendell, spying on the Hobbits and their vigil over an injured Frodo. She still wore her Ranger garments, her face mask hanging around her neck, and her long hair was tangled and greasy.

Sarene bowed her head in slight respect to Aragorn’s request and returned her attention to the waterfall as he came to stand closer to her. Though she found all relationships cumbersome, she had yet to find it in herself to break off the frail and paper-thin friendship she had with her chieftain. The man knew of her bloodlust, but he had never berated her for her tactics in battle or in life. Or rather, he had tried once and ended up with a blade at his throat and a warning of death. To his credit, he hadn’t seemed shocked or uncertain when she decided not to slit her throat.

Sarene tore herself from her memories as he softly said, “I saw your horse in the stables. I’m impressed. I didn’t think that even you would have the strength to break a Mearas.”

The mercenary knew a compliment when she heard one, and decided that she would graciously accept his words.

“The strength was not mine and even less his,” she replied nonchalantly, but she could feel her cheeks warm slightly.

To her right, Aragorn smiled perceptively and studied the water with her. After a moment, he began the conversation Sarene knew he’d sought her out to have.

“You believe in coincidences less than I, Sarene. How is it that you arrive in this realm only a day after I do, following the same path I traveled, half-starved and exhausted as though you’d done everything to match the same reckless pace I set?” he asked honestly.

Sarene ducked her head a bit and smiled, closing her eyes as she crossed her arms. She had been ‘interrogated’ by Aragorn on a number of occasions and found his straight forward, openly-direct methodology both humorous and pitiful. In her opinion, without the use of force, he had no chance of exacting answers from anyone that way.

“Are you to ignore me until I leave, then, Reaper?”

Sarene’s eyes flew open, but she refused to look at him. She immediately strained to hear the telltale sounds of metal against leather or the creaking of a notched bow, but all was silent.

She turned cold eyes to the man and her voice was deadly as she asked, “How did you know that I was Reaper?”

Aragorn shook his head and answered softly, “You’re getting careless, Sarene. You left someone alive on Matero’s lands. Some of my Rangers reported that the mercenary Reaper had attacked and killed Matero but had been wounded in the process. I’ve actually suspected it for nearly ten years, starting after I saw you fight the Corsairs. You enjoy killing, and you are always well-off when it comes to money. That, and you always seem to be in the same areas as Reaper.”

Sarene looked at him warily before she smiled and put her hands on her hips.

“You’re too observant for your own good, milord,” she stated, his title rolling off her tongue easily.

She once had tried to fight her respect for him and his dedication to protecting the innocent; it entirely clashed with her own personality. After years of bitter arguments and reluctant apologies on both sides, Sarene and Aragorn had agreed to let each live as each would live and be allies in times of need. When she had been in training, she had seen Aragorn’s handsome figure attract women everywhere. He had been unavailable since he had fallen in love with Arwen Undomiel when he was twenty, however, and Sarene had seen the breaking of many hearts; she counted herself lucky that she had never had an attraction to him.

“Why are you here, Sarene?”

His tone was weary and tinged with desperation, and Sarene answered honestly against her better judgment.

“I took a job, and my task requires me here, for a time. However long I do not know, but I suspect I will not be here much longer than you,” she said as she walked off the bridge.

Sarene could feel Aragorn’s questioning gaze pierce her back, but she had heard his Elven lover’s steps on the stone walkway only moments before he did; she hadn’t seen the Elven maiden, but she knew she was there. She disappeared into the House of Elrond as Arwen walked up to Aragorn.

The Ranger stared after Sarene for a moment, a frown on his features, and Arwen asked him in Elvish, “Is she someone I need to worry about, Estel?”

Her tone held teasing, but he answered seriously, “You do not, my love. I think I need to, however.”

Then Arwen kissed him, drawing his mind away from his rebellious Ranger, and Sarene shook her head as she stood just inside the doorway of the building. She heard his words and berated herself silently for answering Aragorn anything.

She bit her tongue as her thigh throbbed with each pump of her heart, but she forced herself to ascend the stairs that led to her room. She pushed open the door and locked it behind her, resting against the solid wood for a moment before she opened her eyes to the slackening darkness that hid the room’s furniture. There was a new feature added, however, and she started as she realized that there was a Wizard sitting at her desk.

Immediately, her eyes hardened and she ground her teeth in anger. Her lips pressed into a thin white line and she clenched her hands into fists.

“How dare you enter my quarters uninvited, Istari! Whose space do you think you violate? I am a Ranger, Wizard, and I do not suffer fools lightly!”

She took a step forward, and then she was on the ground, eyes clenched tightly, both hands on her wounded leg. She sensed a presence beside her and weakly struck out, too confused to aim. A hand latched onto her wrist and she heard a soft chuckle.

“Here, let’s get you to your bed, Sarene. I’ll call for a healer and then I’d like to talk to you for a moment.”

She could have gutted the Wizard for the amount of condescension she heard in his voice, but she couldn’t fight him as she felt him pull her to her feet and half-carry, half-drag her to the bed. She pushed him away and stood there for a moment under her own power. Sarene put most of her weight on her right leg and the dullness in her vision receded a little. She could make out the features of the Wizard and mentally groaned.

“Gandalf…” she bit out; the name seemed like a curse coming from her lips.

The Istari cocked his head and leaned back, putting a few feet of distance between the two of them. Sarene grunted and sat on the bed, pointedly ignoring the man who took a seat at the desk again. She felt a warm stickiness through the bandage she’d hastily applied to her wound a week before. The art of healing had never been her strong point, a characteristic that was often at odds with her sense of self-preservation. Sarene ripped off the bandage with no amount of care and hissed as dried blood pulled at her skin. She peered at the wound in the filtered sunlight streaming through her window drapes. It was somehow not infected, but the gash was bleeding sluggishly and the edges were ragged and torn.

“You need that wound stitched up, Sarene,” Gandalf said from across the room.

The mercenary reached over and grabbed her pack that was sitting at the end of the bed. She pulled a swath of bandages and a vial of foul-smelling cleanser from her bag and pulled a little at the rip in her leather pants, trying to see the slice better. Sarene didn’t comment as the Wizard reached over and lit the lamp on the desk, lighting up the area with startling clarity.

“I suppose that if you’re not going to get a healer to see to your leg properly, then you’ll be in too much pain to carry out a job I have for you,” Gandalf offered absently.

Sarene didn’t miss a beat and wiped at the welling blood with a cloth, wincing slightly as the doused rag burned her wound harshly.

“I’m not a random legionnaire, Istari, and I am not one of your pet Dunedain. I have my own affairs to attend to,” she calmly replied, her mind on the amount of pain radiating from her thigh.

The Wizard shrugged slightly and said, “You think me a fool, Reaper. I assure you, I am as much a fool as you are.”

The compliment fell on deaf ears as Sarene mentally groaned, What, in the name of Eru, is going on! Does everyone suddenly know my status as a mercenary?

Still, she continued to tend her wound as best she could. The Istari was silent for a moment before he tempted her mercilessly.

“I know you seek money, Sarene Talo. I can offer a large amount of it in exchange for a single job, an assignment that should offer no problems for someone of your training and expertise. You claim, or your reputation offers, that you have never failed a task presented to you, and so I seek to acquire your services.”

Sarene bit the inside of her lip as she glared at the Wizard openly.

He seems to know exactly what to say to get me interested. How does he know me so well when we’ve never met? she asked herself silently.

“Are you going to elaborate on this task or are you merely going to taunt me with it?” she asked angrily, her words sharp with the pain she felt.

Gandalf wagged a finger at her and said, “I will tell you, only if you let me call a healer for your wound. Are we agreed?”

Sarene ground her teeth, her mind racing. She thought of the job she had already accepted on Sauron’s behalf, Saruman’s warning of Gandalf’s loyalties, and the effort she’d already put into her task. But the thought of easy money was simply too haunting to release.

I might be able to perform both services at once, as I did with my stop at Matero’s on my way here to Rivendell. If that is the case, then there can be no harm in it, she rationalized as she nodded.

Gandalf smiled wisely and stood as he said, “Good. I had hoped you would consent, because I already sent for the healer.”

Sarene could only glower.

-------

The sun was at its highest point by the time Sarene left her room again. Her leg was stiff and in considerable more pain than it had been before, but the stitches were doing their job, and she was no longer lightheaded from blood loss. In the relative anonymity of Rivendell, Sarene allowed herself to limp, relieving herself of some of her pain. She thought on her conversation with Gandalf and took stock of her general situation.

Two jobs, running parallel to each other for as far as I can see, with different motives but by and large with the same outcomes. Not to mention that it would mean double the money for me, Sarene thought with a grin.

Gandalf had asked her to shadow and sometimes directly interact with the members of a Fellowship that was to leave Rivendell by the end of the month. Their quest was to take the One Ring to Mordor and destroy it in the pits of Mount Doom. There would be four Hobbits, two Men, an Elf, a Dwarf, and Gandalf himself present in the party, and she was to keep them as safe as possible during their journey. She frowned as she remembered a soft comment by Gandalf, his voice strained.

“There may be times when I will not be present, and others may think me lost to shadow. I tell you now, that that will not be the case. I have seen little of what is to come, but I know that I will not fall to darkness.”

Gandalf paused and continued pacing as Sarene sewed her pants closed, healing them of their latest injury.

“There may also be a time when the Fellowship will go in separate directions, and this is something that neither you nor I shall be able to prevent. You must use your own judgment as to which party to follow, but a quick check then and again on the other members of the Fellowship would be prudent. You may keep your argument in your mouth, Sarene; I know you ride a Mearas, one whose swiftness is legendary and whose stride is long. It will be a small thing for you to watch over them as they separate.”

The mercenary leaned against a rail and crossed her arms, twirling a piece of her hair in her fingers. Allowing her greed to possess her and accept the offer may be disastrous; she realized that to accept such opposite quests, despite their linear proximity, could lead to her death at the hands of either one of her employers. If Gandalf found out she was spying on the carrier of the One for Sauron, he would no doubt turn loose some of the hidden magic of the Istari upon her. And if Sauron found out she was helping them…

Sarene didn’t want to even entertain the thoughts that entered her head. She rubbed the back of her neck and tried to ease away the tension that was bundling up her muscles.

There has to be a way I can work these two jobs at the same time. Yes, there are risks, but all that money and what is promised to me by Sauron…doesn’t that make the chance of death all the more acceptable?

Sarene looked up and sighed. She had never been faced with a dilemma such as the one before her, and she’d been in the world for more years than she cared to admit. She glanced around her and saw the green trees tinged with the red paints of a mild autumn, cool rivers with hints of ice in their depths, and a bright blue sky that burned with signs of summer. And in that moment, she suddenly hated all of it.

She grinned slightly, her eyes darkening, and she murmured, “If I accept the Wizard’s offer, it will be easy enough to keep it secret from Sauron’s forces. Saruman told me to use my own discretion to complete this task, and thus I shall.”

-------

Gandalf poured a bit more mead into the two glasses before him, glancing over at Sarene. She sat silently, downing the drink he offered and turning back to her examination of the night sky. The Wizard finally asked her the main question plaguing his mind.

“Have you considered my job offer, Sarene?” he queried as he sipped his drink.

Across from him, the mercenary gestured for more drink and blew a cloud of smoke she inhaled from her pipe. She took the tankard in her hand and gulped down the brew before she finally locked eyes with him.

“I have, Wizard, and I accept the terms. Explain more fully what you expect of me, Istari, and tell me my fee.”

Gandalf nodded and replied, “You shall receive a sum of two hundred and fifty gold pieces for every week you perform your task as I have asked. You shall not receive a penny, however, if you fail me or if you disappear without telling me first. You are their protector, Sarene; you are their dark angel in the shadows. You need to be there every single minute of every day, scouting ahead along paths of danger, coming to their aid in times of battle.

“And when their spirits are low and their minds are shadowed, you are to approach them and give them words of encouragement. I have heard your speeches before, you know; I refer to the ones given as Sarene Talo, not the threats Reaper so often deals out. You can be quite motivational, when the situation calls for it. And there are a few who I am very concerned for; Legolas Greenleaf, for one, of the Greatwood. He is a wood-elf, and in quite close communion with nature. If he is to be cut off from it for a time, he will be susceptible to darkness; also, he feels grief very keenly, and thus I worry for him much, for many shall be lost in this great war. Another to watch closely is Aragorn. He carries much on his shoulders and has much to accept about his destiny.”

Here Sarene leaned forward, suddenly very interested, wondering if her chieftain had anything to do with Sauron’s reluctance to order the Ring brought to him immediately. Her sloppy actions alarmed Gandalf and he continued very carefully.

“He carries the love of an Elf in his mortal heart, and the concerns of his Rangers always tug on his mind. He takes much upon his own conscience and his empathy extends past even my gaze.”

Disappointed, Sarene leaned back and finished another tankard. It was her sole intention to get drunk that night, and not even money could sway her from her plan.

“This is all very well and good, Wizard. But I am in no mood to discuss these matters any further this night. You must have duties to attend to before you may claim sleep; we shall talk of this more on the morrow,” Sarene said in a low voice, her tone brooking no argument.

Gandalf stood slowly as he nodded and signaled for another pitcher of drink from an Elf nearby. The House of Elrond was quiet at the late hour, and the servants in the kitchen down the corridor and the attendant who left for the pitcher were the only ones around. The Istari looked down at Sarene and studied her silently. He knew the signs; he’d seen them all too often.

“Be careful, Ranger. Mead drowns the mind long before it drowns the grief,” he said quietly as he left.

Sarene didn’t watch him leave, but she couldn’t find any words to refute his comment. For maybe the first time since she’d become a mercenary, she found herself utterly speechless. Her fury calmed, however, when the Elf returned with a cool pitcher of strong brew. He raised an eyebrow at Sarene, wondering at her behavior, and she angrily ordered him away. She was in no mood for an audience or company; she appeared to have a lot of the latter in her future, and she didn’t mean to add to it. She poured herself a fresh glass of ale and brought it to her lips, ignoring the slight burn as it carved its way down her throat.

Sixty years, Rill. Sixty years to the day since your life was ended by a single stroke of a sword. And somehow, through every mission, every quest, every job…somehow, I’m here. Are you still waiting for me, my love? she asked herself silently.

Recognizing her depression with dark acceptance, Sarene raised her glass and called to the Elf, “Bring me your strongest liquor, and as much as you can carry. Nothing watered down. And then you’re dismissed for the night.”

The attendant nodded and left, returning minutes later with three large glass bottles of some acidic-smelling brew. He exited the small lounge and closed the door behind him, dousing all but one lamp. Sarene looked out the open balcony and poured a mug of the stronger brew before standing slightly unsteadily. She set her pipe aside and walked outside; she leaned against the rail, looking up into the night sky as she raised her glass in a salute to the heavens.

Here’s to one hell of an anniversary, Sarene thought bitterly as she swallowed the entire contents of her mug in one breath.

She grimaced openly at the taste and coughed softly as her stomach burned. The ale was stronger than she had anticipated. She went back inside and grabbed the bottle with a small smile, knowing that with her tolerance, stronger was better. Sarene brought the bottle to the balcony and took a swig from the container.

Oh yes, she intended to get very drunk.

End of Chapter Four

-------

Please review!

[Recommended]

--------

Chapter Five

The waters may have hinted at winter’s approach in color, but the temperature of the liquid belied the indication. Nearly as warm as the air itself, the Falls slipped almost noiselessly into the limestone basin beneath them. The length of the pool nearly the same as its width, the circular fissure was located down a path a distance from Rivendell’s main halls, to the west of the Last Homely House. It was surrounded by thick forest, which in turn was surrounded by natural stone walls and patrolled by Elven sentries. No bather had need to fear attack by aggressive and thirsty wildlife, nor intrusion by those not allowed at the water hole. Of course, Rivendell had far too many eyes for Sarene’s liking, and she’d snuck into the oasis without alerting the guards. She needed a rest from her instincts, and the Falls were the only things to help her.

Nirnaeth drank from the waters a short ways from the path, his joy at the absence of a saddle nearly tangible. Sarene glanced over at him and smiled slightly. As much as she tried to deny it, the horse had grown to be a part of her in the last eight years. His intelligence made him remarkably keen, and his status as an outcast among his kind made him a bit more like his owner than anyone could guess.

Sarene stepped carefully out of the water and sat on a slippery yet comfortable rock shelf along the edge. She leaned back and rested her head along the soft moss along the stony bench. Her head ached from the drinks she’d consumed the night before, and her stomach roiled at the thought of food. She’d woken at dawn, dazed and emotional in her hangover, and had found the lounge in a state of complete disarray. Tables were overturned, chairs were tossed about, and three empty bottles and a shattered glass were laying in close proximity to her. She’d reluctantly picked herself up off the floor, grabbed the pitcher of warm beer, and cavorted around the courtyard for a bit as she finished her drink. It was only after the area had started to become quite busy that Sarene had decided to end her anniversary celebration. She’d called Nirnaeth from the stables and headed for the Falls, intent on cleaning herself up and becoming as sober as possible.

The waters were a calming teal and the soft thunder of the Falls created a pleasant atmosphere. Sarene began donning a second set of clothes, this outfit being coarse and indistinguishable when it came to profession. She carefully wrapped and pocketed a hunk of hard soap she’d ‘borrowed’ from a washroom near the Hall of Fire, all the while reminding herself to enjoy such a treat; it wasn’t often a bathing pool was available to her, much less soap. She stood and began drying her hair with a towel. Sarene glanced at the falls and cherished the feeling of plunging underneath the gentle torrent. The water had enveloped her body and for a moment, despite her irrational but deep-rooted fear of nature’s blood, she had felt alive and at peace.

The feeling faded despite the memory, however, and she felt the rough edges of scars and the jagged edge of her leg wound pull against the spun woolen pants she wore. The source of each permanent mark came flying to her mind in an instant, and she felt the old and familiar pang of rage and bitterness take hold of her once again. Sarene turned her mind from the memories and tossed her soiled clothes in a bag; she’d request their tending to from the servants in Rivendell. As she did so, her eyes strayed to the underside of her right wrist, the skin revealed by the half-sleeve shirt she wore.

Sarene paused and stared hard at the mark there. It was a harsh, cruelly healed burn, a brand that had been seared into her skin by Binen’s order, though not by his hand; the slave mark officially claimed her as his property. Sarene hated the simple symbol. There was a vertical line with a horizontal line fixed at its center point; the latter was broken at the meeting point. A third line ran diagonally from the bottom left to the top right of the vertical line, and it too was broken at the meeting point. In the two semi-whole squares made by the three lines were two dots, each as perfectly circular as the blacksmith could make them.

“Oh, I’m awfully sorry, miss! The guards said there was no one here!” a voice came from the path.

Sarene looked up slowly, unsurprised; she’d heard the Hobbit’s footsteps before he’d even descended the path. It was the one called Samwise Gamgee, the best friend of the Ringbearer. Sarene shook her head and grabbed her Ranger jacket.

“No need to fret, Master Hobbit. I didn’t make my presence known to them. I’m headed back to my room now, so the Falls are yours,” she said gruffly, slightly annoyed by his constant hand wringing and perpetual blush.

He straightened a bit and glanced her over, probably trying to decide who she was. Sarene ignored him as she mindlessly swept a boot-clad foot over her footsteps; hiding her trail was something she practically did in her sleep.

“That mark there…how’d you come by it?” his innocent voice inquired.

The mercenary glanced at her wrist once more, noticing her brand again, this time with some constraint on her emotions. She fingered it once before she roughly pulled on her jacket. She grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder before meeting the Hobbit’s gaze with no small amount of iciness.

“I came upon it very painfully, if you must know,” Sarene growled as she walked towards Nirnaeth, careful to hide her limp.

She heard the Hobbit’s steps as he turned towards her, but she didn’t stop until she reached her horse. Sarene glanced over her shoulder and saw the small man looking after her solemnly. He spoke in her silence.

“I’ve seen that mark before, I have. Some Man visited the Shire once during a storm, and he had that same symbol burned into his arm. He said that it was a Wizard’s symbol, some dark one that had turned away from the world and lived only for money and power. He said that he was a slave.”

Sarene couldn’t hide the cold grin that appeared on her face. She remembered Binen’s fury when he found out that someone had escaped his cells. He’d sent a message to Sarene and ordered her to track him down and return the slave. She had done as ordered and watched as the man was beaten to death at Binen’s feet.

“He said that now, did he?” she asked softly.

The gardener hesitated before answering, “Yes, he certainly did.”

The Ranger pulled herself onto Nirnaeth’s back and looked down at the Hobbit. Her anger at Binen dimmed slightly when she saw the genuine concern on the Hobbit’s face.

“Little Samwise, I care not of the troubles of some Man who stumbled into your life one day. My affairs are my own, and I’ll let the world turn as it may. I suggest you do the same, Little Master. It will keep you safer, longer, and you’ll live much more happily.”

Without another look at the perturbed Hobbit, Sarene urged Nirnaeth up the path and disappeared into the stand of trees.

--------

“Do you need anything else, milady?” Elladan asked softly.

Sarene finished tightening the girth on the saddle atop Nirnaeth, though the horse took little notice, as he was being treated to a tart green apple by the younger twin son of Elrond. The mercenary checked the saddlebags and shook her head.

“I’ve enough provisions, Elladan, and I have what other items I need to survive. I thank you for your help during my preparations,” she said. Sarene then added, “And again, please drop the formalities. I am not a lady.”

Elrohir smiled as he rubbed Nirnaeth’s nose fondly. He glanced at his brother and nodded slightly.

“Sarene…my brother and I must speak with you about something very imperative,” Elrohir said lowly.

The woman finished her adjustments to her saddle and turned questioning eyes to the twins. They looked around slowly, checking the area for intruders, and then huddled around Sarene as they spoke in conspiratorial tones.

“We have a favor to ask,” Elladan began.

“One of the utmost importance,” added Elrohir.

“And secrecy,” his brother tacked on.

“Yes, of course. Secrecy as well,” Elrohir conceded.

Sarene kept jerking her eyes from brother to brother, wondering exactly when they were going to breach the topic they were so delicately avoiding.

“The truth of the matter is…” Elladan trailed off and his younger brother completed his sentence.

“We’re worried for our brother, Aragorn,” Elrohir stated.

“He has a destiny and this Fellowship will carry him to its end,” Elladan started, but Elrohir broke in with his own comment.

“You’ve heard of Isildur?” the younger twin asked, deciding to start with history.

“Aragorn is the sole living descendant of that king’s line,” Elladan revealed, following his brother’s line of logic.

“He is the heir to the throne of Gondor,” Elrohir elaborated.

“And he is prophesized to destroy the Dark Lord and those who serve him,” the older one supplied.

“My brother and I have no doubt that he will face many trials before the Ring is destroyed, after which he’ll claim his rightful place as king,” Elrohir breathlessly asserted.

“We know Mithrandir has employed you in the protection of the entire Fellowship, but we have a special request,” Elladan began, but his younger brother zealously cut him off.

“We offer whatever payment you wish in return for your guaranteed protection on our brother’s behalf,” Elrohir finished.

And for the first time since she’d met the twins, Sarene heard silence. She blinked once, quickly comprehending the situation.

So that’s why Sauron is so afraid; he has heard rumors that the last of the line of kings has survived all these years. He fears Aragorn’s rise to power, and thus his decline, Sarene silently realized.

Then she grinned at the two eager and anxious brothers. She may not have felt empathy, but she certainly felt humor.

“So this is why you two helped me prepare for my trip. And why you continually forgot to discontinue formalities. And why you have done nothing but follow me around all this past month, assisting me with whatever task I may have needed help with. You thought to use such gentlemanly behavior to your credit when it came time for procuring my services,” she chuckled.

“I find that downright malicious and manipulative, and perfect behavior for a pair of greedy, selfish princes who find no time for naught but their own gain.”

Sarene laughed aloud and shook her head at their crestfallen expressions. She leaned against Nirnaeth and fixed them with a knowing look.

“Absolutely delicious. I accept your offer.”

Elladan glanced at Elrohir before he quietly asked with no small amount of trepidation, “And…your payment?”

Sarene’s smile grew larger.

End of Chapter Five

--------

Yeah, I know - SHORT. But the other chappies will be longer! Please review!